He got out of the car and went up the steps. Used a bell he found to the right of the doors. Heard a chime somewhere deep inside the mansion. Then he waited. He was about to use the bell again when the left-hand door opened. There was a maid standing there, about half the height of the door. She was dressed in a gray uniform and looked like she came from the Philippines.
"I'm here to see Lyndon Brewer," Reacher said.
"Do you have an appointment?" the maid said. Her English was very good.
"Yes, I do."
"He didn't tell me."
"He probably forgot," Reacher said. "I understand he's a bit of an asshole."
Her face tensed. Not with shock. She was fighting a smile.
"Who shall I announce?"
"Rutherford B. Hayes," Reacher said.
The maid paused and then smiled, finally.
"He was the nineteenth President," she said. "The one after Ulysses S. Grant. Born 1822 in Ohio. Served from 1877 until 1881. One of seven presidents from Ohio. The middle one of three consecutive."
"He's my ancestor," Reacher said. "I'm from Ohio, too. But I've got no interest in politics. Tell Mr. Brewer I work for a bank in San Antonio and we just discovered stock in his grandfather's name worth about a million dollars."
"He'll be excited about that," the maid said.
She walked away and Reacher stepped through the door in time to see her climbing a wide staircase in back of the entrance foyer. She moved neatly, without apparent effort, one hand on the rail all the way. The foyer was the size of a basketball court, and it was hushed and cool, paneled in golden hardwood polished to a deep luster by generations of maids. There was a grandfather clock taller than Reacher, ticking softly to itself once a second. An antique chaise like you see society women perched on in oil-painted portraits. Reacher wondered if it would break in the middle if he put his weight on it. He pressed on the velvet with his hand. Felt horsehair padding under it. Then the maid came back down the stairs the same way she had gone up, gliding, her body perfectly still and her hand just grazing the rail.
"He'll see you now," she said. "He's on the balcony, at the back of the house."
There was an upstairs foyer with the same dimensions and the same decor. French doors let out onto the rear balcony, which ran the whole width of the house and looked out over acres of hot grassland. It was roofed and fans turned lazily near the ceiling. There was heavy wicker furniture painted white and arranged in a group. A man sat in a chair with a small table at his right hand. The table held a pitcher and a glass filled with what looked like lemonade, but it could have been anything. The man was a bull-necked guy of about sixty. He was softened and faded from a peak that might have been impressive twenty years ago. He had plenty of white hair and a red face burned into lines and crags by the sun. He was dressed all in white. White pants, white shirt, white shoes. It looked like he was ready to go lawn bowling at some fancy country club.
"Mr. Hayes?" he called.
Reacher walked over and sat down without waiting for an invitation.
"You got children?" he asked.
"I have three sons," Brewer replied.
"Any of them at home?"
"They're all away, working."
"Your wife?"
"She's in Houston, visiting."
"So it's just you and the maid today?"
"Why do you ask?" He was impatient and puzzled, but polite, like people are when you're about to give them a million dollars.
"I'm a banker," Reacher said. "I have to ask."
"Tell me about the stock," Brewer said.
"There is no stock. I lied about that."
Brewer looked surprised. Then disappointed. Then irritated.
"Then why are you here?" he asked.
"It's a technique we use," Reacher said. "I'm really a loan officer. A person needs to borrow money, maybe he doesn't want his domestic staff to know."
"But I don't need to borrow money, Mr. Hayes."
"You sure about that?"
"Very."
"That's not what we heard."
"I'm a rich man. I lend. I don't borrow."
"Really? We heard you had problems meeting your obligations."
Brewer made the connection slowly. Shock traveled through his body to his face. He stiffened and grew redder and glanced down at the shape of the gun in Reacher's pocket, like he was seeing it for the first time. Then he put his hand down to the table and came back with a small silver bell. He shook it hard and it made a small tinkling sound.
"Maria!" he called, shaking the bell. "Maria!"
The maid came out of the same door Reacher had used. She walked soundlessly along the boards of the balcony.
"Call the police," Brewer ordered. "Dial 911. I want this man arrested."
She hesitated.
"Go ahead," Reacher said. "Make the call."
She ducked past them and into the room directly behind Brewer's chair. It was some kind of a private study, dark and masculine. Reacher heard the sound of a phone being picked up. Then the sound of rapid clicking, as she tried to make it work.
"The phones are out," she called.
"Go wait downstairs," Reacher called back.
"What do you want?" Brewer asked.
"I want you to meet your legal obligation."
"You're not a banker."
"That's a triumph of deduction."
"So what are you?"
"A guy who wants a check," Reacher said. "For twenty thousand dollars."
"You represent those... people?"
He started to stand up. Reacher put his arm out straight and shoved him back in his chair, hard enough to hurt.
"Sit still," he said.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I'm a compassionate guy," Reacher said. "That's why. There's a family in trouble here. They're going to be upset and worried all winter long. Disaster staring them in the face. Never knowing which day is going to bring everything crashing down around them. I don't like to see people living that way, whoever they are."
"They don't like it, they should get back to Mexico, where they belong."
Reacher glanced at him, surprised.
"I'm not talking about them," he said. "I'm talking about you. Your family."
"My family?"
Reacher nodded. "I stay mad at you, they'll all suffer. A car wreck here, a mugging there. You might fall down the stairs, break your leg. Or your wife might. The house might catch on fire. Lots of accidents, one after the other. You'll never know when the next one is coming. It'll drive you crazy."
"You couldn't get away with it."
"I'm getting away with it right now. I could start today. With you."
Brewer said nothing.
"Give me that pitcher," Reacher said.
Brewer hesitated a moment. Then he picked it up and held it out, like an automaton. Reacher took it. It was fancy crystal with a cut pattern, maybe Waterford, maybe imported all the way from Ireland. It held a quart and probably cost a thousand bucks. He balanced it on his palm and sniffed its contents. Lemonade. Then he tossed it over the edge of the balcony. Yellow liquid arced out through the air and a second later there was a loud crash from the patio below.
"Oops," he said.
"I'll have you arrested," Brewer said. "That's criminal damage."
"Maybe I'll start with one of your sons," Reacher said. "Pick one out at random and throw him off the balcony, just like that."
"I'll have you arrested," Brewer said again.
"Why? According to you, what the legal system says doesn't matter. Or does that only apply to you? Maybe you think you're something special."
Brewer said nothing. Reacher stood up and picked up his chair and threw it over the rail. It crashed and splintered on the stone below.
"Give me the check," he said. "You can afford it. You're a rich man. You just got through telling me."
"It's a matter of principle," Brewer said. "They shouldn't be here."
"And you should? Why? They were here first."
"They lost. To us."
"And now you're losing. To me. What goes around, comes around."
He bent down and picked up the silver bell from the table. It was probably an antique. Maybe French. The cup part was engraved with filigree patterns. Maybe two and a half inches in diameter. He held it with his thumb on one side and all four fingers on the other. Squeezed hard and crushed it out of shape. Then he transferred it into his palm and squashed the metal flat. Leaned over and shoved it in Brewer's shirt pocket.
"I could do that to your head," he said.
Brewer made no reply.
"Give me the check," Reacher said, quietly. "Before I lose my damn temper."
Brewer paused. Five seconds. Ten. Then he sighed.
"O.K.," he said. He led the way into the study and over to the desk. Reacher stood behind him. He didn't want any revolvers appearing suddenly out of drawers.
"Make it out to cash," he said.
Brewer wrote the check. He got the date right, he got the amount right, and he signed it.
"It better not bounce," Reacher said.
"It won't," Brewer said.
"It does, you do, too. Off the patio."