American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (16 page)

It took a long time to find the right leaf. But they did it—not only did they find a leaf that matched the one etched onto the medallion, it looked like the medallion had been carved from that exact leaf.

While he looked through the house, he got a tour of Abbey’s life. All the requisite photographs were on display: the smiling toddler sitting in the apple tree, the little girl at the beach, a brace-faced teenager smiling with what looked like her grandfather.

In another room, partially obscured by books and photos of other family members, Dylan noticed more pictures. There was Abbey in Philadelphia standing by the Liberty Bell, Abbey dressed in a Harvard cap and gown receiving a diploma, and Abbey in front of the White House flashing a peace sign.

Dylan sensed that there was a link between the leaves, the medallion, and the American Lease. Without Abbey and the contents of this house, no one could have made it.

“The Arboreal Survey of 1798!” she screamed once they had a name for the tree that produced the large heart shaped leaf with serrated edges..

Dylan had no idea what an arboreal survey was, but he followed Abbey to the laptop. She opened up a PDF image of a neatly handwritten page. The pencil letters were faded, but the computer helped to clarify and emphasize the text.

He had just finished reading the first sentence at the top of the page when Abbey scrolled it off the screen.

“Why would they have done an arboreal survey in Brookford in 1798? Wouldn’t there have been trees everywhere?” Dylan asked.

The whole thing was suspicious. Now that they had the idea for a clue, it seemed like everything was obvious. In fact, it seemed like a setup.

Abbey answered like she thought everyone should understand the value of an arboreal survey. “Trees from other parts of the world were a sign of commerce and prosperity. Can you imagine the contacts you would need in 1798 to get a Japanese maple in New Hampshire?
Plus,
if you had enough of the right type of native trees, you could attract more development. Do you think the pine trees used for ships masts harvested themselves?”

“Okay, so it’s not preposterous that this would have occurred. What if these trees turn out to be common?” He wanted to temper the excitement.

She didn’t answer. Read, scroll, right hand to chin; Abbey repeated her process three times. She leaned in to the screen and squinted. Finally, she sat back and sighed.

Dylan tried to read fast but struggled with the old text. When he finally saw it, he had to read the line twice. The Lovejoys planted a Sweet Bay Mulberry tree on 1/3/77.

“So we go find the Lovejoy cellar hole, locate their Mulberry tree, and then what, try to dig under the roots?” Dylan asked. A hole in the dirt seemed like a poor place to hide something as precious as legal ownership of the northeastern United States.

“There is no Lovejoy cellar hole in Monson,” Abbey answered.

Silence.

Abbey let her fingers tap on the laptop case. She closed the cover, then tapped some more.

“Maybe we got the wrong leaf?” he offered, after several minutes of silence.

She stopped tapping and gripped the sides of the computer.

Then,
SLAM.
The most important tool for a researcher was lifted a foot off the table and brought down with as much force as Abbey could muster.

“Where the hell was this five years ago?” she said to no one.

“Would talking it through help?” Dylan asked.

“No.”

Abbey rose from her seat and walked through the kitchen and out the door. Dylan followed behind, more than a little surprised at how hard it was to keep up.

Without thought, hesitation, or invitation, she climbed into her truck and started the engine. Before her passenger even had his door closed, the vehicle was in reverse and swinging to turn around.

Neither of them spoke as they drove at twice the thirty mile-an-hour speed limit. It quickly became obvious that they were headed to Monson, and at this rate they would be there soon.

At the parking area near Dylan’s apartment, Abbey skidded the pickup to a halt and jumped out. She walked purposefully past the gate and down the main road. Dylan walked quickly to keep up, keeping his focus on the intent young woman.

Just past the Gould house at the fork in the old road, Abbey stopped and placed her hands on her hips. Slowly she turned and surveyed the former town.

Dylan had no idea how to help or what to do. He wondered how many times in her life she had come here and done this.

“Think!” she shouted, pleading with the woods as much as with herself.

“So the two clues are a Sweet Bay Mulberry tree, and the Lovejoy family, right?” Dylan asked. He wanted to get her talking so he had some idea of how he might be useful.

“There were no Lovejoys and no Sweet Bays in Monson,” she growled.

“So we’re here to…”

“To think, okay?” She flushed momentarily. “Being here and seeing the space helps. Sometimes even what I don’t see helps bring back things that I read or was told.”

“Is there a different type of Mulberry tree that may be here in Monson?” Dylan wasn’t sure if she would respond kindly to his efforts at helping.

“No. But…” Abbey started walking again.

After close to a hundred yards, she stopped and turned to face the cellar hole on her right. Her right arm came out and pointed at the rock-lined hole in the ground.

A second later, she turned to her left. Her right arm remained pointed at the old cellar hole while her left hand came up in the direction of a hole on the other side of the road.

Abbey’s head bobbed up and down and moved slightly from left to right. She was clearly seeing things that were beyond Dylan’s ability to visualize.

A few steps forward and her arms moved again, the right one pointing further away and the left one coming back in his direction. This time she didn’t pause as long. She spun around and moved her arms again.

Now that he could see her face, Dylan saw her lips moving.

His quarterback mind took over; it was like she was going through progressions.

Her head gave a barely perceptible shake and she turned to start over again.

Dylan watched as she started over twice before finally returning to the hands-on-hips stance she had started with.

“You were the Ph.D. candidate who didn’t finish the paper, aren’t you?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

He knew she was at a dead end. She had been close to something, that was obvious, but the moment passed. Standing here was no longer productive if she was pushing too hard.

“Did you run out of facts, or did something else derail your research?” he asked.

“Some
one
else,” she answered, regret heavy in her voice.

“Any chance it was a mechanic?” Dylan wasn’t sure what was going on between Abbey and Jim, but he could tell there was a long, complicated history.

“Hah. No. Jim’s a great guy, but more of a safety net than anything else.” Abbey smiled lightly.

Dylan had to admit that he wanted to know her relationship status, but that was not the real justification behind his questions. He thought if he could get her thinking about the days when she was immersed in the research but not let her focus on finding something, her subconscious would take care of the heavy lifting.

“So you were in the city, juggling a boyfriend—or girlfriend—and working on your Ph.D. That must have been one hell of a breakup to get you to give up on your life’s’ passion.” He felt bad for whatever she had gone through, but understood the impact of letting one of your dreams slip through your hands.

“Boyfriend, you dirty bird,” she said with a coy smile. “And academic advisor. And department head. And complete asshole.”

Dylan offered what he thought would be cliché but probable: “Let me guess, you turned down his proposal and he got mad.”

“I wouldn’t have turned down his proposal. That’s probably what embarrasses me the most.”

“Did he try and steal your work?”

“I could have fought that.” Her head hung in defeat.

“Did he hurt you?” Dylan felt a sudden rage boiling inside.

“Not physically.” She looked off past him. “I was supposed to defend my thesis in May. In January, I found out he was banging an undergrad and made the mistake of confronting him.”

“No offense, but you seem too strong to let that stop you.”

“When I dumped his sorry ass, he went ballistic. He started telling everyone that my research was faked, my hypothesis flawed, and my work unworthy of a Harvard degree.” Abbey locked eyes with Dylan.

“Ouch. Surely they must have given you at least a chance to defend yourself?”

“Not against a tenured professor who claimed he had tried to correct me at every turn.” She shrugged.

They were in Monson, several yards away from the Gould house, trying to imagine what it had looked like three hundred years ago. Dylan couldn’t see it, but Abbey couldn’t see anything else.

The sounds of an engine sputtering and tires on gravel caused Dylan and Abbey to pause and look back toward the main road. A police car appeared through the trees, moving quickly down the lane.

Bwooop!

The siren gave a short blast just before the officer made eye contact with Dylan.

Officer Glover skidded the car to a stop and climbed out. “Sorry about the siren. I was pressing it just as I saw you and couldn’t stop.” He smiled sheepishly.

Abbey was now standing beside Dylan. “It’s okay, Kevin. What have you got?” Abbey asked.

The cop looked at the two suspiciously. Dylan thought that the officer’s role of “friend to Abbey” was supplanting the role of police officer but didn’t want to call anything out and add to the confusion.

“There’s an actual FBI agent at the station. They called late yesterday and he drove up this morning. It looks like this thing is getting the attention of the Feds,” Kevin reported.

“Does he want to talk to me?” Dylan asked, unsure if he should be concerned.

“He asked to look through our files and the chief got the impression that he wasn’t going to stay long.”

“But?” Abbey wondered.

“But then he saw the image capture from our security cameras. We have a perfect image of the fake agent’s face. I guess he’s some kind of international blue-collar criminal. The FBI guy said he was wanted by Interpol,” her friend answered.

“I think you mean white-collar criminal if he’s wanted by Interpol.” Abbey smiled at the officer. Dylan realized that he may have never traveled outside of New England.

“No, actually, the FBI called him blue-collar because he has a history of stealing from blue bloods, you know, royalty.”

“Seriously? Holy shit,” Dylan said.

“Yeah, when I told the agent about the American Lease, he asked for an office. This is big-time shit.” Officer Glover seemed surprised.

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.