The Cooper Affair

by Jack Patterson

  Flynn’s face lit up, while Banks rolled her eyes.

  “You’re just feeding his ego, you know?” she quipped.

  Justice ignored her while he rummaged through a kitchen drawer for a black pen. “Found one! Here you go.” He handed the pen to Flynn.

  “Excellent,” Flynn said as he scribbled his autograph onto the first title page in the book.”

  Justice took it from him and looked at it, his brow furrowed. “Really? Just your name? How about something like, ‘To Mark, the greatest hermit there ever was’?”

  “Well, we just met—and I know quite a few hermits—mostly authors, of course,” Flynn said, taking the book back. “But I think I can justify that caveat.” He scribbled the note out above his autograph and handed it back to Justice. Flynn glanced at the cigarettes on top of the fridge, catching Justice’s eye.

  “You smoke?” Justice asked.

  Flynn shook his head. “Not very often—and mostly cigars when I do.” He paused. “Certainly not forty-year-old cigarettes.”

  “Ha! These are the best damn cigarettes you’ll ever put in your mouth.”

  “Even after all those years?”

  Justice rubbed his face with both hands and took a sip of his cocoa. “What are you? A cigarette historian?”

  “No, I just—”

  “He’s just obsessed with Raleigh cigarettes,” Banks interrupted. “His grandma used to smoke them—sentimental value. You know how it goes.”

  “My grandmother used to smoke them, too,” Justice said. “She died of lung cancer. They never could figure out what caused it.”

  Unsure if he was deadpanning or serious, Flynn started to say something, but Banks put her index finger on her lips and gave him a knowing look.

  After a few more minutes of small talk, Justice asked them if they wanted refills. They both declined.

  “Well, I’m glad I could help you out—and wish I could help you more,” Justice said, “but I’ve got to get to bed.”

  “Can we call someone and wait for them to pick us up?” Banks said. “I can make sure you’re compensated.”

  “No offense, ma’am, but I don’t need compensation, but I do need sleep. Unfortunately, I don’t have a phone. Luckily for you, you now have all you need to brave the elements and find your way back to civilization,” he said, pressing a flashlight into her hand. “Take this and you’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Flynn said.

  Justice walked up to Flynn and stood inches away from him. “Well, I am. The last thing I want is someone wandering around my property in the middle of the night. I’m liable to shoot them in the head, which will cause a big fuss, and might end up in me getting a prison sentence. And quite frankly, I’d rather just go to bed and bypass all that.” He paused. “Just follow the shoreline for about eight miles and you’ll be just fine. There are plenty of folks who live around a state park area there that would surely help you.”

  “You sure that’s wise. We might be able to see more easily, but so will this lunatic chasing us,” Banks protested.

  “Exactly,” Justice said. “It is easier to see, but it also improves your chances of surviving out here tonight until you can reach help.”

  “Are you sure we can’t stay here tonight?” Banks asked again.

  He nodded. “I’m sure. Now run along. If you go about a quarter of a mile west, you’ll eventually weave your way down the embankment toward the water. From there on out, it’s cake.”

  “Thank you,” Flynn said as he nodded.

  “Oh, and Mr. Flynn?”

  “Yes?”

  Justice lumbered down the steps. “Mind if I have my mug before you go? I have no idea why you’d take it, but I’m gonna need that back.”

  Flynn acted surprised and forced a laugh. “I’m not sure why this was in my hand—probably because you were such a hospitable host.”

  “Never been called that before,” Justice mumbled. “Well, good luck in your journey.”

  “Thanks,” Banks said. “Same to you.”

  With that, they headed down the path Justice directed them to. They hadn’t gone more than fifty yards before a coyote howled in the distance.

  “You think that was—”

  “Nah,” Banks said. “But nice attempt at trying to get his DNA with his coffee cup. You almost pulled it off.”

  “You know what I always say—why just solve one crime when you can solve two?”

  A gunshot crackled through the air.

  “Keep moving,” Banks said. “I’m sure we’ll be out of here soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 41

  GORDON SLOGGED THROUGH THE SNOW, which turned heavy and wet on his feet. He hadn’t noticed any shoes when he came across the bear. It was too late to lament his failure to slather Flynn and Banks’ shoes in raw meat too.

  You live, you learn.

  He stopped and put his hand on the pine tree just off the path. The pain in Gordon’s stomach sharpened, drawing a wince from him. After a few moments, the pain subsided and he continued to track his two fugitives streaking through the woods.

  During hunting trips with his father, Gordon learned plenty of things about life—and a few things about tracking your prey. “Never let them see you coming,” his father told him one night around the campfire. It proved to be the exact advice he needed the next morning. Gordon spotted an elk and tracked him for several miles with the help of his father. Eventually, the animal backed itself into a corner, seemingly unaware that he was being followed. Gordon snuck around and positioned himself behind a boulder. When the elk turned and looked in his direction, he was unaware he’d already sighted in on a rifle scope by a hunter. With the collectedness of a veteran hunter, Gordon pulled the trigger.

  But instead of watching the animal collapse onto the ground, it bounded away. He’d missed from a short distance—no more than fifty yards—and his father never let him live it down.

  “The yips will ruin your life,” Gordon’s father told him. “If you can’t pull the trigger when your goal is in sight, you’re going to always play second fiddle to someone. And life behaves like an elk—you hardly ever get a second chance once you miss.”

  It was the seminal event that drove Gordon, motivating him to succeed in everything he did.

  But here he was once again, trudging through the woods after a failed attempt. He never considered the possibility that he would actually have to kill someone—it’s why he hoped nature would do the job for him. A brutal winter storm, a bear, a fall. Nature and the elements were on his side, creating difficult survival odds for his prey. Not to mention the unfamiliar terrain at the beginning of a storm. However, for Gordon, this was familiar territory.

  After he missed the elk, his father made him track it down again for a second shot. “We’re not leaving this mountain until you kill that bull,” his father said. Then he went one step further. “You’re not getting anything to eat until you shoot him.”

  Gordon watched the elk long enough that he figured out where it was going—and the route it wanted to take. With deft skill and speed, Gordon navigated through a mountainside of craggy rocks in order to take up a position in front of the elk. After lying in wait for over an hour, Gordon watched the elk wander right into his path. This time, he didn’t miss, felling the beast on the spot.

  “Why couldn’t you have done this when there was far more daylight?” his father groused as he dressed the elk in the field.

  Gordon watched his father’s every move as the knife sawed through the tendons and ligaments of the once-regal creature. Now a bloody mess enveloped the mutilated carcass on the snow. Just before dark, his father finished dressing the elk and they hauled it back to their campsite under the pale moonlight.

  “Next time, don’t miss on your first shot,” Gordon’s father said.

  The words echoed in Gordon’s ears as he neared a darkened cabin in the woods. Flynn and Banks’ tracks led him to this point, though it was unlikely that they w
ere still there.

  Gordon settled behind a rock and pulled out his binoculars. He peered through them, hoping to catch a glimpse of either of them. Nothing. Just an elderly man reading a book in front of a roaring fire. It looked warm and inviting—but the man didn’t. Gordon feared that if he approached the cabin, he might find himself in an unwelcome gunfight. While he’d scouted this area for years, he didn’t know the man who owned the home. But he knew that an unwelcome visitor might draw out the man—with his gun. Not to mention, it might also get him recognized. If he could take care of business sooner rather than later, he might avoid being seen. But that was a big if, yet it was a risk worth taking as opposed to tangling with a mountain man, who appeared comfortable and content to sit in his chair and read. Smoke billowed from the chimney, but Gordon detected no other signs of life. If Flynn and Banks had indeed visited this cabin, they were gone by now—and had been so for hours.

  He edged close enough to the house to identify the exit path Flynn and Banks took. With his flashlight trained on the ground, Gordon moved along, hoping not to disturb the man who appeared frozen and rigid as he read a book in his living room.

  The snow continued to pelt him, eventually increasing in its intensity. He had to keep moving—and moving quickly. If he didn’t, the trail would go cold, swallowed up by the fresh snow.

  Gordon hustled along for more than half an hour. He didn’t need to stop for breaks. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His prey couldn’t be far away.

  Then he froze, straining to hear with his right ear. The voices of two people talking could be heard up ahead. A wry smile leaked across his face.

  He continued tracking the footprints for several minutes until the voices grew louder. And in the darkness, he strained to see the silhouettes of a man and a woman.

  Flynn and Banks.

  He knelt down and pulled his binoculars out of his backpack, utilizing the night vision option as he studied them through the glass. There was no denying it was them.

  He set aside his binoculars and rubbed his hands together.

  It won’t be long now. You’re all mine.

  CHAPTER 42

  FLYNN AND BANKS SCRAMBLED up and down the mountainous terrain. Outfitted by Mark Justice, they had sufficient clothing to brave the elements. While they both agreed it wasn’t ideal, the thought of being hunkered down in a cabin and dependent upon Justice to defend them felt like a big gamble. Flynn argued that at least out in the elements they could use their training to survive, if not capture Gordon.

  Banks took the lead, keeping her flashlight trained on the ground and alerting Flynn to any major obstacles along the path.

  “You know this guy is going to kill us if he finds us,” she said over her shoulder.

  Flynn grunted. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  “This is all for his jollies—the sick bastard.”

  “Perhaps, but his jollies have given us a chance to flip the script on him. If we get out of this mess, he’s going to be the one running.”

  “And I’m sure he’s already got a golden parachute waiting, no pun intended.”

  Flynn stumbled over a root but avoided tumbling to the dirt. “Give me a heads up back here.”

  “Sorry. I must’ve stepped right over it and missed it.”

  “Anyway, if Gordon’s got an escape plan, he’s not going to act on it until we’re out of the way. He’s banking on us not being able to let anyone know what’s going on until it’s too late. I’m sure he scouted out this area before he dumped us here. He’s been meticulous and two steps ahead of us at every turn.”

  Banks slowed down and stopped in the middle of the trail. “I need to take a break.” She pulled a bottle of water out of the small backpack Justice had given them and chugged half of it before handing it to Flynn.

  Flynn looked behind them down the trail. He didn’t see anything—and the only thing he heard was Banks’ panting and an occasional owl hooting.

  Banks took the bottle back from Flynn and shoved it into her pack. “You know what I don’t get?”

  “What?”

  “How did Gordon have a legitimate alibi for each of the crimes? Somebody always talks.”

  Flynn shrugged. “Maybe he paid them well.”

  “But even money doesn’t explain how he had pictures of himself at different locations during the exact moment of the crime.”

  “Pictures can be faked.”

  “I had forensics look at the files—they said they were legit.”

  He sighed. “Well, there’s another possibility that we have yet to discuss about him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That he’s merely the mastermind behind the crimes and wasn’t the one who committed them.”

  She shook her head. “But how does that account for the mystery man with cigarettes wearing Stallion cologne?”

  “Coincidence?”

  “That would just be too coincidental—and I can’t imagine Gordon and his accomplice would wear the same cologne.”

  “Does he have a twin? That could explain the same preference.”

  Banks chuckled. “What do you think this is? An episode of some mindless cop drama on network television?” She paused. “Besides, I already checked into that. There’s no twin—not even a brother or a sister.”

  “Let’s get movin’ again,” Flynn said. “I’d rather not ask him that question as an unarmed man.”

  She smiled and resumed her brisk pace along the path. “So what are we missing?”

  “I’m not sure, but we’re missing something. This guy hasn’t been pulling the wool over our eyes on his own.”

  For the next two hours, Flynn and Banks continued on in relative silence. Only the occasional water break impeded their torrid pace.

  “Eight miles? Isn’t that what Justice said because this feels like at least ten,” Banks grumbled.

  “Perhaps he was dead on,” Flynn said. “Isn’t that a light I see up ahead there?”

  “I think you’re right. Through that clearing up ahead, I see somethin’. This has gotta be the state park he mentioned.”

  “It sure is,” he said, running up next to her and pointing at a sign to their right. “Turn your light off.”

  Banks clicked the light off. “You think that’s Gordon? Like he knew exactly where we were and was waiting for us?”

  Flynn shrugged. “Could be. I’m beginning to wonder if even Mark Justice wasn’t planted there by him. That’d be a stroke of genius if it was.”

  “This is no time to admire the criminal,” Banks whispered. “You got any ideas how we can tell if this is Gordon or not?”

  Flynn crouched down near a sign before the woods gave way to a large clearing. Snow pelted them as the cold air joined the assault on their senses, mostly their extremities. A parking lot along with a boat ramp and a sandy beach area let them know they’d reached their destination. But without knowing who was in the car about a hundred yards away with its headlights on, they couldn’t proceed.

  “Just sit tight for a moment and see what happens,” he said.

  After about five minutes with no movement, Banks looked at Flynn. “This is ridiculous. That guy isn’t getting out of his car. He’s just—”

  Banks’ eyes widened. She didn’t see the car door open, but she heard it slam. She whipped her head back toward the parking lot.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Ssshhh,” Flynn said, holding up his index finger.

  “After a few seconds, a pair of feet hit the pavement along with a cane. The man pulled himself upright.”

  “Harold Coleman?” Banks said. “What is he doing out here?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Flynn said, refusing to wait. He dashed out of the woods and into the parking lot toward him.

  Banks ran up behind him and shined her light in his face.

  Coleman shielded his eyes from the light.

  “Harold Coleman? Is that you?”

  CHAPTER 43r />
  GORDON STOOPED OVER and rested his hands on his knees—and he never would’ve stopped unless he had to. The burning sensation in his stomach had spread to his back. He spit onto the ground, staining the powdery snow crimson. Slowly, he picked his head up and looked around. In all his scheming, he never imagined being unable to finish the job.

  Just keep moving.

  The adverse weather brought gusts of wind along with it, the kind that peeled the warmth right off a person’s face. Gordon could feel his face starting to go numb.

  “It wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t a challenge,” Gordon said aloud in a mocking tone.

  At least, that’s what his father used to tell him, though he never agreed. One day when Gordon was eleven, his father caught him shooting crows off the power line near their home with a rifle. His father grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and led him behind the shed in their backyard.

  “Son, if I ever catch you shooting at a defenseless animal like this again, I swear I’m gonna beat you six ways from Sunday,” he growled as he snatched the gun out of his hand. “Shooting is a sport—and it’s not sporting if it’s not fair.”

  Gordon watched in horror as his father loaded the gun and shot at his dog.

  “Think that’s fair?” he roared.

  Through tear-stained eyes, Gordon rushed over to his golden retriever, Choco, who was cowering in the corner, unharmed by his father’s attempt at a lesson.

  “You didn’t have to shoot at him,” Gordon said while he hugged Choco.

  His dad spit on the ground and put his hands on his hips. “I think I did,” he snarled. “I made my point, didn’t I?”

  He stormed off and left Gordon sobbing.

  That traumatic event forced Gordon to come to terms with his father’s brutality. He never hit Gordon, but there was never any question of physical abuse. It was a hundred percent mental.