Cooper shifted his jaw back and forth to pop his ears as the plane continued its ascent. Brenda had secured the aft door of the cabin open, so that only the rear staircase stood between Cooper and the world outside of the plane. However, it meant that the entire cabin was unpressurized. Even though the pilot was supposed to stay below ten thousand feet, the air was noticeably thinner, every effort more tiring.
The noise from the tail engine above the aft stairs had made conversation difficult when Brenda had given him instructions for lowering the stairs. She didn’t want to open them herself, for fear of being sucked out and into the old sky. Even in the storm outside, flying at such a low speed, and with the landing gear down, the Boeing 727 flew smoothly. It was a decent pilot up there, and this was a solid aircraft.
The best.
He tore away his clip-on tie and tossed it next to the briefcase on what had been his seat.
The three remaining parachute rigs they’d delivered were a mixed bag. Right away, he had identified the pack that would hold the most familiar canopy—a military-style round-type chute—and his hands went to work on the straps and cords mechanically. His mind wandered. He’d stood in 727 cabins just like this one as they sat on the factory floor.
These are our drawings and dreams come to life.
All that he’d given, all that so many had given, and they were tossed easily aside when the going got tough. Money was the only thing that mattered to companies like Boeing these days. Loyalty meant nothing anymore.
Now he was speaking to them in a language they’d understand.
The plane dipped, and Cooper shot his hand out against the rear door of the cabin to steady himself.
He knelt over the remaining front, reserve chute. It had no rings or straps that agreed to the military C9 rig on his back. Moisture from the storm outside, seeping in, joined the sweat beaded on his forehead. He was running out of time. He should be gone already.
Cooper stood up and kicked the smaller chute hard into the stairwell. He only needed one chute anyhow and, if they’d sabotaged one, they would have sabotaged the lot.
From a green paper bag, he took out a wool hat and a pair of leather gloves. Already, they offered some relief. Outside, they would be invaluable. He stuffed the bag into his pocket.
Leave no trace. Just disappear.
He took one last look at the cabin. Through the nearest small porthole window there was only the gray-black of night and clouds, flickering with the exterior lights from the plane. Rain streaked in defiance of gravity across the glass. It was fine. He was ready to say goodbye. Even though he was late by hours, he was more relaxed and ready than he’d expected. Still, one last cigarette and bourbon would be swell.
In a minute, he would know if they had kept their word and were traveling at the correct speed. If they were going too fast, the parachute could be ripped to shreds on opening.
He stepped into the tiny alcove between the passenger cabin and the aft stairwell. The tail engine growled directly overhead, voicing its displeasure with the awkward flight speed. Vibrations rippled up through Cooper’s feet and into his teeth. The discarded reserve chute rested at the bottom of the first few steps, where the stairs folded back on themselves. Cooper took a deep breath and, with both hands, pulled on the red lever.
Nothing.
He pulled again. Still, nothing.
His head swung around, eyes searching.
She said red.
He tried one last time before moving back into the cabin. He grabbed the intercom receiver roughly from the wall and spoke to the crew in the cockpit. They wouldn’t have trapped him like this on purpose. Surely, they must still believe that he had a bomb.
Over the engine, he strained to make out the faint voice through the receiver. “Say again?”
“The stairs won’t open.”
“Hang on.”
Cooper pictured himself: a grown man, wearing an overcoat, a suit, sunglasses and a parachute. Standing alone in a dark airplane cabin. Holding a phone in one hand and a cloth bag filled with cash, wrapped in pink parachute line, tied to his waist. A briefcase at his feet. Without a doubt, in all of human history, he was unique.
He spoke to himself as he waited.
Picture that first cigarette. Imagine landing on the deep, four-star hotel mattress, sleeping all day, rising only for dinner.
Salmon. I’m going to order the salmon.
The plane’s altitude adjusted. It leveled off flat, much to the disapproval of the engine, directly overhead.
The small voice returned.
“The . . . gravity . . . try again.”
Cooper returned to the red lever, again took in a deep breath and pulled. A blinking orange emergency light accompanied the rush of cold air as the stairs lowered away from the plane’s tail. The pressure was fine. He allowed himself a smile. A gaping, dark maw opened at his feet. The reserve chute was gone.
He set his briefcase on the floor; the briefcase he’d carried every day for eleven years. He didn’t need it anymore. Its worn corners and repaired handle spoke of years of faithful service, even tonight. But that life was over. Under his left arm he cradled almost twenty-five times his old salary.
His black loafer nudged at the leather case and it slipped down the stairwell. Halfway down, it took off horizontally, as though shot from the plane, and disappeared into the storm.
He took his first steps down the stairs and turned to look once more into the lit cabin behind him. This was fine. It was just balancing the scales. They’d taken from him. Now things were even.
The power of the wind was unnatural; exactly why he couldn’t afford to use chutes with automatic opening devices. He had to pull the cord himself. Even through the gloves his hands were chilling.
The railing became too cold to hold onto as he neared the end of the stairs. Wind whipped around and up his pant legs. Rain, which seemed to come from all directions, already soaked his socks. He turned up his coat collar, pulled his cap low, and tried in vain to pull his sleeves lower over his wrists.
Cooper squeezed his prize close to his body and his right hand made the sign of the cross over his chest and the ransom both.
With that taken care of, he leaned forward.
Farther.
The wind pushed back and kept him on his feet.
He knew that on the other side of the dark below there were rivers and forests, and people waiting. In only minutes, a new life.
Farther, Cooper leaned, his knees bending.
Accepting the offering, the weather plucked the tiny figure from the back of the plane and devoured him whole.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The muted sound of a nurse entering the room brought Bernadette back from a dream. She fumbled with her earplugs, ready for the inevitable negotiation about visiting hours. The sound of closing curtains was followed by an unfamiliar thunk. Bernadette half-opened her eyes. A shadow of a man stood at the door, one hand still resting on the deadbolt.
He flicked on one of the overhead lamps. Though dim, the light took some getting used to.
He wasn’t a nurse. The chest and armpits of his shirt were damp with sweat. He stared at her with wide eyes that made her feel exposed, naked. He closed the curtains to the hallway.
Bernadette made to stand, and the man produced from behind his back something that looked like a carpenter’s stud finder. He pointed it at her and the chair.
“Sit.”
Bernadette rose anyhow, still drowsy from her insufficient nap.
“Sit,” the man said again, with greater insistence.
As he took a step toward her, a crackling and popping noise filled the room. Bright strings of electrical current shot across the jaws of the device the man pointed at her. A smile broke across his face, so wide that it seemed all his teeth hung out.
Bernadette’s knees buckled in obeyance, and she dropped into her chair.
She hadn’t seen a stun gun in real life before, but she wasn’t clueless either.
This had to be the maniac who had attacked Ron in his apartment.
She met his eyes.
“What do you want?”
“I just want what I came for, then I want to go home.”
“What have you come for?”
“I thought I was coming to find my father. But he isn’t my father, is he?” He pointed at Ron with the weapon.
Bernadette winced at how close the stun gun was to Ron’s chest. She tried to keep the conversation moving. “No. He’s not your father. Maybe you have the wrong room.”
The man’s laugh was over-exaggerated and forced. “No, Pollie. I have the right room.” His eyes focused on her with greater determination.
The familiarity stung. She tried with desperation to compose herself, even though a part of her thought this madman might see her heart pounding through her blouse.
“You must have the wrong room,” she said with as much steadiness in her voice as she could manage. “My name is Bernadette.”
“No,” the man said. “I know you. Your name is Paulette Johnston. I want to know who this man is.” He tapped Ron’s chest with the electrical tips of the weapon.
Bernadette tried not to look at the device, to keep the man’s attention on her as much as possible. She had heard of people being killed with stun guns; people younger and less frail than Ron.
She cursed herself. She had grown so accustomed to her life, with all its benefits and restrictions that this day had become unthinkable. Paulette was never supposed to return. She needed time.
“So, you know the name Paulette Johnston. So what? Who are you?”
“My name is Jack Keller.” He looked at her as though he was hoping for a sign of recognition.
Bernadette kept her expression only interested, without emotion. She tried to sound as inviting and motherly as she could, “Why exactly are you here, Jack?”
Keller’s eyes softened. “My parents are Ryan and Janis Keller. I grew up in Everett, Washington. My dad was a mechanic. He was in the Air Force in Korea before that, and he came home a hero. He was buying us a new house in a new neighborhood and I was going to a new school. Then the bank wanted to take away both our houses.
“It wasn’t right. My dad was a hero and they wanted to kick us out of our home. My dad knew what it was to be a man, though. He tried to take care of us. He knew how to get what the country owed him, what it owed him for his service.
“But he couldn’t come home. Mom said that he wanted to come home, but police were after him. He had to stay away until it was safe.”
In the same, soft voice, Bernadette asked, “What did your dad do, Jack?” If she kept him talking long enough, maybe a nurse would find them.
“He took over a plane. He pretended to have a bomb, but he didn’t have one. My dad would never hurt people. So he got everyone off the plane and asked for hundreds of thousands of dollars. All the money we needed to keep our house and be a perfect family again.”
“Jack, how long ago was this?”
“It was 1971,” he spat. “You know this. You know him. He’s famous. The police and the newspapers call him DB Cooper. But his actual name is Ryan Keller.” Pride shone in Keller’s wide, red face; he stood taller, his shoulders pulled back, and even his voice became more dramatic.
“How do you know all this, Jack?”
“Mom told me. She cried for days at first, when he didn’t come home. She still made Thanksgiving dinner, but we didn’t eat it. Then she showed me on TV. He escaped by jumping out of the plane with a parachute. He got away and they never found him. Mom used to tell me stories about what it would be like when he came home. How we would all be together again, and how he was going to buy us a real house and take us on vacations to Hawaii. She said that the longer he stayed away, the more our money was worth. It just grew and grew.”
His words spilled faster. Bernadette saw control of the situation slipping away. Even his control of himself.
“What makes you think we have anything to do with your dad, Jack? We don’t.”
“Don’t lie,” Keller snapped, scowling and pointing the stun gun in her direction. “I’m not stupid. I’ve been searching and hunting and tracking for a long time. Then I found some of the money and it led me to you. To you and Benham here. And that numbered company. And that house.”
He produced a card from his back pocket and spun it at Bernadette in the air, as a young boy might have once flung a hockey card at a wall. She missed it and, as she bent over to pick it up from the floor, the picture was unmistakable. Even though it had been years – Twenty? Thirty? – since she had hidden it, she knew where it had come from.
Pooling tears smeared her vision and sweat dampened her chest. She tried to hide the unevenness of her breathing as she picked the driver’s license up and held it sealed between her clammy palms.
“Why do you have this?” she sobbed.
Keller smiled, making her feel smaller still. His presence consumed the entire room. Bernadette’s breathing came fast and shallow as the surrounding air grew thinner and thinner.
“You spent some of my dad’s ransom money at a pawnshop. I tracked it down online and got your name from them. Your proper name. I know you tried to hide the money by changing your name and using that stupid numbered company. The company is nothing. That apartment is empty.”
This isn’t real.
This isn’t happening.
The temperature in the room soared. Sweat soaked her scalp, and a small bead ran down the side of her throat to her breasts.
Keller pressed on. “I know that you got rich with my dad’s money. I thought Benham was my dad, but he’s not. Do you know my dad?”
“I don’t know your dad,” Bernadette said through tears.
“Did you kill my dad?” Keller’s teeth clenched, widening his jaw further. He walked toward Bernadette, the stun gun pointing forward.
“No,” she said, pivoting in the chair as he rounded the foot of the bed. “I swear. I never knew your father.”
“Don’t lie,” he said, waving a finger back and forth. “Then how did you and Benham get my money? Me and Mom, we should’ve had that money. Not you. He was trying to take care of us.”
The door hitting against the deadbolt interrupted Keller’s approach. Bernadette thought about screaming for help, but Keller waved the weapon just inches over Ron’s legs and pulled the trigger. The bright, strobing flash of the powerful current made his message clear.
“Okay,” she said, holding up her hands and showing him her palms. Her mind still drowned in confusion and helplessness; she didn’t dare hope to gain control of the situation, but maybe she could slow its spiraling descent. “Let me just see who it is.” She rose cautiously. As she squeezed past Keller to get to the door, his stale musk filled her nose. It lingered in the back of her throat as she swallowed.
Keller turned out the light. He pressed up against her and his hand covered her mouth. She felt his damp warmth through her blouse and accepted the futility of resisting. They stood at the hinges and out of sight as she unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
Three dark figures walked into the room, each taller than the last. When the third person had entered, Bernadette felt Keller shove her into the group as the door clicked shut. She heard the stun gun come alive with a violent cracking sound. Someone made a sort of gurgling noise as the room flashed like a bulb popping. When the lights flicked on, Keller stood with his back to the door.
There stood Frieda and Tess.
Henry lay on the floor between them.
Tess followed Henry into the dark room with Frieda in tow. They had driven the few blocks to the hospital because she couldn’t wait another second to speak with Bernadette. The locked door had only increased her frustration.
She’d not had time for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting when something struck her from behind. She felt herself press Frieda into what must have been the medical bed. There was a sound, a flash, and Henry, behind her, made a choking noise.
The room flooded with light.
There was Bernadette.
Henry lay on the floor between them.
“Hen!” Tess and Frieda dropped to their knees. His nose was bleeding, perhaps from having hit the ground. In the back of her mind, Tess registered the smell of an electrical shortage. She heard Frieda gasp and looked up.
Keller stood towering with his back to the door. Tess moved closer, putting herself between him and Frieda.
“Nobody make a sound.”
The stun gun he waved at them ensured they would take him seriously. Tess recognized the weapon from a self-defense course she had once taken. She wracked her brain. Nothing in the course spoke about confined spaces with a bed, so many people, and a body lying on the floor.
“Is Hen okay?” Frieda asked.
Without taking her eyes from Keller, Tess said, “He’ll be fine. He’s just knocked out.” She wasn’t certain that was true.
“I’m so sorry,” Bernadette said, to Tess’s confusion.
Tess nodded but remained affixed to the principal threat in the room. “This guy isn’t well, Bernadette. Don’t apologize.”
The less he thinks we know, the safer we’ll be. I hope.
“Whoever you are, your best bet is to walk out right now. Walk out and run. We are right next to the stairs. You’ve got a massive head start. Any minute now, someone else will come through that door. It may be a doctor, it may be a nurse, it may be a security guard. You can’t keep adding people into this mix.”
Keller studied Tess, thinking.
He nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” He reached into a back pocket, pulled something out, and tossed it at Tess. It flashed silver in the air, and Tess fumbled the cold metal as she caught it. She looked down and saw she was holding an old pair of handcuffs.
“Put those on.”
“You’re joking,” Tess said, unthinking.
“Do you think I’m joking?” he said, waving the stun gun at Henry, on the floor. “Lock yourself to the bed. Both hands.”
Tess stared at the cuffs.
Keller stepped toward Ron Benham, in the bed, and tapped the pillow next to the old man’s head with the stun gun. “Maybe I knocked out that guy, but do you think Benham will survive a hit?” His lips curled in a sneer.
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