The side door was unlocked. Scott used a flashlight to hunt down the generators, not really sure what they looked like. A big engine on wheels was his best guess. Two refrigerators hummed, side by side. Loaded shelves lined three of the walls. The only path amounted to a maze winding its way through boxes and cartons, toolboxes and garden equipment, spare tires, bags of mulch, large red gas containers, two push mowers—and that was just one side of the double garage.
In the corner he found a generator covered with a gray tarp. He rocked it out of a tight squeeze between two shelves. Once he pulled it free, he was ready to open the garage door. He hit the electronic button and the whine startled him as did the bright light that flashed on as the door went up. He lunged for the light switch and flipped it off. The noise was bad enough. He didn’t need a spotlight on what he was doing. He dragged over the metal railings Walter had stored with the generator, figuring out that if he positioned them against the rear bumper of his Lexus he could simply roll the contraption up into the vehicle. He had it almost in when he saw the shadow walk out from behind the bushes.
“What the hell are you doing, Scott?”
CHAPTER 42
Scott drove past his father-in-law’s house twice. Not an easy task because he lived on the edge of a cul-de-sac. He hadn’t been able to get him on the phone. Walter Bailey was the only person Scott knew who didn’t own a cell phone and was proud of the fact.
The front windows remained dark, not even a reflection from the TV. Walter’s car was in the driveway but not his mobile canteen. Was it possible he was still out on the beach?
Scott slapped his hands against the steering wheel. That was great, just great. He needed a generator and the old man was out partying on the beach.
He had driven to five different hardware stores with a roll of cash, thinking he could surely buy a backroom generator from someone. After all, everyone had a price, didn’t they?
He ignored the homemade signs in the parking lots: NO MORE PLYWOOD, GENERATORS, OR BATTERIES. At each store he asked for the manager. Two of them just shook their heads at him. Two others laughed. One eyed the roll of cash and considered selling Scott his personal home generator, then finally said, “Hell, I better not. My wife would kick the royal crap out of me. Sorry, mister.”
“Can you at least tell me,” he asked that manager, while peeling a hundred-dollar bill off his roll, “how far I have to drive to go get one?”
The guy started checking his computer, anxious to help if it meant a finder’s fee. He poked at the keys, winced, then poked some more. He did this several times before he finally said, “Here we go. There’s one I can hold for you at the Athens, Georgia, store.”
“Athens? Okay. Is that just over the Florida/Georgia border?”
“No, it’s on the north side of Atlanta.”
“Atlanta? Isn’t that like five or six hours away?”
“You could be there when the store opens at seven tomorrow. You want me to put a hold on it or not?”
He told him to go ahead. It was a backup plan that only cost him a hundred bucks if he didn’t need it. The more he thought about driving twelve hours, the more angry he got with his in-laws.
The Baileys had never embraced him like they should have. And he took good care of Trish. By the holidays she’d be living in a brand-new custom-built home overlooking Pensacola Bay. He had her driving a BMW—a fucking 525i. He made it so she didn’t have to work a single day after they got married. Even the place they were renting was plush and loaded with luxury. He was acknowledged around town as a successful businessman, invited to join the Rotary. And yet all that wasn’t good enough. The Baileys still didn’t treat him like he was family. What was worse, Scott felt like Walter Bailey treated him as if he wasn’t worthy of Trish. Walter certainly wouldn’t think he was worthy of borrowing one of his fucking generators.
Scott shut off the headlights and pulled his Lexus GX to a stop along the curb half a block from Walter’s house, where he could see anyone turning into the driveway. It was late. Where the hell was the old man? He drank the lukewarm remains of his latte. He had added a splash of vodka—from the previous funeral home owner’s stash that he had taken along for the ride—thinking he’d need the extra jolt to convince Walter. But even that was wearing off.
He knew there was a fifty-fifty chance the side door to the garage would be unlocked—habit more than anything else. Walter couldn’t park a single vehicle in the garage since it was packed with his discounts, bargains, and supplies for the canteen.
Scott scrubbed the exhaustion from his face. It had been a hell of a day. He just wanted to go home and fall into bed. But even that promised to be a challenge. Trish had left several angry voice and text messages for him.