Jermy Jerohmeha clocked out of the diner for the night. A diner that was now under chain management, bought by out-of-state dollars. He punched his card and turned off the lights.

“Buzz buzz!”

It was his cell phone.

“Are you ready Jermy?” said the voice.

“Yes I am.. Jeffrey” Jermy said exiting the dinner after hours.

“That's good, I'll pick you up tomorrow,“ said the voice, laughing before coughing, and hanging up on the line abruptly.

Jermy paced outside on the spring street overlooking the harbor. He could see mats of seaweed hanging from the stones stacked below him under the sidewalk railing. The waves splashing at the ledge sticking out at low tide had the air salty. The exposed clam flats joined together with the breeze in producing a symphony of the smells of his home. This land was his land, and he was about to lose it all to the bank if he didn’t get some money coming in. With how much property was going up, and fishing ground was shrinking he was going to have to move far far away to find a new line of work after this.

A rock went flying from his kick smacked down the street where it bounced up before it was heard hitting the storm drain. Out of view a cat was crying, a dog barked somewhere further away, and a couple fought each other with apartment windows open.

Jermy walked along the sidewalk as he waved to a passing car before he walked into the “Hoggy Island Country Store”. It was almost closing time, and there was no line. He picked up a bag of chips, two slices of pizza, and a six pack of light beer cradled in his arms before lugging it all the way up to the counter.

He instructed the lady behind it for “three packs of Russian creams please”.

Nearby Majar had stashed his metal cuffs into his pocket. Rain was pouring late at night on mainstreet and the wind was howling. A car sped through a nearby puddle as the cop waited to walk across an intersection outside the dinner. A clicking queue let him know it was time to make way across the crosswalk as he contemplated his next course of action. He had to have a talk with a suspect who had disappeared for several days. He knew things were going to be awkward after he would arrest such a friendly figure, but he had his orders.

The summer storm had hit Crust county hard, tearing down trees and powerlines all over the peninsula. The police scanner was going berserk through the car's windows even with the storm raging outside. A Pinkers truck had been abandoned across the parking lot, sagging down with all its tires deflated. Majar opened his door long enough to retrieve a stack of tickets, his German shepherd police dog had hidden itself under the back seat from the loud cracks of thunder that scared the beast.

The Sheriff's boots squished across the flooded parking lot as he got closer to the pink painted truck, which had keyed up paint and slashed tires. He ripped out one ticket scribbling on the truck's door under the cover of his big brimmed police hat, then put it then put the court summons in plastic and before sticking it under a windshield wiper. He walked back across the lot whistling. Climbing back into his car Major stuck his hand back before he turned back, fully reclining his seat. Gently he started stroking the dog's ears that lay on the floor behind him. A flash of lighting lit them both up. The dog's body was tense again but gradually relaxed with more pets. “Good boy” said the Sheriff, his hand now dry from the fur. Eventually turning around and putting the seat back up as he turned the engine on and slowly drove out to go home.

Two men stood out in orange waterproof fishing gear at the fourth fishing pier. One was lowering a mess of new buoys tied together with a square knot onto a lobster boat idling below, as he tugged the chord to a hydraulic pulley, while the other man sat next to him gut overhanging on a rusted forklift. The sheriff pulled up in his car beside them, inching down his window.

“How are things this morning boys?” said Majar smiling.

“Fine is kind” said the man who sat on the forklift as he sped away through a pile of juice into the bait shed suddenly remembering he had things to do.

“What can we get you, so early in the morning, deputy” said the other as the lobster man unhooked his buoys below and the great big hook on the pulley was sent back up for another round.

“I’m looking for Steve, has anyone seen him around here?” asked Majar.

The man pointed back to the great big building where lobsters were sorted and then processed before being shipped all over.

“Somewhere in there I think,” he yelled.

“Thank you” said Majar, driving away slowly to the other side of the building.

Steven Barnacle might have hidden it, but with all the land he had inherited from his family, and with being partial owner of the Barnacle Lobster Inc. company he was getting pretty rich. The building was on the bumpy dirt road down to the shore with the long line of bait trucks going in and lobster trucks going out, with two cars parked outside. One of them showed up on the cruiser's computer as being registered to Steve’s wife: Betty Barnacle.

Maybe he was using it thought the sheriff as he pulled in beside. He smelled marijouna, and heard some kind of new music that sounded like the subwoofers were blowing out with every beat. One of the windows was down and the pot smell was coming out. The Deputy got out to inspect the car as the sheriff parked, and a man ran out of the lobster plant shirtless.

“And who might you be?” said the deputy to him, grinning.

“Jeffrey Jarehameha” said the man “what are you lot doing down here anyway ain't this a warden's job”.

“This your car here?” asked the deputy as pointed at it.

“No… well actually i'm borrowing it, just while mine’s in the shop” said Jeffrey.

“So you drove it down here?”

“Yes sir, but I'm staying the night right here” Jeffrey mumbled as he walked away in the direction of the dock.

“Where’s Steve or Betty anyway?” asked the cop.

“I'm really not sure I've been borrowing it all week honestly, actually I think they're in Florida, no clue really man” said Jeffrey as he ran down the ramp to where the fishing boats docked.

“So they aren’t in Maine then?” Majar yelled back.

The cops were standing on a mess of piled rocks running along the edge of the lot that dropped to the water.

“Good chance both gone,” Jerehmeha giggled, jumping into a gull crusted skiff and pulling the outboard chord up and down.

“Hey I can still arrest you for operating that under the influence” screamed the deputy as he ran down the ramp steep from low tide as the man he had tried to question sped away from him into still harbor waters.