American Lease
A Dylan Cold Novel
K. D. McAdams
Copyright © 2015 by K. D. McAdams
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are figments of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
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Dylan Cold Novels
American Lease – Book 1
High Fields – Book 2 (January 2016)
Harbinger Hawk – Book 3 (February 2016)
Exotic Husbandry – Book 4 (March 2016)
Chapter 1
The air was crisp and the foliage in southern New Hampshire was stunning, a perfect day for football. Dylan Cold didn’t notice; that life was history. It was eight years ago today that he last played football on Saturday. It was six years, four months, and twenty-three days since he had ingested a substance that gave him a buzz.
Football had been his identity. From his very first snap at quarterback, people told him he was born to play football. Pop Warner was like a video game for him. He wasn’t always the biggest kid on the field, but he was consistently the fastest and the smartest.
Before drugs, the only adversity he faced was in his freshmen year of high school. Even after an exceptional summer workout with the varsity team, it took him three regular season games to take the starting job from the incumbent senior.
Dylan’s father had guided him through that time with a firm hand and compassionate support. His dad told him that it was not about being the best individual athlete; it was about doing the most to help the team get better.
Unfortunately his father was no longer with him when he discovered Oxycodone. Even superior athletes develop bumps and bruises after years of playing football at a high level. For Dylan, those injuries started affecting his life in the summer before junior year in college.
In Spring ball he had taken a shot on the hip. He was able to “walk it off” during practice, but for two days afterward the pain was intense. Barely able to walk, Dylan missed a lifting session in the weight room.
A teammate came to find him and offered a couple of pills to take the edge off of what was probably “just a stinger.” The pills didn’t just take the edge off—they smoothed everything over, and he was sure they made him faster and stronger.
It was a fall day, much like today, when the graduate assistant came and brought him to the head coach’s office. Dylan could actually remember thinking that this was it, the day that he would be formally anointed starter and not just the replacement. Instead, his quarterback coach poured an assortment of bottles, baggies, envelopes, and pills out of a shoebox and onto the desk.
“You’re done,” Coach said, before getting up and leaving the office.
The quarterback coach and the grad assistant helped him clean out his locker and escorted him out of the field house. There were several other users in the program, but Dylan had been cavalier and gotten caught, the worst offense of all.
Montana, Dylan’s seven-year-old golden retriever, pushed his nose under a pile of leaves just off the trail. He pawed and nosed and played while Dylan kept walking. After about fifty more feet, Dylan stopped and called to the dog.
“Montana,” he said firmly. Montana dutifully left his claim and trotted down the path to catch up with his master.
Dylan loved walking in the woods of New Hampshire. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for or if he would ever find it among the trees, but walking allowed him to hold life at bay for just a little bit longer. This path through old Monson was one of his favorites. The abandoned town felt significant; there was an important air to it, but there was never anyone here.
Where he had grown up in Western Pennsylvania there was some history, but New England was rich with history. It amazed him that more people weren’t walking around, exploring this pre-revolutionary war site. Mostly, though, he was grateful to be so alone in such a beautiful place.
Montana stopped, frozen. He heard or smelled something interesting, likely a deer. Dylan scanned the edges of the woods but didn’t notice anything.
“Easy boy. Stay with me,” Dylan commanded his best friend.
Montana wanted to run, but he didn’t. The dog stood stone still until Dylan walked past him, and then he fell in step about one pace behind. His ears were up and he was still alert, but Dylan was in charge.
Rolling fields spread out before them as they rounded the bend and emerged from the forest. The path had turned into a full-fledged road and there were several noticeable breaks in the stonewalls. In the fields behind these breaks were cellar holes approaching three hundred years old.
Standing roughly in the center of the field was a replica of the Gould house. A house stood in that spot since1909, but it had been salvaged and updated so many times that it was not a true representation of the original. What was there now was close to the original in size and layout, though there was not enough original material to call it genuine.
The early morning light was soft and gave the vast open space a serene feeling. Dylan could imagine farmers coming out to tend to the animals before a long day spent in the fields. Sometimes he thought that the solitude and reward of farming would have been perfect for him; other times, he realized he wasn’t emotionally tough enough to handle the inevitable losses that come with farming.
A distinct ting of steel on steel shattered the serenity and caused Dylan to inhale quickly. The sound was not natural; someone was in the area, though it was an odd time to be working here. Dylan had walked to the trail from his apartment and there had been no vehicles at the head of the trail. Whoever was here must have come in from the trail on other side. It was odd that a contractor would be asked to do work but not given permission to open the gates and drive his tools closer to the job site.
Ting….ting…CRACK!
Montana could wait no more. He rushed forward, toward the curious noise, and was twenty yards away before Dylan could even call out.
“Montana, stay with me!” he yelled.
The dog disappeared around the corner of the house, and Dylan picked up his pace. He wasn’t worried about the golden retriever, but he knew that some people were not dog fans and he didn’t want any trouble.
A loud, ferocious bark resonated from behind the house. Montana never barked, except when he was at the door waiting to come in, and even then it wasn’t really a bark so much as a polite dog noise used to alert the owner to his presence. Dylan’s walk turned into a jog.
A yelp erupted from behind the house, and Montana howled in pain.
Dylan was at a full sprint before he even thought about what could have hurt his dog.
The golden retriever met him at the corner of the house. His big fluffy tail was tucked between his legs and a noticeable limp favored the left rear leg.
Dropping to a knee, Dylan directed all of his attention to his dog. There was no blood and no open wound visible, which was a good thing. As he ran his hands along the dog’s back and down his legs, nothing felt out of place. Someone hitting or kicking his dog was not acceptable, but hopefully that was the extent of the maltreatment.
“Hey,” he called as he walked toward the back of the building.
As he turned the corner, Montana cowered sheepishly behind him.
Dylan could see several clapboards haphazardly strewn abo
ut on the ground. Even though they weren’t original, anyone who worked on a historic building would be expected to have more care for the pieces they remove. He looked up from the ground, looking for the person who had done this, for whomever had injured his dog.
Nothing.
The open field out to the left revealed only emptiness, no humans or animals to be seen. A few more steps forward and Dylan was able to inspect the hole that had been opened in the back of the building.
A rough space had been made in the outside wall. The wood was splintered, with discarded pieces littering the ground under foot. Whoever had done this possessed zero knowledge of woodworking or construction, Dylan decided. They had actually made the work more difficult for themselves by attacking the spaces between nails.
It didn’t look like school kid vandalism. There was no point and no message left behind. Besides, teenagers are lazy. If they wanted to vandalize the building, they would have thrown rocks through the windows or painted something stupid.
Following the slightly trampled grass around the building revealed no more damage. On the ground near the corner was a cigarette butt, but it could be new or old.
Montana stayed behind him until they had both reached the front of the house and began walking back to the road. By the time Dylan reached the center of the road, Montana’s tail was back to it’s usual position, swaying from side to side as he walked with a less noticeable limp over to a pile of leaves.
Dylan thought about turning around and heading home. It was only half a mile before his normal turning point and he really didn’t want to get involved in anything. But Montana left his pile and began trotting off into the forest, following the usual path.
The dog was in charge and he said they were going to get this walk back to normal.
Chapter 2
The leaves crunched underfoot and peacefulness returned to the woods. Back under the cover of the branches, the ground softened a bit and Dylan could see a footprint. Whoever had done the damage to the building had left in a hurry.
Montana used his nose to inspect the first couple of boot prints. At each one, his tailed drooped. Clearly he associated the prints with whoever had caused him to cry out.
Up ahead, a rabbit scurried across the trail. Anything that moved was more interesting then a smelly boot print; Montana was off in pursuit.
With his dog otherwise engaged, Dylan went a few paces further and stopped. They had gone far enough to convince Montana that it was a full walk. Any further, and there was still the risk of encountering the dog-hater and building vandal.
There was plenty of outside work to be done today. Montana would get more than his share of daily exercise, even if they didn’t get all the way to the regular turnaround.
A smile crept across Dylan’s face. Montana was frantically searching the base of the stone wall. Rabbit scent must have been everywhere, but there was no movement to be seen. The little brown animal had disappeared, likely showing up in a magician’s hat somewhere halfway around the world.
If only there were something as interesting as a rabbit in his life.
BANG
He had heard enough gunshots to know—
BANG
Two gunshots had been fired further up the trail. It had been years since he hunted and he knew that the trees could distort the sound significantly, but Dylan was still confident that the sound was coming from near the trailhead the vandal had been running toward.
Montana looked toward the sound as if waiting for a signal.
Dylan didn’t want to get involved in any trouble. Vandalism and gunshots were both pretty clear trouble. All he had to do was walk the other way, pretend like he didn’t hear anything, and go home.
But Montana would have none of it. He’s better than me, Dylan thought, a split second before Montana took off. If something was wrong, the golden retriever would be there to help. More than once, he had helped Dylan through a craving without any knowledge of why or how his owner could be so fidgety and surly.
The trail to the road was longer than he remembered. By the time the cars were in sight, Dylan had a solid sweat going. His eyes and his mind were focused on Montana and he didn’t notice any movements, human or otherwise.
A blond flash drew his attention and he saw his dog walk between the police cruiser and the generic sedan parked at the trailhead.
A vandal, gunshots and a police car meant the pieces were adding up to more trouble than an inconvenience. Montana was a good excuse for being here and for approaching the police car, but he still struggled to remind himself that he hadn’t done anything wrong. His addict mind always worried about getting caught.
At the gate, Dylan stopped and listened. Nothing.
“Montana,” Dylan called out, trying to control the shake that was creeping into his body.
The police car was facing downhill and had pulled in nose-to-nose with the sedan. It looked like the sedan was completely off the road, so there was no obvious violation. Why was it here?
From where he was standing, Dylan could see into the sedan; there was no one inside. The branches and leaves that were still clinging to their trees obscured the windows of the police car.
Stepping through the gate, he spotted the golden retriever first. He was lying on the ground next to a body dressed in police blues. The movement of Montana’s head indicated that he was licking something, likely the officer’s face.
“Montana,” Dylan called, softly this time.
The next few actions would have to be carefully thought out. Dylan had a record, so the benefit of any doubt about his role in this altercation would not fall his way.
Was the cop conscious? Did he, or she, know who had assaulted them? If he went to check on the officer, would Dylan be met with a gun in the face and handcuffs?
His fathers’ words echoed in his ears: “It’s never to late to do the right thing.”
However, his father hadn’t been around for more trouble than a broken window or some misplaced football cards. An injured cop and a guy with a rap sheet in the middle of nowhere was generally a bad setting for the criminal, guilty or not.
Montana was not coming. It was like his father had inhabited the dog’s body and was still making sure that Dylan did the right thing, even when it was scary.
“Officer. My name is Dylan, and I was walking in the woods when I heard the shots. That’s my dog licking your face,” Dylan said nervously. “I’m going to approach you; please don’t be scared.”
He regretted the last words. They sounded just like what someone would say if they were trying to keep you still so they could hurt you. There was no movement from the body on the ground.
Dylan closed the distance between himself and the fallen officer slowly. He held his breath and counted the steps as he went. Toe-to-heel walking kept him in the ready position, but silenced each step.
“Montana, leave it,” he commanded.
The golden retriever looked back at him with sad eyes.
When Dylan was a few steps away, he could see the gun loosely gripped in the officer’s right hand. He knew he could close the distance and secure the weapon before the officer could prepare to fire, but he wanted to avoid sudden movements.
Dylan knelt down as his right foot landed on the ground at the officer’s thigh. There was a small hole in the officer’s forehead, just above the left eye. A small river of blood leaked from the hole and down his skin before disappearing in a glistening mop of hair.
Dylan was afraid to touch him for fear of leaving fingerprints. He leaned over the body and looked as best he could at the back of the policeman’s head. It took a few beats to register what he was seeing, but he soon realized the exit wound had taken out a saucer-sized chunk of skull. Bits of brain matter clung to the jagged bone that remained in place, and a large pool of dark blood had formed on the ground.
There was nothing Dylan could do to help.
He sat back on his heels and shook his head. In some ways, small town cops had
the toughest job of all. After months or even years of traffic stops and nuisance dog complaints, they can be faced suddenly with shocking violence.
After several minutes on his knees, Dylan realized that the shooter was still somewhere out there. Was it acceptable to use the police radio to call for help? He hadn’t brought his cellphone with him, and he couldn’t think of another way to reach someone who would know what to do.
Still worried about fingerprints, Dylan stood and walked around to the rear of the patrol car.
“Rrrrggh.” Montana’s growl came from the direction of the road.
Without thinking, Dylan stepped to the side of the police car and looked toward the sedan. The barrel of a gun that he had feared seeing from the police officer was aimed squarely at his chest.
Chapter 3
“Hello Dylan,” the man on the ground said, wincing. “I thought you’d never get to me.”
“How do you know my name?” Dylan asked, confused.
“You introduced yourself to the Bizzie.” The man’s British accent was now pronounced.
Dylan inspected him where he on the ground. He was wearing a suit and a tie that had been loosened. His right hip was dark and glistened with moisture. The man looked uncomfortable, but gave no indications of impending death.
“If you’re thinking of running, don’t. Killing you doesn’t help me, but it doesn’t hurt as much as letting you go off.”
Dylan had been seconds away from a mad dash for cover. He still thought he could make it—though he had never raced a bullet before.
“Maybe I could call an ambulance and get someone to look at that hip,” Dylan replied coolly.
“No. You’re going to help me into the back seat or I’m going to put a gaping hole in your chest,” the man answered.
Running would result in a painful, and possibly fatal, gunshot wound. What would happen if he stood still?
American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) Page 1