American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (8 page)

When Eliza didn’t come down to remind him he was supposed to leave, Dylan knew that his advice would be followed.

Eliza and Ryan pulled out of the driveway a little after seven the next morning. He didn’t know exactly where they were going, and that was a good thing.

A little after eight he called the local garage. They agreed that it wasn’t something that could be fixed in his driveway and promised to come out and tow it back to the shop. There were a few people ahead of him, but they promised it would be later that day.

If the girl at the farm stand knew who he was, the local mechanics were sure to know, too. He didn’t expect them to show up soon, but he also knew that if he wasn’t here when they arrived, he’d move to the back of the line and probably have to wait another day.

Waiting is one of the worst things an addict can be asked to do. Dylan immediately thought about getting high. Actually, it wasn’t even the high that got him excited, it was the score. Where could he get some, how would the deal go down, when would he do it? It was the problem-solving that gave him the rush; the physical reward at the end was just a bonus.

Then he remembered that there were other, real problems to be solved. If he wanted to set his mind to figuring something out, why not the lease and who killed the cop?

Dylan knew what a lease was; he had signed a two-year lease with Eliza. It gave him the rights to live in the apartment, with Montana, and pay a fixed rate every month. He knew that people leased office space and land.
Was it even possible to lease a country? A continent?

That seemed unlikely.

Perhaps the lease was for the land where the White House was built? What if a non-American owned the land where the White House was built and decided not to renew the lease? Could America really be forced to relocate the White House?

Not just the White House, but the Capitol or the Pentagon. The power doesn’t come from the place, but how would it look to the world if Al-Qaeda, ISIS, or North Korea owned the Pentagon?

The national security ramifications were not obvious, but he could see how the topic would dominate the news cycle for long, long time.

But if such a lease existed, who would let it out of their sight? How do you lose something so significant? You wouldn’t.
Someone was using legend and innuendo to scare people and further a separate agenda.

The government was the most probable source of the propaganda, the latest justification for increasing spending on major defense projects. It would also fit with them using the FBI to keep the story quiet. They needed the right people involved at the right time or the lies would be uncovered.

Sharing what he knew with the reporters now felt like an even smarter move.

Dylan spent the rest of the morning thinking through scenarios of how the possibility of a lease could drive a national security agenda. He was proud of himself for his critical thinking on a topic other than scoring drugs.

Shortly after noon, his pride crashed. He didn’t get into college for his academics and it was likely that football was the only reason he even graduated from high school. He hadn’t been thinking critically or problem-solving; he’d been daydreaming.

If he were going to actually understand the potential behind this lease, he would need to do research. He’d need to study history books like he used to study his playbooks. Dylan was going to have to spend hours at the library.

When the flatbed turned into the yard it jarred him from his thinking. They were earlier than he had expected and now he hoped they would be willing to drop him at the library while they worked on his truck.

The driver pulled the flatbed in nose-to-nose with Dylan’s truck. Once he climbed out, Dylan started walking down the drive to meet him.

It was Jimmy, whose family owned the garage. He and Dylan were not friends, but they saw each other in the local diner often enough to be cordial and give a nod of recognition when they passed on the street.

“Hey Jimmy. Thanks for coming down,” Dylan said.

Jimmy didn’t say anything in response. He simply spun the tire iron he was holding around his hand in a way that said,
I have a tire iron and you don’t.

“Let’s see what’s going on,” Jimmy said as he approached the hood of the pickup.

The flat end of the tire iron dug into the truck’s black paint. A foot-long scar appeared on the hood while Jimmy’s hands searched for the release.

“What the hell, Jimmy!” Dylan said.

“Ooops. Sorry.” Jimmy wasn’t.

He ignored Dylan and lifted the hood, holding it open with his right hand.

“That wasn’t an accident,“ Dylan insisted.

“Sure it was. Happens all the time when we have to tow someone. Honestly, we’re grateful when the accident is just property damage and on one gets seriously injured, because that happens, too.” Jimmy glared at Dylan.

Dylan knew he was not welcome in town but this threat of violence came as a surprise.

“I just need my truck fixed so I can get out of here. I don’t want any trouble, I just wanna take my dog and go somewhere quiet.”

“Then why the hell were you harassing Abbey yesterday? She’s gone through enough stupid shit, she doesn’t need you going into her store and stirring things up. It’s a small town and we look out for each other. Those bruises on your face are going to feel like gentle kisses if I find out you’ve been bugging Abbey again.” The tire iron was pointed at Dylan’s chest.

“I was just stopping to get some vegetables, I don’t even know Abbey,” Dylan pleaded.

“Doesn’t matter why, just stay away from Abbey. Are we clear?” Jimmy dropped the hood and it slammed closed.

“Yeah,” Dylan said as his attention was drawn down the driveway to the police cruiser that had just pulled in.

“Did you guys coordinate this?” Dylan accused Jimmy.

“You’re the cop killer.” Jimmy turned and went back to the truck.

Eliza had left, presumably to the safety of the crowds in New York. Dylan was still here, alone in the woods of New Hampshire. The whole thing was starting to feel like a setup.

“You Dylan Cold?” the officer asked.

“Yes sir,” Dylan confirmed, though he suspected the cop already knew who he was.

“Where were you last night around nine o’clock?” the officer asked.

“Here, packing and cleaning up some things in my apartment,” Dylan answered.

“Did anyone see you here? Can you prove that you didn’t leave?”

“Eliza, my landlord was upstairs. I didn’t see her, but she knows I didn’t leave.” The whole situation was starting to feel like a small town setup.

“Is she home now?” the cop asked.

“No. She left early this morning.” Dylan suddenly realized that this visit might have been better planned than he thought.

“Do you know where she went? Is there any way I can talk to her to see if she supports your story?”

“I don’t know where she went, but you could call her cell. I’m sure she’d tell you I didn’t go anywhere.”

“There was a break-in at the library last night. The whole section of books related to Monson and the history of Brookford were taken. A witness says that they saw a black pickup just like yours leaving the scene a little after nine o’clock.”

“Well someone smashed the spark plugs on my truck yesterday afternoon. That’s why Jimmy’s here. Besides, there are probably a hundred black pickups in this town; how could someone pick mine out in the dark of night?” Dylan felt like he was evading a blind-side blitz.

“Don’t know why they thought it was you, but my job is to follow up on leads. I’m sure if you didn’t do anything wrong you have nothing to worry about,” the cop said.

“I’m starting to wonder about that,” Dylan answered.

“Mind if I take a look inside?” the officer asked while walking to the passenger side door.

“Actually, I do. Do you have a search warrant?” Dylan challenged.

“If you’re so sure of your innocence, what are you afraid of?” The officer’s hand moved from the car door handle to the butt of his gun.

“I told you, it was vandalized last night. Whoever did it could easily have left something in the cab to frame me.” Dylan could feel the pressure.

“You can unpack, because you better not go anywhere. I’m coming back, and believe me, if you thought we were being hard on you before, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

The cop walked back to his car and climbed in. The tires squealed as he backed out of the driveway.

Jimmy started the flatbed and backed up. Dylan was pissed that after all this harassment, they weren’t even going to fix his truck.

When the flatbed turned around and started backing up toward his vehicle Dylan had a feeling that everything was turning around.

For now, he was a step ahead. As long as he was able to stay on his feet, the play was still alive and there was a chance to get something positive out of it.
Keep scrambling,
he told himself. Y
ou’ll find the opening.

Dylan’s apartment was spotless. There wasn’t a leaf left on the lawn and any dead branches that were even close to dry had been broken into woodstove length and stacked neatly along the edge of the woods.

Montana was exhausted. Somehow he knew that the pacing and the fidgeting were a problem. The dog wouldn’t let his master get more than a few paces away.

When Dylan disappeared into the woods to find more sticks to break, Montana followed. A purposeful walk to the end of the driveway got the dog up off the ground and trotting along beside him. If he had even stepped a foot onto the road, closer to a score, Montana would have barked, whined, or growled.

That was only an afternoon.

Dylan looked down at his hands and wondered how he was going to make it through a whole day. He and Montana had already walked, eaten a protein bar for breakfast, and made another large stack of sticks and wood. It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning.

If he left the house without a destination in mind, he would wind up somewhere bad. Going to town wouldn’t work either. They all hated him and that would only push him deeper into despair.

He decided to look at a map on his phone. Where would he go when the truck was ready? Out West, maybe? Bringing Montana the dog to Montana the state might be the change he needed.

Maybe he could get a small piece of land and build a log cabin. Real estate out west was different than here in New England. Dylan studied the streets and satellite images of Bozeman and felt a tinge of excitement. His mind wandered to living in a tent, building a cabin, and working odd jobs just to make ends meet. Not the worst life for a sober, single guy.

The phone he was completely engrossed in made an unexpected noise: it rang. Grateful for the distraction, Dylan answered without looking at the number. Before he finished saying hello, he regretted not checking the number first.

“Truck’s ready. If you don’t get it before noon, we charge a fifty dollar storage fee.” The caller hung up without waiting for acknowledgement.

Fortunately there was nothing to regret about answering this call. Still, he scolded himself for not being smarter. If the cops were telling people he was a suspect in the library break-in, there could be more calls from reporters. His anonymous tips were all the interaction he wanted with the press, and he reminded himself to get a paper when he was in town getting his truck.

He thought that the storage fee seemed like a discretionary policy, but decided that it probably wasn’t one they would wave for him. It was only a few miles to the garage and the walk would be easy enough, but something felt wrong. Why were they rushing him?

“Listen,” Dylan said to Montana sincerely. “I have to go get the truck, but I want you to stay here. I promise I won’t stop anywhere bad and I’ll come right home. We’ll go for a nice ride later and you can rest all you want.”

On his way out the door, Dylan’s eyes were drawn to the shed and Ryan’s mountain bike that leaned against the side. Even if he were home, Ryan wouldn’t mind if Dylan borrowed the bike. He could bring it home in the back of his truck and the whole trip would take less than half an hour. He took the bike.

He peddled fast and hard. A light sweat formed on his skin in the cool morning air and his lungs felt good, breathing deep replenishing breathes. It took longer than he expected and some of the hills he used to consider small now reminded him of mountains. Cycling was not his a strong suit.

Before he even went into the shop, he put the bike in the back of his truck. The small town center was busy and he was glad for the crowd. If this was a setup, it probably wouldn’t be more aggressive than the one yesterday.

He greeted the woman standing behind the counter. “I’m here for my truck.”

“What’s your last name, hon?” she asked.

“Cold. It’s the black Ford out by the field.”

“Gotcha right here. Looks like eight new plugs, oil change, labor. Comes to one-forty-five.” The woman smiled.

The price felt high but Dylan didn’t want to quarrel. He counted out eight twenty-dollar bills and laid them on the counter. As the clerk slid a five across the counter, the door behind him opened.

Jimmy’s presence filled the room.

“Should be good to take you as far away as you want,” the mechanic said.

“Thanks. Was it bad?” Dylan hadn’t expected it to be done this quickly.

“Nope. Whoever did this wasn’t trying to ruin the truck, just slow you down. Definitely wasn’t a local; we’re not going to miss you.” Jimmy left it at that and walked out the door.

Dylan nodded at the woman behind the counter and left.

At the truck, Dylan paused. If anyone wanted to plant evidence, this was the perfect opportunity. His truck had been left, unattended, overnight. The mechanic would have plausible deniability; lots of people had their vehicles in his lot overnight. The cops could easily justify being in town and checking out the property at night.

He inspected every inch of the cab. If something had been planted, it was hidden so well that he couldn’t find it. Dylan tried to figure out which angle they were most likely to take; framing him for drugs, the library break-in, or killing Officer Farley? Drugs would be the easiest and most effective for them.

None of it mattered. Starting right now, he wasn’t waiting anymore. Home to get Montana and then gone was all the plan he needed. Dylan shifted into drive and started to pull away from his space when a body jumped in front of the truck.

He slammed on the brakes and the truck lurched. A man in a black suit with a black skinny tie stood in front glaring at him. Dylan thought the outfit was out of place in the small farming community, but couldn’t decide how to react. It actually reminded him of the cop killer and he locked eyes with the intruder, wondering if this could possibly be him.

A hand gripping his throat firmly interrupted Dylan’s stare. The point of a knife dug into the side of his neck and he felt a small trickle of blood roll down.

“Eyes front,” said a man with a thick Irish accent. He was standing outside of the truck, reaching his left hand in to hold Dylan with the knife in his right.

Dylan kept his focus on the man standing in front of his truck. Every detail of the man’s face and clothes were burning into his memory with each second.

“You’re a popular fellow these days. I’ve never been one to follow the crowd myself, but my mum always told me that where there’s smoke there’s usually fire. Lotsa smoke around you,” the man hissed into Dylan’s ear.

“Yeah, well I’m the one getting burned,” Dylan growled back.

“Mum also told me that real men don’t whine, they just get on with it,” his captor snickered. Dylan could smell alcohol on his breath.

Dylan smiled wryly. “Your mum sounds lovely. She must be real disappointed in you.”

The man’s grip tightened and then slammed Dylan’s head into the pickup truck’s back window. Dylan struggled to breathe. In front of the truck, suit guy looked left and right. No one was coming.

“My boss is willing to make a trade. The American Lease for
your
life. No one will ever need to know you gave it to us, we get rich, and you get to go on breathing. That sounds more than fair to me,” the man lilted.

“I don’t have it, I’d never even heard about it until a couple of days ago. Killing me mean you surely won’t get it and threatening me certainly isn’t going to make it magically appear.” Dylan closed his eyes.

“If you can’t help us with the lease, we don’t need to keep you alive. I’ll let you choose your final resting spot: water or shallow grave?” the man cackled softly.

“What I’m trying to explain,” Dylan said, his mind racing, “Is that I need to be able to do the work to get it. I can’t do that with your hand around my throat.”

The British boozehound released his grip and pulled his arm out of the truck window. A car pulled into the gas station and the partner in front stared it down as if he could will them not to come to the back lot.

“We found you here, don’t think we can’t do it again if you run. When you get the lease, it’s ours,” the man said firmly.

Two steps away from the truck, the man stopped and turned back to Dylan.

“And your landlady and her boy. They use credit cards. Can’t hide in New York or anywhere, for that matter, if you keep swiping the plastic.” He raised his eyebrows; the message was clear.

Seconds later, they were gone. Dylan saw them go through the trees and into the neighboring field, but never heard an engine start. Where they had come from and where they were going was a mystery.

These guys had to be involved with the cop killer.
If only the cops or the FBI would take a second and look at someone else,
he thought. Maybe he could make another anonymous tip?

That’s when Dylan realized that he didn’t have a number for the FBI agent. What kind of investigator doesn’t leave a card?