American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (9 page)

Where were the cops when you needed them? For the last few days, it had felt like every time Dylan turned around there was a police officer or the FBI agent watching him. Now that he could have used a little help, the center of town was the quietest place on the planet.

Who had the resources to hack into the credit card networks and track civilians? They killed a cop, robbed a library, and assaulted him in public. The British accents felt like a false flag; wouldn’t an historic American document only be of value to the United States?

If running wasn’t an option, he’d need to start putting the pieces together and not just fantasizing.

The cop killer must not have found the lease. His partners wouldn’t be here now if they had what they wanted.

There had to be some credibility to the concept; the FBI had dedicated an agent to not only investigate the story, but also stick around and tail a carpenter.

If he had hidden a valuable document in the 1700s, how would he have left clues? Markings on stones, a bronze or iron plate, or maybe a passage in a book seemed like good old-fashioned ways to leave clues.

Tearing apart Monson and stealing books from the library made sense.
But what could be missing? What had they discovered that got them this close and what could be missing to keep them from the prize?

It would be great if he could check in with one of the reporters to see if they had learned anything. Unfortunately the anonymous part of his tips made it difficult to place a follow-up call. He would have to pick up a paper and search the Internet to see if they had found anything.

Dylan decided that he would go home and let Montana out for a bit. After lunch, he would go into the Nashua library to check the paper and do some real research.

As he pulled out of the garage parking lot, he shook his head at how quiet the normally buzzing town had suddenly become. It was a weekday, so school was in session and the local businesses were all open.
Where are all the people?

Turning right onto Main Street, Dylan immediately saw what had quieted the place down. Two police cruisers and every piece of fire equipment were parked in front of the historic society, lights flashing.

His first instinct was to turn around and stay away. He didn’t need anyone being suspicious of his presence at the scene of an accident. But this was the way home. Maybe turning around would look even more suspicious?

Slowly rolling up to the scene, Dylan was careful to not stare but still watch the officer directing traffic. The man numbly waved Dylan to the opposite lane and directed him through.

When he recognized Dylan’s face, the blank expression turned into a death stare. The officer raised a hand and spoke into the radio mounted on his shoulder.

Dylan’s gaze was diverted from the officer to the back of the ambulance. A stretcher was being lifted in and he had a clear view of the patient. A bloody mess of flesh filled the area behind the oxygen mask where a face should have been. One eye was swollen completely shut and the other was a glassy marble rolling freely in its socket. The wispy white hair above was clinging to a bright butterfly barrette that no longer held enough hair and seemed more fitting for a child in school.

Before he rolled past the ambulance, commotion from the narrow door of the building drew his eye.

A backboard was halfway out and sharply tilted. Two men at the bottom of the steps fought to hold it up while a woman from inside of the house crawled underneath and scrambled to secure one side. On top of the backboard, two orange foam pads stabilized the victim’s neck and head. Curls of black-gray hair hung off the edge and a bag to help with breathing rested on the patient’s chest.

Dylan’s first hope that this was a random act of violence sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. He didn’t want this to be related to the cop killing, the library, or the American lease. But of course it was. No one in town would remember the eighteen months he had lived here quietly; they would all think that he brought this violence and trouble to town.

Who would beat up two old ladies, and why?
If they wanted to take something from the historic society why not break in at night, the way they had with the library? Were they sending a message to him? To someone else?

Dylan rolled home deep in thought. He stayed five miles under the thirty mile-per-hour speed limit. It felt like he checked his rearview for the blue lights of a cruiser at every utility pole.

He made it home without getting stopped. Pulling into the driveway, he stared at the house and thought some more. They were sending him a message. Women and children were not off limits. They were willing to beat up two old ladies at the historic society; he could imagine what they were willing to do to Eliza and Ryan.

The FBI had to help. Dylan decided that next time the agent made contact, he would offer to work with him. It was a little risky, seeing how he had so little to offer, but it was better than running, and at the end he was sure he’d be proven innocent, because he was.

The blue lights he had been waiting for surprised him.

The cop that had given him a hard time about Montana’s license was already out of the car and approaching Dylan’s window. He was glad to notice that the officer’s sidearm was still in its holster.

“People keep getting hurt and you always seem to be around,” the officer said.

“Has to prove that I have nothing to do with it,” Dylan said. “I have a record because I wasn’t smart enough to keep my drugs hidden. Do you really think I could commit the string of crimes that hit this town and not leave at least some evidence?”

“Do you own a suit?” the officer asked.

“How is that relevant?”

“Answer the question: what color is your suit?”

“I don’t own one. I refuse to do anything that would require me to pretend to be a suit guy.”

“Jimmy told me he had your truck all night. Whose bike did you ride to pick it up this morning?”

“Ryan’s, my landlord’s son,” Dylan said. “It was a guy, or two guys, in black suits that attacked those two women, wasn’t it? They had British accents, too.”

“Friends of yours?” The cop moved his hand to his weapon.

“No. Do your friend’s grab your neck hard enough to leave this kind of bruising?” Dylan pointed to his throat, which was red and showing signs of his assault.

“They must be pissed that you aren’t delivering the goods,” the cop said.

“Hey, why don’t you spend just a minute not trying to blame everything on me? What if them killing your friend is a red herring?” Dylan was actually grateful for the opportunity to talk through his idea.

“Yeah, I’ll just forget that a guy I’ve known since kindergarten was shot in the head. Doesn’t really matter that it could have been me working that shift,” the cop shot back, pain in his eyes.

“That’s not what I mean,” Dylan insisted. “Try to get ahead of whoever did it so you can catch them. They vandalized Monson, robbed the library, and attacked the historic society. I bet they stole old books or history books from the library, right? Are you seeing a trend here?” Dylan knew he was painting with a broad brush but maybe there would be something relevant to a local.

The cop nodded but didn’t speak.

Dylan wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the guy was thinking. If the officer told him what he suspected was the next target and he was right, they would think Dylan had relayed information. If he didn’t tell Dylan what he thought, there was the potential that he could stumble across the place and be accused yet again.

“What does the FBI think? Were they surprised to hear that the suits had British accents?”

A puzzled look came across the young cop’s face. “The FBI? I have no idea what they think, but I doubt they care about what’s happening in our little town.”

“If they don’t care, why would they send an agent to question me? Not only question me, but tail me and beat the shit out of me in front of Eliza and Ryan?” Dylan explained angrily.

“I don’t know anything about the FBI,” the officer said. “And once again, the person who could confirm your story is conveniently unavailable. Why don’t you leave the investigation to us? Trust me when I say that if we need your help, we’ll know where to find you.”

The cop walked back to his cruiser and Dylan watched him on the side mirror. When he got to the door of the car, he turned his head and spoke into the radio. Dylan didn’t feel like getting out of the truck.

This wasn’t progress.

Things were getting worse.

A single bark from Montana eventually pulled Dylan from his catatonic state. He climbed out of the truck and walked to the apartment.

At the door Montana stopped to sniff his master. He seemed to know that Dylan was not doing well, seemed like he could smell the despair. Somewhat reluctantly, the dog trotted across the front lawn to relieve himself in the bushes. In an exhibition of remarkable self-control, he ignored two birds and a squirrel to run back to Dylan’s side.

Dylan stood in the doorway, spinning his keys around a finger.

What was the point in fighting the urge to get high if everything was getting worse while he was sober?
In fact
, his addict mind rationalized,
getting high would make him less of a suspect. It would fix everything.

How could a guy all strung out on drugs orchestrate an international scheme to turn Brookford into a war zone?
When he disappeared and the violence continued, they would know it wasn’t him.

Montana barked and curled up at the foot of the recliner. This was where he laid while Dylan played his football video game. He was almost pleading with his owner to sit and not walk back out the door.

“Maybe later, boy. There’s something I gotta do first,” Dylan told his friend coldly.

The dog barked again and hefted his aging body off the floor. He pushed past Dylan and out into the yard. Another bark to make sure Dylan was watching, and Montana walked around the house and up toward the woods.

“Not now, Montana.”

It was getting hard for Dylan to think. Maybe if he weren’t going out with the intention of getting high, it would be okay. He had never lied to Montana before and he didn’t want to start now, but he couldn’t sit in that apartment.

“Let’s go for a ride buddy. I want to get a newspaper.”

Dylan closed the door and shuffled to his truck. Montana whined from the edge of the woods. He knew Dylan’s “thinking about drugs” shuffle and wanted no part of it.

The two stood at a standoff for a long time, Dylan beside the truck with the passenger door open and the golden retriever by the house, sitting and looking sad. Dylan was angry—with Montana, with the world, but mostly with himself. Self-discipline had been instrumental to his success as a football player; where was it now, when he was fighting for his life?

Dylan slammed the door and walked around the hood of the truck. “I don’t care anymore. Stay or come, I’m leaving.”

Montana stood up, walked to the apartment door and looked back. When Dylan climbed into the cab of his truck, the dog bolted. His nose was through the door and nudging Dylan’s leg in the blink of an eye.

“Get in, you old mutt.” Dylan smiled at how committed his dog was to keeping him honest.

Dylan wanted to stay away from town and the potential for conflict. He drove toward the city with the dog’s head resting on his leg. At every traffic light as the truck slowed, Montana would crawl further onto his lap, preparing to use his body weight to prevent his charge from getting into trouble.

At a stoplight downtown a man sat on a bench waiting for the bus. He looked like he fit the scene, but there was something off. His sunglasses were expensive and his watch was not the kind you could buy at a superstore.

Dylan rolled down his window and Montana whined in protest.

Dylan was casual. “Hey, I’m looking for this girl I met last night, Mary or Maggie? Said you worked down here handing out papers.”

“If you mean Molly, she hasn’t been around lately. Her friend Roxie sometimes hangs down at the Gas ‘n’ Sip, but I don’t know if she’s handin’ out papers or nothing.”

“Thanks, man. Can I tell them who sent me?”

“Nah, just tell ’em you heard it at the bus stop.”

The dance was subtle and brought a high of its own.

He’d been looking for a sign or a lucky break but the only thing going his way in the last couple of days was tracking down drugs. As far as signs go, this one was pretty clear: go lose yourself and forget about everything.

Dylan sat in the parking lot of the Gas ‘n’ Sip for more than half an hour. If he scored, could he wait until he got home to use? If he didn’t wait he was putting not only his life, but Montana’s life at risk. He honestly didn’t care about any other people who might be on the road; he worried that as bad as using in front of his dog was, causing his death would be the ultimate betrayal.

Maybe he should score, and go home and flush it. Exhibit some self-control and get at least one hit off the street. He wasn’t buying for himself; he was doing it to keep others safe.

Sliding out from under the dog, he climbed out of the truck and lifted his head high. He walked through the front door of the store and stopped. Was he really going to do this?

It had been a long time since he used. What if it was a drug he couldn’t handle or didn’t know how to use? What if it was something to smoke? Dylan hated smoking. These weren’t concerns if he was going to stick to his plan and flush it. But who was he kidding with that plan?

“Help you?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Um, yeah. I came in here for something but I forget what it was,” Dylan lied.

“Well, we got gas and we got coffee, lotta people stop in for those.”

He decided he liked options and that included the option to use or flush it. “Actually, I was looking for Roxie, guy at the bus stop said she was here,” Dylan said.

A hint of surprise flashed across the clerk’s face. He smiled knowingly.

“Bus stop knows shit. One for fifteen, two for twenty.”

Dylan shuffled toward the counter. His mind said stop, but his body wouldn’t listen. This need was coming from somewhere physical and beyond his control.

A few steps before the counter his toe hit something and he stumbled. Looking down to make sure whatever it was did not trip him up again, Dylan saw the stack of newspapers.

He bent over and picked one up.

“Historic Document Causes Stir” read the headline.

On the right side of the page, just above the fold, another title caught his eye:, “World’s Longest Leases.”

The story was out. The small town was about to come under a national microscope, and while it would be a hassle for the residents, it would also keep them safe from more violence.

Dylan looked at the clerk. “I only have a twenty, but I was hoping to get a paper, too.”

“So you wanna relax and read the news? Paper’s on the house. Just remember who hooked you up next time you need to take an edge off,” the clerk said.

Dylan tossed the paper on the counter and put a twenty on top of it.

The clerk slid them both off the counter and rung a sale into the register. His fingers moved so smoothly and quickly that Dylan never even saw the drugs slip into the folded newsprint.

“Hope you find some good news in that paper, friend,” the clerk called out as Dylan headed toward the door.

Surely if the media was paying attention, the issue would resolve itself in a few days. It was like he was being rewarded for scoring.

The paper went on the dash and Dylan slid behind the wheel. Montana crawled his large body as far away as he could. They rode home in silence, with Dylan focused on the road and wringing the life out of his steering wheel.