American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (18 page)

The truck skidded to a halt right in front of the doors of the police station. Abbey jumped out and, without closing her door, sprinted into the building. She likely was unaware that Dylan had been in the bed, holding on for dear life.

Dylan climbed out of the truck slowly. His mind felt foggy and he blinked hard to push the cobwebs away. He had to admit that the other guy was tough, though the punch wasn’t the only blow he’d received.

In the bed of the pickup truck there’d been little to grab onto. As Abbey raced around corners, Dylan had been tossed from one side to the other, slamming into the side walls each time. Her abrupt stop at the station had sent him careening into the front wall of the bed.

Before going into the station, he checked behind him and noticed that the town was quiet. None of the people knew that there had been shots fired in Monson or that an international thief had tried to kidnap one of their own.

He hoped the town would stay quiet, but knew it was unlikely when word of the Lease and the battle between those trying to retrieve it finally reached the national media. This thought made him realize that he was home; he liked it here and was going to stay, regardless of what happened with the Lease or with Abbey.

“Hello?” he called out, a little too loudly, once he was several feet into the building.

The lobby was empty and he slowly opened the door that led to the back where the officer’s desks were. 

Abbey rushed at him from out of nowhere and jumped into his arms. She hugged him tight and he was happy to return the embrace. Somehow, through all the running and fear, she still smelled amazing, like apples and cinnamon.

She kissed him deeply and when they finally separated Dylan noticed that there were several people watching them.

“How did you get here?” she asked, seeming blind to the audience.

“The back of your truck. I dove in just as you were taking off.” He winced at the memory of the ride.

“Ms. Holt, Mr. Cold, I presume?” A deep, confident voice came from the back of the room.

The two looked back in silence.

“That’s us,” Dylan finally spoke.

“I’m Special Agent Nick Brinson. Why don’t you come back here? I think we have a lot to discuss.” The agent was rigid and formal.

Abbey was on the offensive. “Like starting with the fact that I was almost killed by a wanted man? One that apparently feels safe enough to just drive around our town without even trying to hide,” she snarled.

“Easy, he’s here to help.” Dylan put his hand on her shoulder and nudged her toward the back of the station.

Reluctantly, she walked to the back of the building.

The conference room where they had caught the imposter looked more official now. On the table, a laptop was open and there was a manila folder with a pad of paper and a pen on top of it.

The Chief hoisted his pants as he stepped out of his office. “Abbey. Mr. Cold, I see you’ve met Agent Brinson. He’s the real deal, I checked his ID.”

“Thanks, Chief. Any word on how the guys are doing out at Monson?” Abbey’s face showed her concern for her friends.

“I’ve called them back in. There was no obvious trail, and I don’t want them to be out there walking around the woods with no leads. Jim really outdid himself and got both cruisers repaired; make sure he knows how much I appreciate it.” The chief looked from Abbey to Dylan when he mentioned Jim.

“His car was in the parking area next to Abbey’s truck. He almost got her and then he shot out her back window. Are you going to increase patrols until this guy is caught?” Dylan asked, knowing he was one of the targets.

“The guys saw the car. One of them is going to stay with it while the others come back to get cruisers and supplies. As far as increased patrols, we’re all double-shifting. We live here, Mr. Cold. None of us like the idea of a bad man running roughshod over us. We’ll find him and bring him in,” the chief answered confidently.

“You can call me Dylan. I didn’t mean to come across as rude. I live here too, and I know you have some good guys out there.” Dylan nodded and stepped into the conference room.

While Abbey sat down, the FBI agent walked around the table and flipped open the manila folder. He pulled out a large black-and-white photo, turned it, and slid it across the table.

Dylan grabbed the plastic pitcher of water from the table and poured some into the only cup he could see. After a long drink, he refilled the cup and handed it to Abbey, who drained it as well.

“So that’s definitely the fake agent. Do you have a picture of the other guy?” Dylan asked.

“Other guy?” Abbey and Agent Brinson asked in unison.

“Yeah, I don’t know if it’s a partner or a competitor, but I was also threatened by an Irish guy who seemed to at least be aware of the Lease,” Dylan explained.

“Hold on.” The agent sat at the computer and began typing quickly.

“We need to look at the files again. I want to go through the arboreal survey one more time and see if the names around the Lovejoy tree trigger something,” Abbey said, continuing to focus on the Lease.

Dylan didn’t want to argue with her. “Something tells me it’s that date. Figure out what it matches, and you’ll find the next step,” he said.

“This the guy?” Agent Brinson spun the laptop around.

“Yup, that’s him. Had at least one flunky with him. Told me if I give them the Lease I get rich and live, if I don’t, I die,” Dylan said, offering a summary of his conversation in the gas station lot.

“These guys aren’t subtle. The Interpol rewards for their capture are dead or alive. They have pissed off some serious people,” the FBI agent explained.

“Well, follow me around for an afternoon and you’re bound to make contact,” Dylan offered.

“Or find the Lease first and get them to go away.” Abbey smiled.

“For now I request that you both stay put. There is nothing worth risking your life for and I may come up with something else that needs your input.” Brinson was not interested in using bait, human or historic.

His phone rang and he looked at the screen before answering.

Abbey stood from the table and walked out into the open office space.

“Chief, do you have a computer I can use to access the scans of the files from Dylan’s kidnapper?” she asked.

The Chief directed Abbey to a desk. Dylan left the conference room and stood behind her.

She shook the mouse and the screen came to life. Navigating to the file manager, she double clicked on a folder before Dylan even had time to read the name. The numbered list of files they had parsed through at her house filled the screen.

“Ugh,” Abbey sighed.

The rest of the station had returned to the tasks they were working on before Dylan and Abbey arrived. There was a focused bustle to the action, but no one paid any particular attention to Abbey and Dylan.

Dylan didn’t need to be told what to do; he took a pad and pen from the desk and prepared to write.

Abbey looked back at him, a little surprised. She smiled warmly. “I like you.”

Double-clicking on “1.jpg,” she called out, “1.jpg—map of Monson.”

She went through the files more quickly this time, but Dylan was able to keep up.

After file 33— “Grange inventory”—Dylan stopped writing.

“Go back,” he said urgently.

“Grange inventory?” she asked.

“No, before that, why are there two Lovejoy documents?” he asked.

The first time they had gone through the files, he’d had no context. They were old documents about a small New Hampshire town. Now that he knew the Lovejoys were somehow linked to the Lease, he felt like these document had to hold the key.

Abbey didn’t share his enthusiasm. “Lovejoy-one covers the time when the family was the town blacksmith. Lovejoy-two covers the time when they were farmers. I’ve been through both documents dozens of times. There is no mention of the Lease or anything suspicious that even feels like a clue. We can add those to the short list, but I don’t think there are any references to January 1777 in either.”

“When plays are sent in from the sideline, they’re coded. And they don’t send in just one play, usually it’s three or four, and part of the code is which one we’re supposed to pay attention to,” Dylan started explaining.

“We’re not talking about football,” Abbey said, still skeptical.

“I know, but we were football players, not spies. We didn’t invent simple codes, we just used them. The Wallingfords and Lovejoys didn’t invent them either, but they could have used one.” He felt the pieces coming together.

“You’re back to the date.” Abbey spun back to the computer screen.

The document she’d called lovejoy1 was opened and she scrolled quickly to the third page. Moving her cursor over the first word, she started counting.

After highlighting the seventy-seventh word, she leaned back in her chair and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Lease” stood out from the text like a beacon. In context of the page it was written on it was innocuous, mundane. When tied back to the medallion, the arboreal survey, and her grandfather’s framed leaves, it was the clue she had spent most of her life looking for.

In comparison, the next word of the clue was easy to find.

The first attempt—one more page, third word—was wrong: smelt.

The second attempt was initially inconclusive— “is” was the seventh word after Lease. But seven words after that was “safe.”

“Lease is safe.”

They’d cracked the code: The seventy-seven in the date meant that after the first word, go seven more, and then repeat seven more.

Dylan scratched each new word on a napkin that had been sitting on the desk. Abbey raced through the text, counting words and shouting out the next discovery.

After she read the word ”town,” Agent Brinson came out of the office.

“Looks like this is a popular place for some pretty bad dudes,” he said to no one in particular.

Abbey and Dylan didn’t notice him.

Dylan read the scratch on his napkin: “Lease is safe. Hidden behind my wife’s contribution to the town.”

“It feels like it makes sense, but I don’t understand it,” Dylan said, after a minute.

“Who was his wife?” Abbey was too excited to recall this detail that she had probably read a dozen times.

“I think we were counting on you for that.” Dylan wasn’t sure if she was waiting for a response.

“What are you two looking at?” The agent appeared next to Dylan, surprised.

“This is book one of the Lovejoy family history. It contains what we think is the final clue.” Abbey summarized roughly.

“Clue to finding the Lease?” Brinson asked.

“No,” Dylan interrupted Abbey before she could speak. “Um, the clue to an age-old town debate about who planted the first Sweet Bay Mulberry tree.”

“This really is the sticks.” The FBI man shook his head. “Is this your not-so-subtle way of telling me that the American Lease doesn’t really exist?”

“Well, I’ve spent the better part of my life living here and looking for it,” Abbey started to explain, picking up on Dylan’s deception. “In fact, I have a failed Ph.D. bid related to the American Lease. If anyone can talk about the Lease with authority, it’s me.”

“And is it real or not?” Brinson didn’t seem interested in drawn-out conversations.

“It was real, and I emphasize
was
,” she said. “The odds of it being recovered intact are slim, and I am confident that it is not hidden anywhere in Monson.” Abbey was clear and convincing.

“And you wouldn’t lie to a federal agent, would you?” he asked.

“Of course not.” She placed a hand over her heart.

“Well, I want the men. Historic documents are a different issue,” he explained.

“You said the guys are wanted dead or alive. How big are the rewards?” Dylan asked after a few minutes of thought.

Agent Brinson opened the manila folder in his hand. He flipped one page and scanned it.

“Five hundred for the imposter, and two-fifty for the Irishman,” he finally said.

“Less than a grand for a guy who fired on a police officer?” Dylan was not impressed.

Brinson looked at him and shook his head.

“Five hundred thousand dollars, and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Dead or alive,” he clarified.

Dylan’s brain almost exploded. It took him a second to do the math, dividing seven hundred and fifty by two. It wasn’t almost a million, but three hundred and seventy five thousand dollars would really help him out.

“That’s it!” Abbey screamed.

While Dylan and the agent had been talking, Abbey was off in her own world again.

“Care to elaborate?” Dylan asked.

"Benjamin Wallingford had been something of an outcast. Not only did he refuse to leave his home in Monson even when the threat of Indian attacks were high, he had married a close relative who technically owned the property. Some reports said she was crazy and he kept her secluded there on the property with him until she died.” Abbey stood and walked aggressively towards the exit.

“Slow down.” Dylan called to her without moving.

“When he married Bernice Lovejoy in the summer of 1798, it was his second marriage. That marriage caused something to change in him. He moved into Brookford and let the old Monson property fade into disrepair.” She walked back towards Dylan and Agent Brinson. “Later, he offered any salvageable building materials to the town for their use in construction of the Town Hall.”

“So he went from being die hard Monson to being Brookford’s biggest fan?” Dylan was in awe of her energy.

“Why didn’t I see this connection before?” Abbey wondered out loud.

“Maybe you did and ruled it out after hours of research?” Dylan offered while Agent Brinson observed in silence.

“But I never had the link between the Lovejoys and Monson.” She let a faint smile creep across her lips.

“Maybe tomorrow we can—“ He was cut off.

“I really need to get over to town hall,” Abbey finally said to the stunned men.

“Can you just call them?” Dylan asked, confused.

“No. If I don’t file my permit for a variance before close of business today, I’m screwed with the state. I could lose my farm.” Abbey shot daggers toward Dylan, who sensed that he was supposed to play along with something.

“Absolutely not. There are ruthless men out there who want to kill you, and now I think you have a lead on a document that is directly to related to national security. You are not leaving my sight,” Brinson ordered.

“You can’t keep us here. If we want to risk our lives, that’s our choice,” Dylan countered.

“I can place you under protective custody. These men aren’t messing around, and neither am I.” The agent said crisply.

“Oh crap,” Abbey complained. “I left the document list and the medallion in my tractor. If they find both, they might have enough to figure out where the Lease is. It’s parked in the orchard over by your house, Dylan.” She looked at him hopefully.

“I remember where you hid the medallion. I doubt that anyone could find it.” Dylan wasn’t sure how to play along with this.

“Do we really want to take that chance?” she asked.

He wasn’t sure about being bait, but he was sure that he didn’t want the bad guys coming to find him or Abbey. They would take down this whole police station if they thought it would help get what they wanted.

“Your call, Brinson.” Dylan struggled to come across as casual. “If you drive me over to the tractor there’s a good chance you’ll end up with the final clue on the Lease
and
the guys looking to steal it,” he said.

“Fine. Let’s go,” Brinson answered abruptly and headed for the exit.

Abbey stood and hugged Dylan tightly. He wasn’t surprised when she whispered in his ear: “I know where it is. I’m going to get the Chief to take me to the town hall and I’ll get it.”

Abbey was so desperate to get her hands on the lease that she didn’t mind putting Dylan at risk to get the FBI agent out of the way. But she was putting herself at risk, too—there was no way she could consider finding it and dying a success.

“Don’t, it’s too dangerous. Later, when we’re together, we’ll get it safely,” he whispered back, hoping she would listen.

Abbey didn’t respond and they broke their embrace. Dylan started for the door, unsure of what was to come.

Agent Brinson wasn’t a talker; he waited at the door in silence until he and Dylan walked out together.

The FBI vehicle was a standard white fleet car, nothing fancy. If you didn’t know the guy driving was a Fed, nothing in its appearance would give it away. Dylan assumed that it was intentional.

“I read your file. You’re no Boy Scout. If you think you’re working an angle on this, forget about it,” Brinson said as he started the engine.

“I’ve never broken a law while sober. I’ve been clean now for a long time and don’t expect that to change,” Dylan answered clearly.

“One other time in my career, I came across a mythical piece of history. It was supposed to be a painting by some old French master. There was a small group of rich people lying, stealing, and killing to get their hands on the thing. This American Lease reminds me a lot of that situation,” the FBI man explained.

“Did anyone find the painting?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, but it was a fake,” the agent responded.

“Lives ruined, fortunes lost, I assume. Abbey is more Indiana Jones than Thomas Crown. She’d be just as happy to go study the thing in a museum as find it herself,” Dylan lied, but he thought it might be part of the truth.

“Well, you can both keep looking, but be clear, the laws don’t bend because you think there might be something historic to be found,” Agent Brinson said firmly.