“She can’t buy a new one,” Paul said calmly. “So I’d say that one will need fixing.”
“Son, ain’t a mechanic alive can put that thing back together now, and neither of us is a mechanic. You’ve got to know what you’re doing to work on one that’s solid, let alone one that’s been busted up into a hundred pieces. That thing’s covered in sand and grit and—”
“I’ve got it cleaned up. Come have a look.”
So they went around to the front porch, and Paul pulled free a tarpaulin and there were the pieces of the generator, all neat and tidy.
“When’d you do that?”
“Been getting up early,” Paul said, dropping to one knee and running a fingertip over one of the flywheels. “Brushed all the sand off and then wiped it down with a rag and oil, because that salt water would rust it awfully fast, I think.”
“Any chance the thing came with some sort of a book? A manual?”
“She said she never saw one. But she has all the tools for it.”
Arlen stared down at the mess and shook his head. “You ever worked on an engine before in your life?”
“No. But the way it works is, it charges that bank of batteries,” Paul said, pointing at a row of batteries stacked against the back wall. “All of them seem fine. The exhaust pipe is still solid, too.”
“Great. But the engine is not. Not to mention that however it was connected to the house is no more than a memory.”
“Well, let me show you what I’ve done. There were two plugs on the frame, and I got those out and then the frame came off and I could get at the flywheel and the camshaft and the main bearing. All of those are intact.”
“How in the hell do you even know what they are?”
Paul shrugged. “I’ve read a lot about engines. My point is, the main assembly of this thing is fine. So now that I’ve got it cleaned up, it’s just a matter of figuring out how it went together in the first place. That’ll be common sense.”
“Sure,” Arlen said, looking down at the gears and wrenches and belts scattered on the porch floor. “Common sense.”
“I got the inspection plate off,” Paul said, oblivious to Arlen now, focused on the machine, “and you can see the connecting rods in here. Looks like they got loosened up when it was knocked around. See here, when I move the crankshaft? It’s wiggling down at the bearing. That shouldn’t happen. It needs to be tight. So I’ve got to get those tightened up before we try and run it again.”
“Even supposing you get the thing in a condition that it could run again,” Arlen said, “you’ve got to get it set up so it actually feeds power the way it used to. Those wires were all torn apart.”
“Oh, that’ll be easy. Just a matter of looking, seeing how it makes sense.”
“I suppose that leaves me to that damn widow’s walk myself?”
Paul’s lack of response allowed that it did, and Arlen walked out into the yard, grumbling and swearing, and stared up at the peak of the roof. The widow’s walk was perched onto the back, affording an expansive view of the Gulf, and all except for one corner piling had been torn off. They’d gathered the pieces from out in the yard and stacked them up alongside the house. Even from down here, Arlen could tell that it was going to be awkward and dangerous work.
He found the stairs to the attic, sweat springing out of his pores as he climbed into the dank, closed space. It was so dark he had to feel around with his hands to locate the trapdoor, but it opened easily enough and he poked his head up through the roof and into fresh air. He’d never been unsettled by heights, but this roof was pitched steeply, and he felt a swirl of doubt as he climbed out onto it, keeping a tight hand on the braces of the door frame. Ordinarily the railings would keep you from tumbling off, but they were stacked on the ground now, nothing between him and a broken spine but a few bounces off the shingles.
Had to admit, though—once he was up here, the view was stunning, like being in a lighthouse. He could see out into the sea and along the shore. This was his first realization of just how damn isolated the inn was. To the south the beach ran on unbroken, and to the north the trees grew thick along the winding inlet. No such thing as a neighbor. He turned to look east, inland, and saw the boat in the inlet.
It was positioned around a bend, where there was a slot in the trees that afforded a view of the house. The boat was flat-bottomed, outfitted only with oars—a craft you could move damn near silently if you knew how to use it. There was only one man inside. From here, all Arlen could tell was that he was an older man: stringy gray hair showed along his neck down to his shoulders.