She stormed after him. “Get out!”
“Let me pay for my vegetables and I’ll never come back.”
“Just take the fucking vegetables and get out!” the young woman screamed.
She picked up a pint box of raspberries from a table and threw them at Dylan.
He closed his eyes and ducked in reflex. The small tub of fruit hit his shoulder and scattered over the floor.
When Dylan opened his eyes he was looking at a stack of newspapers on the floor. The headline read “Service on Thursday for Slain Officer.” The other story above the fold was titled “Increase in Drug-related Violence and Vandalism.” There was no mention of the American Lease.
He understood that a local cop getting killed in the line of duty was the lead, but for sure the thing that brought the FBI to a sleepy little farm town should be the next big story.
For a split second, Dylan considered asking if he could take a paper. The look on the woman’s face and the fact that pomegranates were the next fruit on the table convinced him to just leave.
As he walked out he thought again about the balance between running away and leaving to avoid trouble. Maybe they were just different sides of the same coin. His reasons for scurrying away to his truck didn’t matter; he felt defeated and wrong.
The truck navigated itself to the local drug store. Dylan’s logical mind said he was stopping to get a newspaper. He wanted to see how deep the story on the American Lease and the FBI presence was buried.
His addict mind was hoping that someone had dropped a bottle of pills. As he walked into the building, he scanned the ground. Dylan didn’t need a whole bottle; a stray pill or capsule would do. Surely someone with a sore back couldn’t wait until the car to grab a Percocet or a Vicodin.
Nothing. Dylan went vacantly through the whole exercise of buying the paper while his mind raced for ways to score a fix. All he thought about for the drive home was getting high and forgetting about his life.
Chapter 13
After a casual dinner and a disinterested read through the paper he went to bed and quickly fell asleep. When he woke the clock on his bedside table read 5:03. Dylan was still exhausted, but his biological clock could not be ignored. It was time to get up.
There was no leave of absence for kidnap victims, at least not when they’re self-employed construction contractors. If he was going to keep his job, he would need to show up for work today, tired or not.
Even Montana was exhausted. Instead of waiting by the door to be let out, he lifted his head from the arm of the couch and looked at his master. Dylan was sure that if Montana could speak he would utter one word: “Seriously?”
“Come on, boy. We’ll skip the big walk today, but let’s get outside and take care of business at least.” Dylan always talked to Montana like he was a person.
Montana climbed off the couch and walked over to the door and out. The last time they did this it had been a disaster. This time, Dylan remembered to grab his phone and his wallet. No telling what would happen today.
As they walked, Montana’s energy grew. He explored up and over a rock wall and chased a squirrel off into the woods. It was nice to see the dog forget the rough weekend so quickly.
Dylan stopped walking at the head of the trail down to Monson. It was an irrational fear, but he did not feel like going back there today. Montana was happy to be in his comfort zone and headed off on their typical route.
“Hold up, boy,” Dylan called.
While he stood waiting for Montana to realize that they would not be walking down the trail today, he pulled out his phone. The home screen showed over seven hundred missed calls and more than two thousand text messages. On a normal day, both were zero; a busy day was never more than single digits of either.
Using his thumb he flipped through the screens of calls looking for names or numbers he recognized. The first dozen screens showed nothing he was willing to take his time with. The next screen had a name that was familiar, but it had been six or seven years since he had spoken with the guy. The publicity from this ordeal had really brought people out of the woodwork.
He decided to look for one specific number: his boss. The guy called when it was raining, when it was windy, and even when it was hot. He especially called on Monday mornings to redirect Dylan to jobs that needed extra help or the attention to detail that he had become known for.
When he found Mark’s number in the list, he breathed a sigh of relief and pressed play for the message.
“Hey Dylan, Mark.” His boss’s voice came through the phone. The message was shorter than the usual longwinded explanations of what, where and why: “We just had some things fall through and a few changes in plan. Looks like we aren’t going to need your help for a while. You’re a good carpenter and hard worker. If you ever need a reference, let me know.”.
At one point in Dylan’s life, money had been a focus. He had dreamed of the creature comforts that would come along with a professional football contract. Fancy cars and big houses were going to be his specialty. The plan was to invest in nothing but the best so it would appreciate as an asset.
When the football dream faded, money became a means to an end, getting high. He needed the drugs, and money was the easiest way to get them.
Once he was clean and sober, simple living became the order of the day. Food, for him and Montana, and shelter were his priorities. His one allowed vice was video games. An older console and the latest version of the football game were the only leisure activities he spent money on.
Savings would get him by for a while, but idle hands were not good for his sobriety. It was also tough to find a place to rent when he couldn’t list an employer on the application.
Maybe he could reason with Mark. The guy was almost too nice; he was probably caving to pressure from a customer or some other guy who wanted the job.
“Hello Mark, it’s Dylan,” Dylan said to the voicemail recorder. “Please reconsider. I didn’t do anything; I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe I could work some projects back at the barn until everything dies down. I really need the job man, please call me back.”
While the sun rose and Montana enjoyed stretching his legs, Dylan listened to some of the other message. Actually, he listened to the opening second or two of a few messages and then pressed delete. They were all basically the same: “Dylan, this Chuck Wankerbloom with XYZ News. I can help get your story out if you’ll just talk to me…”
He knew that no one wanted his story. They wanted their story. They wanted the story that fit with what their viewers, readers, or listeners assumed was the truth.
Dylan hadn’t caved under the police interrogation tactics and he thought he would hold up well against a reporter. But what was the point? Even if he gave them nothing, they would spin it so much that it would resemble a full confession or something else that was a hundred-and-eighty degrees from the truth.
After about ten minutes highlighting and deleting messages, his phone was almost clear. Montana was hunting for something under a pile of leaves and Dylan had almost forgotten how shitty his life had become in the last couple of days.
Hearing a car on the road, he checked quickly to make sure that he was safely on the shoulder. With his feet well off the pavement, he returned to the phone to clean up the last few messages.
Whoooo!
A single blast of a siren caused his heart to miss a beat. He turned to watch a police cruiser pull up within a few inches of his legs. The officer glared at him through the front window.
Dylan thought about putting his phone into a pocket, but didn’t want to give any impression of hiding something. He also wanted to make sure he made no sudden movements that would put an angry officer on edge.
The officer began speaking before he was completely out of the cruiser. “I need to check the license on that dog. We’ve received some reports of a loose canine destroying property.”
“Of course,” Dylan answered, before calling to Montana.<
br />
The obedient but flaky golden retriever trotted toward Dylan. When he finally noticed another person and new smells, Montana changed direction and went straight to the police officer. His tail wagged furiously and he sat almost before he even reached the uniformed man.
“Hey boy,” the cop said calmly.
Dylan had assumed the cops used Montana’s tags to identify him as a suspect. That meant they knew the license and rabies were up-to-date. This stop was all about harassment.
“Everything should be in order. He’s due for rabies in the spring and his license is current. Montana stays close to home and my landlord would usually talk to me about it if he did something wrong. Do you know where the complaint came from?” Dylan asked. He wanted to walk the line between caring and restating his innocence.
The officer was not as warm with Dylan as he had been with the dog. “Report came from down the other side of Monson. Said it was a large golden retriever, a lot like this one. You might want to keep him on a leash if he’s important to you.”
“Understood.” Dylan did not want to extend the conversation any longer than he had to. Part of him wanted to apologize and express his sadness at the loss of an officer, but he expected that such a condolence would only bring negativity and resentment from the man who believed Dylan to be a criminal.
“What’s that in your pocket?” the officer asked with a sudden urgency.
“Huh?” Dylan was surprised with the quick rise in tension.
“Put your hands up and slowly place them behind your head.” The officer had drawn his weapon and was pointing it directly at Dylan’s chest.
While doing as he was told, Dylan searched for appropriate words or actions. There were none; this was absurd.
“Are you carrying any weapons?” the officer asked as he stepped around behind Dylan.
“No,” Dylan answered curtly.
“I’m going to pat you down. Can you tell me what I’m going to find in your back pocket?” The officer did not holster his gun.
“My wallet.” Dylan was starting to worry that they wouldn’t even wait a day before framing him for something.
The officer roughly checked under Dylan’s armpits and down the left side of his body. After a brief pause to switch the gun to his other hand, the young cop repeated the process on the other side.
Without warning, Dylan’s’ wallet was removed from his pocket and the officer’s touch disappeared.
“Any little envelopes or baggies you want to tell me about before I look in this wallet?” the edgy policeman asked.
“None that are mine.” Dylan mentally kicked himself for not checking through his wallet before he left the house. It was possible that they had planted something when they were done searching his house and realized they couldn’t find anything real.
The silence was terrifying. Dylan wasn’t sure if he would feel the cold steel of handcuffs or the brief pain of a gunshot. If they had what it took to frame him, why not kill him?
“I heard you were down at Abbey Holt’s place causing trouble yesterday,” the officer snarled. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re not welcome around here. Don’t go to the farm, don’t go to the diner, and don’t go to the market. None of them want your business, and if you go, I’ll arrest you for trespassing and disturbing the peace.”
“Got it,” Dylan said loudly before mumbling, “I’ll stop eating.”
“Your wallet’s clean,” the cop said as he threw Dylan’s billfold on the hood of the cruiser. “You got lucky this time. We’re here, and if you so much as blink funny you’re going down. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” Dylan growled out through clenched teeth.
Chapter 14
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.
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.
American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) Page 6