American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1)

by McAdams, K. D.

  “You’re the cop killer.” Jimmy turned and went back to the truck.

  Eliza had left, presumably to the safety of the crowds in New York. Dylan was still here, alone in the woods of New Hampshire. The whole thing was starting to feel like a setup.

  “You Dylan Cold?” the officer asked.

  “Yes sir,” Dylan confirmed, though he suspected the cop already knew who he was.

  “Where were you last night around nine o’clock?” the officer asked.

  “Here, packing and cleaning up some things in my apartment,” Dylan answered.

  “Did anyone see you here? Can you prove that you didn’t leave?”

  “Eliza, my landlord was upstairs. I didn’t see her, but she knows I didn’t leave.” The whole situation was starting to feel like a small town setup.

  “Is she home now?” the cop asked.

  “No. She left early this morning.” Dylan suddenly realized that this visit might have been better planned than he thought.

  “Do you know where she went? Is there any way I can talk to her to see if she supports your story?”

  “I don’t know where she went, but you could call her cell. I’m sure she’d tell you I didn’t go anywhere.”

  “There was a break-in at the library last night. The whole section of books related to Monson and the history of Brookford were taken. A witness says that they saw a black pickup just like yours leaving the scene a little after nine o’clock.”

  “Well someone smashed the spark plugs on my truck yesterday afternoon. That’s why Jimmy’s here. Besides, there are probably a hundred black pickups in this town; how could someone pick mine out in the dark of night?” Dylan felt like he was evading a blind-side blitz.

  “Don’t know why they thought it was you, but my job is to follow up on leads. I’m sure if you didn’t do anything wrong you have nothing to worry about,” the cop said.

  “I’m starting to wonder about that,” Dylan answered.

  “Mind if I take a look inside?” the officer asked while walking to the passenger side door.

  “Actually, I do. Do you have a search warrant?” Dylan challenged.

  “If you’re so sure of your innocence, what are you afraid of?” The officer’s hand moved from the car door handle to the butt of his gun.

  “I told you, it was vandalized last night. Whoever did it could easily have left something in the cab to frame me.” Dylan could feel the pressure.

  “You can unpack, because you better not go anywhere. I’m coming back, and believe me, if you thought we were being hard on you before, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

  The cop walked back to his car and climbed in. The tires squealed as he backed out of the driveway.

  Jimmy started the flatbed and backed up. Dylan was pissed that after all this harassment, they weren’t even going to fix his truck.

  When the flatbed turned around and started backing up toward his vehicle Dylan had a feeling that everything was turning around.

  For now, he was a step ahead. As long as he was able to stay on his feet, the play was still alive and there was a chance to get something positive out of it. Keep scrambling, he told himself. You’ll find the opening.

  Chapter 17

  Dylan’s apartment was spotless. There wasn’t a leaf left on the lawn and any dead branches that were even close to dry had been broken into woodstove length and stacked neatly along the edge of the woods.

  Montana was exhausted. Somehow he knew that the pacing and the fidgeting were a problem. The dog wouldn’t let his master get more than a few paces away.

  When Dylan disappeared into the woods to find more sticks to break, Montana followed. A purposeful walk to the end of the driveway got the dog up off the ground and trotting along beside him. If he had even stepped a foot onto the road, closer to a score, Montana would have barked, whined, or growled.

  That was only an afternoon.

  Dylan looked down at his hands and wondered how he was going to make it through a whole day. He and Montana had already walked, eaten a protein bar for breakfast, and made another large stack of sticks and wood. It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning.

  If he left the house without a destination in mind, he would wind up somewhere bad. Going to town wouldn’t work either. They all hated him and that would only push him deeper into despair.

  He decided to look at a map on his phone. Where would he go when the truck was ready? Out West, maybe? Bringing Montana the dog to Montana the state might be the change he needed.

  Maybe he could get a small piece of land and build a log cabin. Real estate out west was different than here in New England. Dylan studied the streets and satellite images of Bozeman and felt a tinge of excitement. His mind wandered to living in a tent, building a cabin, and working odd jobs just to make ends meet. Not the worst life for a sober, single guy.

  The phone he was completely engrossed in made an unexpected noise: it rang. Grateful for the distraction, Dylan answered without looking at the number. Before he finished saying hello, he regretted not checking the number first.

  “Truck’s ready. If you don’t get it before noon, we charge a fifty dollar storage fee.” The caller hung up without waiting for acknowledgement.

  Fortunately there was nothing to regret about answering this call. Still, he scolded himself for not being smarter. If the cops were telling people he was a suspect in the library break-in, there could be more calls from reporters. His anonymous tips were all the interaction he wanted with the press, and he reminded himself to get a paper when he was in town getting his truck.

  He thought that the storage fee seemed like a discretionary policy, but decided that it probably wasn’t one they would wave for him. It was only a few miles to the garage and the walk would be easy enough, but something felt wrong. Why were they rushing him?

  “Listen,” Dylan said to Montana sincerely. “I have to go get the truck, but I want you to stay here. I promise I won’t stop anywhere bad and I’ll come right home. We’ll go for a nice ride later and you can rest all you want.”

  On his way out the door, Dylan’s eyes were drawn to the shed and Ryan’s mountain bike that leaned against the side. Even if he were home, Ryan wouldn’t mind if Dylan borrowed the bike. He could bring it home in the back of his truck and the whole trip would take less than half an hour. He took the bike.

  He peddled fast and hard. A light sweat formed on his skin in the cool morning air and his lungs felt good, breathing deep replenishing breathes. It took longer than he expected and some of the hills he used to consider small now reminded him of mountains. Cycling was not his a strong suit.

  Before he even went into the shop, he put the bike in the back of his truck. The small town center was busy and he was glad for the crowd. If this was a setup, it probably wouldn’t be more aggressive than the one yesterday.

  He greeted the woman standing behind the counter. “I’m here for my truck.”

  “What’s your last name, hon?” she asked.

  “Cold. It’s the black Ford out by the field.”

  “Gotcha right here. Looks like eight new plugs, oil change, labor. Comes to one-forty-five.” The woman smiled.

  The price felt high but Dylan didn’t want to quarrel. He counted out eight twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. As the clerk slid a five across the counter, the door behind him opened.

  Jimmy’s presence filled the room.

  “Should be good to take you as far away as you want,” the mechanic said.

  “Thanks. Was it bad?” Dylan hadn’t expected it to be done this quickly.

  “Nope. Whoever did this wasn’t trying to ruin the truck, just slow you down. Definitely wasn’t a local; we’re not going to miss you.” Jimmy left it at that and walked out the door.

  Dylan nodded at the woman behind the counter and left.

  At the truck, Dylan paused. If anyone wanted to plant evidence, this was the perfect opportunity. His truck had been left, unattended, overnigh
t. The mechanic would have plausible deniability; lots of people had their vehicles in his lot overnight. The cops could easily justify being in town and checking out the property at night.

  He inspected every inch of the cab. If something had been planted, it was hidden so well that he couldn’t find it. Dylan tried to figure out which angle they were most likely to take; framing him for drugs, the library break-in, or killing Officer Farley? Drugs would be the easiest and most effective for them.

  None of it mattered. Starting right now, he wasn’t waiting anymore. Home to get Montana and then gone was all the plan he needed. Dylan shifted into drive and started to pull away from his space when a body jumped in front of the truck.

  He slammed on the brakes and the truck lurched. A man in a black suit with a black skinny tie stood in front glaring at him. Dylan thought the outfit was out of place in the small farming community, but couldn’t decide how to react. It actually reminded him of the cop killer and he locked eyes with the intruder, wondering if this could possibly be him.

  A hand gripping his throat firmly interrupted Dylan’s stare. The point of a knife dug into the side of his neck and he felt a small trickle of blood roll down.

  “Eyes front,” said a man with a thick Irish accent. He was standing outside of the truck, reaching his left hand in to hold Dylan with the knife in his right.

  Dylan kept his focus on the man standing in front of his truck. Every detail of the man’s face and clothes were burning into his memory with each second.

  “You’re a popular fellow these days. I’ve never been one to follow the crowd myself, but my mum always told me that where there’s smoke there’s usually fire. Lotsa smoke around you,” the man hissed into Dylan’s ear.

  “Yeah, well I’m the one getting burned,” Dylan growled back.

  “Mum also told me that real men don’t whine, they just get on with it,” his captor snickered. Dylan could smell alcohol on his breath.

  Dylan smiled wryly. “Your mum sounds lovely. She must be real disappointed in you.”

  The man’s grip tightened and then slammed Dylan’s head into the pickup truck’s back window. Dylan struggled to breathe. In front of the truck, suit guy looked left and right. No one was coming.

  “My boss is willing to make a trade. The American Lease for your life. No one will ever need to know you gave it to us, we get rich, and you get to go on breathing. That sounds more than fair to me,” the man lilted.

  “I don’t have it, I’d never even heard about it until a couple of days ago. Killing me mean you surely won’t get it and threatening me certainly isn’t going to make it magically appear.” Dylan closed his eyes.

  “If you can’t help us with the lease, we don’t need to keep you alive. I’ll let you choose your final resting spot: water or shallow grave?” the man cackled softly.

  “What I’m trying to explain,” Dylan said, his mind racing, “Is that I need to be able to do the work to get it. I can’t do that with your hand around my throat.”

  The British boozehound released his grip and pulled his arm out of the truck window. A car pulled into the gas station and the partner in front stared it down as if he could will them not to come to the back lot.

  “We found you here, don’t think we can’t do it again if you run. When you get the lease, it’s ours,” the man said firmly.

  Two steps away from the truck, the man stopped and turned back to Dylan.

  “And your landlady and her boy. They use credit cards. Can’t hide in New York or anywhere, for that matter, if you keep swiping the plastic.” He raised his eyebrows; the message was clear.

  Seconds later, they were gone. Dylan saw them go through the trees and into the neighboring field, but never heard an engine start. Where they had come from and where they were going was a mystery.

  These guys had to be involved with the cop killer. If only the cops or the FBI would take a second and look at someone else, he thought. Maybe he could make another anonymous tip?

  That’s when Dylan realized that he didn’t have a number for the FBI agent. What kind of investigator doesn’t leave a card?

  Chapter 18

  Where were the cops when you needed them? For the last few days, it had felt like every time Dylan turned around there was a police officer or the FBI agent watching him. Now that he could have used a little help, the center of town was the quietest place on the planet.

  Who had the resources to hack into the credit card networks and track civilians? They killed a cop, robbed a library, and assaulted him in public. The British accents felt like a false flag; wouldn’t an historic American document only be of value to the United States?

  If running wasn’t an option, he’d need to start putting the pieces together and not just fantasizing.

  The cop killer must not have found the lease. His partners wouldn’t be here now if they had what they wanted.

  There had to be some credibility to the concept; the FBI had dedicated an agent to not only investigate the story, but also stick around and tail a carpenter.

  If he had hidden a valuable document in the 1700s, how would he have left clues? Markings on stones, a bronze or iron plate, or maybe a passage in a book seemed like good old-fashioned ways to leave clues.

  Tearing apart Monson and stealing books from the library made sense. But what could be missing? What had they discovered that got them this close and what could be missing to keep them from the prize?

  It would be great if he could check in with one of the reporters to see if they had learned anything. Unfortunately the anonymous part of his tips made it difficult to place a follow-up call. He would have to pick up a paper and search the Internet to see if they had found anything.

  Dylan decided that he would go home and let Montana out for a bit. After lunch, he would go into the Nashua library to check the paper and do some real research.

  As he pulled out of the garage parking lot, he shook his head at how quiet the normally buzzing town had suddenly become. It was a weekday, so school was in session and the local businesses were all open. Where are all the people?

  Turning right onto Main Street, Dylan immediately saw what had quieted the place down. Two police cruisers and every piece of fire equipment were parked in front of the historic society, lights flashing.

  His first instinct was to turn around and stay away. He didn’t need anyone being suspicious of his presence at the scene of an accident. But this was the way home. Maybe turning around would look even more suspicious?

  Slowly rolling up to the scene, Dylan was careful to not stare but still watch the officer directing traffic. The man numbly waved Dylan to the opposite lane and directed him through.

  When he recognized Dylan’s face, the blank expression turned into a death stare. The officer raised a hand and spoke into the radio mounted on his shoulder.

  Dylan’s gaze was diverted from the officer to the back of the ambulance. A stretcher was being lifted in and he had a clear view of the patient. A bloody mess of flesh filled the area behind the oxygen mask where a face should have been. One eye was swollen completely shut and the other was a glassy marble rolling freely in its socket. The wispy white hair above was clinging to a bright butterfly barrette that no longer held enough hair and seemed more fitting for a child in school.

  Before he rolled past the ambulance, commotion from the narrow door of the building drew his eye.

  A backboard was halfway out and sharply tilted. Two men at the bottom of the steps fought to hold it up while a woman from inside of the house crawled underneath and scrambled to secure one side. On top of the backboard, two orange foam pads stabilized the victim’s neck and head. Curls of black-gray hair hung off the edge and a bag to help with breathing rested on the patient’s chest.

  Dylan’s first hope that this was a random act of violence sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. He didn’t want this to be related to the cop killing, the library, or the American lease. But of course it was. No one in town would reme
mber the eighteen months he had lived here quietly; they would all think that he brought this violence and trouble to town.

  Who would beat up two old ladies, and why? If they wanted to take something from the historic society why not break in at night, the way they had with the library? Were they sending a message to him? To someone else?

  Dylan rolled home deep in thought. He stayed five miles under the thirty mile-per-hour speed limit. It felt like he checked his rearview for the blue lights of a cruiser at every utility pole.

  He made it home without getting stopped. Pulling into the driveway, he stared at the house and thought some more. They were sending him a message. Women and children were not off limits. They were willing to beat up two old ladies at the historic society; he could imagine what they were willing to do to Eliza and Ryan.

  The FBI had to help. Dylan decided that next time the agent made contact, he would offer to work with him. It was a little risky, seeing how he had so little to offer, but it was better than running, and at the end he was sure he’d be proven innocent, because he was.

  The blue lights he had been waiting for surprised him.

  The cop that had given him a hard time about Montana’s license was already out of the car and approaching Dylan’s window. He was glad to notice that the officer’s sidearm was still in its holster.

  “People keep getting hurt and you always seem to be around,” the officer said.

  “Has to prove that I have nothing to do with it,” Dylan said. “I have a record because I wasn’t smart enough to keep my drugs hidden. Do you really think I could commit the string of crimes that hit this town and not leave at least some evidence?”

  “Do you own a suit?” the officer asked.

  “How is that relevant?”

  “Answer the question: what color is your suit?”

  “I don’t own one. I refuse to do anything that would require me to pretend to be a suit guy.”

  “Jimmy told me he had your truck all night. Whose bike did you ride to pick it up this morning?”