American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1)

by McAdams, K. D.

  This morning he woke early and continued to test his hearing. It wasn’t fully restored and may never come back all the way, but it was manageable and he was confident that with time he wouldn’t even notice anything.

  He was no longer thinking of running, and the allure of the drugs in his kitchen drawer was nonexistent. After the recent occurrences of having guns pointed at him and escaping with his life after being involved in a shoot-out, it felt like a turning point. The whole situation had to have peaked, and life would be on it’s way back to normal.

  The sound of the tractor on the road outside made him smile. Back to normal indeed. He turned to isolate one ear on the road and gauge the volume, then repeated the process with the other ear.

  He was so occupied with his thoughts about hearing that he didn’t notice when the engine slowed to an idle and stopped moving.

  A knock on the door startled him and he called out. Maybe he wasn’t as relaxed and happy as he thought.

  “Dylan, right?” Abbey Holt greeted him when he opened the door.

  “Yeah. Everything okay?” he answered.

  “I think so… The first two times we met were a little weird. I’m sorry and I thought I should introduce myself and say thank you or something.” She smiled.

  Her sandy blonde hair peeked out from underneath a trucker hat. Freckles dotted her cheeks so thickly Dylan thought of the eye black he used to wear. The t-shirt she wore was tucked into her jeans and clung to a body that was toned and firm but had probably never seen the inside of a gym.

  “You’re welcome. I think I owe you an apology, too. I didn’t know you were an expert on the American Lease and never would have intentionally gotten you involved.” He almost forgot that his tip to the press had been anonymous and hoped that he was vague enough to avoid being linked to that.

  “That’s what’s so confusing for me. I don’t really do the lease any more. I’m not sure what they would have done, seeing how I don’t really know anything.” She cocked her head to the side and looked up at Dylan.

  “I don’t think these guys are too worried about leaving some wreckage in their wake. If they think you have something they want, there aren’t too many things they wouldn’t do to get it.” Dylan was surprised at how relaxed she was.

  “Yeah, Kevin parked the cruiser outside my house last night and I’m not sure my friend Jim slept at all. For what it’s worth, you’re all wasting your time.” She was now looking at the floor.

  “Could you give me the sane, not article-looking-to-go-viral, idea of what this thing is supposed to be?” Dylan didn’t have to be obsessed to be interested.

  “Hmm. It’s a little bit of a crazy story but when you think about it, not that crazy. Some people think it’s a myth or an urban legend. It ranks somewhere lower than the Legend of Oak Island, though it actually has a lot more credibility,” Abbey began. Her gaze had moved from the floor to Dylan’s chest.

  “Sorry, Oak Island doesn’t register with me. Anything else you could compare it to?“ A police cruiser pulled into the driveway, distracting Dylan.

  “Okay, how about Ponce de Leon and the Fountain of Youth? Imagine something that people think is less likely to exist.” Abbey broke her stare and looked behind her, like she knew the cops were coming.

  “So you mean something like Sasquatch or Big Foot?” Dylan fixed his gaze on her face.

  “That’s about right for likelihood of reality, but way too high for the number of people interested. Say there are a thousand history majors pursuing a Ph.D. every year. They all need a unique topic for their thesis, but in the last twenty years only three have even considered doing the American Lease. And the one who actually went ahead with it didn’t finish the paper.” Abbey looked Dylan square in the eyes.

  “So if you believe this lease thing exists, you’re crazy, but there is a real possibility that it exists and hasn’t been found because no one was really looking for it.” He didn’t like his chances of being the one to find it.

  “Something like that. I’m confident that it existed, but two hundred and fifty years is a long time for a piece of parchment to stay intact. Even if it was still in one piece, the clues have all been wiped out. Maybe Amelia Earhart had it on her plane.” Abbey giggled at her own joke.

  “Well, someone thinks it’s real. They had a stack of papers and were willing to kill a cop to keep their search quiet,” Dylan said.

  A flash of excitement raced through the young woman’s eyes. She searched somewhere other than where they were for a question or suitable reaction. Dylan struggled to stop looking at her, but knew he needed to acknowledge the officer that had just approached.

  “Abbey, I almost drove right past. You didn’t tell me you were stopping here.” The officer who had met them in the orchard had more concern than anger in his voice.

  “It’s okay, Kevin. I just wanted to say thank you to Dylan.” She looked at Dylan and not back at the officer.

  “Well, it’s okay, because I wanted to clarify something with both of you.” The young cop puffed his chest slightly.

  “Anything,” Dylan offered.

  “Abbey said something about an FBI agent in the orchard yesterday. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Yeah, it was the same agent that questioned me at the county court house and then assaulted me in the street,” Dylan said. “Didn’t he give a statement? I would have thought he had to file a report if he discharged his weapon.”

  “Besides the car that drove off, we didn’t see anyone other than the two of you in the orchard.”

  “You think he was with them?”

  “If things went the way you say they did, it doesn’t seem likely. Why shoot at each other? Chief says there may an undercover thing going on, but I wanted to make sure you were really saying it was an FBI agent,” the young officer said.

  “It’s the third time I’ve met him and the third time I’m worse off for it. Sounds like a government official to me,” Dylan replied.

  The officer took out a card and scribbled on the back before handing it to Dylan. It read “Officer Kevin Glover,” with a phone number beneath. Another number was written on the back.

  “This is my personal cell. If you see the agent again, call me. Undercover or not, I don’t want him running around town shooting at people,” Officer Glover said.

  “You bet.”

  Dylan thought the local cop was likable enough. He had a little of the false bravado that comes with being a cop in the small town where you grew up, but it seemed like this week may have opened his eyes. Hopefully now that he had helped Abbey, the benefit of the doubt would go his way if Agent Smith showed up and punches started to fly.

  Abbey took the card from Dylan and the pen from the cop. She scribbled quickly and handed it back to Dylan.

  “There’s my cell, too. I talked with Mark this morning, and he said you did good work and were always reliable. I have some stuff that needs doing around the barn, so if you need work, let me know,” she said.

  She flashed a smile and left, the police officer close behind.

  Chapter 24

  For a while after Abbey and the cop left, Dylan walked around the apartment. He unpacked one of his bags and thought about some changes he might make to the small space if he were allowed to stay. He thought about calling Eliza and letting her know it was safe to come home, but decided that he should wait for a full day of quiet before assuming anything.

  By eleven-thirty he had done enough thinking and was growing hungry. He scraped his pile of change off the counter and placed it in his front pocket. He deserved a decent meal and decided to go downtown. There was enough change to cover a parking meter for a couple of hours, so he could actually sit down and be served a meal.

  It was a cool enough fall day for Montana to sleep in the truck while he ate, and the dog loved going for rides.

  “Come on Montana, let’s go,” he called.

  Grabbing a rawhide strip from the bag by the door, Dylan spun his keys
on a finger and held the door open. Montana walked casually to the truck and hopped in when he opened the door. He was getting old and the hop only took him to the foot well. It took a second bounce to clamber into the truck. Dylan could remember when Montana could hop directly onto the tailgate or from the ground to the bench seat. They were both getting older.

  The downtown area of the small city was busy at lunchtime. It took two passes down the main drag before he found an open spot that his truck would fit in. He made sure the windows were cracked and poured half a bottle of water into a bowl he pulled from under the seat. Montana would be set for a while.

  There were eleven minutes left on the parking meter. Better than zero, but not enough for a sit-down meal. Dylan fished into his pocket and pulled out the change. He looked for quarters first and put one into the slot; thirty-five minutes flashed on the screen. Feeling generous, he decided to put another quarter in. It would be far more time than he needed and would leave something useful for the next guy.

  This quarter didn’t fit. It was too big, but just barely.

  He inspected the coin quickly to see if it was a dollar coin or a fifty-cent piece. It was hard to remember the last time he had been given change, but none of the places he frequented seemed like they would give him anything but the regular coinage.

  The coin in his hand was not American currency. On one face was an image of a leaf with the date “1775” underneath. The other face had text that read: “Sons of Liberty” in the center. Around the outer rim of the piece was written: “Protect and Preserve Our Freedom.”

  It was definitely old, but something about the way it felt told him that 1775 was not the date that it had been minted. It wasn’t worn or dirty enough to be over two hundred years old, but it was not crisp and clean enough to be modern.

  Dylan put the piece into his right pocket with his keys and fished another quarter out of the pile in his hand. The extra change went into his left pocket and he decided that after lunch he would call Abbey and ask if he could come see her. If anyone had an explanation for what this thing was, she would either be the one or would know who to ask.

  Lunch was delicious but distracted. He ate most of the meal with one hand while the other rubbed the coin. He also spent several minutes inspecting it so closely that he completely tuned out the sights and sounds in the restaurant.

  It was hard to tell if he wanted this to be a clue or a cool but unrelated piece of history. Figuring out where it had come from was in the back of his mind, but he knew he hadn’t specifically picked it up. When was the last time he had found a quarter on the street?

  When he joined Montana in the truck there were still nineteen minutes left on the meter. He smiled at his generosity and headed home, finally looking forward to an afternoon off. If everything went well, tomorrow he would be at Abbey’s farm working, earning a living.

  His optimism drained quickly when he arrived home. A State Police cruiser and a local black-and-white were parked out front and the officers stood by the door to his apartment.

  After parking, he held the door open for Montana, who climbed out and headed over to the men. The dog sniffed their legs and wagged his tail; he loved new people and new smells. Dylan wished he could approach them as open-mindedly as his dog.

  “Afternoon, officers,” Dylan said while still several feet away.

  “Are you Dylan Cold?” the state trooper asked.

  “Yes sir. Is everything okay?” Dylan responded and stopped at the first step.

  “Early this morning a man with a gunshot wound to the right hip was brought into a small quick clinic in upstate New York. Claimed it was a hunting injury, but the bullet was nine millimeter,” the trooper explained.

  Dylan nodded. “I bet Officer Farley carried a nine millimeter,” he said.

  The local cop anxiously stepped in. “We’re hoping to get the bullet back but it’ll take some time to test and see if ballistics match the service weapon. Is there anything you can give us on the guy so we have more information for probable cause?”

  Dylan thought about that morning where things had gone so far off the rails. The shooter had been so generic it was comical. Was there anything that stood out?

  “I remember thinking he talked funny? Not like a lisp or anything, and he didn’t say too much so it was hard to tell, but I remember thinking he wasn’t from around here,” Dylan answered.

  “If you had to guess?” the trooper prodded.

  “Europe? Honestly, I have no idea,” Dylan said and paused. “Actually, he used the word ‘bizzie’ when he talked about the cop. I assumed it was like busybody or something, but maybe it was slang from where he’s from?”

  The trooper wrote a note in his little book.

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” the local cop challenged.

  “I didn’t think it was much help in finding the guy and, no offense, but you guys weren’t too interested in listening to what I had to say.”

  The local cop pursed his lips. Dylan was right on both counts.

  “The man at the clinic is a British national. They have him sedated for the pain now and we hope to have a New York trooper arrest him when he wakes up. Would you be willing to do a line up in the next twenty-four hours?” the trooper asked.

  “Of course. Like I said, he was really forgettable, though. I want to find him more than anyone, but this is not a slam dunk by any means.” Dylan wanted to set their expectations so that they were not suspicious of him if he failed to identify the man.

  “Understood. When we’re building a case, the more pieces we have, the better. If you finger him, it just adds to what we have. We’ll be in touch.” The trooper nodded and turned for his vehicle.

  Dylan and the local cop watched in silence as the trooper left. It made him feel good that the state trooper had no bias and was treating him like a victim and not a criminal.

  “I know Abbey gave you her number yesterday.” The officer surprised Dylan with the change of topic. “A few us want to make it clear to you that she is off limits.”

  “I don’t think it was social,” Dylan said. “I used to work for Mark, and she said he told her I was reliable. Hopefully it’ll just be a few small things and then Mark will be comfortable hiring me again.” Dylan thought Abbey was cute but had no intentions of pursuing anything more than work.

  “No shit it wasn’t social. Off-limits means off-limits. Don’t call her, don’t text her, and get your vegetables from the grocery store. If you want to work for Mark again, call Mark. Stay clear of Abbey,” the cop finished with a finger in Dylan’s’ chest.

  Dylan was starting to see some of the negatives of small-town life. Everyone knows everyone and even as they approached thirty years old, high school crushes remained.

  The medallion in his pocket was interesting, but antiques weren’t really his thing. If the cops had the guy who killed Officer Farley and his name was close to being cleared, he was happy to drop the whole American Lease subject. He wasn’t intimidated by the fierce loyalty of Abbey’s friends, but decided that pushing their buttons by calling her wasn’t the best way to keep out of trouble. Staying in town was starting to feel like a strong possibility and it wouldn’t hurt to have more friends than enemies.

  Chapter 25

  Knowing the police had a strong lead on the cop killer gave Dylan more positive energy. Instead of shuffling through the woods with Montana and wondering how he was going to survive, he set to work on a project for Eliza.

  The stone walkway leading up to her apartment was uneven and getting worse. More than once he had heard her trip while carrying groceries up to her kitchen. He called the local landscape company and ordered a couple of yards of stone dust before setting to work at digging up the old walk.

  Shoveling, prying and lifting helped him to build a solid sweat and feel like he was doing something productive again. Montana lay off to the side in the sun, one eye open but resting. He had worked hard to keep his owner sane and sober and deserved to re
lax.

  A noise from his phone surprised Dylan. He knew the police would eventually call, but had never expected it so soon. Maybe they were going to do a video lineup or some other new way of seeing if he recognized his kidnapper.

  “Hello?” he answered cautiously.

  “Dylan, it’s Abbey Holt. Do you have a second?” She sounded excited.

  “Sure, what’s up?” He hadn’t called her and assumed “stay away” didn’t mean he was supposed to be rude.

  She spoke quickly. “I’m on my way to spray the orchard near you. Would you meet me there? I have a couple questions, and was hoping we could talk.”

  “Ummm, can we do it over the phone?” he asked.

  “We could, but I have a lot to do and it’s tough to talk on the phone and drive the tractor. I thought that in person would just be easier.”

  “Is your chaperone going to be there?” Dylan didn’t want them to come across him and Abbey and be surprised that they were together.

  “My chaperone? Oh, you mean Kevin? Probably not, the chief told him to give me some space.”

  Dylan paused. She had called him. He hadn’t given her his number, so that meant she had to do a little work to get it. What if she wanted to tell him not to listen to her friends and that she was the opposite of off-limits?

  “Sure, I can meet you in the orchard.” He was an adult and could meet and talk with anyone he wanted. Plus it would be a good chance to ask her about the medallion.

  After he hung up, he straightened up his work site and made a note of the next steps. He liked leaving things in order and preferred to start working right away when he returned to a job site.

  Dylan and Montana went into the apartment. He washed up and put on a clean t-shirt. He checked his hair and brushed his teeth. Even though he didn’t think it would be a social visit, seeing Abbey was the first time in years that he was going to be meeting a girl alone.