Robert B. Parker's Blackjack

by Robert Knott

I looked to Allie as she stared up at the sky. She was beaming like a little girl . . . and it made me smile some. Though none of us, particularly me, were in the mood for celebration, we were doing our best.

  We watched for a while before anyone said anything else. The fireworks were, as Pritchard promised, a spectacular display. He was not wrong. It was outstanding.

  Allie grinned as she looked up. Her eyes were fixed and childlike.

  I thought sadly of Daphne earlier in the day and how she, too, was so childlike, but the tragic circumstances were very different.

  Allie, I thought, was not at all without her own disappointments and tragedies in life. She had been through a hell of a lot.

  “Look at that one,” Valentine said.

  Hell, in hindsight, we all had been through a lot. I looked to Virgil and Valentine and thought we all have lived somewhat desperate lives and, in some ways, many lives. The person we were before was not necessarily who we were today. But then again, it’s circumstances that pretty much make us who we are.

  But what Daphne had endured as a child was horrific. Pritchard was the least astonished to learn of what had happened to Ruth Ann Messenger.

  Turned out he knew Daphne’s father and knew he was not the mathematician she said he was. In fact, he was a drunk that Daphne had taken care of since the day her mother walked out. According to Pritchard, her father abused her in ways that were unimaginable, and before Pritchard had him arrested and sent away, Daphne attempted to beat him to death with a shovel as he slept. Since that time, Pritchard had treated and raised her like his own daughter. He loved her, and though he was dreadfully deflated to learn the news about the killing of Ruth Ann Messenger, he understood it. He said there was a rage that remained inside her that he could never help suppress, relieve, or alleviate. He also knew she was brilliant, and the scheme of how she wanted to persecute Black for breaking off their engagement was also no surprise to him.

  “Look at that one,” Allie said. “Who would have thought?”

  “The Chinese,” Valentine said. “Hell, all the way back to the Tang dynasty.”

  “Well, it’s remarkable,” she said. “Don’t know how on earth they do it.”

  “Gunpowder,” Virgil said.

  “Yep . . . Some Chinaman mixed charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter together and . . . boom,” Valentine said. “Gunpowder. First invented to scare off evil spirits . . . now it is more commonly used in one form or another to kill people.”

  I glanced over at Virgil, and he was staring at Valentine as he watched the fireworks. He remained looking at his big brother for a moment, then Virgil looked over to me as I looked back up. I could feel Virgil looking at me, but I continued to watch the dazzling display that was taking place for the grand opening of the Maison de Daphne.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, “much obliged” goes out to G. P. Putnam’s Sons’ president, Ivan Held; my editor extraordinaire, Chris Pepe; and Helen Brann for shuffling and dealing up this newest adventure with Hitch and Cole. Like Virgil says, “This sort of work we do is always a gamble.” So I appreciate those who have pulled up a chair, put their chips on the table, and anted up. Without that ante there is simply nothing to win or lose, and for this go-round I have to say muchas gracias to gifted mountain guide Rob Wood of Rancho Roberto, Jamie “Whatnot” Whitcomb, Rex “Double Down” Linn, Jared Moses, Genevieve Negrete, Jayne Amalia Larson, Kevin Meyer, and the shifty-eyed Mike Rose. My apologies to Alice DiGregorio, Claudia, Pete, Ingrid, and Lucy Crosen for putting up with my sequestering during our retreat. And to Julie Rose for putting up with me, period. A big hand for Ed Harris, the great and talented man who so expertly brought Virgil Cole to life on the silver screen, and the incomparable Viggo Mortensen for his voice of Everett Hitch that keeps coming around throughout. And I’d like to raise you a thousand for my riverboat steam crew: Josh Kesselman, Allison Binder, agent Steve Fisher, and the rest of the crafty card sharps at APA. A rousing toast to my sisters—the Clogging Castanets—Sandra and Karen, for dancing around the table. And in memory of Robert and Joan Parker, a tip of the hat for reminding me of the most significant of all gambler’s creeds: never sit with your back to the door.

  Looking for more?

  Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.

  Discover your next great read!