Until the phone rang, Harvey W. Keene’s day had not been going well. He’d spent most of the morning looking for his left shoe. I could have shown him where it was, but he didn’t ask.

Harvey needed his shoes because there was nothing left to eat in the house and he wanted to run down to the food store in his truck to re-supply. He finally gave up on the shoes and slipped into his old slippers with fuzzy lining and hard plastic soles since the weather was dry and not too cool.

The trouble was that once he got out to the truck, he didn’t have his keys. For that matter he didn’t have his wallet either.

"Shit!" he observed with his usual eloquence. "What the Hell did we do last night, John T.?"

I generally treat Harvey’s questions as rhetorical. Besides, I knew what I did the night before, and if he couldn’t remember, it wasn’t my problem.

Harvey climbed into the back of the truck to search there. As usual, the back of the truck was full of assorted items of broken furniture, camping stuff, music gear, and underused gardening equipment. After some fruitless rummaging, Harvey managed to bang his head on the way out. He sat down on the tailgate and rubbed the injured spot.

"What are you lookin’ at?" he asked. As a matter of fact, I was hoping for something to eat.

I followed Harvey back into the house, where he poked around a bit more in hope of finding the lost shoe. Eventually we wound up on the sun porch. He noticed the Old Martin leaning against the loveseat and picked it up.

Harvey had been working on a new tune for the last couple of days. It was a minor-key rocker with a basic lick he had lifted from a Moody Blues song. He always says: ‘If you’re gonna steal, steal from the best.’ The lyric was shaping up to be about an outlaw motorcycle rider – something that had gotten into his head a while back when he played a gig at the Laughlin Spring Run in Nevada. He picked up his guitar and gave it a strum. The B string broke.

"Damn!" he exclaimed. "This ain’t our day, is it John T.?"

Actually, I had no complaint, but didn’t give him an argument. He set the Old Martin down and was going to get a new string when the phone rang.

"Yeah?" he answered. "Hey Mike. What’s up? … Uh huh … Uh huh … Yeah, OK. That’s great, Mike. Good work. Thanks! … Yeah, sure, I can make it fine. No problem … No, really, Mike. You don’t need to come along. I’ll be fine … Well, yeah, but she’s a fifteen-year-old girl. That’s different … Don’t worry, Mike. You got other things to do … OK. Thanks again. Bye."

Guess what, John T." he said after hanging up the phone. "We gonna take us a trip to Maine! What do you think about that?"

I didn’t think much about it one way or the other.

Harvey picked the Old Martin up, only to discover the broken string. He went over and opened the guitar case that was lying on the floor in the corner. His left shoe was inside. Inside the shoe he found his keys and wallet, along with a bag of weed he didn’t recognize.

"Hey," he remarked. "Things are looking up."

After putting a new string on the Old Martin, he rolled up some of the weed and lit it. As the smoke curled up around him, the scent filled the room. Harvey looked thoughtful for a moment and then spoke.

"I think I got this figured out. After we got through playin’ last night, I musta been hot and dropped by Bobbie’s for a dip in his pool. Remember, we found my shorts wet in the bathtub and the front seat of the truck is still damp. I must have put my stuff in the shoe when I jumped in."

So far, his account was accurate.

"Then I drove home in my bare feet. I musta worked on the new song a bit, and that’s when my shoe got into the case. Mystery solved, right John T.?"

Quite the detective is Harvey W. Keene.

-----------------------------

Nothing out of the ordinary happened for a while after that. Harvey played a few local gigs, and had several uproarious "rehearsals" at the clubhouse. One morning after a long walk in the woods behind the house, He packed his duffel and threw it into the truck along with the Old Martin.

"C’mon, John T," he announced. "We goin’ to Maine!"

The autumn air was dry and cool with the smell of leaves about to turn. As we set out, the sun shone in and warmed the cab of the truck. Harvey popped in a Ralph Stanley tape and I settled down on the seat beside him for a snooze.

Before long, the sun disappeared into an overcast sky and the wind picked up. When the Ralph Stanley tape ended, Harvey replaced it with a compilation of Kristoferson songs. By that time, rain had started and we rolled along with the wipers beating in and out of time with the music.

The sky had darkened until it was the same shade as the pavement where the two met at the horizon. The trees lining the road began to fade from green to gray and the smell of wet evergreen mingled with the tangy odor of Harvey’s truck heater. From time to time, I caught the salty scent of sea air.

By the time the Kristoferson tape ended and we got off the highway, the smell of the ocean was strong. The wind whipped rain across the windows of the truck. We bumped along small, rough roads, turning around a couple of times, before Harvey finally pulled the truck to a stop.

"I think we’re here, John T," he said. I was willing to believe him.

We got out of the truck to discover that the storm was as bad as it sounded. The wind was blowing the rain sideways. Harvey had pulled up next to a large, dilapidated wooden structure with a rusting sheet metal roof. The yard in front was littered with lumber, machinery, rope, floats, netting, and other unidentifiable items. The wind couldn’t hide the odors of fishing.

I had some business to take care of, and by the time I caught up with Harvey I was wet through to the skin. Inside, the building was even more full of assorted junk than the yard. We stood dripping just inside the door. Harvey looked around while I soaked in a riot of interesting smells.

"Anybody here?" he called after a while.

"You mean othah than you?" This came in a thick Down-East accent out of a tall gaunt figure stepping through a door near the back. He wore heavy rubber boots and yellow foul-weather pants over a plaid flannel shirt. His eyes twinkled out of a creased face surrounded by graying hair and beard with no mustache.

"Well, yeah."

"Then that would be me and the little fellah they-ah. Name’s Maash Jenkins." He walked over and held out his hand. "Don’t know the dog’s name."

"John T. Barleycorn," offered Harvey as he shook Marsh’s hand. "I’m Harvey Keene."

"Pleased. Been awaitin’ on ya."

"I thought we were early," Harvey said, looking at his watch.

"You ah, but this sto-am is gettin’ bad fast. Much longah and you won’t be ridin’ to the island with me. We best git goin’."

"OK. I’ll get my stuff."

I saw no good reason to get wet again, so I stayed inside while Harvey went out to the truck.

"Seems to me we had some dog treats around hee-ah someway-ah."

Marsh walked over to an old roll-top desk that was practically buried under paper, tools, and other junk. He opened a drawer and took out a box of Milk-bones. He struck me as a fine fellow as he fed me a couple and scratched behind my ears. I can tell a lot about a person from the smell, and Marsh Jenkins smelled just fine to me.

Harvey returned soaked with his duffel and guitar. Marsh stood up and looked him over.

"That slickah won’t help much in this." Marsh disappeared into the back room and returned with a full set of foul-weather gear, including a Souwester hat. Before long, Harvey looked like the Gorton’s Fisherman without his pipe.

Marsh hefted Harvey’s duffel and led us into the back room where he put on a jacket and hat like Harvey wore. Outside the back door, the building opened onto a large dock. The wind blasted us with rain and salt spray from the harbor that stung the eyes.

Tied to the dock, a small, rust-stained fishing boat bounced on the swells. A dim light in the pilothouse revealed another figure in yellow raingear. We walked across the planking to the edge. A whiff of diesel exhaust told me the boat’s motor was already running. Marsh swung easily down into the boat and stowed the duffel in the pilothouse before returning and taking the Old Martin case that Harvey handed to him.

I gave some thought to running away, but Harvey grabbed me and made his way clumsily down onto the boat’s small deck. The truth is, I hate boats. Actually, I think it may be water over my head that I hate, but the two seem to be closely associated. From the moment my feet hit the pitching deck, I was miserable. Harvey hadn’t said anything about a boat trip to me!

"My son, Dextah!" Marsh had to yell his introduction over the howl of the wind.

"Pleased!" yelled Dexter as he shook Harvey’s hand and then moved him past to cast off the lines.

Marsh took the wheel and throttled away from the dock. The boat’s motion got worse right away.

"Are we gonna be OK?" yelled Harvey. He didn’t look too happy either.

"Show-ah!" shouted Dexter. "Finest kind!"

That certainly wasn’t my opinion. Under some circumstances I suppose I might have been interested in all the odors the boat had to offer, but right then I couldn’t stop shaking. It seemed an eternity to me before Marsh cut the throttle back. The boat settled down a bit, but not much. Suddenly, we were bumping against a dock while Dexter tossed a line up to a similarly dressed figure who secured it and then took Harvey’s gear that Marsh and Dexter handed up onto the dock.

Harvey grabbed me with one arm and started to clamber one-handed up a rough ladder nailed to one of the pilings. Once or twice he almost lost his grip on me and on the ladder. Given my frame of mind, I would have grabbed him by the throat and held on if he’d let go. Somehow we made it up onto the dock.

The wind and rain didn’t seem to have let up. We were standing on a short pier that jutted out into a small bay formed by two large rock outcroppings that sheltered either side. There was a small shack where the dock met the shore. A bare light bulb burned weakly under a circular tin shade attached to the wall. It was almost dark. The sky held only enough light to outline the edges of the land without revealing any detail.

Two more figures in yellow raingear emerged from the shack and came down the dock, nodding as they passed Harvey and continuing on to climb down into Marsh’s boat. The other one was carrying Harvey’s bags toward shore. Harvey turned and waved to Marsh before following. Inside the shack was dry, and the roar of the wind diminished a bit.

"Taylah Gault," the fellow who had taken Harvey’s stuff introduced himself.

"Pleased," answered Harvey, offering his hand.

"Ay-yuh" said Taylor, raising one eyebrow as he shook Harvey’s hand. "House is up the path right behind hee-ah. Don’t know what you’re gonna do up they-ah, though. That was the staff gettin’ into Maash’s boat. Don’t want to be caught out hee-ah in a big blow."

"Is this storm dangerous?"

"Not patic’ly, but it’s like to keep boats in for a piece."

"How long?"

"A weathahman I ain’t. Day, maybe two. You want to go back with Maash?"

"Is Jack Phillips here?"

"Lives hee-ah. Find him up the house."

"Then I guess we’ll stay."

"Suit yaself. Path to the right outside the do-ah. Can’t miss it. Need a hand with them bags?"

"I’m good, thanks. See you later?" Harvey gathered up his duffel and the Old Martin.

"Mo-ah ‘n likely," answered Taylor as we headed back out into the storm.

Behind the shack, a path led off between two large rocks. After a short distance, the path curved to the left and began to rise steeply. Soon we were climbing up rough stone steps with sheer rock walls on either side. The wind and rain were not so strong in the shelter of the rocks, but it was still far from pleasant. Once, as we climbed, a bolt of lightning revealed the wet rock around us with dazzling brightness. I smelled salt, pine, and ozone.

Before too long, the path leveled out and the storm broke on us again as we emerged from the shelter of the rocks. Another flash of lightening showed us that we had arrived on top of a low rock cliff. Behind us the ocean churned beyond the little bay where we had landed. In front of us was a large stone house surrounded by pine trees.

I followed Harvey up onto the porch where he employed a huge brass anchor-shaped doorknocker with enthusiasm. Seasick, cold, tired, hungry, and wet, I certainly shared his eagerness to get inside. It wasn’t long before the door opened and we hurried in. I smelled Jack Phillips. He’s an engineer that Harvey knew from the old days in Nashville.

"Harvey Keene! Come on in out of the shit, man!"

"Jack! How ya doin’? Nice weather you got here."

"Yeah. Blame the engineer for everything, right? Here let’s get you out of that suit. Shit, you look like Jethro Tull in that stuff." Jack laughed as he helped Harvey out of his borrowed foul weather gear.

We were in a big entry hall with hooks along one side and a large wooden bench on the other. Scents of old wood and stone drifted in from the rest of the house. Between them, they got the stuff off Harvey and hung up to dry.

"You came prepared for the weather, at least."

"That guy Marsh with the boat set me up."

"He’s a good guy. It would be real hard to run this place without him and his cousin Taylor." Jack looked down at me. "John T. Barleycorn, I presume. He’s soaked, man."

"He sure is," said my good friend Harvey as if he had just noticed.

Jack lifted the bench seat and got out a big white towel.

"Thanks." Harvey took the towel from Jack and started to dry me off. It felt good. Sometimes he reminds me why I like him. "So, what’s happening? Is what’s-her-name here yet?"

"No. Not yet. Last I heard they chartered a boat to get here. Supposed to be in today, but I haven’t heard anything."

"What happens if she don’t show? Looks like I’m stuck here for a while."

"Well, the tracks are here, so we can do your part solo if we have to."

"Not really, man. I mean this is supposed to be a duet, right? How am I gonna know what she wants to sing?"

"Good point," Jack conceded. "Well look, this place isn’t so bad. Make the best of it, huh? Here, I’ll take you up to your room, and then show you around."

"Sounds good."

Harvey was through drying me off and hung the wet towel on a hook. We followed Jack into the house and upstairs where he showed Harvey to a big comfortable bedroom with it’s own bath. It was one of four that occupied the second floor of the house. The bed was large with a frilled canopy and covered with a quilted comforter. It looked like a nice spot to sleep. The room smelled of camphor, mildew and potpourri. The sound of the wind outside was still pretty loud.

"Hey, are you hungry?" Jack asked after Harvey threw his duffel in the closet. "Mildred left a ton of stuff made up in the ‘fridge."

"Sure. I could eat somethin’." I couldn’t have agreed more.

Downstairs, through the dining room, at the back of the house was a big modern kitchen. A huge refrigerator held all sorts of prepared foods. Harvey and Jack settled on some lasagna heated in the microwave and a salad. They sat at the kitchen table making small talk, eating, and drinking beer while I waited patiently.

When they finished Jack took the dishes, rinsed them, and put them into a dishwasher. Apparently Harvey had forgotten about my stomach.

Jack offered a tour of his studio. A door off the kitchen led to a staircase. At the bottom was a good-sized lounge – couch, chairs and tables, television, speakers. Straight ahead a door opened into a big tracking room that took up the front half of the house. Around under the stairs another door opened into the control room. The mass of the house blocked out any noise from the storm outside.

Jack unlocked the door to the control room and led us in. The door was heavy solid steel, the kind you might find in an office building. To my mind, if you’ve seen one recording studio, you’ve seen them all. The room was full of equipment and smelled of solvents and machinery. Jack was describing the facilities and Harvey was nodding and making interested noises, but he doesn’t know a whole lot more than I do about the subject.

"You want to smoke a bone?" he finally asked Jack, apparently having reached his limit of interest in the recording equipment.

"Yeah, sure," Jack answered. "Let’s go see the tracking room."

The tracking room smelled a little like the control room and a little like a gymnasium. Wave traps in the corners and on the walls made it sound like a big open space. A large window on the same wall as the door opened into the control room. A wood and glass isolation booth in the far corner held a drum set, and a grand piano stood against the opposite wall.

Harvey produced a joint and lit it. He took a big hit and passed it to Jack.

"Tastes good!" said Jack, exhaling as little as possible. They polished off the joint, tapping the ashes into a big floor-standing ashtray next to the piano. The wall to the right of the door was covered with framed photographs. When they were finished, Harvey walked over and took a look at them.

"There’s Dusty," he said pointing to one.

"Yeah."

"That was a shame. He OD’d, right?"

"That’s what they said."

"What do you mean?" asked Harvey.

"Well, the cops said it was an overdose, but I never believed it. I worked with him for a long time and I never knew him to shoot anything. The guy hated doctors, needles, anything like that." Jack shook his head. "Who knows? After ‘Hurt Like Love’ hit, everything changed. He was on the road all the time – all kinds of money, different people. I don’t know. Maybe he changed. I mean, he definitely changed. Maybe he started shootin’. He wouldn’t be the first."

"I hear that." Harvey pointed to another picture. "That one was taken here?"

"Yeah. We were recording ‘Hurt Like Love’ at the time."

"You did that here? I thought you were in Nashville then."

"I was. This was Dusty’s place. He built this studio."

"I didn’t know that," said Harvey. "How come he had a house way up here?"

"He inherited it. I guess his family had this place for a long time."

"Didn’t he come from someplace in Texas?"

"No," answered Jack with a chuckle. "Dusty Harris grew up in Connecticut, near Stamford somewhere. You never knew this?"

"Nope. I didn’t really know him all that well."

"Yeah. He came from old money. His folks weren’t exactly thrilled that he became a country music star. They wanted him to be a lawyer. He actually went to law school. I think he graduated but never tried to pass the bar anywhere."

"I’ll be damned." It was Harvey’s turn to shake his head. "You wouldn’t know it from his accent, would you?"

"He worked hard to get that down. Had a dialogue coach for years. She used to laugh that he was the only client who ever wanted her to make him sound like hick. Usually, she was asked to cure that type of thing."

"So you bought this place from Dusty?"

"Actually, he gave it to me. He said it was for all the unpaid work I did for him over the years."

"Wow! He gave you the house!"

"As a matter of fact, he gave me the whole island."

"The whole damn island!" Harvey whistled. "How big is it?"

"Not real big. A little less than twenty acres."

"Shit, that ain’t small."

"True."

"This the only house?"

"No. There’s a guesthouse and a sort of servants’ dorm attached to this place. Then there’s the caretaker’s house on the other side. That’s where Taylor lives. You met him, right?"

"Yeah, down at the dock. So he lives on the island?"

"Yep."

"Hmm. That’s a hell of a present, ain’t it?"

"It sure is," agreed Jack. "Dusty was like that. After his parents passed, no one really used the place. He didn’t have any other family, and he spent all his time off the road at the ranch near Austin."

"I remember that place. It was a wild scene back then."

"No shit. There were more crazy fuckers per square foot there that any place I ever saw."

"Yeah. You know I ran into a guy a while back who was down there back then. We played the Laughlin Run a few months ago. One of the bikers came up after the show. Said he knew me from Dusty’s ranch. What was his name, John T.?"

I couldn’t help him there.

"He had a funny name. It’ll come to me." Harvey furrowed his brow. "Bolt! Yeah, that was it. They called him Bolt – short for Bare Bolt. Lost one of his balls in a bike crash and they called him Bare Bolt since he was missing a nut! Those bikers are crazy, huh?"

Jack didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied. I could smell that he had started to sweat.

"We spent some time reminiscin’," Harvey continued. "He asked about you, as a matter of fact."

"He asked about me?" Jack was interested. "What did he want?"

"Nothing special. We were just talkin’ about people who used to hang with Dusty back then. Do you remember the guy?"

"Bolt? No. Doesn’t ring a bell."

"I didn’t know about this project then, so I couldn’t tell him anything about you."

"Just as well," said Jack. "Most of the people who hung with Dusty back then were pretty far gone. I don’t really have much desire to see any of them."

"I’m with you. That whole scene was too much for me, even when I was younger."

Right then a red light over the door began to flash on and off.

"The doorbell," said Jack noticing the light. "Maybe our little star has arrived."

We all went back upstairs to the front hallway. Jack opened the door to reveal two figures standing on the porch in the rain. The man was short and heavy, wearing leather shoes and a London Fog raincoat. Beside him was a teenage girl wearing cowboy boots, rhinestoned jeans, and a frilled jacket. Both were hatless and their clothes were soaked through and plastered to their bodies.

"Hey Phil! Come on in! I’d about given up on you," Jack greeted the man. "Harvey Keene, meet Phil Wiseman. And this is Leah Jackson."

Leah stormed through the door into the entry hall, tight-lipped and obviously unhappy. Phil brought up the rear after stooping to bring in two dripping overnight cases. He was smiling nervously as he set them on the floor and shook hands with Jack and Harvey.

"How’d you get here?" asked Jack.

"Boat dropped us off at your dock," Phil answered as he struggled out of his soggy raincoat. "This is a pretty hairy storm."

"We could have been killed!" added Leah acidly, making no move to take off her drenched rain jacket.

"I think the Captain knew what he was doing," answered Phil. "He wouldn’t have pulled in if he thought it was too dangerous."

"What kind of idiot rents a boat in a storm like this?" Leah asked to nobody in particular.

"There was no storm when I rented the boat," Phil replied.

"This storm was kind of a surprise to everyone," offered Jack.

"We could have been killed!" Leah repeated.

"It’s a hell of a boat though," continued Phil. "Pershing fifty-six footer. You should see it! Like a big Cadillac, and it goes like Hell. Two thirteen hundred horsepower turbo-charged diesels. The thing can cruise at about fifty knots."

"Is it still at the dock?" asked Jack. "I’d like to see that!"

"No. The Captain’s taking it in to the harbor to ride out the rest of this storm."

"We could have been killed!" said Leah once again.

"Well, I’m glad you weren’t," Harvey interjected in his friendliest tone. "I sure am looking forward to workin’ with you."

Leah gave him a brief glance.

"I’m going to bed," she announced.

"I’ll show you guys up to your rooms," said Jack. "Right this way."

Leah turned and followed Jack up the stairs, leaving Phil to collect the luggage. Harvey and I drifted into the living room. Before too long, Jack returned and got two beers for himself and Harvey. Phil appeared a while later changed into dry clothes.

"Hey," Jack greeted him. "Is she all set?"

"Don’t worry. You’ll know if she isn’t."

"You want a drink?"

"I sure do," Phil answered dropping into an armchair. "You got any Scotch?"

"Oh yeah." Jack got up. "Rocks?"

"Please."

"Comin’ up."

"Here’s to ten percent after expenses," Phil toasted when he had his drink. Harvey and Jack lifted their beers with him.

"She didn’t seem too happy about the boat," offered Harvey.

"Not much makes her happy," Phil answered. "She’s the teenage daughter I never had. She sure can sing, though."

"You can say that again."

"She’s a pain, but she’s makin’ me rich. The hicks love her. No offense, Harvey. You ought to see ‘em. They can’t get enough. At least she’s got enough sense to be nice to the fans."

"She can’t seem to do much wrong these days," Jack added. "I hope this project isn’t any different."

"Amen," said Harvey. "I ain’t sold a song in a long time."

Harvey produced another joint, after which they shot the breeze about the music business and mutual acquaintances. It was pretty late when he finally excused himself and we headed off to our room leaving Jack and Phil still talking.

------------------------

I probably would have slept better if I hadn’t been hungry and the storm hadn’t been howling around outside the house. Harvey slept like his usual log, snoring loudly all through the night. I decided pretty early not to cut him any more slack and pulled the covers off to rouse him.

"All right, John T." he muttered as he got out of bed. "Me first, then you."

After he emerged from the bathroom, he pulled on his pants and led the way downstairs to let me out the front door. The storm was still blowing strong, but the rain seemed a bit lighter. All the same, I was soaked again by the time I finished up.

Harvey dried me off with the same towel when I got back inside. Then we wandered back to the kitchen. I smelled coffee, and Harvey was pleasantly surprised when he too noticed it. He poured himself a mug and drank a bit before finally digging some chicken out of the refrigerator and shredding it onto a little plate for my breakfast.

Leah walked into the kitchen while I was eating. She was wrapped in a big terrycloth robe and wore slippers that looked like little bunnies. I wouldn’t have minded chewing on them even if they didn’t taste like rabbit.

"Is there any milk?" she asked noticing Harvey’s coffee.

"Good mornin’," answered Harvey cheerfully from his seat at the table. "I take mine black, but if I was lookin’ for milk I’d start in the ‘fridge."

"Mornin’," she muttered as she walked pouting to the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. She filled most of a mug with milk and topped it off with coffee. Then she sat down across from Harvey without putting the milk away.

"I guess you had quite a trip up here, huh?" said Harvey.

"We could have been killed!" Leah answered with a roll of her eyes. "Phil’s an idiot."

"Well anyhow I do want to thank you for recordin’ my song."

"It was Phil’s idea," she answered flatly.

"In any case, I appreciate it. You sure are hot these days."

Leah took a sip her coffee and wrinkled her nose at it.

"You make this?" she asked.

"As a matter of fact, no. It was ready when I came in. I guess Jack must be up already."

Leah said nothing. She sipped her coffee and pouted at me.

"That you’re dog?" she asked.

"That he is. John T. Barleycorn, meet miss Leah Jackson."

"That’s a silly name."

She wasn’t winning me over. Harvey shifted in his chair and took another pull on his mug.

"I really dug your last CD," he tried again. "You got a fine voice."

"Thanks," she replied almost smiling.

"Yep. You sure can sing a ballad. You been singing a long time, huh?"

"Yeah," she answered offhandedly. "You say Mr. Phillips is up?"

"I haven’t seen him. Maybe he’s down in the studio."

Leah gave him a blank look.

"The studio’s in the basement. Down those stairs." Harvey pointed toward the door. Leah didn’t move. "Here, I’ll show you down."

Harvey got up and opened the door, waiting beside it until Leah stood with a sigh and moved to follow him. We all walked downstairs, with Harvey in the lead calling out Jack’s name. There was no answer, so Harvey led Leah into the tracking room to show her around.

Leah followed him in and stood in the middle of the room looking around with a bored look on her face. Suddenly she stiffened and pointed toward the window into the control room.

"What’s that?" she squeaked, backing away toward the door.

Harvey turned toward the window and froze. It looked like someone had thrown reddish brown paint all over the far side. After a moment he walked over and looked through.

"Jesus," he said softly before dashing out of the room. I followed at a run. He ran through the lounge around under the stairs and tried the door to the control room, but couldn’t get it open. Then he ran back to look again through the window in the tracking room.

"What is it?" asked Leah as he passed her in the lounge. He didn’t answer and so she followed to the door. Harvey was craning his neck around trying to get a better look into the control room.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, rapping his knuckles against the glass.

"What is it?" Leah’s tone was both scared and annoyed.

"I think it’s Jack," Harvey answered, still peering through the window. "Looks like he’s been shot or somethin’."

"What?!!"

"I don’t know. I can see him in the chair there. Jesus! It looks like most of his head’s missing." Harvey ran back around to try the control room door again, but had no more luck opening it that before.

"Shot?" asked Leah who had followed him back into the lounge. Suddenly she turned and ran up the stairs yelling Phil’s name.

After taking another look through the window, Harvey followed her. By the time we got up to the second floor, Leah was standing next to Phil’s bed shouting at him. Phil lay in bed, rubbing his eyes and looking confused.

"What?" he was saying. "Who’s been shot?"

"Get up!" she yelled. "Do something! My God!"

"What the Hell is going on?" asked Phil, noticing Harvey standing in the doorway.

"Get out of bed!" yelled Leah hysterically.

"I don’t know," answered Harvey. "Jack’s locked in the control room. It looks like his head’s been blown off."

"Will you get up!" screamed Leah.

"Shut up, Leah!" Phil snapped at her. He threw off the covers and swung his legs off the bed. All he had on was a pair of boxer shorts. He stood and headed toward his bathroom.

"Where are you going?" sniffed Leah. She was starting to cry.

"I have to piss."

We stood awkwardly for a moment, Leah sniffling, Harvey leaning against the doorjamb, listening to Phil urinate into the toilet. After a flush he emerged, found his pants, and pulled them on.

"This better not be some fuckin’ joke."

"I don’t think so," said Harvey.

Phil led the way back downstairs to the kitchen. Leah wouldn’t go any farther, so Phil and Harvey went back down to the studio without her. Phil repeated Harvey’s initial movements, looking through the window and trying the door while Harvey stood in the tracking room.

"Maybe we should break the window," suggested Phil. "He might still be alive."

"It sure doesn’t look that way, does it?"

"No. Still…"

"Look," said Harvey. "This is gonna involve cops. Right now everything is sealed in there, but if we break that window and go in there’s no tellin’ what’ll happen."

"What about Jack? Maybe he isn’t dead."

"You looked in there. He sure as Hell looks dead."

"Holy jumpin’ Jesus Christ," said Phil softly, shaking his head. Then he went over and yanked at the control room door again. It still didn’t budge.

"Maybe there is a key somewhere," suggested Harvey.

They both looked around over the door casings for a hidden key, but found nothing. Finally they gave up and went back upstairs to the kitchen. Leah was sitting stiffly at the table with her hands in her lap. Her eyes were red and her face was wet with tears. She glared at Phil and Harvey.

"One of you killed him," she said tonelessly.

"What?" Phil and Harvey spoke in unison.

"One of you two killed him," she repeated. "We’re the only people here."

She stood up and backed out of the kitchen. Her steps on the stairs, the sound of her bedroom door closing, and the click of the lock being thrown were audible in the quiet house. Harvey and Phil each looked at the other for a moment and then smiled nervously.

"Well, I sure as Hell didn’t kill him," said Harvey. He walked to the table, picked up his coffee mug, and refilled it.

"That looks like a good idea," said Phil. He found a mug and filled it. Noticing a bottle of brandy on the counter, he spiked his coffee heavily and offered the bottle to Harvey.

"Thanks." Harvey followed suit. "I guess we better try and call the cops."

"Yeah." Phil picked up the phone on the kitchen wall and dialed. "Hello. My name’s Phil Wiseman. I’m at Jack Phillips’ house on Little Crescent Island… Yeah. Well I think Jack may have shot himself… No. I think he’s dead… Well, he’s locked in the control room of his studio. We can’t get in… No. This isn’t a joke… Yeah… No. There’s just three of us here right now… Who? Taylor Gault? I don’t know who that is..."

Harvey tried to explain who Taylor was but Phil waved him off.

"Look, just get somebody out here as fast as you can… Don’t worry, we aren’t goin’ anywhere… OK. Thanks." He hung up the phone.

"Cops are on the way. Said they’d be here in less than an hour."

"Great. I gotta hide my weed."

Harvey went up to his room and collected the joints he brought. I decided to stay dry while he went outside to hide them. Before long he returned and we rejoined Phil in the kitchen.

"I coulda used a smoke," said Phil.

"Yeah, well I don’t think we need that right now."

"I suppose you’re right." Phil got up and refilled his mug with brandy, topping it off with a bit of coffee. Harvey’s mug was still half full. They sat across the table from each other and drank for a while in silence.

"This trip just keeps getting better," said Phil finally, shaking his head. "This project’s been snakebit from the start. And who the Hell is Taylor Gault?"

"Shit. I forgot about him. He’s the caretaker, I think. Lives on the other side of the island."

"You think we ought to try and find him?"

"I don’t know," answered Harvey. "Maybe we can call him. You seen a phone book around?"

"No. I just dialed nine-one-one."

The both got up and were starting to look through the kitchen drawers when the clump of footsteps sounded on the back porch. The back door opened, letting in the sound of the storm outside, and Taylor Gault stepped into the kitchen in full foul weather gear. Harvey and Phil both gaped at him in surprise.

"Hi they-ah," said Taylor. "Found the coffee, eh? Any left?"

Taylor got a mug and filled it before anyone could speak. Phil and Harvey both started talking at once when they did, and the result was unintelligible.

"What ya say?" asked Taylor.

"Jack Phillips has been shot," said Phil. "He’s locked in the control room downstairs."

"Come again?" Taylor gave them an astonished look.

Harvey repeated the news. Without saying anything, Taylor walked across the kitchen and through the door down to the studio. We all followed. Taylor was trying a key from a big chain when we caught up with him.

"Do-ah’s bolted on the inside," he announced. Then he went into the tracking room and looked through the window. "I’ll be dipped in shit."

"I was going to break the window," said Phil. "But he was against it."

"Prob’ly best," answered Taylor still looking through the window. "Guess we bettah call the authorities."

"I already called the cops. They’re on the way. You know, Jack may still be alive in there."

"Don’t look like it, does it," Taylor replied. He walked back to the control room door with the rest of us following. "I s’pose we could pull them hinge pins. See they-ah. Do-ah opens out. You say the cops are comin’?"

"Yeah. They said they’d be about an hour, but that was a while ago."

"Well, we best just wait on them then, I guess."

Harvey, Phil, Taylor, and I would up sitting around in the living room to wait. Leah wouldn’t come out of her room until the police arrived. Phil filled his mug again with brandy while Harvey and Taylor stuck with coffee. Nobody said much, and before too long an authoritative pounding on the front door announced the arrival of the authorities.

The Police Chief turned out to be Marsh Jenkins’ brother, and he looked and smelled that way. He arrived with an EMT and three deputies. After a quick examination of the situation in the studio, the Chief had the deputies separate Harvey and Phil, taking statements from them in their bedrooms, and from Leah once they had finally convinced her to unlock her door. Nobody paid much attention to me so I tagged along when Taylor, the Chief, and the EMT went back downstairs.

The Chief agreed with Taylor’s idea about the door hinges and Taylor went off to get some tools. While he and the EMT waited, the Chief dusted the door for any fingerprints. The dust smelled funny and made me sneeze.

"So. Who are you little fellah?" asked the Chief as he scratched between my ears. I figured the Chief of Police ought to be able to find that out on his own. Taylor was back before too long with a hammer, screwdriver, and prybar.

"Careful about them prints. They-ah, and they-ah." The Chief pointed out a couple of spots on the door to Taylor. "OK. Go on ahead."

Taylor popped out the hinge pins and pried the door open. Once it was loose, they leaned it against the wall out in the lounge. The Chief stuck his head into the control room for a better look. The scent of blood, brains, and gunpowder drifted out. It was also clear that Jack had soiled himself at some point before he died.

"He show-ah looks dead," observed the Chief stepping gingerly through the door. "Shotgun. Big one, too. Maybe a twelve. One in the chest. Other took off most o’ his head. You can take a look"

The EMT stepped into the room and checked Jack’s pulse. He turned and shook his head at the Chief.

"Alright," said the Chief. "Bettah come on out of the-yah. It’s a crime scene now."

The EMT left. Taylor stayed in the doorway. I sat next to him. I could see most of the room. Blood and brains were splattered all over the ceiling and wall in addition to the window to the tracking room. I could smell Taylor, the EMT, and the Chief, along with Jack’s various odors. There was another smell in the room that I couldn’t place, and I started into the room for a better vantage.

"Hold the dog," the Chief told Taylor. "Don’t want him in hee-ah."

Taylor caught my collar and held me back, but I was able to get a better sniff. I thought I recognized the smell, but couldn’t place it. In any case, it wasn’t Taylor or the Chief or the EMT or any of the deputies. It wasn’t Jack or Harvey or Phil or Leah. It wasn’t anyone I had smelled in the house. The funny thing was that it seemed only to be in the control room.

"Who’s dog is that, anyhow?" asked the Chief.

"That Harvey Keene fellah. You know, the oldah one."

"Oh yuh." The Chief scratched his head thoughtfully. "Well, you bettah take him upstay-ahs. Lot a work down hee-ah."

"Ay-yuh"

Taylor led me away from the control room. I sniffed around enough to convince myself that there was none of the strange scent outside the control room. Harvey was upstairs sitting in the living room drinking a beer. One of the deputies was with him.

"John T.!" Harvey greeted me. "Where you been?"

"Been helpin’ the Chief," replied Taylor.

"Well git on over here." Harvey patted the seat next to him. I stayed put and whined a bit.

"He probably needs to go," said Harvey to the deputy. "OK if I take him for a walk?"

"I s’pose," shrugged the deputy. "Don’t try leavin’ the area."

"Don’t worry. The dog can’t swim."

We went out the front door. The storm had blown itself out leaving only a fresh salty breeze off the ocean. It was late afternoon, the sky was clearing and the air was cool. We turned to the right outside the door and walked toward the center of the island. As we passed beyond the house the other structures came into view through the trees past the rear of the main house.

The land rose up to a treeless rocky rise dotted with patches of turf. It was good to be outside. The breeze ruffled my fur as I walked along sniffing the ground. I smelled squirrel and rabbit. A stand of short pines started on the far side of the rise. I caught the old scent of another male dog, and saluted it while Harvey retrieved his joints from their hiding place in another one of the pines.

We started into the trees. The needles underfoot smelled sweet. I was looking for the right place to relieve myself when I caught the scent from the control room. There was no question about it. The same person who had been in the room with Jack had been here not too long before, definitely since the storm ended. I checked around. The track led to the edge of the trees and ended there. In the other direction it led into the woods. I took off after it.

"John T.! Where the Hell are you goin’?" Harvey yelled after me.

The trail led through the trees, emerging at a bare rocky area near the shore. I could hear Harvey yelling from behind me. The trail led across the open area and around one side of a house-sized boulder at the edge of a cliff. Behind the boulder, a narrow ledge led down the face of the cliff. Waves broke against the rocks below.

I wasn’t sure what to do. The ledge bent around a disappeared behind the curve of the cliff. I sat down for a minute. Harvey caught up, emerging from the trees.

"God Dammit, John T.!" Harvey was fuming. "Get your ass back here!"

I just couldn’t let it go, and started down the ledge. Harvey kept on yelling at me. The ledge was plenty wide for me, and it led around the cliff and into a fairly large cave mouth. The sun shone a little way into the cave, but not far. The scent from the control room was strong along with the other smells of the cave. Somewhere inside was the person who had been in the control room with Jack. I sat down in the opening and waited to see what would happen.

What happened was that Harvey came creeping down the ledge behind me, pressed against the face of the cliff until he arrived in the cave mouth beside me. He was pretty pissed off.

"For Christ sake, John T.! Are you tryin’ to get me killed? I ought to kick your ass, you miserable little bastard!"

There was a scraping sound inside the cave followed by a sharp rasp of metal on stone.

"Shh," whispered Harvey. "There’s something in there."

No shit, Sherlock. Anyway, I wasn’t the one making noise.

"Is somebody in there?" he called into the dark.

After a moment the scraping sound came again. A figure emerged into the light near the mouth of the cave. It was a man dressed in a black wetsuit and rubber booties. He had a pump shotgun with a sawed off barrel cradled in the elbow of his right arm. It suddenly struck me where I had smelled him before.

"Hey Dude," he said.

"Who’s that?" Harvey asked squinting into the darkness.

The man stepped further out into the light.

"It’s me. Bolt."

"Who?" asked Harvey. He is a bit slow sometimes.

"Bolt. You know, from Laughlin."

"Laughlin?" OK, he’s real slow sometimes. "Oh yeah. What’s the gun for?"

Bolt looked down at the shotgun as if seeing it for the first time. He set the stock down on the ground and leaned the barrel against the wall of the cave.

"Nothin’, I guess. Not right now, anyway."

"You shot Jack," Harvey stated. Sometimes he surprises me.

"Uh-huh."

The two stood looking at each other for a time. Then Harvey sat down on a large rock near the cave’s mouth.

"I need a smoke," he said, producing a joint. It took him several tries to get it lit because of the wind. He took a couple of deep drags and then offered it to Bolt.

Bolt took a hit and gave it back. Then he walked out to the cave’s mouth and began pulling on a yellow rope that hung down over the cliff toward the water. The end was attached to a six-pack of beer cans. He pulled two off, handed one to Harvey, and popped the top of the other. Then he lowered the rest of the beers back into the ocean and sat down on another rock near Harvey. The two of them sat drinking and smoking until the joint was gone.

"So. What happens now?" asked Harvey after a while.

"I don’t know."

"You gonna shoot me?"

"Naw," replied Bolt with a sheepish grin. "I guess I’d rather not. Besides, I kinda like your music."

"The cops are here"

"Yeah, I know. I woulda been long gone by now if it wasn’t for this damn storm."

"How’d you get out here?" Harvey asked.

"Kayak. I paddled," he added when he noticed Harvey’s confused look.

"Huh. Somehow I don’t see a Texas biker paddling an ocean kayak."

"That’s because I ain’t a Texas biker. I grew up around here."

"I thought you knew Dusty from Austin."

"Nope," said Bolt. "Met him up here back when we were kids."

"I’ll be a son of a bitch," said Harvey thoughtfully, shaking his head.

Bolt finished off his beer and stood to retrieve another round. Harvey came up with another joint and the two partied in silence for a while.

"Why’d you shoot him?" asked Harvey eventually.

"Fuckers stole my song."

"What song?"

"’Hurt Like Love’, Bolt answered. "I wrote that."

"You wrote ‘Hurt Like Love’?" Harvey sounded incredulous.

"Yeah. You think you’re the only songwriter in the world?"

"No, but Dusty has the copyright, doesn’t he? Or had it."

"Yeah. Well I wrote it." Bolt shook his head. "It was the only thing I ever created in my whole damn life. Wrote it about the only girl I ever loved. She broke my heart, and those fuckers stole it."

Harvey didn’t say anything.

"You don’t remember my playin’ it all the time back in Austin?" Bolt asked suddenly.

"Nope. I really don’t remember you playing."

"You musta been around after the accident. I used to play it all the time before I screwed up my hand." He held up his left hand. It was missing a couple of fingers and the rest were curled and deformed. "Couldn’t play after that. Didn’t really give a shit. Not after she left."

"Why didn’t you go see Dusty about it?"

"I did. You think I’m fuckin’ stupid. I’m hangin’ out in LA and my song is all over the radio. How do you think I felt? Of course I went to see him."

"What did he say?"

"Not much." Bolt chuckled bitterly. "He was pretty fucked up. Barely knew who I was. He was about to call the cops on me before he passed out. I known him longer than anybody, and he blows me off like some damn stranger. I thought ‘Fuck him’. I took out my rig and shot him up with most of what I had on me. He just stopped breathin’ while I sat there watchin’ him."

"You killed Dusty?"

"Yeah. I fuckin’ killed him." Bolt stood up. "That song was the only good thing I ever did. My whole fuckin’ life’s been a train wreck. But that… I should have gotten credit for that, at least."

"Couldn’t you find anybody who knew you wrote it?"

"Who remembers what a fuckin’ biker does? You play and people listen. Somebody like me, they just want to get away. Nobody listens to a bum."

Harvey was quiet for a while. Bolt got up and retrieved the last two beers.

"So you came up here to see Jack," Harvey said taking a swig.

"Yeah. I don’t know what good I thought it’d do. Maybe I was plannin’ to kill him. I don’t know what the fuck I thought."

"But he was locked in the control room. How’d you get out?"

Bolt laughed. Both of them were getting pretty blasted.

"It’s a secret," he said finally.

"Secret?" Harvey repeated.

"Yeah. A secret. Secret passage. Runs from the basement of the main house to the back of this cave. Must have been made for smugglin’ or somethin’. Maybe during that Prohibition. Found it when we were kids. Dusty and I used to play in it. I guess he kept the hidden entrance when he built the studio."

"I’ll be damned."

"I figured I’d sneak into the house and have it out with him. Didn’t know the studio was there. I guess Jack didn’t know about the passage. He about shit himself when I opened the door and walked in on him. He just laughed at me. Told me to fuck off. Said nobody would give a damn if I wrote it. Dusty could make it a hit because he was a star. Me? I was just a bum. I didn’t deserve to write it. My song. My whole fucking life! And I didn’t deserve it!"

Bolt was starting to shout. He drained his beer and threw the can back into the depths of the cave. Then he shrugged and sat back down before continuing.

"I had the pump along to scare him, I guess. He just sat there laughin’ at me. Don’t even remember pullin’ the trigger. Thing just went off. Blew a hole clean through him and the chair. I guess he was dead then, but his eyes were open and he just kept staring at me. Like he was still laughin’. I couldn’t take it so I stuck the barrel under his chin and blew his fuckin’ head all over the place."

Bolt leaned his head back against the wall of the cave and closed his eyes.

"What are you gonna do?" he asked without moving.

"I don’t know," answered Harvey. "I probably better get back or the cops will be lookin’ for me."

"You plan to tell them?"

"Not unless they try to pin it on me. What if they find the passage?"

"They won’t."

"You shoulda left the gun," Harvey pointed out. "Maybe they’d think it was suicide?"

"Yeah, well I wasn’t exactly thinkin’ clear. Besides he couldn’t have shot himself twice, could he?"

"I guess not." Harvey thought for a while. "What about fingerprints."

"I don’t think so. I didn’t touch nothin’."

"Huh. If they don’t find the passage, the cops are gonna have a real mystery on their hands."

"That’s what I been sittin’ here thinkin’. Until you found me I thought it had worked out pretty good."

"Well, I don’t want to get mixed up in this shit," said Harvey. "As long as they don’t come after me, I don’t see myself saying anything about it."

Bolt looked hard at Harvey.

"I guess I gotta either trust you or shoot you, huh?"

"Yeah. Well, I better go." Harvey stood up and moved out the mouth of the cave. He stopped for a moment and looked back at Bolt before he started to edge his way along the ledge. I followed. When we lost sight of Bolt he was still sitting on the rock at the mouth of the cave looking out over the ocean.

Harvey was silent as we headed back toward the house. There was a lot of the island left to explore, but he wasn’t in any mood to chase me. I walked along beside him. He stopped for a moment when we reached the rocky rise overlooking the main house.

"That was weird, huh John T.?" he said. "What are the chances of findin’ that cave?"

Without me they were slim to nil, but I didn’t interrupt.

"I guess I’m glad nobody wants to steal any of my songs." He shrugged and headed down the hill.

The Chief wasn’t pleased by our long absence. As usual, Harvey blamed it on me.

"Fuckin’ dog ran away," he explained. "He don’t know the island and got lost. I can’t just leave him even if he is a pain in the ass."

In the end the cops couldn’t charge or hold anyone, though. They never did find the door to the secret passageway and they probably never solved the case.

Leah had already departed on the rented boat, leaving Phil behind. It was kind of like his notice, I guess. Phil rode back with us on Marsh’s boat, and Harvey dropped him off at an airport not far away. Then we rolled on back home.

Leah got herself another manager, grew a fine set of tits, and became a pop star. She never did release any of the duets from the ill-fated project that brought her and Harvey together, but somewhere he still has a copy of the rough mix of his song, without any vocals, to remind him of the trip.

We never saw or heard of Bolt again. Harvey did finish up the biker song, though. Its called ‘Outlaw Rider’. There’s nothing in the lyric that refers specifically to this episode, but I suspect he never sings it without thinking about our visit to Maine.