American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1)

by McAdams, K. D.

  Just because Dylan thought his answer was reasonable didn’t mean the authorities would. “I was lost” is pretty lame; even he thought so.

  The real answer was obviously more complicated. Unfortunately for Dylan, suspected cop killers don’t get to have nuanced and complicated answers. If he was squeaky clean, and someone had seen him get abducted, his story would be more believable.

  Add in the fact that the guy who he is claiming abducted him was dealing with a gunshot wound and suddenly it looked like Dylan was never really trying to escape. At best he would only be seen as an accomplice.

  The realization that he would be treated with hostility factored into his decision to pass the stand-alone pay phone in the center of a small town. He wanted to make sure that his first encounter with the police would have witnesses. It wouldn’t surprise him to get roughed up a little, but he did not want to risk getting shot by a jumpy town sheriff.

  The sign for the convenience store simply said “Bart's.” There were two gas pumps out front, but the garage bay had been roughly converted into retail space. Nowadays, they could make more money selling water than fixing cars. Quite a change from when the building was built.

  A patch of bricks between the garage door and the office door was discolored. At some point in time there had probably been a pay phone hanging there. Except for the pumps there was nowhere to park, so he pulled as far forward as he could. Knowing that the car may not move for some time, Dylan wanted to leave enough space for real customers.

  Before getting out of the car, he collected a handful of change from the center console and a few quarters that were on the passenger side floor. It had been hours since he had eaten or drank anything. If the clerk wasn’t sympathetic to his story, he wanted to at least be able to buy a drink.

  Ding! A small bell over the door rang as Dylan walked through.

  “Morning,” he greeted the man behind the counter.

  “You can pump first,” the disinterested clerk answered.

  “I need you to call 9-1-1 for me. I was kidnapped at gunpoint this morning and I just escaped,” Dylan said, clearly and carefully.

  The clerk stared at him blankly. Neither the request nor the predicament seemed to register.

  “Can you please call 9-1-1?” Dylan asked again.

  “You look okay. Someone with a gun kidnapped you and then let you go?” The clerk didn’t believe what he was being told.

  “I am okay. He didn’t let me go, I escaped,” Dylan tried to explain.

  The clerk eyed Dylan suspiciously. “So you escaped a kidnapper, drove in here at the speed limit and walked into the store calm as can be? You must be one cool dude.”

  Dylan estimated the clerk’s age to be somewhere in the mid-fifties. It was possible that the guy owned this place; maybe he was Bart. There was a New England farmer quality about him. He was quiet, probably liked to keep to himself, and was very skeptical of strangers.

  “I’m tired, kind of shaken up, and I have a long day still in front of me. If you’re not going to call 9-1-1, just say so and I’ll move on,” Dylan insisted, struggling to hold back his frustration.

  He didn’t need a hug and a blanket, but having a stranger give him the benefit of the doubt didn’t seem unreasonable. The clerk looked at the small TV on his counter and then back at Dylan. It felt unlikely that his story was already on the news, but it was possible. Maybe he needed to worry about a jumpy gas station clerk and not a sheriff.

  While he thought about his next steps, a cordless phone was placed on the counter.

  “Why don’t you make the call? I’m not sure I could explain what’s going on well enough,” the clerk finally said.

  “Thank you —?” Dylan let the ending drag out to indicate that he wanted to use the man’s name.

  “Bart,” was the simple reply.

  “Thank you, Bart,” Dylan said again as he picked up the phone.

  “9-1-1, is this a medical emergency?” The female voice responded after two rings.

  “No, I was kidnapped and just escaped,” Dylan answered abruptly.

  “May I have your name please, sir?” the operator answered.

  “Dylan. Did you hear me? I was kidnapped. At gunpoint.” Dylan was starting to lose control.

  “And where are you calling from, Dylan?” the operator continued, without emotion.

  “A gas station. Listen I’m kind of nervous that the guy who kidnapped me, with a gun, is going to find me. Can you send a cop?” Dylan knew he had to stay calm, but the seemingly silly questions made it hard.

  “Sir, what city are you in? This is the central dispatching center in Williston. I need to know where you are to connect you with the right people,” came the monotone explanation.

  “Where the hell am I?” Dylan growled at Bart.

  “Derby, Vermont,” Bart said.

  “I’m at Bart’s convenience store in Derby, Vermont,” Dylan spit out into the phone.

  “And you say you were kidnapped at gunpoint. Is there a gun or any other weapons with you now?” The operator continued through what must have been a checklist.

  Dylan was suddenly filled with exhaustion. “No, there is no gun with me now.”

  How was he supposed to tell them that he and his dog had come across a crime scene in the woods this morning? Explain how after finding an officer who had been shot, he was forced at gunpoint to drive the killer to the Canadian border, where the man disappeared on the side of the road? And to top it all off, Dylan knew that he was likely the prime suspect in the murder.

  Bart glanced from Dylan’s face back to the television. Dylan watched as Bart’s eyes grew wide with recognition. The story had hit the news.

  “Any other weapons with you, sir?” the operator answered.

  “No, no gun, no weapons. Look, I know you’re doing your job, but please just send someone so we can work this out in person,” Dylan pleaded.

  Chapter 7

  After he hung up with the 9-1-1 operator, Dylan called Eliza. He wasn’t too surprised to get her voicemail. If the cops were all over his apartment and worried that he would come back, she would have taken Ryan away.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was a recovering addict or that I spent time in jail. Please don’t let my omission make you think I had anything to do with that officer’s murder. Most of all please look after Montana. He is everything good in the world and I couldn’t bear to see him hurt.” He left a message.

  When he hung up the phone and handed it back to Bart, the only thing left to do was wait. Bart asked him to wait outside. He stepped out obediently, and Bart locked the door carefully when Dylan was outside. Bart probably snuck out the back.

  Dylan had no idea how long it would take the police to get there. He opened the passenger door and picked up the stack of papers. They all appeared to be copies, which explained why the killer had no problem leaving them behind.

  He moved the top sheet, which he had already read a dozen times. Underneath was single sheet with a simple bulleted list:

  Lease of the American Territories EXISTENCE CONFIRMED!

  Holder has legal ownership Boston, New York, Philadelphia, D. C.

  Term ends this spring DEADLINE!

  Moved to Boston during revolution NH PART OF MASS?

  Apprentice ties to MONSON NH?

  No known network, all clues attached MEDALLION!

  The all-caps words were handwritten next to the typed bullets. EXISTENCE CONFIRMED was underlined several times and D. C. was circled. There was a single line through NH PART OF MASS but no other markings on the page.

  On the next page in the stack was a mass of words in small print. It looked like the antique Bible his grandfather had once shown him as a kid. It was difficult to read and the text didn’t make much sense, something about a town assembly and a reverend making a case for a meetinghouse.

  Several pages after that looked similar but he didn’t feel like struggling to read them. Dylan put the stack back together, leaned
in to place it back on the front seat, and closed the door. He loved Monson and had read the signs on the way into town dozens of times. The bulleted text had him curious but there were other things to deal with right now. Besides, he wasn’t a scholar, and the chances of him solving a mystery from the Revolutionary War were non-existent.

  Dylan walked around back, climbed up onto the trunk of the car and sat. The change jingled in his pocket and he remembered how badly he wanted something to drink. The sun felt good on his face and helped take his mind off the hunger and thirst. When he left his apartment this morning, he’d been dressed for a cool mid-fall morning. Now that it was almost noon and there were very few clouds in the sky, he was getting hot.

  He drifted off into a place between deep thought and sleep. When cars drove past he knew they were there, but he didn’t move his head or open his eyes to check them out. It was relaxing and comforting and his mind drifted to thoughts of his father.

  His dad, Jacob Cold, had been a good man and a great father, Dylan reflected. As he had progressed through stages of football, he had seen more then enough coach-dads to be thankful for his father.

  Coach-dads were coaches first and parents second. Their kids’ success at football was paramount. If the dads weren’t dragging their sons to a camp or a clinic they were working or networking to get their kid into the next big football event of the season. Kids who weren’t grateful for the “opportunity” to focus on football were run ragged with conditioning drills and weight training.

  Dylan’s father told him that the only requirement was to see through a commitment. If he signed up for a camp or a team, he was required to go full speed, full effort from beginning to end. Every new commitment came with the opportunity to refuse, though Dylan never did.

  When college coaches came recruiting during his junior year, Dylan’s father sat back and listened. Some tried to sell him directly, assuming Jacob would make the ultimate choice and Dylan would go along with it.

  “I don’t play football. You need to talk with Dylan,” he would tell the coaches that asked to meet with him directly.

  Dylan worked hard to make the right choice. He knew that the best way to thank his father was to choose a school and a program that fit with all the values he’d been taught.

  When it turned out that the right school was a four-hour drive from their home in western Pennsylvania, everything seemed perfect. When he told his father the choice he made the smile and hug let him know he was right. Seeing his dad that happy actually felt better than winning at football.

  And then he was dead.

  It was possible that his father’s death had been the true root of his drug use. The week after the funeral, Dylan was off to summer practice. A playbook that filled two three-inch binders became all-consuming. It was easy to lose himself in learning the system, on focusing on strength and conditioning. When he wasn’t studying, he ran; when he wasn’t running, he was lifting weights. He did anything to keep from mourning.

  There were no pictures of his father in his dorm room and soon he was unable to even remember what he looked like. He could describe him, kind of, but it was impossible to visualize his face.

  Today, of all days, his father’s face was perfectly clear in his mind, behind his closed eyes. His voice had always been easy to remember, but today it was so clear he could even hear it. Dylan, his father’s voice said.

  In the midst of all this craziness, it felt good to see his father’s face and hear his voice.

  “Dylan Cold. Put your hands in the air and slide down off the car.” Wait. That was not his father’s voice.

  As his eyes opened, Dylan saw another man aiming another gun at his chest. This time though, it was a Vermont State trooper.

  “Wow, am I glad to see you,” Dylan said while complying with the officer’s orders.

  The officer was not as glad to see Dylan. “Turn around and place your hands on the trunk of the car.”

  “Did the dispatcher tell you I was kidnapped this morning? At gunpoint?” Dylan was prepared for something like this and had chosen his words carefully.

  “Spread your legs,” the officer ordered

  Dylan followed every command perfectly. The trooper patted him down, checking for weapons and anything else that might be illegal. There was nothing more than change in any of his pockets, and his t-shirt and sweatshirt were empty as well.

  “I could really use some water and I would like to make sure my dog is okay. Other than that, I’m ready to help in any way I can,” Dylan offered calmly, even though his heart was racing.

  “You are under arrest for the murder of Officer Steven Farley,” the trooper hissed, before reading Dylan his rights and putting the handcuffs on his wrists.

  The cuffs were tight and uncomfortable; the treatment to be expected for a suspected cop killer.

  “That your car?” the trooper asked while walking Dylan back to the cruiser.

  “Not mine, but the one the killer forced me to drive. I can explain everything. Well, at least what I know. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn’t hurt anyone.” Dylan wanted to tell the officer everything, but knew now was not the time.

  There would be a station and an interrogation room before anyone was ready to hear his side of the story. Even though he had been playing the morning over in his mind for hours, the facts were already getting distorted.

  It wasn’t intentional, but fear, confusion, and exhaustion had Dylan struggling to keep facts and what he should have done separate. Had he tried to escape? Did he try and administer first aid to the wounded officer? Both answers must be yes, but was there any evidence?

  The officer did not help protect Dylan’s head as he was pushed down into the back seat of the cruiser, and he whacked the top of his head on the doorframe. “Owww!” he exclaimed, the shock more than the pain causing Dylan to cry out.

  “Watch your head,” the officer replied sarcastically.

  Chapter 8

  It was almost ten hours from the time Dylan was cuffed to the time that he was headed back to the county lockup in Nashua, making it close to seventeen hours since he had left home for his walk. He thought for sure he would be able to sneak some shuteye on the ride, but it wasn’t to be.

  The cops in Vermont had been very accommodating. They were constantly taking him to the restroom, moving him to a warmer or cooler holding spot, feeding him, asking him questions or telling him they were leaving him alone. Sleep was heavy in his eyes, but that was the one thing they would not let him do.

  Riding back to Nashua allowed the New Hampshire state police to demonstrate their hospitality. They stopped four times so he could stretch his legs. He politely refused each time, but for his own well being they made sure that he got out and moved around. The two officers accompanying him also each had to stop once for a bio break. In all, the three-hour drive took five hours.

  Back in Nashua, processing took forever.

  Just because Vermont had taken fingerprints, urine samples, and even swabbed him for gunshot residue didn’t mean that New Hampshire would skip these steps.

  When Dylan had been picked up for drugs or petty theft there was always a good-cop/bad-cop scenario. It wasn’t direct every time, but it always existed. One cop felt bad for him and saw addiction as an illness. Another cop considered him the scum of the earth for being so weak he succumbed to the world of drugs and addiction. It wasn’t so much a tactic as it was an insight on humanity.

  This time, there were no good cops. Every single person he dealt with considered him a cop killer. “Innocent until proven guilty” was as much a myth as the good-cop/bad-cop being an intentional approach to police work.

  Once exhaustion and frustration peaked, doubt and anger started to take their place.

  Why did he follow the killer down the trail? He could easily have turned for home after seeing the damage to the old house. Dylan didn’t need trouble; he needed to go in the opposite direction of trouble.

  Maybe he was
secretly hoping that it was a drug deal. The addict inside of him was looking for a fix. If you’re out walking in the woods and stumble upon a score, clearly it’s a sign that things would be okay if you started using again. Right?

  He didn’t really think that, but the addict’s mind is constantly trying to justify using one more time. One little hit of something would feel so good, and then he could walk it off with his trusty dog by his side. Being smart enough to know the truth and having the energy to battle your own brain are two different things.

  Logic told him that he went down the path behind the killer because he is an addict. He was a slave to his habits, good or bad. Walking was a good habit and that trail was his fix. Through rain, snow, melting heat, and arctic cold, he had walked down that trail. No vandal or petty criminal would get in the way of his walking.

  It was all Montana’s fault. If he hadn’t taken off to investigate the gunshot, none of this would have happened. Damn dog.

  Dylan was losing the energy to battle his brain.

  A tall officer entered the interrogation room. “You look like hell. I guess killing a cop can really wear you down,” he said.

  There was no clock on the wall and Dylan didn’t have a watch. He assumed it was sometime on Sunday morning, but it was impossible to tell how early or late in the day it had gotten.

  “I didn’t kill anyone. I was kidnapped at gunpoint after my dog found the officer.” Dylan could hear the absurdity in his head.

  “Sure you were, happens all the time in Brookford.” The cop shook his head in disgust.

  Silence.

  The two men sat opposite each other, Dylan cuffed to the table and the officer leafing through a folder. The folder wasn’t thick, but Dylan could see that there were several sheets of paper inside.

  If they were waiting for him to confess out of the blue, it wouldn’t happen. In prison, after detox, he thought a lot about lying and telling the truth. He knew that the liar always goes first.