American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) (7 page)

With no job to go to and the whole town ready to pick a fight with him Dylan was left to roam his small basement apartment. He cleaned and organized everything twice, played a video football tournament, and almost wore a hole in the carpet pacing.

He took Montana for a walk in the woods behind the house. They rarely went there but today it made sense, no chance of bumping into anyone. After wandering for an hour, they were back at the apartment before three and Dylan decided that food would distract him for at least half an hour.

Dylan went about cooking and eating in a trance-like state. The logistics of running away were not that complicated: the note to Ryan gifting him Montana would be hard to write, the act of leaving his dog was impossible to visualize, empty and close his checking and savings accounts and throwing a few clothes in a duffle was about all he had to do. It would take a morning, or less and hurt for a lifetime.

He felt bad about leaving Eliza to clean out his apartment, but decided that a few hundred dollars in an envelope left on the counter would more than cover the cost of a couple high school kids coming in to empty the place. Plus she would be glad he was gone; it was probably a great trade, from her perspective.

Montana barked at the door and shook him out of his melancholy. He walked to the door and let his groggy canine companion in. A large, wet tongue hung out the side of the dog’s mouth and he breathed with a shallow pant.

“You must be a little thirsty, huh boy?” Dylan asked. He was going to miss this dog.

Dylan filled the dog’s bowl with fresh cool water and placed it on the kitchen floor. Montana drank eagerly and drained the bowl without leaving. Dylan poured him another round of water and finished cleaning up from his meal.

When the few things were cleaned and put away, nerves took over. He had nothing to do and his heart began to race. Maybe there was a project he could complete for Eliza before he left?

Tap-tap-tap.

A gentle rapping came from his front door. Dylan had never been short with Ryan before, but the boy’s nervous knock was unmistakable. He wondered for a second if Ryan was more afraid of his mother or of Dylan.

Dylan opened the door and greeted the young man. “Hey Ry, what’s up buddy?”

“Hey Dylan.” Ryan tossed the football from one hand to the other. “Catch?”

“Does your mom know you’re down here?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Ryan replied sheepishly.

“Which means no. Look, I promise I didn’t do anything wrong, but your mom is a little scared of you spending time with me. And I can understand that. But you need to ask her before we play catch,” Dylan said.

Ryan stepped back several feet and looked up to the window above.

“Mom!” he yelled. “I’m playing catch with Dylan. We’re right here in the front yard so you can watch if you’re nervous.”

Dylan couldn’t help but smile at the kid. Playing catch was one of the few, simple, good things left. How could he say no? The ball sailed toward the house and Dylan caught it surely. At the very least, he had to give the kid his ball back.

A soft spiral floated through the air and Ryan easily ran under it. Inside the apartment, Montana grunted as he circled the floor a few times and lay down in a ball of golden fur. Of all the things Dylan was getting in trouble for, catch was probably the only one worth it. He walked out to the middle of the yard and held up his hands. Ryan tossed the ball and took a few steps further back.

After only a few minutes of catch, Ryan couldn’t stand still any more. He started to run left and right, making himself work to catch each pass.

“Make me jump for it!” Ryan ordered excitedly.

Dylan threw the ball a foot over his head and Ryan leapt just high enough to get his fingers on it. The ball bounced on the grass and the boy raced to collect it and get it back to Dylan.

Ryan gave a new command. “Lead me this time,” he said, and pointed in the direction he wanted to run.

As Dylan threw the ball, the black FBI car slowly rolled down the street and pulled to the side of the road directly opposite the driveway. The driver’s window rolled down and Agent Smiths face stared out. Ryan didn’t notice a thing.

“Dylan!” Ryan called out as the ball rapidly approached Dylan’s face.

Dylan could deal with being followed and harassed, but he didn’t want it to impact Ryan and Eliza. Did the FBI really think he was just going to sit outside and polish the gun used to kill a police officer? Or read the mysterious document that no one else was even talking about?

A few more distracted throws were managed while Dylan thought about what to do next. When a long camera lens popped through the window and focused on Ryan, something in him snapped.

“Go long,” Dylan ordered.

He threw the ball almost as far as he could, way past Ryan and into the woods at the edge of the yard. Once Ryan’s back was turned, Dylan headed for the car.

There was no sign of movement from the car. The lens stayed trained on Ryan until Dylan was only feet away. By the time he was close enough to touch the car, the camera had been drawn in and replaced by the agent’s smug, smiling face.

“You have questions or suspicions about me, you deal with me. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Dylan bent over slightly so that the full force of his voice and words could be heard clearly through the window.

The agent’s hand lashed out and grabbed the front of Dylan’s t-shirt. He opened the door a crack and pulled hard, smashing the bridge of Dylan’s nose on the frame.

“Owww!” Dylan cried. He was stunned by the surprise of the action and the violence.

“If anything happens to that boy or his mom, it’s on you, quarterback,” the agent snarled.

Dylan placed his hands on the car and freed himself. He thought about declaring his innocence again but he was sick of talking. His right fist drove through the open window and landed solidly against the agent’s head. His left hand reached in and grabbed the man’s shirt and tie.

“Fuck you! Just leave us alone!” Dylan screamed as he pulled the man up and halfway through the window.

Instead of fighting it, Agent Smith used Dylan’s pulling as leverage and pushed himself the rest of the way out of the car. A quick left to Dylan’s ribs sent a shock of pain through his body.

Dylan countered with a right forearm that was supposed to be an elbow aimed at the head. He also threw a weak left to the agent’s gut with minimal effect. As tough as he saw himself, Dylan knew that he wasn’t a fighter.

The FBI man landed a solid right to Dylan’s stomach, causing him to double over in pain. Taking advantage of the momentum, Agent Smith placed his hands on the back of Dylan’s head and brought his knee up swiftly.

At the last second, Dylan was able to twist away so that the knee rubbed roughly against his ear instead of connecting squarely with his face. His ear burned from the blow and the strength of the agent’s hands drove Dylan to the ground.

“RYAN!”

Somewhere in the distance, Dylan could hear Eliza screaming for her son. He wanted to search for the boy and make sure he was okay, but a kick to his side forced him to roll onto his back and close his eyes. How could he keep anyone else safe when he wasn’t even able to defend himself?

The violence paused and Dylan hoped it was over. His hopes were dashed when a knee landed squarely on his chest and didn’t move.

Slowly opening his eyes, he was greeted by the tight black circle of a gun barrel. From twice in one week to twice in one day, Dylan did not like the trend of having guns pointed at him. He fully expected to hear, “You’re under arrest.”

Instead he watched as the agent grimaced in pain. A brief feeling of pride passed through him with the knowledge that he may be a better fighter than he gave himself credit for.

Smith spoke carefully. “This is a matter of national security; the rules don’t apply. Give us what you took from evidence or you are going to wish that we were still just watching.”.

Dylan thought he noticed a hint of an accent and thought it curious for an FBI agent. He didn’t have long to think about it. The agent’s gun was raised and swung at Dylan’s head, the barrel striking him cleanly on the temple. His vision went dark and the noises around him submerged into mumbles.

When his vision and hearing came back, he was still lying in the road. The agent’s black sedan was gone and the country lane was quiet.

Rolling his head toward the house, Dylan watched as Eliza stormed down the walk and into the driveway. He carefully got to his feet and felt his head for bumps or cuts. There was a little blood rolling down to his cheek and everything throbbed, but nothing was broken or seriously cut.

“This is not okay! He’s my baby, you cannot fight in front of him. He worships you!” Eliza trembled.

“I know.” Dylan walked past her.

He was bleeding more than he’d expected. He looked himself over in the bathroom mirror. His injuries were probably the only reason Eliza hadn’t followed him inside to continue berating him. Screaming wasn’t her style, but when it came to the well-being of her son, Dylan knew that style went out the window.

He wanted to stand in the shower and close his eyes for days. The blow to his head had left him in a fog and the blow to his stomach was causing him sharp pain with each breath. His mind was a jumble of confusion and clarity.

How the hell had he gotten into this? How didn’t matter; he had to tell Eliza everything and keep her safe. Who could help him if the FBI was free to assault him in broad daylight? The authorities wouldn’t be interested in his story—they already thought he was a murderer.

Once his face was cleaned and the bleeding stopped, Dylan changed his shirt. He walked to the door and waited with his hand on the knob. He still didn’t have a plan and winging it didn’t seem like a good idea at this point.

Looking out the window, he watched Eliza angrily weed a flowerbed. After about a minute she stood tall and walked aggressively toward the house. About ten yards from the building, she stopped, spun on her heal, and stomped back to the flower garden.

Dylan knew he owed her a conversation, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say
. It’s not my fault
was feeling tired to him and it didn’t help her or Ryan at all. Would she believe he’d been fighting with an FBI agent?

Eliza wasn’t just smart; she was practical. Dylan had often heard her talk to Ryan about doing the right thing. In many ways, she reminded him of his dad. What would his dad tell him to do?

As the big man on campus in high school, Dylan had been pulled into more than one conflict. The administrators liked him and often gave him the benefit of the doubt, but that didn’t mean his father was easy on him.

“You have a responsibility for the people around you. Good or bad, you need to own your actions,” his father told him more than once.

How could he own this? He hadn’t done anything. That thought made him feel like he was back in high school, whining about how unfair something was.

The first step in owning this was to make sure it didn’t come down on Ryan and Eliza. Whether he did something or not was irrelevant; he was in the middle of something big enough for the FBI to throw out the rulebook. His landlord and her son wouldn’t be safe as long as he was around.

Would his leaving be enough to protect them? It should be, but things weren’t happening the way they should. There had to be something else he could do. It felt like time was the only answer. Things had to play out before it could be clear that Dylan was not involved in murder or the search for the lease.

With a plan formed, Dylan opened the door and slowly walked toward Eliza.

She didn’t want a conversation. “Get out. Not tomorrow, not later today or tonight, right now.”

“I’m ready to do that, but it won’t help. You and Ryan need to go away for a while,” Dylan answered.

“We do not. This is our home and you will leave or I’m calling the cops.”

“That man was an FBI agent. They think, wrongly, that I am involved with something called the American Lease. He called it a matter of National Security and told me that the rules don’t apply. I was fighting with him because he thinks that harassing, scaring, and maybe even hurting you and Ryan will get me to give them something I don’t have,” Dylan said.

Eliza let Dylan’s words filter through her brain. She stared at him while she thought, but her face betrayed no hint of sympathy.

“They can’t do that. I’ll get the local police involved,” she finally answered.

“He smashed my face on a table in the county court house. He pistol-whipped me on a public road in front of a woman and her ten-year-old son. Do you think they are worried about the local cops?”

“So what am I supposed to do? Leave everything up to you? A druggie, a cop killer, and a potential threat to national security?”

“No, don’t trust me or rely on me at all. That’s never worked out for anyone,” Dylan said. “Go visit your sister in New York. Out here in the woods, you can go days without seeing another person. They could detain you or worse and no one would know for a week or more.”

Eliza was incredulous. “You want me to leave my own home because of something you did?”

“I didn’t do anything, but the truth is it doesn’t matter. Being around here, being around me, is going to be bad for you until this lease thing plays out. Go to New York and be safe in the crowd.” Dylan hoped she would listen.

“I’ll think about it.” Eliza paused. “Maybe you should heed your own advice. If you really are innocent and the authorities won’t listen, take it to the court of public opinion.”

Eliza turned and left. Dylan couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling that she would be gone before it got dark. Hopefully he could be, too.

He went inside to start packing. The “court of public opinion” phrase wouldn’t stop playing over in his head. Should he call one of the reporters that had left a voicemail offering to help him tell his story?

Dylan felt like his instincts on the reporter were still correct. They wouldn’t tell his story; they would tell theirs, and they had probably already written the narrative.

On the counter was the newspaper he had purchased at the pharmacy. He could imagine the headline for his story: “Cop Killer Claims Innocence,” or some other totally biased misinterpretation of the facts.

Maybe it wasn’t his story or even Officer Farley’s story he should tell them. The paper had caught his eye because any mention of the lease or the presence of the FBI was absent. If everyone were talking about the lease, it would be a lot harder for the feds to pin any outcome or actions on him. For Dylan to hide in the crowd, he’d have to create the crowd.

He grabbed his phone off the counter and navigated to the recent calls list. Scrolling through the numbers, he got to roughly the date and time of the onslaught of sleazy reporter calls. Selecting one at random, his finger hovered over the call back button. What were the risks associated with this plan?

He doubted that the reporter would believe his story, the alternative being the sensational angle of Dylan being guilty and making things up. His tip would have to be anonymous. That was fine; what were other risks?

While he packed his clothes and few personal effects, Dylan thought through other risks of leaving an anonymous tip about the American Lease and the presence of the FBI in Brookford. His biggest concern was that they wouldn’t act on the tip, but he realized there was nothing he could do about that. Instead of leaving a message for one reporter, he’d share the information with a few.

With his bags by the door, Dylan picked up his phone and drew a deep breath.
Last chance to come up with a better plan
, he thought. Nothing came to mind, and he reminded himself, one last time,
anonymous
.

An instant before he pressed the callback button he remembered caller id. The tip wouldn’t be anonymous if his name appeared on the screen of the reporter he was calling.

After searching for the instructions and then disabling his caller ID, Dylan dialed the first reporter.

Voicemail, perfect.

“Hi, I have some information related to the killing of that cop in Brookford last weekend. Turns out the FBI is involved and there is a national security threat related to something called the American Lease. They’re trying to keep it quiet, and my source says the carpenter is being framed to keep this from becoming a national story,” he said

Dylan was very proud of himself. He felt like he had done the perfect job of selling the story. He’d hit all the big touch points: the murdered cop for the local draw, the FBI for intrigue, and national story for fame and recognition. No small-town New Hampshire reporter would be able to pass this up.

He called three more reporters and left similar messages.

The wheels were now in motion. With multiple people involved in finding the truth behind the cop’s death and the American Lease, Dylan would quickly fade away as a suspect and eventually not even be considered a person of interest.

On the off-chance that Eliza would listen to him and go to New York, he couldn’t leave Montana behind. He was glad that things worked out this way; without Montana his quiet, simple life wouldn’t be the same.

“Montana, lets go for a ride,” Dylan called as he picked up his bags and headed out the door.

By the time he was done with his second and final trip from the house to his truck, Montana sat in the passenger seat waiting impatiently for Dylan to open the window.

He put the key in the ignition and turned it to start the engine. The low rumble he expected never came—the truck remained silent. He switched the key off and then tried again with no success. He checked the lights and the radio to make sure nothing had been left on.

“Hold on, buddy,” he said as he climbed out and pulled the hood release.

Dylan wasn’t a mechanic, but he was handy. If there was something obviously wrong or broken, he could fix it and be on his way. The battery connections looked fine and he could not think of a way that it would have drained.

While he thought about why an engine wouldn’t turn over, he scanned the compartment. After a few seconds his eyes were drawn to the wires connected to the distributor cap. They were all loose and disconnected from the spark plugs.

Further inspection revealed the real problem. Someone had taken a hammer and broken the spark plugs off at the cylinder head.

Running away would have to wait.