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.
Chapter 15
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.
Chapter 16
When Eliza didn’t come down to remind him he was supposed to leave, Dylan knew that his advice would be followed.
Eliza and Ryan pulled out of the driveway a little after seven the next morning. He didn’t know exactly where they were going, and that was a good thing.
A little after eight he called the local garage. They agreed that it wasn’t something that could be fixed in his driveway and promised to come out and tow it back to the shop. There were a few people ahead of him, but they promised it would be later that day.
If the girl at the farm stand knew who he was, the local mechanics were sure to know, too. He didn’t expect them to show up soon, but he also knew that if he wasn’t here when they arrived, he’d move to the back of the line and probably have to wait another day.
Waiting is one of the worst things an addict can be asked to do. Dylan immediately thought about getting high. Actually, it wasn’t even the high that got him excited, it was the score. Where could he get some, how would the deal go down, when would he do it? It was the problem-solving that gave him the rush; the physical reward at the end was just a bonus.
Then he remembered that there were other, real problems to be solved. If he wanted to set his mind to figuring something out, why not the lease and who killed the cop?
Dylan knew what a lease was; he had signed a two-year lease with Eliza. It gave him the rights to live in the apartment, with Montana, and pay a fixed rate every month. He knew that people leased office space and land. Was it even possible to lease a country? A continent?
That seemed unlikely.
Perhaps the lease was for the land where the White House was built? What if a non-American owned the land where the White House was built and decided not to renew the lease? Could America really be forced to relocate the White House?
Not just the White House, but the Capitol or the Pentagon. The power doesn’t come from the place, but how would it look to the world if Al-Qaeda, ISIS, or North Korea owned the Pentagon?
The national security ramifications were not obvious, but he could see how the topic would dominate the news cycle for long, long time.
But if such a lease existed, who would let it out of their sight? How do you lose something so significant? You wouldn’t. Someone was using legend and innuendo to scare people and further a separate agenda.
The government was the most probable source of the propaganda, the latest justification for increasing spending on major defense projects. It would also fit with them using the FBI to keep the story quiet. They needed the right people involved at the right time or the lies would be uncovered.
Sharing what he knew with the reporters now felt like an even smarter move.
Dylan spent the rest of the morning thinking through scenarios of how the possibility of a lease could drive a national security agenda. He was proud of himself for his critical thinking on a topic other than scoring drugs.
Shortly after noon, his pride crashed. He didn’t get into college for his academics and it was likely that football was the only reason he even graduated from high school. He hadn’t been thinking critically or problem-solving; he’d been daydreaming.
If he were going to actually understand the potential behind this lease, he would need to do research. He’d need to study history books like he used to study his playbooks. Dylan was going to have to spend hours at the library.
When the flatbed turned into the yard it jarred him from his thinking. They were earlier than he had expected and now he hoped they would be willing to drop him at the library while they worked on his truck.
The driver pulled the flatbed in nose-to-nose with Dylan’s truck. Once he climbed out, Dylan started walking down the drive to meet him.
It was Jimmy, whose family owned the garage. He and Dylan were not friends, but they saw each other in the lo
cal diner often enough to be cordial and give a nod of recognition when they passed on the street.
“Hey Jimmy. Thanks for coming down,” Dylan said.
Jimmy didn’t say anything in response. He simply spun the tire iron he was holding around his hand in a way that said, I have a tire iron and you don’t.
“Let’s see what’s going on,” Jimmy said as he approached the hood of the pickup.
The flat end of the tire iron dug into the truck’s black paint. A foot-long scar appeared on the hood while Jimmy’s hands searched for the release.
“What the hell, Jimmy!” Dylan said.
“Ooops. Sorry.” Jimmy wasn’t.
He ignored Dylan and lifted the hood, holding it open with his right hand.
“That wasn’t an accident,“ Dylan insisted.
“Sure it was. Happens all the time when we have to tow someone. Honestly, we’re grateful when the accident is just property damage and on one gets seriously injured, because that happens, too.” Jimmy glared at Dylan.
Dylan knew he was not welcome in town but this threat of violence came as a surprise.
“I just need my truck fixed so I can get out of here. I don’t want any trouble, I just wanna take my dog and go somewhere quiet.”
“Then why the hell were you harassing Abbey yesterday? She’s gone through enough stupid shit, she doesn’t need you going into her store and stirring things up. It’s a small town and we look out for each other. Those bruises on your face are going to feel like gentle kisses if I find out you’ve been bugging Abbey again.” The tire iron was pointed at Dylan’s chest.
“I was just stopping to get some vegetables, I don’t even know Abbey,” Dylan pleaded.
“Doesn’t matter why, just stay away from Abbey. Are we clear?” Jimmy dropped the hood and it slammed closed.
“Yeah,” Dylan said as his attention was drawn down the driveway to the police cruiser that had just pulled in.
“Did you guys coordinate this?” Dylan accused Jimmy.
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