Denny Dolan, lead guitarist for the little-known--but suprisingly good--rock band "The Barking Mothers," sighed in frustration as his dusty, old Ford sped down the lonely stretch of desert highway. Dolan had the top down, and his long, brown hair was whipping around in the wind being created by the car's forward motion. He looked in the rearview mirror: there was nothing that he hadn't already seen. The road stretched back through the desolation until the curve of the earth made it disappear from sight. A low line of ugly, brown hills were the only things on the horizon. He used the mirror to look into his own blue eyes.

Nice move, asshole, he said to his reflection. Went and got yourself lost again, didn't you? His reflection didn't have an answer. He didn't need one; he was lost, all right.

The desert stretched out in all directions, but Dolan was restricted to the path the highway led him on. He already knew there were relatively few roads that led to nowhere, but given the fact that his gas gauge was leaning dangerously past "E," he didn't know what was going to run out first: the road, the gas, or his luck.

Probably, his luck.

The night before, he and his band had done a show at a roadhouse in western Oklahoma. Tonight, they had a gig in Arizona. But whether he was in Oklahoma, New Mexico, or Arizona, he couldn't even begin to guess. Hell, after all of the tequila that he had drank the previous evening, he may have even driven himself into Texas.

He reached down and grabbed a bottle of Corona that he had nestled in his crotch. He took a swig of the warm, flat beer, looked at it in distaste, then chugged it down. It tasted like mule piss, but he never wasted good booze. As long as the alcohol didn't go flat, the beer still served its purpose. He grabbed another beer from an iceless cooler and stuck it between his legs. A glance in the mirror revealed nothing new. He hung his arm over the edge of the door and drove on.

Here and there, the desert was spotted with cactus and sagebrush, but the never-ending tans and browns were driving him crazy. He slid on his sunglasses and watched the scene turn a cool shade of blue. He considered turning the radio on, but knew that he wouldn't be able to hear it over the roaring wind. If he wanted to hear Janis screaming for somebody to: "Take a little piece of her heart now, baby," he would have to pull over and put the top up.

Dolan shook his head. There was no way that he was pulling over. When the engine died, it died. Until then, he was going to get as close to the end of this road as possible.

The Ford rumbled along for another twenty miles. It started to cough and shimmy; he slammed his hand down on the steering wheel. The car chuffed, bucked, then fell silent. It rolled on for another hundred yards and slowed to a crawl. He pulled the wheel hard to the right--straining against the dead power steering. The passenger side tires hit the sandy edge of the road and popped a few stones. The car stopped.

He looked up into the denim blue sky above Somewhere, USA and whispered, "This can't be happening." He opened the door and got out.

Gazing around at the desolate landscape, he was momentarily startled by the appearance of a desert hare. The rabbit was on the other side of the road inspecting the new piece of long-haired desert scenery that was Dolan. The rabbit lost interest. Dolan brought the heel of his cowboy boot down on the highway to regain its attention. It looked at him stoically.

"Hey!" he yelled. "I don't suppose you know where we are, do you?"

The rabbit ignored his question.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." He banged his fist on the door and went about his business. The rabbit hopped away.

Dolan looked at the sun. It was still early, but the temperature was rising quickly. He took off his leather jacket and threw it in the trunk. The jacket was too hot to wear, and if he were going to carry anything, it was going to be his custom-made electric guitar and his last two bottles of Corona.

He slammed the trunk shut and looked at his bare, white arms. His arms and shoulders were going to get badly burned. Still, he hadn't seen another car on this godforsaken road, so waiting to hitch a ride wasn't much of an option.

He stuck the last two beers into the back pockets of his jeans and grabbed his guitar case off of the back seat. Taking a sip of the beer in his hand, he turned and started walking. It looked as though it were going to be a long, long day.

At the end of two hours, Dolan had just about had it. The sun was directly above him; his shadow was a puddle around his dusty cowboy boots. He finished his second-to-last beer, tossed the bottle in the sand, and looked down the long stretch of highway. There appeared to be a building about a mile up. It was impossible to tell what it was, but if it could get the sun off of his head, then it was already his favorite place in the world.

He continued walking. He only hoped that it wasn't a mirage. When he was only a few hundred feet away, the building's purpose became apparent. It was a rundown gas station with a sign out front that read: "Giovanni's Last Stand." The place looked abandoned, but the antique pumps still had gas showing in their upper bubbles.

As he crossed the dirt parking lot, the age of the place became evident. Faded signs advertised cigarettes that he had never heard of, and the red and white soda cooler on the rickety porch had a 5¢ sign painted above its coin slot.

"Jesus," he whispered. "didn't I see this place in a 'Movie of the Week' once?" He pulled his sunglasses off and hung them from the neckline of his shirt. He listened intently.

For the first time in hours he heard something other than the sounds of the desert. It was music. He could tell it was classical, but the strains were so muted that it could have been coming from another dimension instead of from inside the store. Three rotting stairs led up to the front porch. He stepped onto the first one.

Something changed.

He jumped back.

Everything returned to normal.

He shook his head and looked around. The feeling that he had experienced was . . . what? He wasn't sure. He had gotten dizzy, as though the barometric pressure had dropped dramatically. When he turned around, he expected to see a long, black funnel twisting its way down from the sky. He knew that everything went haywire when a tornado approached. That didn't seem to be the case here, though, and he let out a shaky laugh.

"Man!" he exclaimed. "It's got to be the booze." He put his foot back on the step.

The feeling returned, but it wasn't as disturbing. He stepped across the porch. When he opened the door, three things happened: he heard a small bell ring, the music got louder, and his nose was assaulted by a cinnamony smell. All in all, a pleasant first impression. He stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. The sunlight that managed to squeeze its way through the cracks in the filthy front windows did little to illuminate the place.

"Good morning, Denny," someone said from somewhere on his right.

The music stopped playing. Dolan turned towards the voice. Standing at the counter was an ancient-looking man.

Dolan rubbed his eyes. "Huh?"

"I said, good morning, Denny." The man flashed a toothless grin, but it was as if he were smiling at the wall behind Dolan. It didn't take a genius to figure out why: the old man's eyes were as white as hard-boiled eggs.

Stepping closer, Dolan could see the man's face was a roadmap of wrinkles. His hair stuck out from the sides of his head: it was as white and wild as the beard and mustache that covered the majority of his face.

"Yeah, right back at you. You don't know how good it is to see another human being." For no reason that Dolan could discern, the man began to cackle wildly. Dolan almost turned and ran.

"You're right, Denny, You're right!" He pointed at his sightless eyes. "I don't know how good it is to see another human being. That, or anything else."

"Oh! Yeah . . . I . . ." Dolan stammered in embarrassment. "I didn't mean to---" Dolan's mouth snapped shut. Something peculiar had just registered on him.

"What's the matter, boy?" the old man probed. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Uh, no," Dolan said carefully, "but how do you know my name? I've never met you before."

"No, I don't suppose you have. But there are no secrets here, and after all," the man said cryptically, "I have been waiting for you."

Dolan felt his insides go watery. "Waiting? For me?"

"Oh, yes, Denny. And I've been waiting for a long, long time."

Dolan felt as though his skull were full of helium. He had no idea what this kook was talking about, but he was getting a bad case of the heebie-jeebies. He looked around the interior of the store: there was nothing but empty shelves. "Where the hell am I?"

"That's right, Denny." The old man grinned. "And to think, you got it right on your very first try."

Dolan was badly confused. "I don't get the joke. Just tell me where I am."

The man shook his shaggy head and laughed. "In Hell, Denny, in Hell. That's where you are."

"Sheeeee-it!" Dolan exclaimed. "Look, I don't know what game you're playing, but count me out." He stepped quickly to the door, pulled it open, and was blasted in the face with a searing hot wind. For one fleeting second, he thought that his hair was on fire. He stepped back and looked outside. The desert was just the desert; nothing had changed. Except, of course, for the temperature. Dolan had never felt heat like this before. It had to be nearly 200 degrees. He closed the door.

"Change your mind, boy?"

"Uh, yeah, but . . ."

"No buts about it, Denny, You're burning in Hell, all right. Or, you will be soon if you don't do something about it."

Dolan was terrified. "I don't understand What's happening." He looked down and noticed that his guitar case was gone. He was still holding the handle, but everything else had disappeared. "I mean, I was on that road out there . . ."

"That road doesn't go anywhere, and if you get back on it without my permission, it will just lead you back here again. Only then it'll be too late."

"Too late for what?!" Dolan yelled.

"Why, too late to save your soul, Denny. There's still a chance, you know."

"But . . . what?" Dolan's thoughts were spinning. The more this old man told him, the crazier the story got. "What are you saying? Either I'm dead, or I'm not. I'm either in Hell, or I'm not. Which is it?"

The man scratched beneath his beard. "I guess you could say It's a little of both. You're not really dead. Not yet, anyway."

That got Dolan's attention. "What do you mean? That I can still get out of here?"

"Well, your soul can."

Dolan froze. "My soul?"

"Yes. You see, this really isn't you here. It's just the manifestation of your life force. Your body is in a motel room in western Oklahoma somewhere. It's lying on the floor with severe alcohol poisoning, and if something's not done soon, then the body will die and you'll be trapped here forever. Here where you belong, I might add."

"And you can help?" Dolan was wary. "Who are you? Satan?"

"No, just a man who sold his soul to him."

"Yuh," Dolan whispered. "That was stupid, dude. What the hell could be worth your soul?"

"Only the music. The same thing that led you down this road of destruction. I just did it three hundred years ago."

"Who are you?"

"Didn't you see that sign out front?" Dolan had, but he'd be damned if he could remember what had been written on it. "Giovanni's?" the man prompted.

"Yeah, That's right! Giovanni's!" Dolan shrugged. "Giovanni who?"

"Rinaldi."

"Is that supposed to ring a bell?"

"No," the man said sadly, "I suppose not. You may have heard of the man I used to work for, though."

"Maybe. Who was he?"

"Antonio Stradivari."

"Holy shit!" Dolan yelled. "Antonio Stradivari? Of the Stradivarius violins?"

"Yes. And I see that his notoriety hasn't diminished with time."

Now Dolan was really confused. "But . . . what does this have to do with me? Why am I here?"

"You have a special talent, Denny. A special kind of soul. I could feel it coming from miles away."

"This is crazy, man, really crazy!" Dolan started pacing."You worked for Antonio Stradivari? I'll be damned!"

"No, boy, you won't be damned. You already are."

Dolan had forgotten about his present predicament. His attention turned back to the fact that his body was in some run-down motel in West Buttfuck, Oklahoma. He rushed to the counter. "Hey, Giovanni," he said breathlessly, "what do I have to do? You know, to get back into my body?"

The man smiled serenely. "You have to do what I didn't."

"Well?" Dolan urged. "What didn't you do?"

"I didn't use my passion in a positive way. I know it's not a very good explanation, but it's difficult to explain."

"Try."

The man mused for a moment. "I had no talent for making instruments, but it was the only thing I cared about. I was savagely jealous of Stradivari's abilities, and I would have done anything to surpass them."

"Yeah? So?"

"So, one day while drunk, I offered my soul in exchange for the ability to make a special instrument. Something that would put my boss to shame. When I said it, I was only fooling around, but Satan heard me and came to me with a deal."

Dolan looked at the man's blind, white eyes. "What was it?"

"Well, the deal was that since I was so blinded by my jealousy of Stradavari, that not only would I have to relinquish my soul, but also my sight. In return, I would be given the ability to make one special instrument: one that would forever overshadow anything of Stradivari's."

Dolan nodded. "And you went for it."

"Yes. I agreed to the terms and created an instrument for a certain kind of person. Or, I should say, that I made it for certain type of soul. A soul that could do it justice."

"I still don't get this. Didn't you say you were waiting for me?"

"Yes, but I didn't mean you specifically. What I meant to say was that I was waiting for a soul that shined like yours to come down this road. And I think you may be the one, Denny."

"Me?" Dolan was lost.

"You."

"What am I supposed to do?"

Rinaldi chuckled and held up a gnarled finger. "I have something for you. Something very special." The old man shuffled into the back of the store and started moving things around. "Aha!" Rinaldi exclaimed. "Here it is! I knew it was back here somewhere."

He returned holding an over-sized guitar case: it looked to be made of dark-brown leather and was covered in a layer of dust. He placed it on the counter. "There you are, Denny. An instrument worthy of a soul."

Dolan ran his hands over the weathered hide. "What is it?"

"It's a guitar. And a very special one. I made it myself."

"You mean, this is it? The instrument that will outshine all of Stradivari's?"

"This is it." The old man undid the little brass locks. When he opened the case, what Dolan saw made his heart ache with desire. It was a magnificent instrument of unearthly design. Made of polished wood from some dark-grained tree, it was strung with twelve strings of the purest silver. The inlaid frets were of silver also.

"It's . . . beautiful," Dolan whispered.

"Thank you," Rinaldi said proudly. "Remember, it is one of a kind."

"But it looks so old. I'm afraid I might break it."

Rinaldi stroked the instrument lovingly. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that. You see, this guitar will play forever. It's magic."

"Magic," Dolan echoed.

"Yes," Rinaldi said. "And I'm giving it to you, Denny."

Dolan was having trouble believing all this. After all, here he was talking about lost souls, dying bodies, and magic guitars; it was too much for his overloaded mind to handle.

"Go ahead, Denny. Pick it up."

"Are you sure?"

"Come on, Denny, stop being a jackass and pick up the guitar. I wasn't kidding when I said your time was running out."

Dolan placed his hands on the instrument: a surge of power, or electricity, or . . . something went shooting up his arms to his shoulders. The jolt nearly knocked him over.

"Wow!"

"'Wow,' is right, Denny, but hurry up. I have to be sure you're the one before I let you leave."

"What do you want me to do with it?"

"Play it, boy! Play it! What else?"

Dolan lifted the instrument from the case. A long, thin strap of leather dangled from the guitar: he slipped it over his head. The guitar hung loosely against his body. It was giving off a vibrating energy that lit his soul from within. He placed his fingers on its neck. His spirit soared. He positioned his fingers to play a "G" chord.

"Go ahead, Denny. Make me see the music."

Dolan brought his fingers to the strings, took whatever it was that passed for a deep breath in Hell, and strummed.

A galaxy of symphonies crescendoed around him; his mind's eye was opened as never before. He changed chords and strummed again. Sparkling cities full of crystal spires appeared: they rose to the clouds. His fingers moved and a brace of rainbows exploded around his head. Their shimmering stripes, dissolving quickly, fell to the earth in a shower of prismatic raindrops. Fingers dancing from fret to fret, he played an old Spanish melody. A butterfly's wings began to melt, then molded themselves into the eyes of a beautiful, laughing child. He strummed again and the child sang a note so sweet and pure that it grew silver wings. He watched the note float up to the gates of Heaven. He was about to go into a bluesy guitar riff when he heard the old man screaming from somewhere far away.

"Stop, Denny! Stop!"

Dolan couldn't see anything but the music. He felt his hand being pulled from the guitar; the world he was creating instantly disappeared. He found himself looking at the old man's face.

"Please, stop," Rinaldi whispered, tears flowing into his wild, white beard.

"Why?"

"Because, it was just too beautiful to bear. I cannot stand to see that anymore."

"What? You mean, you could see all that, too? I can't even believe that I was seeing it!"

"I saw it, Denny, believe me. And it's more than my lost soul can take. Living in this wasteland has made me forget how beautiful the music is. Here, it's nothing more than torture."

"But---"

"Stop it, Denny, just stop! Take the guitar and go. Get out of here. Go and bring the music to the world. Just . . . get it away from me."

"Go?" Dolan looked around. "Go where?"

"It doesn't matter. Back the way you came is fine. But hurry!"

"But, I want to thank---"

"Run, Denny, run!"

Dolan backed towards the door and opened it: he could hear a million screaming voices.

"Run, Denny! Go!" Rinaldi was on his knees crying. "Those voices you hear are coming for you!"

"Wh--what?!" He looked out into the desert. It sounded as though every legion of Hell were approaching.

"They saw the music, too, Denny, and they want to keep your soul here. They want to kill the beauty of the music and make you live in pain and ugliness forever." Dolan looked down the road and saw a twisting black cloud approaching: it was thousands of feet high. "Go! Go! Go!"

Dolan started running with the guitar clutched to his chest. When his boot heels hit blacktop, he started clomping down the highway as fast as possible. Squinting his eyes, he saw a strange gray opening--a doorway possibly--in the middle of the road about a hundred yards up. He looked over his shoulder and screamed.

A huge, black cloud full of tortured faces was bearing down upon him. They were shifting, stretching, screaming horridly. He heard his name being shouted by a million mouths; the stink of death and corruption emanated from every one of them. The foul mass reached toward him with its evil presence.

Dolan's eyes were burning, his vision blurred by the heat of Hell, but with his objective in sight, he never stopped running. The door was forty yards away. Thirty. Twenty. Ten.

He felt the presence caress the back of his neck. Screaming, twisting, towering to the sky, the evil mass raised a huge hand to crush him. The mass swooped down, Dolan dove for the door and . . .

. . . went crashing back into his body.

He opened his eyes. He was laying face down on a motel room floor, a puddle of vomit inches from his lips. He looked back to see if the door was still open. Both it and the cloud were gone.

The guitar lay on the floor next to the bed. He had almost forgotten about it. In fact, he wouldn't have been surprised to find that the entire episode was some alcohol-induced nightmare. He picked up the instrument. Its power had crossed over with him; he could feel it surging through his body. He slipped the strap around his neck. His throat was parched. He swallowed hard. There was a loud, dry click.

"This can't be happening," he whispered, but he knew that it was. Dream or no dream, there were no guitars like this one. He closed his eyes and strummed a chord. He watched a glowing note float away like a feather on a warm, summer breeze. He put his hand on the strings to stop their vibrations. Once again, he was looking at the motel room.

It had been real, all right.

Every last bit of it.

He looked at a half-empty bottle of tequila on the nightstand and picked it up. In the silence of the room, he could hear the golden liquor sloshing around. He sniffed it, gagged, then threw the bottle at the wall. It shattered and sent tequila spraying everywhere.

That was perfect. He wouldn't be needing that stuff anymore. All it did was blind him to the things that mattered.

Like the music.

Like his life.

Like his very soul.

It was something that he couldn't allow to happen again. He had been given a second chance. He had been allowed to see the music. It was a precious gift. He wanted to share it.

Slinging the guitar behind himself, he headed for the door. He had a show to do that night. Soon, the world was going to see the music.

When Mr. Salter first sent me this story, I rejected it with comments and suggestions. I thought it had potential, but its original form was far too rough for publication. I never expected him to try again, but I reckoned without his perseverance. This revision--though still rough in places--speaks well of its potential and Mr. Salter's efforts. Hope you agree, AR readers.