American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1)

by McAdams, K. D.

  Abbey looked at Dylan and he felt like she was trying to communicate something. He had only known her for a little while—they were not at a knowing glances level of relationship. It would be nice to get to that level someday, but all he could do was send a puzzled look in response.

  Part of him thought that this was a good exit point. He was really not needed anymore and surely if the FBI was legitimately involved people would start believing his story about the events surrounding officer Farley’s death.

  Another part of him felt excited. It was like going from the regular season to the playoffs. Everything went up a notch in importance. Dylan hadn’t felt this alive and interested in anything in a long time. Pushing and working to try and figure out something big felt good and he wanted to keep feeling this way.

  “Did the FBI guy have any of his own information to share or was he just taking our stuff?” Abbey asked.

  “Well he was making calls when I snuck out, so I don’t know. I drove around a while looking for you; this is about the fourth place I’ve looked,” Officer Glover replied.

  “Did you show them the image capture of my kidnapper from the toll booths?” Dylan knew the fake FBI guy was not the one who had kidnapped him and wanted to make sure that the federal agent knew there were at least two criminals involved.

  “No. Never even thought of it,” the officer said.

  The three stood in awkward silence for several minutes. While Abbey was nowhere near the passive type, Dylan felt like they were waiting on him to come up with an action plan.

  “Why now?” Dylan asked Abbey.

  “Why now what? The FBI guy?” Abbey asked.

  “Chief called the FBI to tell them about the fake agent. We’re guessing they are getting involved because of that,” Officer Glover replied.

  “No. Why the interest in the lease now? This thing is hundreds of years old and is theoretically coming due in the next several months. Where were these guys last year? Any of them?” Dylan clarified his thought.

  “Working,” Abbey started. “I started devoting an hour a day to the lease my senior year of high school. That bumped to two hours freshmen year at Harvard.”

  Dylan understood dedication and commitment. His had started younger and ended sooner but was no less focused. An hour a day for film study, thirty minutes of footwork, ninety minutes throwing to targets all around the yard, every day.

  “Seriously? You started working on this in high school?” her friend asked her, surprised.

  “Yes Kevin. Until I came back here, this was my passion.” She forced a smile. “These guys have been working for years, I bet. If they’ve been stealing from royals, they have been digging up clues in all sorts of places. It’s no surprise to me that they uncovered a tale about a document giving the holder rights to half of North America.”

  “What are the chances they’re just shaking a branch and hoping we give up the final answer?” Dylan was working to be analytical.

  “I doubt it. They were digging here and tearing apart the Gould House. My guess is they’re here to pick it up, not find another clue,” Abbey answered, her confidence returning.

  “But we have the best and newest clues.” Dylan smiled; he liked having the upper hand.

  “You do?” the officer asked surprised.

  “They don’t mean anything if we can’t figure them out,” Abbey replied while reaching into the pocket of her jeans.

  CRACK!

  A gunshot rang out and broke the quiet of the woods and fields.

  Officer Glover dropped to a prone position and looked back at his car. A round had penetrated the windshield almost directly behind him.

  Dylan darted across the narrow lane and dragged Abbey to the nearest oak tree.

  Another shot rang out and found the radiator.

  “Kevin, get out of there!” Abbey screamed at her friend.

  The tree by Dylan’s arm exploded in splinters and he turned to cover his face and shield Abbey.

  Dylan knew that shooting was a trial-and-error process, so he didn’t want to give the gunman a static target. He pushed Abbey deeper into the woods while she screamed cries of help and warning.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see that the officer had scrambled to his feet and made his way behind the patrol car. Without even looking in their direction, the cop was running down the old road, talking into his shoulder. Dylan could faintly hear “shots fired” as he and Abbey drove deeper into the woods.

  After five minutes of flight, Abbey grabbed a tree and forced them to a stop.

  “Is Kevin okay?” she asked, terror in her eyes.

  “I think so. We should hear sirens for backup any second now,” Dylan assured her, and gently pushed her to keep moving.

  “Or not. I heard we were down to one patrol car; the other two were damaged yesterday trying to help Ricky pull his van out of the creek on Federal Hill.” She wouldn’t budge from her spot by the small tree.

  “Well, we’re in no position to help. Another five minutes in this direction and we should come to a stone wall. We can follow that to the road.” Dylan pushed her harder to move.

  “You’re sure he’s okay?” she pleaded.

  “He seemed like a nice guy, a little goofy, but competent. He was trained to deal with something like this. You need to trust your friends to do their jobs.” He wasn’t sure he believed what he said, but knew he had to stay positive.

  After a deep sigh, Abbey released her grip on the tree and headed off toward the stone wall. They moved quickly and she navigated the woods like an expert.

  In just a few minutes they reached the landmark and she immediately turned in the direction of the road.

  They pushed hard and after another several minutes of walking, Dylan had a solid sweat going. Abbey picked up the pace.

  It took more than twenty minutes to get backed to the pavement that indicated a town-maintained road and civilization.

  Dylan pointed to the left. “My house is that way.”

  “And you think walking along in the open is a good idea after someone just shot at us?” Abbey shook her head in disgust and crossed the street, disappearing into the woods.

  Dylan jogged across the street, muttering insults and ridicule at himself while he tried to catch up.

  When they finally made their way to Dylan’s apartment, Officer Glover was there. He was on the back side, by the woods nearest them, peering around the corner to the street.

  Dylan intentionally stepped on a large branch, causing it to crack loudly. The young cop’s head whipped around and quickly found them walking toward him.

  Chapter 34

  Dylan’s apartment was still a mess. He went to the kitchen and managed to find three red plastic cups in one of the cabinets. These he filled with water and handed to Abbey and Officer Glover, keeping one for himself.

  They all drank thirstily and each refilled their cup from the faucet.

  Dylan filled his cup a third time and waited. He was expecting the cop to have instructions, or at least reassurances that his colleagues would be there soon.

  Crickets.

  “Kevin, what’s going on?” Abbey finally asked.

  “Let’s see, a guy shot at me, we ran, and now we’re catching our breath. Is that enough of a plan for you, Ab?” he fired back.

  Dylan suspected that the young officer was more scared than he was letting on. Only his training and uniform were keeping him together at this point.

  Dylan tried to calm things down. “I know we’re all a little scared. Were you able to get through to dispatch on your radio?”

  “Yeah. The chief’s car still works, and they were processing some paperwork to use Mike’s personal car usable in an official capacity.” The cop sounded more confident as he spoke.

  Abbey was not pleased with the information. “And how long is that going to take?”

  “Easy, he’s with us,” Dylan said, trying to keep everything level.

  The cop shot him a glare he in
terpreted as, ‘I don’t need you defending me,’ but Dylan was past worrying about the guy’s feelings.

  “Well, the shooter was clearly holed up with excellent cover. I told them it wasn’t smart or safe to go charging into Monson on the roads, completely exposed. They’re doing a slow roll toward the two trail heads, looking for the FBI impersonator,” Officer Glover said, seeming to be completely back in control of his emotions.

  “So our orders are to sit tight. Was the real FBI agent coming with them?” Dylan asked.

  “Dunno, …”

  The squawk of the radio interrupted: “Kevin, this is Mike, slow roll was negative. Where you at buddy?”

  “Mike, this is Kevin. I’m at the Cold residence. On my way down to the street to meet you. Over,” Officer Glover spoke into his shoulder.

  Dylan wasn’t going to mind seeing the officer leave. He was a good guy and mostly competent, but having him around felt like a false sense of security. Fact was, these guys had no problem killing cops—that meant the cops couldn’t keep Dylan and Abbey safe.

  “You’re just going to leave us here?” Abbey challenged once the door was open.

  “This is big shit, Ab. Let me do my job.” Assuming that was good enough, Officer Glover stepped halfway through the door.

  “Stop and talk to me!” she yelled at him. “Do you think it’s still dangerous out there? Are we staying here to wait or are we staying here so we don’t get killed?”

  “Stay here and be safe. I don’t know much more than you, but it’s my job to go out there and try to find the people shooting, even if it’s dangerous. Your job is to plow fields and feed people.” He stormed out of the small apartment.

  Abbey walked to the kitchen sink and turned on the water. She splashed her face and rubbed vigorously for a moment, then she took another handful of water and held it against her face for several seconds.

  Her hair came out of its ever-present ponytail and she ran her fingers through. Bits of twig and leaves dislodged and fell to the floor. More water was brought to her face before she turned to face Dylan.

  “Do you have a towel?” she asked.

  A towel? He could barely find cups. Aside from his bath towel, which he presumed was somewhere in the bedroom, paper towels met all of his towel needs.

  “Sorry. Haven’t found it since they trashed my place,” he answered.

  After a slight shake of her head she pulled her t-shirt out of her jeans and lifted the hem up to her face, revealing a toned and surprisingly tanned mid-drift, giving Dylan a slight charge of energy.

  The girl next door on steroids, Dylan thought as he scanned her body up and down.

  When she released her shirt, her hands went immediately to her hair to start pulling it back into the customary ponytail. More leaf litter scattered out and one big chunk caught Dylan’s eye as it passed through a dusty ray of sunlight.

  The cops were outside chasing an international thief and would-be killer through the woods, but he and Abbey had the latest clues—and the brains.

  “Can we rehash what we know? If we’re stuck here waiting for the all-clear from the police, we might as well try and figure out the clue,” Dylan offered.

  “Good idea. We’re looking for a link between the Lovejoys, a Sweet Bay Mulberry tree, and Monson.” She seemed relieved to be talking about the case again. She exited the kitchen area and began pacing in his living room.

  “You said the Lovejoys were never in Monson, right? Is it possible that Monson is a diversion?” Dylan wondered.

  “Possible but not likely. The Lovejoys were prominent in this area, but right around the time that Monson disbanded. My gut tells me their link to the lease came into the picture to bridge the gap between Monson, which was basically disappearing, and the present,” she explained.

  “Walk me through life back then. Why did the first Lovejoy come to Brookford? To farm?” He realized he was actually interested in the history, not just trying to get her thinking in tangents about the clue.

  “Nice. Nathan Lovejoy came here as the town’s first blacksmith. That means he knew almost everyone. From shoeing horses to repairing wagons and plows, there wasn’t a family in town that wouldn’t have needed his services,” she answered. The wheels were almost visibly turning in her head.

  “Okay. My guess is that not everyone could pay for his services immediately, every time. Lots of bartering. Did they keep books for their business, like we do now? Maybe he recorded someone paying him with a tree?” Dylan realized that he only had half of a reasonable idea.

  “I’ve never seen a ledger for the Lovejoy smithy. He probably would have only recorded tradable goods, anyway. It’s a good idea, but…” She trailed off.

  “What about coming at it from the other direction, then?” Dylan asked. “Is there a journal entry or note from someone experiencing tough times but getting their horse shoed? We can even narrow it down to Christmastime 1776. The Revolution wasn’t even a year old yet.” Dylan wasn’t sure what type of events would have warranted recording in the 1700s, but felt like going into debt on Christmas gifts might be an age-old truth.

  “Maybe it was a gift, not payment! We don’t need to look for someone in debt, we need to see who was coming back from a trip!” Abbey declared, before getting a distant look in her eyes.

  “Why would the gift date be recorded in the arboreal survey?” Dylan wondered.

  She dismissed him. “It wouldn’t, that was the planting date.”

  “The colonists were even heartier than I thought. I’ve only seen a few New Hampshire winters, but I can’t imagine planting a tree in January.”

  “New Englanders seize opportunities. Maybe it was an abnormally warm January.” Abbey answered, clearly annoyed.

  “Or the date itself is the clue,” Dylan offered, with a surprising level of confidence.

  “You think we should see if anything else happened on that date? The link won’t be obvious, but it’ll be there,” Abbey said, feeling out the idea. She nodded with satisfaction.

  “Maybe a Lovejoy had a kid on that day and they named it after a family from Monson? Were there birth certificates back then?” Dylan suggested. He was losing his satisfaction.

  “No, but live births were typically recorded, usually in the back of the family Bible. The Lovejoys actually kept a pretty detailed family history up through the early 1900s,” she said, and her face lit up with excitement.

  The head bob he had noticed in Monson returned, as did the soft words uttered through slightly opened lips. Abbey was back in time and, from the smile growing on her face, she was making progress.

  After several long moments, he finally had to interrupt her. “So the question we have is how is that tree the key to finding the lease?”

  “We may need to go to the library to verify a few things, but I think I have all the facts. In 1798, a Lovejoy married a Wallingford. Notable because both families were quite prominent, but more so because Benjamin Wallingford moved to Bernice Lovejoy’s property.”

  “So the guy moved in with the girl, and this was not cool back then. You really think that’s the key to finding the lease?” Dylan inquired.

  “Wallingford left Monson and moved into Brookford. Don’t you think it’s possible he brought something with him?” Abbey asked, hope in her eyes.

  “Also possible that he left something behind. If the lease was safely stowed in a rock wall, like you believe, why would he fish it out and move it to the wall of a wooden house?”

  “The best hiding place is the first one,” Abbey muttered.

  Dylan agreed with the logic but felt like he was a piece of furniture in the room. Abbey was working on a different plane. It was like volumes of information were flooding into her brain and she was trying to digest all of them at one time.

  “Either way, he would have left a clue. Right?” Dylan asked, hoping to find out what she was thinking.

  Abbey did not respond.

  Dylan filled both of their cups with water and set them
on the counter. Then he walked to the door to look out and see if there was any police presence.

  None.

  No gunfire either though, so hopefully that meant everyone was still safe.

  “I think I got it!” Abbey blurted into the silence.

  She started looking around the apartment and then felt the front pockets of her jeans.

  “Have you seen my phone?” she asked Dylan.

  “Nope. You can borrow mine if you want,” he offered.

  “Thanks, I want to call the library.” Her excitement filled the room.

  Dylan pulled his phone out and offered it across the table. Abbey grabbed and swiped across the screen. Her fingers worked quickly but it took several minutes before she held it up to her ear.

  “Gladys wasn’t there. I think we should just go. I know they have what we need.” She handed the phone back and started for the door.

  “Wait, remember there’s someone out there trying to kill us?” Dylan said, stopping her in her tracks.

  Chapter 35

  The debate about staying or leaving only lasted ten minutes; they were leaving. Where they were going took a little longer to agree on.

  Dylan wanted to go to the police station and meet the FBI agent. This document had been hidden for almost two hundred and fifty years; it could wait a few more days.

  Abbey insisted on the library. Sure, the document had been hidden for centuries, but there were other people racing to find it. She needed to beat them.

  There were always those who tried to take the easy way out. Dylan’s father had taught him about cheaters and fair play from early on. An earned victory was always better than a default victory. Successful people went out and got what they wanted while the lazy, seedier element in the world sat back to take what they wanted from those who worked hard. Hard work always won in the end, but victory wasn’t free.

  Dylan ended his side of the argument with that simple statement of fact: “Those guys stopped looking for the lease. They’re just waiting until you find it and then they’ll kill you and take it.”