by Неизвестный
But then it was, because the road was crossed by another and the resulting crossroads had a line of mailboxes laid out along a gray weathered plank and the mailboxes had people’s names and ranch names on them together. Brewer was painted freehand in black on a white box, and Big Hat Ranch was painted right below it.
He found the entrance to the Big Hat Ranch fifteen miles to the north. There was a fancy iron arch, painted white, like something you might see holding up a conservatory roof in Charleston or New Orleans. He drove right past it and stopped on the shoulder of the road at the foot of the next power line pole. Got out of the car and looked straight up. There was a big transformer can at the top of the pole where the line split off in a T and ran away at a right angle toward where the ranch house must be. And, looping parallel all the way, about a foot lower down, the telephone line ran with it.
He took Alice’s gun from under the maps on the passenger seat and the rope from the footwell. Tied one end of the rope into the trigger guard with a single neat knot. Passed twenty feet of rope through his hands and swung the gun like a weight. Then he clamped the rope with his left hand and threw the gun with his right, aiming to slot it between the phone line and the electricity supply above it. The first time, he missed. The gun fell about a foot short and he caught it coming down. The second time he threw a little harder and hit it just right. The gun sailed through the gap and fell and snagged the rope over the wire. He played the rope out over his left palm and lowered the gun back down to himself. Untied it and tossed it back into the car and clamped the looped rope in both hands and pulled sharply. The phone line broke at the junction box and snaked down to the ground, all the way up to the next pole a hundred yards away.
He coiled the rope again and dropped it back in the footwell. Got in the car and backed up and turned in under the white-painted gate. Drove the best part of a mile down a private driveway to a white-painted house that should have been in a historical movie. It had four massive columns at the front, holding up a second-story balcony. There were broad steps leading up to a double front door. There was a tended lawn. A parking area made from raked gravel.
He stopped the car on the gravel at the bottom of the steps and shut off the motor. Tucked his shirt tight into the waistband of his pants. Some girl who worked as a personal trainer had told him it made his upper body look more triangular. He slipped the gun into his right hip pocket. Its shape showed through nicely. Then he rolled the sleeves of his new shirt all the way up to the shoulders. Gripped the LeBaron’s wheel and squeezed until it started to give and the veins in his biceps were standing out big and obvious. When you’ve got arms bigger than most people’s legs, sometimes you need to exploit what nature has given you.
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 mak
e 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.”
“I hope you rot in hell.”
Reacher folded the check into his pocket and found the way out to the upstairs foyer. Went down the stairs and walked over to the grandfather clock. Tilted it forward until it overbalanced. It fell like a tree and smashed on the floor and stopped ticking.
The two men exfiltrated after nearly three hours. The heat was too brutal to stay longer. And they didn’t really need to. Nobody was going anywhere. That was clear. The old woman and her son stayed mostly in the house. The kid was hanging around in the barn, coming out now and then until the sun drove her back inside, once walking slowly back to the house when the maid called her to come and eat. So they gave it up and crawled north in the lee of the rocks and came out to wait on the dusty shoulder as soon as they were out of sight of the house. The woman in the Crown Vic turned up right on time. She had the air blasting and water in bottles. They drank the water and made their report.
“O.K.,” the woman said. “So I guess we’re ready to make our move.”
“I guess we are,” the dark man said.
“Sooner the better,” the fair man agreed. “Let’s get it done.”
Reacher put the plates back on the old LeBaron as soon as he was out of sight of the Brewer house. Then he drove straight back to Pecos and reclaimed Alice Aaron’s VW from the mechanics. He paid them their forty bucks without complaint, but afterward he wasn’t really sure they’d done anything to the car. The clutch felt just as sharp as it had before. He stalled out twice on the way back to the legal mission.
He left it in the lot behind the building with the maps and the handgun in the glove compartment where he had found them. Entered the old store from the front and found Alice at her desk in back. She was on the phone and busy with clients. There was a whole family group in front of her. Three generations of quiet, anxious people. She had changed her clothes. Now she was wearing black high-waisted pants made out of some kind of thin cotton or linen, and a black jacket to match. The jacket made the white sports bra look like a shirt. The whole thing looked very formal. Instant attorney.
She saw him and put her hand over the phone and excused herself from her clients. She twisted away from them and he leaned down next to her.
“We’ve got big problems,” she said quietly. “Hack Walker wants to see you.”
“Me?” he said. “Why?”
“Better you hear it from him.”
“Hear what? Did you meet with him?”
She nodded. “I went right over. We talked for a half hour.”
“And? What did he say?”
“Better you hear it from him,” she said again. “We can talk about it later, O.K.?”
There was worry in her voice. He looked at her. She turned back to the phone. The family in front of her desk leaned forward to catch her words. He took the twenty-thousand-dollar check out of his pocket and unfolded it and smoothed it on the desktop. She saw it and stopped talking. Put her hand over the phone again. Took a deep breath.
“Thanks,” she said.
Now there was embarrassment in her voice. Like maybe she had reconsidered her end of the bargain. He dropped her car keys on the desk and walked back out to the sidewalk. Turned right and headed for the courthouse.
The Pecos County District Attorney’s office occupied the whole of the courthouse’s second floor. There was an entry door from the stairwell that led to a narrow passage that passed through a wooden gate into an open area used as a secretarial pen. Beyond that were three doors leading into three offices, one for the DA and one for each of the assistants. All the interior walls separating the offices from the pen and from each other were glass from the
waist up. They had old-fashioned venetian blinds covering the glass, with wide wooden slats and cotton tapes. The whole place looked cramped and out-of-date. There were air conditioners in every external window. They were all set on high and their motors put a deep booming tone into the structure of the walls.
The secretarial pen had two cluttered desks, both of them occupied, the farther one by a middle-aged woman who looked like she belonged there, the nearer one by a young man who could have been an intern working his summer vacation from college. Clearly he doubled as the office receptionist, because he looked up with a bright how may we help you expression on his face.
“Hack Walker wants to see me,” Reacher said.
“Mr. Reacher?” the kid asked.
Reacher nodded and the kid pointed to the corner office.
“He’s expecting you,” he said.
Reacher threaded his way through the cluttered space to the corner office. The door had a window with an acetate plaque below it. The plaque read Henry F. W. Walker, District Attorney. The window was covered on the inside by a closed blind. Reacher knocked once and went in without waiting for a reply.
The office had a window on each wall and a mess of filing cabinets and a big desk piled with paper and a computer and three telephones. Walker was in his chair behind it, leaning back, holding a photograph frame in both hands. It was a small wooden thing with a fiberboard tongue on the back that would prop it upright on a desk or a shelf. He was staring at the front of it. Some kind of serious distress on his face.
“What can I do for you?” Reacher asked.
Walker transferred his gaze from the photograph.
“Sit down,” he said. “Please.”
The hearty politician’s boom had gone from his voice. He sounded tired and ordinary. There was a client chair in front of the desk. Reacher picked it up and turned it sideways to give himself some legroom.
“What can I do for you?” he asked again.
“You ever had your life turned upside down overnight?”
Reacher nodded. “Now and then.”
Walker propped the photograph on the desk, sideways, so it was visible to both of them. It was the same color shot he had seen in Sloop Greer’s closet. The three young men leaning on the old pick-up’s fender, good friends, intoxicated with youth, on the cusp of infinite possibilities.
