American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (17 page)

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 interpreted 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.

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.”

“What are they going to do, shoot me in the library?” Abbey looked incredulous.

“If that’s where they find you with the document, yes,” Dylan insisted. “It’s more likely that they’ll come into your home, do unspeakable things to you, and either leave with the document or something else they liked.” His face conveyed the seriousness of his words.

“Fine, the police station it is,” she grumbled while pulling open the door.

Dylan strode quickly across the room and slammed it shut. She was surprised by his speed and strength.

“They could be watching the house. Let’s go out a different way.” He smiled at her.

Dylan led the way across the small living room to a door. He opened it and stepped through to the small room that housed the furnace and oil tank. Toward the back of the room and to the left was a small basement window.

“I know I can fit, but are you going to make it?” Abbey asked him with a raised eyebrow.

“No, I’m going out the front door. When you’re in position and ready to go, we’ll count to fifteen and then exit at the same time. If they’re watching the house, the guy going out the front will draw their attention,” Dylan explained.

But Abbey still looked worried. “And they might shoot you right there in the driveway.”

“Well, I’m not going to be an easy target, and we’ve already seen that their accuracy is lacking. Go through the woods, and we’ll meet at your truck. If you hear gunfire, or I’m not there in five minutes, get the hell out of here.” Dylan offered her a hand after stacking two plastic storage bins under the small window.

Abbey climbed up unsteadily. Dylan realized that she was usually in control and could imagine how it felt to follow another person’s plan, especially when her life was at stake.  He wanted to offer her more details on the plan, but then he realized that getting to the truck was
the
whole
plan.

The gravity of the situation suddenly appeared on her face.

“All my life, I’ve known that the American Lease was significant. I love it for the combination of mystery and history it represents.” She spoke softly. “Before today, though, the power it represented was academic, something to read about and discuss over coffee in Harvard Square.”

“We’re going to be okay. I’m done letting them control me.” Dylan offered assurance.

“There are people killing for this document.” She clarified the gravity she was realizing. “Is it was worth dying for? For me the answer is an easy yes, but how can you feel the same way?”

“The document is interesting, but they killed Montana. I can’t just let it be for nothing.” He frowned.

“See you at the truck?” She leaned down and kissed him quickly.

“Fifteen Mississippis starting…. now.” He didn’t acknowledge the quick peck and walked out of the small room, headed for the front door.

Dylan counted quickly. He wanted to make sure that he was the first one out of the building. If they were going to be shot at, Abbey needed time to get to her feet after climbing through the tiny window.

At thirteen, he ripped open the door and dashed out. He took a diagonal path to the far side of the driveway. At the very edge of the pavement he planted his left foot and cut back toward the front lawn.

He stayed loose, like when he was running in open field. With each step, Dylan felt better, the adrenaline building.

A few steps into the lawn, he turned and headed parallel to the driveway. His plan was to not stop running until he was across the street. Hopefully there were no cars coming down the road.

The lack of gunshots was surprising but he didn’t want to stop. These guys were smart and it was possible that they were trying to lull him into a false sense of security.

Instead of cutting back to the left, he darted right and ran along the rock wall. At an almost imperceptible dip in the wall, he veered left and jumped over it, sprinting across the street.

Once he was across the street, he slowed his pace. If they were covering the door to his apartment, they probably would not have a decent shot at him here on the opposite side of the street. Plus the trees had enough leaves on them to make it hard to see.

He picked his way through the trees and fought the urge to stop and look behind him. This side of the road had the ever-present stone wall as well, but the trees were thick; it hadn’t been cleared in decades.

At only twenty yards from the parking area that marked the head of the trail to Monson, Dylan froze. There was a car parked next to Abbey’s truck.

Not just a car—the fake FBI agent’s car. Obviously, he had needed some way to get here, but how could he just drive around when there was surely an APB out on him? He had to have been the one who shot at them, but where was he now?

To his right, Dylan noticed movement on the other side of the street. He dropped low, hiding behind the rock wall. Just as his line of sight cleared the top of the wall, he saw Abbey step slowly into the road.

His sense of relief was short-lived—the FBI imposter followed closely behind her, a gun leveled at her back.

When they arrived at the cars, Abbey stopped behind the generic black sedan.

“You have a few choices, sweetheart,” the man with the gun said, loud enough that Dylan could hear.

“I don’t have the lease, and we have no idea where the hell it is, or should I say
was
,” Abbey seethed.

“Give me the lease, give me the last clue you found, or get in the car. Simple, really,” the attacker said calmly.

From behind him, Dylan heard the growl of a motorcycle and knew this was his only chance.

As the sound grew closer, he slowly walked toward the clearing, without ever taking his eyes off Abbey.
Loud pipes save lives
, he thought sarcastically. Hopefully they would save Abbey’s life.

“Call attention to yourself, and you and the biker die. Then I go back and kill your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a dumb jock that was just trying to get in my pants”—was the last thing Dylan heard as the motorcycle thundered up to their location.

In an effort to be inconspicuous, the fake agent lowered his gun and took a step around the car, toward the driver’s side, within a few feet of where Dylan had come to a stop.

The sun flashed off the chrome of the big Harley and Dylan made his move. He cocked his right arm back and ran at the man.

Throwing the hardest punch of his life, Dylan’s fist landed squarely on the man’s cheek. He allowed the momentum of his body to carry him into the imposter and they both fell to the ground.

“GO!” he screamed at Abbey, who stood watching, terrified.

Whatever the suited man’s background, he was like a mountain. The first punch should have rendered him unconscious or at the very least dazed, but he fought back almost instantly.

Dylan pushed himself free and landed a glancing blow with is right hand. The fake agent countered with a left that knocked Dylan off of his feet and onto the ground.

“GO!” he screamed at Abbey again.

This time she moved. With trembling hands, she fished the keys out of her pocket and hurried to the driver’s door. It opened and she climbed in, quickly starting the engine before even closing her door.

The assailant wanted by Interpol picked up his gun and directed it toward Dylan.

In a flash of panic, Dylan lashed his left foot up, connecting with the hand first and then the gun. The weapon went flying into the underbrush and Dylan scrambled to his feet.

Suddenly stunned and not sure what to do, the fake agent paused momentarily before heading where his gun had landed.

Abbey had the truck in gear and spun the tires on the dirt as she backed out of the parking space.

Dylan ran as fast as he could and leapt into the bed of the truck a fraction of a second before it shot forward, down the road and away from danger. Shots rang out and Dylan covered his head as glass from the rear window shattered and rained down into the bed of the truck.