roll past the house slowly. It wasn’t a police car, at least, not a marked one. There was something about the all-black colors and its speed that made him think “official.”
Letting wild fantasies run through his mind was not good for his sanity or his sobriety. He needed to eat and then do something, or he would lose control.
One of the drawbacks to being a bachelor who had no friends and did not entertain was that the cupboards were perpetually bare. When he went to work, he stopped at the coffee shop for breakfast, grabbed a sub for lunch, and ate takeout or microwave food for dinner.
Occasionally on the weekends he would go to the local farm stand and buy fresh vegetables and make himself a steak and a salad. During football season, pizza and seltzer water ruled the weekend eating. Today was a Tuesday, and he had to get food.
Seeing the dead body, pissing himself and then sleeping for sixteen hours left him feeling gross. Even though he had showered, a big salad would fill him up and provide a clean healthy feeling to help with his attitude.
“Come on Montana, let’s go for a ride,” he called to his best friend, and headed for the door.
The aging golden retriever climbed onto the couch in defiance. He put his chin on the arm and gave Dylan a look that said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay, you sleep, I’ll be back in a bit.” Dylan shook his head at the lazy old dog and walked out to his truck.
As he drove down the quiet country lane he remembered how much he liked it here. When the tractor with an empty hay trailer rolled past, he added “hard-working” to the list of things he liked. It was a shame that he had to leave and start over again. Guilty or not, he was pretty sure he would always be held to some level of responsibility for the death of officer Farley. It was a delicate balance, not running away but planning to leave so you could avoid trouble.
While he meandered through town, his brain listed the things he would buy at the farm. Lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes were obvious choices, but today he felt like corn on the cob, and maybe even a little roasted broccoli and cauliflower.
Jumps of the mind are incredible. Cauliflower reminded him of how his father used to dice and blend the vegetable in an effort to sneak it into every dinner when Dylan was a boy. Sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference, and other times it was obvious that there were chunks of vegetable in his food. His father’s best-laid plans were not always successes.
Something about planning and sneaking caused his mind to jump back to the American Lease. There had been a plan to find it and retrieve it, if it actually existed, but the plan was covert. Whoever wanted it didn’t want anyone to know they were looking for it or had found it.
A two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old document was surely worth something, but didn’t it belong to the U. S. government? At the very least, its only possible destiny was a museum. Or was it?
Waiting for the light at a four-way stop, Dylan saw the black car roll past again. The driver was not trying to be covert or sneaky; he stared right at Dylan while rolling through the intersection. It was the FBI agent who had questioned him at police headquarters.
It pissed him off that the FBI was following him. He hadn’t done anything wrong and had been completely forthcoming with every answer he gave. If they wanted to know something more, they should stop in and ask him.
Confident in the knowledge that he was clean, Dylan turned and followed the FBI car down the road. He smiled broadly when the agent guessed wrong and turned in the opposite direction from the farm stand. Even if the guy was in front of him, it seemed fitting that the FBI couldn’t even follow someone who didn’t care about being followed.
Pulling into the dirt parking lot, Dylan was relieved to see so few cars. Harvest weekends brought what seemed like every city dweller on the East Coast up to the town’s
Letting wild fantasies run through his mind was not good for his sanity or his sobriety. He needed to eat and then do something, or he would lose control.
One of the drawbacks to being a bachelor who had no friends and did not entertain was that the cupboards were perpetually bare. When he went to work, he stopped at the coffee shop for breakfast, grabbed a sub for lunch, and ate takeout or microwave food for dinner.
Occasionally on the weekends he would go to the local farm stand and buy fresh vegetables and make himself a steak and a salad. During football season, pizza and seltzer water ruled the weekend eating. Today was a Tuesday, and he had to get food.
Seeing the dead body, pissing himself and then sleeping for sixteen hours left him feeling gross. Even though he had showered, a big salad would fill him up and provide a clean healthy feeling to help with his attitude.
“Come on Montana, let’s go for a ride,” he called to his best friend, and headed for the door.
The aging golden retriever climbed onto the couch in defiance. He put his chin on the arm and gave Dylan a look that said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay, you sleep, I’ll be back in a bit.” Dylan shook his head at the lazy old dog and walked out to his truck.
As he drove down the quiet country lane he remembered how much he liked it here. When the tractor with an empty hay trailer rolled past, he added “hard-working” to the list of things he liked. It was a shame that he had to leave and start over again. Guilty or not, he was pretty sure he would always be held to some level of responsibility for the death of officer Farley. It was a delicate balance, not running away but planning to leave so you could avoid trouble.
While he meandered through town, his brain listed the things he would buy at the farm. Lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes were obvious choices, but today he felt like corn on the cob, and maybe even a little roasted broccoli and cauliflower.
Jumps of the mind are incredible. Cauliflower reminded him of how his father used to dice and blend the vegetable in an effort to sneak it into every dinner when Dylan was a boy. Sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference, and other times it was obvious that there were chunks of vegetable in his food. His father’s best-laid plans were not always successes.
Something about planning and sneaking caused his mind to jump back to the American Lease. There had been a plan to find it and retrieve it, if it actually existed, but the plan was covert. Whoever wanted it didn’t want anyone to know they were looking for it or had found it.
A two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old document was surely worth something, but didn’t it belong to the U. S. government? At the very least, its only possible destiny was a museum. Or was it?
Waiting for the light at a four-way stop, Dylan saw the black car roll past again. The driver was not trying to be covert or sneaky; he stared right at Dylan while rolling through the intersection. It was the FBI agent who had questioned him at police headquarters.
It pissed him off that the FBI was following him. He hadn’t done anything wrong and had been completely forthcoming with every answer he gave. If they wanted to know something more, they should stop in and ask him.
Confident in the knowledge that he was clean, Dylan turned and followed the FBI car down the road. He smiled broadly when the agent guessed wrong and turned in the opposite direction from the farm stand. Even if the guy was in front of him, it seemed fitting that the FBI couldn’t even follow someone who didn’t care about being followed.
Pulling into the dirt parking lot, Dylan was relieved to see so few cars. Harvest weekends brought what seemed like every city dweller on the East Coast up to the town’s
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