Chapter 27
Getting home wasn’t too bad. He was only a little past the police station when a pickup truck from one of the farms rolled past. Dylan accepted the offered ride and he sat in the truck bed and thought of his youth as they rolled through the country lanes.
The FBI agent was a fake. He wished that fact had surprised him more than it did. He felt like a fool for not raising a stink the first time the guy abused him. But that was during his ‘woe is me’ phase, which was not officially over.
Chasing after the fake agent and making contact with his car had given Dylan a rush he hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was like the high he got from drugs, but better because it was clean.
Most of his construction work had involved following directions and completing tasks. He was good at it, but it was easy, no mental stimulation. Custom cabinetry may have been a better fit to keep him challenged, but you couldn’t just do what you wanted for a builder. If Mark would take him back, maybe they could talk about transitioning to more custom work.
Dylan spent the rest of the short ride thinking about how football had been all about problem solving and why he was good at it. Combining the movement of his body with the critical thinking in his brain made him feel relaxed.
At his apartment, all was quiet as it should be. In the morning he would call Eliza, comfortable that it was safe for her and Ryan to come home.
He opened the door and stepped into his apartment. A fist met his face from the right side and knocked him to the floor. If he had been tense and ready, the blow would still have been strong enough to knock him over. As it was, his eyes grew heavy and he fought to stay conscious.
His left hand awkwardly found the floor and he struggled to think of what to do next. Something in the apartment was missing, but it could have been the tunnel vision taking over.
“Stay down, quarterback,” his assailant growled.
The laces of a shoe caught him square in the face and helped the blackness win.
When Dylan finally came to he was sitting at his own small kitchen table. Both arms were duct taped to the surface of the table, palms up. He stretched his upper lip over his teeth and felt dried blood crack before the faint taste of blood became obvious on his tongue.
He blinked a few times to try and get his bearings and clear his sight. There was no way Abbey’s friends were pissed enough to do this.
As he scanned his small apartment, his assailant sat quietly in the living room. At least we’re alone, he thought.
A few minutes later, Agent Smith, or whatever his real name was, stood and walked over to his prisoner.
“I’m glad I can drop the FBI charade. Restraining myself with some foolish notion of fairness was unproductive,” he began.
“You call this restrained?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, we’re just getting started. Now that you’ve reminded the world about the lease, we cannot continue searching in silence. We will be the first to find it, though you probably won’t be alive to see.” His British accent was thicker than it had been.
Dylan remembered that he did best on the offensive. “Well, I know as much now as I did when you were pretending to be an FBI agent. Why don’t you untape me and we can have a fair conversation about where I think this document is and where you should put it.”
“You know more, and have more, than you let on. I’ll get what I want from you; I’ve cracked tougher men.”
“You have the stack of documents, which I never had and have never read. You have all the clues. What could I possibly tell you?” Dylan asked.
“Where is the insignia?”
“Seriously, you guys lost something else? If I ever meet the person who has the lease, I’ll make sure they know you’re too stupid to be a real threat.”
“A small sterling piece, slightly larger than a coin. I’m sure you’ve seen it. There is an inscription on one face and an image of a leaf on the other. I am surprised that you haven’t figured out how serious I am.”
The man who had pretended to be with the FBI rose from the couch and walked into the kitchen. He stood directly in front of Dylan and maintained his placid expression. His right hand rose, holding a syringe.
“I don’t think you understand how serious I am when I say I am not involved with this thing you’re looking for,” Dylan answered, eyeing the needle.
“This syringe holds enough heroine to overdose a horse. It was intended for you, but as I searched for the insignia I came across your little stash.” He held up the small baggie Dylan had bought at the gas station.
Dylan strained against the tape holding his arms to the table. He could take a beating, but he didn’t want to be found dead with a needle in his arm.
“I don’t know anything,” Dylan said firmly.
The man stepped over to Montana who had been lying on the floor watching the two men. He pulled a dog treat from his pocket and Montana’s tail began to wag. Dylan watched helplessly as the man fed his dog the treat and quickly squirted the contents of the syringe into his mouth.
“NO!” Dylan cried and thrashed violently, knocking his chair over and moving the table until it collided with the counter.
The golden retriever licked his lips and smacked his gums. After less than a minute, he laid his head on the floor and his tongue slid out.
Dylan watched closely as Montana’s chest rose and fell.
“We can agree that I am serious?” the man said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a spoon, then walked to the stove and turned on a burner. Both rocks were taken from their baggie and placed into the bowl of the spoon. He added a drip of water from the sink and then held it over the flame.
“I don’t have the coin thing. If you let me live, I’ll help you look for it,” Dylan pleaded.
At the stove, Agent Smith gave a crooked smile and turned off the flame. He rested the spoon in the counter and placed the tip of the needle in the liquid that had formed. He pulled the plunger back and lifted the syringe for inspection.
“My guess is that this is enough to kill you. What you tell me next will determine how much of it I inject into your blood.”
Dylan’s mind raced. He had left the coin with Abbey, but knew that was not a fact he could share. He needed something credible but generic.
Smith, or whatever his real name was, approached the table and placed a hand over Dylan’s right arm, inserting the needle into a bulging vein before he folded his hands on his stomach.
“Harvard,” Dylan said, and dropped his head in defeat.
“The university?”
“Yeah. The cops sent it to Harvard to see how old it was and if they could identify where it came from or if it meant anything,” Dylan lied.
“That is the first logical thing you have ever said.”
Dylan looked across the room to where his dog lay. Montana’s chest was no longer rising and falling—he was completely still.
“I am going to kill you,” Dylan said as his assailant grasped the syringe and injected its contents into his vein.
The rush was amazing. When swallowing pills, there was a delayed gratification— this was almost instant. He felt a blast of energy and confidence and smiled as he prepared to lift his arms off the table.
Then everything went dark.
Chapter 28
“Dylan?” Abbey called from the front door.
He hadn’t answered his phone, but his truck was in the driveway. She didn’t really know him that well and couldn’t reasonably expect him to drop everything for her, but still, she felt a connection. There was no baggage with Dylan, and he didn’t wonder about her sanity when she talked about the lease.
There was also the chance that he could be in trouble. When they parted yesterday, he had been hit by a car and shot at. She had sent one of her guys to give him a lift home, the least she could do, and he reported that Dylan was safe and sound when he left him at the driveway.
She placed her hand on the doorknob. Lots of people in Brookford left their
doors unlocked; would it be a sign if Dylan’s apartment were open?
He had helped her out with no regard for his own safety. She was just worried about him and checking in. Even if there was an embarrassing moment, letting herself in wasn’t a big deal.
“Dylan, it’s Abbey. I don’t want to intrude, but after yesterday I thought I should check on you,” she called out loudly as she slowly swung the door open. “I also have some good news to share and thought you would appreciate it.”
The mostly-underground apartment was dark. Abbey’s eyes took a few moments to adjust from the bright sunshine.
As the room came into focus, she could see that the place was bare. Nothing on the walls, counters, or tables in the living area. It was as if someone had packed everything up and was preparing to move out. There were a couple of boxes and a duffle bag on the floor in the kitchen and another lump of what could be laundry against the wall in the living room.
Scanning back toward the kitchen area, her eyes adjusted further so she could see deeper into the space. Past the counter was a lump on the table. It took several seconds for Abbey to register the lump as a human head and shoulders. When it finally took shape in her brain it looked out of place.
“Dylan?” she asked curiously as she walked further into the apartment.
Jim had told her that Dylan had a drug record. She was sure one of their friends on the police force had shared the detail in the hopes of keeping her away from him.
Abbey stopped about three feet from the table when the smell hit her. Vomit covered the table and had spilled over onto the floor. Dylan’s face lay sideways in the sick and she could see his back rise and fall weakly.
A faint moan came from the table. “Help.”
She had slaughtered and cleaned chickens, moved road kill, and mucked more cow manure than she could remember. Nothing had been as disgusting as this. Being a nursemaid to an addict wasn’t on her bucket list and she was ready to spin around and leave him to his vices.
“Montana,” Dylan moaned again.
Something wasn’t right with the way his body was shaped. Abbey tried to focus through the chunky liquid covering the table. Confident that they were alone, she looked to the wall and found the light switch and flipped it on.
The duct tape securing Dylan’s arms to the table was easy to see in the light; so was the needle sticking out of his arm. How could anyone do something to themselves when they had to fasten their own arms to a table just to be still enough to do it?
They couldn’t. There was no way Dylan could have pushed the plunger on the syringe the way that his arms were taped. Someone had done this to him.
“Montana,” he moaned again, and a tear appeared in the corner of his eye.
Three, two, one. Abbey counted down in her mind before moving. She drew her knife from the holster on her belt and opened it. She walked past the counter and to the table. Ignoring the mess, she slid the blade of her knife under the tape near Dylan’s elbow and carefully sawed her way forward toward his wrist. The process was repeated on the other arm before she folded the knife up and peeled the tape away.
Abbey had been drunk before and had helped more than one friend who had passed out from drinking, but this was different. She didn’t know if this was the beginning of things getting worse or if this was how it looked to get better.
Getting Dylan out of his vomit and the smell that had taken over the apartment couldn’t be a bad thing. She walked behind him and placed her hands under his arms. He was heavier than a bail of hay, but she was strong.
Dylan helped a little and together they got him to a standing position.
“Let’s get you outside in the fresh air,” Abbey said, just so that he could continue to help her help him.
“Killed Montana,” Dylan moaned again.
She wanted him to be calm. “Let me take care of you and then I’ll check on Montana.”
The two struggled out the door and she helped him to sit on the steps. She didn’t know what to do next. If she left him to go back inside, it was a real possibility that he would fall over.
“Can you tell me when this happened?” she asked.
“Came home. FBI killed Montana, me,” Dylan said softly.
Her guy had dropped him off yesterday afternoon and it was now seven in the morning. The FBI agent, the imposter, must have been here waiting inside and jumped him when he walked into the apartment.
“Okay, it’s morning now, so you were out all night. Do you know if you’re feeling better or is it getting worse?” Abbey asked.
“No hospital. Check Montana.” Dylan’s voice seemed to be getting stronger.
Abbey rose from the steps and walked back into the apartment. She went to the lump against the wall and confirmed that it was Dylan’s dog. Placing a hand on his chest confirmed what she and Dylan both knew—Montana was dead.
She went to the kitchen to get Dylan some water. There were no real cups or glasses, but she found an empty water bottle in the sink. She filled it and went back outside.
She forced the water into his hand. “I’m so sorry about Montana. You didn’t deserve any of this,” she said.
“I’m clean,” Dylan pleaded. “He made me use.”
“I know. You aren’t in trouble.” Abbey was at a loss.
Seeing your dog killed and being shot full of drugs in what had to have been intended as an overdose was enough to drive a person crazy. There was nothing she could say to make any of it seem right. But she wanted to.
“I actually stopped by with good news. The Vermont State police scanned every page from the stack of papers in the kidnapper’s car,” she told him.
“Wow,” Dylan answered half-heartedly.
“I have the copies.” Abbey held up a USB key and smiled.
“Good luck with all that.” Dylan stared at the bottom step.
“We can find the lease,” she stated confidently. “When we find it, the guy who did this will probably try and take it from us, then you can…” She wasn’t sure what Dylan would do if the fake FBI agent confronted them.
“Kill him,” Dylan finished her thought.
“How can I help you, right now?” Abbey didn’t want to think about killing anyone, but wanted to help Dylan get through this moment.
Dylan rose, unsteadily, to his feet.
“Get my shovel,” he said and pointed to the shed.
It took her a few beats to understand what he wanted the shovel for. Dylan disappeared into the house before she realized that he was going to bury his dog. She walked to the shed and grabbed two shovels.
Without a sound, Dylan came through the apartment door carrying the body of his best friend. His steps were short and unsure, but his jaw was set and determined. Together they walked to the edge of the forest and stopped at a lush patch of grass. Abbey was sure she had seen the dog lying here peacefully many times when she’d ridden past on her tractor.
Dylan plunged the tip of his shovel in to the ground. His movements were labored and slow, but he did not stop. Abbey helped dig in silence. When sweat soaked Dylan’s shirt, she went to get more water.
By the time she came back, the dog was in the hole and partially covered with dirt. Dylan did not stop until a small mound of earth rose above the surrounding grass. He took the shovel from Abbey’s hand and walked them both to the shed.
At the front step, he stopped to take the bottle of water and drank it completely. She followed him inside, where he walked to the living area and stood with his head down.
Her mind told her to leave and let him be alone in his sadness, but her gut told her to stay. Abbey cautiously approached Dylan and stood for a moment before wrapping her arms around him and hugging tightly.
His legs collapsed and the two fell slowly onto the couch in a partial embrace.
Chapter 29
While Dylan slept, Abbey thought. How was the medallion linked to the papers? She had read through every single book the in the library and never saw the thread of a clue.
She drifted off herself and dreamed of her last fling with the lease. It had started with a Harvard University undergrad degree in history. That was followed immediately by a master’s degree, and then work on her Ph.D. began, though it had been building since her sophomore year.
One professor thought she was close. He supported her, encouraged her, and then took advantage. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if he had a real interest in the lease, or if she had actually found it. When he betrayed her on both personal and professional levels, her life seemed to break down.
It was easy to tell herself that the people who laughed at her relationship weren’t real friends. That was true. But the history experts, the people she respected and hoped for their respect in return, were the ones who were most harsh. They accused her of doing the manipulating and using her advisor to gain credibility for an outlandish concept. One they had fully supported just weeks before.
All of the people are what led to the confusion. Her interest in the lease stemmed from her grandfather. She got involved with it and searched for it because of him. It helped her to feel close with someone who had been there for her but taken away too soon.
Could she get that part back this time around? Would Dylan be the one to help her solve the puzzle and never judge or question her sanity?
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When they both woke, it was mid-afternoon. Dylan was a little surprised and apologetic, but Abbey was sincere when she said it was nothing to worry about.
“I need to go for a walk. Would you join me?” Dylan asked, in an effort to break the awkward silence.
“Sure, that would be nice,” she answered and helped him off the couch.
The pace was much slower than usual but Dylan felt a little better with each step. Somehow he was pulled toward Monson, and they arrived at the head of the trail in silence.
“Can you help me understand some of the details about this lease? The whole idea seems a little far-fetched,” he asked when they reached the sign welcoming them to Monson.
American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) Page 13