The Cooper Affair

by Jack Patterson

  “Chivalry is truly dead,” she said.

  They both continued to creep backward as they watched the bear near their clothes. He shoved his snout toward the pile and started to sniff. Reaching down with his paws, he picked it up and took a bite. Flynn’s designer jeans were quickly shredded in front of him, but he didn’t flinch.

  At least it wasn’t my leg.

  Flynn held his arm up and motioned for her to move quickly. “Go, go!”

  He turned and started to run with her. After about fifty yards, he looked back over his shoulder and saw the silhouette of the bear still standing where it had been before, ripping at the clothes.

  That was the last time Flynn turned around.

  “Keep going,” he said, urging Banks forward.

  Stripped down to their underwear with nothing else other than their shoes, they both raced through the woods, dodging the thick undergrowth as the snow began to pick up.

  After a few minutes of hard running, Banks finally spoke.

  “So, we’re not going to get eaten by a bear, but we are going to freeze to death,” she said.

  Flynn knew she was right. If they didn’t get somewhere warm quickly, they faced a night with nothing more than a flicker of hope for a sunrise. But he refused to let such negative talk distract him from their task.

  “Let’s keep going as far as we can—Gordon won’t be far behind,” Flynn said.

  “Or he might be in our way, up ahead,” she said.

  “How would he know that?”

  “Maybe he put some GPS tracking on us?”

  “Good thing we stripped then.”

  She glanced at him. “If you suggest we go skinny dipping now, I’m going to slug you.”

  “Just keep going. There’s got to be something up ahead here in the woods.”

  Several minutes later, Flynn tripped on a stump, sending him tumbling to the ground. Blood streaked down his neck as he rolled over and stood up.

  A gunshot echoed in the woods, scattering birds and disturbing the otherwise peaceful night.

  “That can’t be good,” Banks said as she scanned the tree canopy.

  “Hunting season is pretty much over, except for cougars,” Flynn said.

  “Like I said, it can’t be good.”

  Flynn sat up and dusted the snow off of him. “Fortunately, I’m still good,” he said as he looked around. “Well, other than the fact that I’m in my underwear, I’m cold as hell, and there’s a mad man chasing us through the woods with a gun after he threw us out of a plane.” He froze and turned his attention to the distance. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “What? What do you see?” she said.

  He pointed west. “Over there. Is that a cabin, with lights on?”

  “I think you’re right,” Banks said.

  She helped him to his feet.

  Almost immediately, Flynn put his head down and started running.

  Hope had grown to more than a flicker.

  CHAPTER 38

  GORDON WATCHED THE LIFE leak out of the black bear in front of him, a stream of crimson hue darkening the snow. He never intended to kill anyone—not even an animal. But when his original plans went awry, he was forced to make some changes. D.B. Cooper was no killer—and neither was he. But pressure can always change things. And he was changing in front of his own eyes.

  After a few minutes, the bear went limp, a pair of pants hanging out of its mouth. Gordon would’ve preferred to see at least one human carcass strewn about the forest floor, two if he were lucky. However, the lack of blood indicated Banks and Flynn were long gone—and they had to be dealt with. They’d outsmarted him in the interim, but he doubted running naked through the woods in the snow would result in their eventual escape.

  He took a deep breath and surveyed the landscape. With the snow starting to come down furiously, he needed to hustle if he was going to take advantage of their bold footprints.

  Yet despite his urge to move quickly, he couldn’t help but wonder what Cooper felt like as he drifted down among these same thick woods more than forty years ago. Was he scared? Was he excited? Did he experience an unmatched level of exhilaration? Gordon already experienced the pulse-pounding excitement of getting away with a crime and returning home as if he had just gone out for groceries or picked up his dry cleaning. But now he was on location, seeing the woods as perhaps Cooper did.

  Only this time, Gordon was the one doing the man-hunting with an FBI agent on the run.

  He stomped along, following the two pair of diminishing human footprints. The gusting wind and the airy snow proved to be uncooperative as he tracked them. At one point, he traveled fifty meters down a trail before realizing they weren’t his fugitives’ tracks. He returned to the fork in the path and saw that what he originally took as human footprints were boot prints. But his mistake alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone in the woods.

  An owl hooted overhead and leaves rustled behind him, causing Gordon to spin around. Instead of catching his prey, he watched a deer bound off down the trail.

  Since he first hit the ground, the temperature had steadily dropped. By now, he guessed it was no warmer than twenty when he factored in the wind. He stopped and took off his gloves, digging in his coat pocket for his pack of Raleighs.

  He’d quit smoking several years ago after the constant nagging from his doctor—and he had to ask why. He traded potential lung cancer for stage four stomach cancer, at least that’s how he viewed it.

  With the cigarette resting gingerly on his lips, he cupped one hand and struck the match with the other, shielding it from the wind. He held the small flame to the end of the cigarette and sucked in a long breath. The nicotine infused smoke rushed into his lungs, the smell of smoldering tobacco saturating the air around him. It was far from the best cigarette he’d ever had, but this was more than about taking a drag. It was about experiencing everything as Cooper did.

  Gordon put his gloves back on and continued to follow the footprints. It was only a matter of time before he bagged his prey.

  CHAPTER 39

  COLEMAN ROARED SOUTH down I-5 toward his intended destination. What was normally a picturesque drive on a clear day turned into a painful venture down memory lane. He was going to put the past where it belonged and leave it buried there. But it had a way of resisting any such final pronouncements.

  For the past decade, the whispers and stares subsided. Time—along with a sweeping tide of wrinkles in combination with a disappearing hairline—provided the necessary distance he needed to escape the gawkers and the gossipers in public. Whether real or imagined, he spent years as a tormented and failed FBI agent. It didn’t help that the public actually rooted for the bad guy.

  At least they picked the right side this time.

  The rise of social media led to this criminal—Who was he kidding? It was definitely Carlton Gordon—being the one mocked and ridiculed as failed and desperate. Yet, the fact that Gordon had stolen $1.2 million from the U.S. government didn’t make him appear such a failure to Coleman. Forget the fact that he hardly kept a dime of it. Just the idea that he could get away with such a brazen act and never suffer a single consequence grated on Coleman’s last nerve.

  He’d lost count of all the times television crews interviewed him for documentaries and programs about D.B. Cooper. Even more annoying in recent years were the suggestions that a man named Kenny Christensen was indeed D.B. Cooper, and he had ignored all the signs that pointed to this obvious suspect. Just when he thought he’d disappear into relative obscurity, these shows came at him fast and furious—and if he didn’t need the money, he would’ve told them all to go to hell.

  In a way, the ridicule was his own fault, a byproduct of his greed. If he’d just politely declined, nobody in Seattle or the rest of the United States would have known what he looked like. But now his face was out there for everyone to see. And every few years, on a certain milestone anniversary, they replayed his interviews.

  If Edith ever c
aught him watching one of the programs, she’d snatch the remote out of his hand and turn off the television. “It’s in the past, Harold. Forgive yourself and forget about it,” she would tell him every time. Her disdain for those interviews was only surpassed by Coleman’s inability to look away from them.

  Yet as he drove down I-5, he replayed every single interview in his head, especially the one where he stated it was highly unlikely that Cooper survived the jump. When asked why a body was never found—or even any money beyond $5,000 buried near a sandbar—Coleman answered, “Have you ever been in those woods? Just go spend a few days down there and see if you think a man running around in a suit would last more than twenty-four hours without getting caught by either a person or a wild animal.”

  Coleman spent more hours in those woods than he cared to, far more than he could count. At one point in the days immediately following Cooper’s heist, Coleman cornered a man that matched Cooper’s description, only to find out it was a mentally ill man who couldn’t form complete sentences—and he had an airtight alibi. Even more embarrassing was the fact that someone in the search party leaked the story to the press.

  However, none of his failures as lead investigator in the case were as damaging to his reputation as they were to his career opportunities. Before this debacle, he’d closed more than ninety-five percent of his cases, drawing high praise from his superiors. The whispers around him said he was in line to become chief of the field office, perhaps even more if he relocated to D.C. And it certainly looked promising—until D.B. Cooper jumped out of a plane with $200,000.

  As Coleman jammed his foot on the gas, he knew the consequences of his impending actions.

  It’s now or never.

  Everything else was lost, gone forever. But his good name and reputation? He held out hope he could reclaim it.

  He pulled into the gravel parking lot along the banks of Lake Merwin. Based off what Tommy Spurlock had told him, he was sure to find Banks and Flynn in this area being pursued by Gordon.

  Climbing out of his car, he zipped his jacket up tight, unfolded his walking stick, and fished his flashlight out of his pocket. He stopped for a moment, placing his light on the ground, and dug in his jacket pocket. Before he took another step, he needed to make sure he was prepared, ready to confront the slippery thief.

  She was there all right—his gun. He pressed the palm of his hand against the cold steel. A smile spread across his face.

  He was ready for whatever happened next.

  CHAPTER 40

  WHEN FLYNN AND BANKS reached the front of the cabin, they both paused before walking up the steps. Flynn knew how it looked—and it looked scandalous at best. A man and a woman, both scantily clad, prancing through the snowy forest. An affair gone wrong? Perhaps. Almost any lie they told was far more believable than the truth.

  Flynn smiled to himself as he thought about how the truth might sound. “Excuse me, sir. We were wondering if you could help us. The two of us were thrown from an airplane with only one parachute. After we somehow survived, we came across a bear who would’ve eaten us had we not stripped down to our underwear. We’ve traveled at least five miles in the freezing wind and snow and were wondering if you could provide us some assistance, starting with a warm meal and some warmer clothing?”

  This wasn’t exactly going to swing open doors—not to mention people who lived this far out in the sticks did so to get away from people.

  Banks tried to cover herself as she shivered. “Well, what are you waiting for?” she said as they stood on the steps.

  Flynn stepped forward and knocked.

  For a few moments, not a sound escaped from the cabin.

  “Someone’s gotta be here,” she said. “If not, we’re commandeering the place—official FBI business.”

  “You can still do that?”

  “I’d rather seek an apology than permission. And even if I wanted to do the latter, I couldn’t exactly do that right now, could I?”

  Flynn smiled and shook his head.

  Still nothing.

  “Knock again,” she said.

  He held his hand up. “Just chill out.”

  “No pun intended?”

  “Seriously, banging on a guy’s cabin in the woods in the middle of the night is how you wind up dead.”

  “Frostbite will get you, too.”

  Flynn raised his clenched fist to rap on the door again when he heard shuffling across the wooden floor. He cut his eyes at Banks. “See. Just be patient.”

  A shadow passed in front of the small glass opening on the door, veiled by a thin swath of cloth. When a hand pulled back the curtain, a large bearded face appeared, startling both Flynn and Banks.

  “What do you want?” the man asked, the tip of his shotgun peeking up just above the bottom of the window.

  “We’re freezing and we need your help,” Flynn said.

  The man looked Flynn and Banks up and down. “Not too many people go skinny dipping this time of year.”

  “Please, sir,” Banks said. “We didn’t go skinny dipping. We had to strip to avoid a bear.”

  The man grunted and showed a hint of a smile. “If I had a nickel for every couple that said that when they appeared on my doorstep in the middle of the night—”

  He released the curtain and unlocked the door, obviously satisfied that they posed him no threat.

  With his thick hands, he waved them inside. “Come on in.”

  Flynn and Banks rushed inside, barely waiting for the invitation. They headed directly toward the roaring fire in the stone fireplace located in the center of the room.

  “Can I get you a blanket and a hot cup of cocoa?” the man asked.

  “That’d be great,” Banks said.

  “You?” he asked, looking at Flynn.

  “Yes, please,” Flynn said.

  He lit a match and twisted the stove burner until the gas caught the flame, bringing the burner to life. He shook out the match and filled up a kettle with water.

  “So, what are you two really doing out here?” he asked.

  “I’m an FBI agent,” Banks said. “And we’re being pursued by a suspect.”

  The man stopped. “Now, hold up. You are being pursued by a suspect? I’ve been livin’ in these woods a long time, but even that seems a little backward to me.”

  Flynn shook his head. “You’re right. It is backward. But it’s the truth.”

  The man laughed. “I hardly believe any government person when they say it’s the truth.”

  Flynn held up both hands, gesturing surrender. “I’m not a government type, please.”

  The man cocked his head and eyed Flynn closely. “Wait a minute. I’ve seen you before. You’re that conspiracy nut I see on television all the time.”

  Flynn opened his mouth to assuage the man’s fears that he was a nut before he continued.

  “I’m a big fan of your work,” he said, offering his hand to Flynn. “Mark Justice.”

  “James Flynn,” he said as they shook hands. “And that’s Agent Jennifer Banks.”

  Justice hustled across the room and shook Banks’ hand before grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch and giving it to her.

  “So, what were you two really up to tonight? Some kinda special stake out?” Justice said before flashing them a wink. He paused. “Never mind. It’s none of my business. Live and let live. You two are grown consenting adults. But let me get you some clothes.”

  Flynn glanced around at the cabin. His instinct drew him to pictures, anything to give him a sense of what kind of man Mark Justice was. But other than a few pictures of him squatting beside a dead elk, the walls were barren.

  Most of the furniture appeared handmade, rough-hewn from timber felled in the nearby woods and shaped into adequate tables, chairs, and couches. No television or computer. A beat up radio occupied a spot atop his refrigerator next to a box of cigarettes.

  Then he froze.

  His eyes scanned back toward the fridge.


  Is that what I think it is?

  He nudged Banks with his elbow and pointed with his nose. Her eyes widened. “No way!” she muttered.

  The kettle started to whistle, drawing Justice back into the room. “I got it,” he said, removing the kettle from the burner.

  He spun around and tossed each of them warm clothes. For Banks, he had a pair of sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. For Flynn, an old pair of jeans and a long-sleeve flannel shirt.

  “One of you can grab that old jacket up there on the coat rack when you leave,” Justice said. “It’s my daughter’s and she hasn’t been out here to visit for at least fifteen years.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Banks said.

  He waved her off. “Awww, it’s no big deal. That’s life. We make decisions and live with the consequences. I’ve got not reason to be sentimental over it. It’s just a jacket.”

  Flynn nodded. “So, how long have you been living out here?”

  Justice shrugged. “Quite a while—so long, I’ve lost count.”

  “I’m always curious what draws people to live secluded like this. What drew you to the woods?” Flynn asked.

  “A fresh start, I guess. Seattle was gettin’ too big for me—and I liked the outdoors. This seemed like a great place to settle down.”

  “Wow,” Flynn said. “What kind of work were you in?”

  Justice stopped and took a deep breath. “A bunch of things, really. I’d get bored with one thing and move on to another—but I still managed to pay my bills.”

  “Like what kind of things?”

  “You sure are nosy, Mr. Flynn. I’ve seen people ask you questions, but I didn’t know you could dish it out as well.”

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed as he turned his head to one side and pointed toward the living room. “Now, you said you don’t have a television, but you’re familiar with my work?”

  “Got a TV in my room—and all your books on my shelf right here.” Justice shuffled across the room toward a large bookshelf. He knocked on the side of it. “Made this bookshelf myself—one of the many jobs I ventured into.” He paused. “Now, let’s see. Where is that one?” After a few seconds, “Ah-ha! Here it is, Cooper’s Coup: How D.B. Cooper Confounded the FBI and Vanished with Federal Money. It’s one of my favorites. Would you mind signing it for me?”