American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (6 page)

Hunger woke him some time around mid-day. Montana was whining by his bowl and Dylan’s stomach rumbled. After all the time asleep, they both needed food.

Pouring some kibble into the dog’s bowl, Dylan wondered about the last time Montana had eaten.

A flash of light off the windshield of a car on the street got his attention. He looked out the window and saw it roll past the house slowly. It wasn’t a police car, at least, not a marked one. There was something about the all-black colors and its speed that made him think “official.”

Letting wild fantasies run through his mind was not good for his sanity or his sobriety. He needed to eat and then do something, or he would lose control.

One of the drawbacks to being a bachelor who had no friends and did not entertain was that the cupboards were perpetually bare. When he went to work, he stopped at the coffee shop for breakfast, grabbed a sub for lunch, and ate takeout or microwave food for dinner.

Occasionally on the weekends he would go to the local farm stand and buy fresh vegetables and make himself a steak and a salad. During football season, pizza and seltzer water ruled the weekend eating. Today was a Tuesday, and he had to get food.

Seeing the dead body, pissing himself and then sleeping for sixteen hours left him feeling gross. Even though he had showered, a big salad would fill him up and provide a clean healthy feeling to help with his attitude.

“Come on Montana, let’s go for a ride,” he called to his best friend, and headed for the door. 

The aging golden retriever climbed onto the couch in defiance. He put his chin on the arm and gave Dylan a look that said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay, you sleep, I’ll be back in a bit.” Dylan shook his head at the lazy old dog and walked out to his truck.

As he drove down the quiet country lane he remembered how much he liked it here. When the tractor with an empty hay trailer rolled past, he added “hard-working” to the list of things he liked. It was a shame that he had to leave and start over again. Guilty or not, he was pretty sure he would always be held to some level of responsibility for the death of officer Farley. It was a delicate balance, not running away but planning to leave so you could avoid trouble.

While he meandered through town, his brain listed the things he would buy at the farm. Lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes were obvious choices, but today he felt like corn on the cob, and maybe even a little roasted broccoli and cauliflower.

Jumps of the mind are incredible. Cauliflower reminded him of how his father used to dice and blend the vegetable in an effort to sneak it into every dinner when Dylan was a boy. Sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference, and other times it was obvious that there were chunks of vegetable in his food. His father’s best-laid plans were not always successes.

Something about planning and sneaking caused his mind to jump back to the American Lease. There had been a plan to find it and retrieve it, if it actually existed, but the plan was covert. Whoever wanted it didn’t want anyone to know they were looking for it or had found it.

A two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old document was surely worth something, but didn’t it belong to the U. S. government? At the very least, its only possible destiny was a museum. Or was it?

Waiting for the light at a four-way stop, Dylan saw the black car roll past again. The driver was not trying to be covert or sneaky; he stared right at Dylan while rolling through the intersection. It was the FBI agent who had questioned him at police headquarters.

It pissed him off that the FBI was following him. He hadn’t done anything wrong and had been completely forthcoming with every answer he gave. If they wanted to know something more, they should stop in and ask him.

Confident in the knowledge that he was clean, Dylan turned and followed the FBI car down the road. He smiled broadly when the agent guessed wrong and turned in the opposite direction from the farm stand. Even if the guy was in front of him, it seemed fitting that the FBI couldn’t even follow someone who didn’t care about being followed.

Pulling into the dirt parking lot, Dylan was relieved to see so few cars. Harvest weekends brought what seemed like every city dweller on the East Coast up to the town’s farm stands. People stood three deep looking at pumpkins or picking out heirloom tomatoes. At midday on a Tuesday, the place was practically a ghost town.

From the bins outside he grabbed two ears of Mirai, his favorite variety of sweet corn, and an heirloom tomato. Workers were busy taking fresh produce off the trailer and placing it in the proper bins while rotating out anything that had spoiled or would soon.

Inside, Dylan picked out a small tub of fresh mozzarella and a couple of diva cucumbers. None of these were hard choices; they were his usual salad ingredients. For some reason, lettuce stumped him. There were several choices beyond simple iceberg, but spinach kept popping into his head. He stared at the display for a minute or two and didn’t move.

A young woman approached. “Can I help you?”

“What? Oh no, just trying to decide on lettuce,” he said. His brain was not firing on all cylinders.

“Hey. You’re the cop killer guy,” the woman said, suddenly angry.

“I prefer ‘kidnap victim.’ I did not shoot that officer; my dog found him.” Suddenly, Dylan regretted not going to the super grocery store and its self-checkout options.

“Steve Farley was a good man. He was going to Monson in response to a vandalism call. If you didn’t let your dog dig all over and tear up historically significant land, he’d still be alive today,” she accused.

“Montana didn’t tear up anything. The killer, and kidnapper, was using a pry bar on the Gould house. There were no holes in the ground.” Dylan was a little confused about why she was focusing on a minor disturbance of nature.

“Right, and you’ve never been out to the Nevins foundations or let your mutt run free?” she challenged.

“Neither Montana or I have ever damaged anything in Monson. We love walking in there, why would we ruin it?” he asked.

“Don’t play dumb, you already look the part. An out-of-towner moves to Brookford and becomes obsessed with Monson? Then the first time in hundreds of years that anything even happens there and we’re supposed to believe you had nothing to do with it?” A tear rolled down her cheek.

“I wasn’t obsessed with Monson. My dog likes walking in there and I can let him run free without worrying that a car, or a tractor, will run him over. The killer is the one that was out of place. Guy in a suit is hacking away at the Gould house and you people are pissed at me for walking my dog!” Dylan shouted.

The young woman looked at him in silence. She was not confused or bemused, but she was deep in thought. Something Dylan had shared struck a chord with her.

Whatever she was thinking, Dylan didn’t care. He grabbed a head of iceberg lettuce and turned for the register. There would be no apology and this was probably the last time he would ever be in this building.

She stormed after him. “Get out!”

“Let me pay for my vegetables and I’ll never come back.”

“Just take the fucking vegetables and get out!” the young woman screamed.

She picked up a pint box of raspberries from a table and threw them at Dylan.

He closed his eyes and ducked in reflex. The small tub of fruit hit his shoulder and scattered over the floor.

When Dylan opened his eyes he was looking at a stack of newspapers on the floor. The headline read “Service on Thursday for Slain Officer.” The other story above the fold was titled “Increase in Drug-related Violence and Vandalism.” There was no mention of the American Lease.

He understood that a local cop getting killed in the line of duty was the lead, but for sure the thing that brought the FBI to a sleepy little farm town should be the next big story.

For a split second, Dylan considered asking if he could take a paper. The look on the woman’s face and the fact that pomegranates were the next fruit on the table convinced him to just leave.

As he walked out he thought again about the balance between running away and leaving to avoid trouble. Maybe they were just different sides of the same coin. His reasons for scurrying away to his truck didn’t matter; he felt defeated and wrong.

The truck navigated itself to the local drug store. Dylan’s logical mind said he was stopping to get a newspaper. He wanted to see how deep the story on the American Lease and the FBI presence was buried.

His addict mind was hoping that someone had dropped a bottle of pills. As he walked into the building, he scanned the ground. Dylan didn’t need a whole bottle; a stray pill or capsule would do. Surely someone with a sore back couldn’t wait until the car to grab a Percocet or a Vicodin.

Nothing. Dylan went vacantly through the whole exercise of buying the paper while his mind raced for ways to score a fix. All he thought about for the drive home was getting high and forgetting about his life.

After a casual dinner and a disinterested read through the paper he went to bed and quickly fell asleep. When he woke the clock on his bedside table read 5:03. Dylan was still exhausted, but his biological clock could not be ignored. It was time to get up.

There was no leave of absence for kidnap victims, at least not when they’re self-employed construction contractors. If he was going to keep his job, he would need to show up for work today, tired or not.

Even Montana was exhausted. Instead of waiting by the door to be let out, he lifted his head from the arm of the couch and looked at his master. Dylan was sure that if Montana could speak he would utter one word:
“Seriously?”

“Come on, boy. We’ll skip the big walk today, but let’s get outside and take care of business at least.” Dylan always talked to Montana like he was a person.

Montana climbed off the couch and walked over to the door and out. The last time they did this it had been a disaster. This time, Dylan remembered to grab his phone and his wallet. No telling what would happen today.

As they walked, Montana’s energy grew. He explored up and over a rock wall and chased a squirrel off into the woods. It was nice to see the dog forget the rough weekend so quickly.

Dylan stopped walking at the head of the trail down to Monson. It was an irrational fear, but he did not feel like going back there today. Montana was happy to be in his comfort zone and headed off on their typical route.

“Hold up, boy,” Dylan called.

While he stood waiting for Montana to realize that they would not be walking down the trail today, he pulled out his phone. The home screen showed over seven hundred missed calls and more than two thousand text messages. On a normal day, both were zero; a busy day was never more than single digits of either.

Using his thumb he flipped through the screens of calls looking for names or numbers he recognized. The first dozen screens showed nothing he was willing to take his time with. The next screen had a name that was familiar, but it had been six or seven years since he had spoken with the guy. The publicity from this ordeal had really brought people out of the woodwork.

He decided to look for one specific number: his boss. The guy called when it was raining, when it was windy, and even when it was hot. He especially called on Monday mornings to redirect Dylan to jobs that needed extra help or the attention to detail that he had become known for.

When he found Mark’s number in the list, he breathed a sigh of relief and pressed play for the message.

“Hey Dylan, Mark.” His boss’s voice came through the phone. The message was shorter than the usual longwinded explanations of what, where and why: “We just had some things fall through and a few changes in plan. Looks like we aren’t going to need your help for a while. You’re a good carpenter and hard worker. If you ever need a reference, let me know.”.

At one point in Dylan’s life, money had been a focus. He had dreamed of the creature comforts that would come along with a professional football contract. Fancy cars and big houses were going to be his specialty. The plan was to invest in nothing but the best so it would appreciate as an asset.

When the football dream faded, money became a means to an end, getting high. He needed the drugs, and money was the easiest way to get them.

Once he was clean and sober, simple living became the order of the day. Food, for him and Montana, and shelter were his priorities. His one allowed vice was video games. An older console and the latest version of the football game were the only leisure activities he spent money on.

Savings would get him by for a while, but idle hands were not good for his sobriety. It was also tough to find a place to rent when he couldn’t list an employer on the application.

Maybe he could reason with Mark. The guy was almost too nice; he was probably caving to pressure from a customer or some other guy who wanted the job.

“Hello Mark, it’s Dylan,” Dylan said to the voicemail recorder. “Please reconsider. I didn’t do anything; I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe I could work some projects back at the barn until everything dies down. I really need the job man, please call me back.”

While the sun rose and Montana enjoyed stretching his legs, Dylan listened to some of the other message. Actually, he listened to the opening second or two of a few messages and then pressed delete. They were all basically the same: “Dylan, this Chuck Wankerbloom with XYZ News. I can help get your story out if you’ll just talk to me…”

He knew that no one wanted his story. They wanted their story. They wanted the story that fit with what their viewers, readers, or listeners assumed was the truth.

Dylan hadn’t caved under the police interrogation tactics and he thought he would hold up well against a reporter. But what was the point? Even if he gave them nothing, they would spin it so much that it would resemble a full confession or something else that was a hundred-and-eighty degrees from the truth.

After about ten minutes highlighting and deleting messages, his phone was almost clear. Montana was hunting for something under a pile of leaves and Dylan had almost forgotten how shitty his life had become in the last couple of days.

Hearing a car on the road, he checked quickly to make sure that he was safely on the shoulder. With his feet well off the pavement, he returned to the phone to clean up the last few messages.

Whoooo!

A single blast of a siren caused his heart to miss a beat. He turned to watch a police cruiser pull up within a few inches of his legs. The officer glared at him through the front window.

Dylan thought about putting his phone into a pocket, but didn’t want to give any impression of hiding something. He also wanted to make sure he made no sudden movements that would put an angry officer on edge.

The officer began speaking before he was completely out of the cruiser. “I need to check the license on that dog. We’ve received some reports of a loose canine destroying property.”

“Of course,” Dylan answered, before calling to Montana.

The obedient but flaky golden retriever trotted toward Dylan. When he finally noticed another person and new smells, Montana changed direction and went straight to the police officer. His tail wagged furiously and he sat almost before he even reached the uniformed man.

“Hey boy,” the cop said calmly.

Dylan had assumed the cops used Montana’s tags to identify him as a suspect. That meant they knew the license and rabies were up-to-date. This stop was all about harassment.

“Everything should be in order. He’s due for rabies in the spring and his license is current. Montana stays close to home and my landlord would usually talk to me about it if he did something wrong. Do you know where the complaint came from?” Dylan asked. He wanted to walk the line between caring and restating his innocence.

The officer was not as warm with Dylan as he had been with the dog. “Report came from down the other side of Monson. Said it was a large golden retriever, a lot like this one. You might want to keep him on a leash if he’s important to you.”

“Understood.” Dylan did not want to extend the conversation any longer than he had to. Part of him wanted to apologize and express his sadness at the loss of an officer, but he expected that such a condolence would only bring negativity and resentment from the man who believed Dylan to be a criminal.

“What’s that in your pocket?” the officer asked with a sudden urgency.

“Huh?” Dylan was surprised with the quick rise in tension.

“Put your hands up and slowly place them behind your head.” The officer had drawn his weapon and was pointing it directly at Dylan’s chest.

While doing as he was told, Dylan searched for appropriate words or actions. There were none; this was absurd.

“Are you carrying any weapons?” the officer asked as he stepped around behind Dylan.

“No,” Dylan answered curtly.

“I’m going to pat you down. Can you tell me what I’m going to find in your back pocket?” The officer did not holster his gun.

“My wallet.” Dylan was starting to worry that they wouldn’t even wait a day before framing him for something.

The officer roughly checked under Dylan’s armpits and down the left side of his body. After a brief pause to switch the gun to his other hand, the young cop repeated the process on the other side.

Without warning, Dylan’s’ wallet was removed from his pocket and the officer’s touch disappeared.

“Any little envelopes or baggies you want to tell me about before I look in this wallet?” the edgy policeman asked.

“None that are mine.” Dylan mentally kicked himself for not checking through his wallet before he left the house. It was possible that they had planted something when they were done searching his house and realized they couldn’t find anything real.

The silence was terrifying. Dylan wasn’t sure if he would feel the cold steel of handcuffs or the brief pain of a gunshot. If they had what it took to frame him, why not kill him?

“I heard you were down at Abbey Holt’s place causing trouble yesterday,” the officer snarled. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re not welcome around here. Don’t go to the farm, don’t go to the diner, and don’t go to the market. None of them want your business, and if you go, I’ll arrest you for trespassing and disturbing the peace.”

“Got it,” Dylan said loudly before mumbling, “I’ll stop eating.”

“Your wallet’s clean,” the cop said as he threw Dylan’s billfold on the hood of the cruiser. “You got lucky this time. We’re here, and if you so much as blink funny you’re going down. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” Dylan growled out through clenched teeth.