Tuesday Evening.
King County Executive Russell Mossier stood in line at the bar in the Seattle Opera House, where he and his wife Mary had season tickets. It was one of the few things they both enjoyed which fit into both of their busy schedules. It was intermission, a time to get a drink and discuss what happened in the first act. He looked back toward where he’d left her. She was with a small group of their friends, talking and laughing.
Mossier watched as a man in an impeccably tailored tuxedo walked up to the group. It was Agent Alan Bradley. Mossier frowned at this turn of events. The evenings at the Opera he and Mary enjoyed were usually free of politics, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to tolerate Bradley for long.
Russell considered Mary to be one of the really good people of the world. She spent all her time working for charity-organizing fundraisers for children’s hospitals, abused women and the homeless. She had a big, pure heart that went out to everyone in need, and he loved her for it. Mary, and people like her, were the reasons he put up with political life in the first place. When he got frustrated with all the compromises and deal making that made him sick, he thought of her. What he did allowed her to have the freedom to accomplish all the good that she had.
He had struggled to keep his political life separate from his life with Mary—he didn’t want her tarnished. That was why he was particularly concerned with Mary talking to Bradley. She had no knowledge about the deal he had to make with the Bradley’s to get elected.
Mossier watched as their friends moved away and left Bradley and Mary standing alone talking. He finally reached the front of the line and ordered two glasses of white wine, paid for them, then walked back toward Mary.
“Here you go, Honey,” he said, handing her a glass.
“You remember Agent Bradley, don’t you dear?” she asked. “He was at your election fund raising dinner.”
“Of course I remember,” Russell replied and shook Alan’s hand. “The Bradley’s were big supporters of my campaign. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you,” Alan replied, then taking a sip from his martini. “I was just discussing the first act with your charming wife. She let me in on some important points that I found very insightful.”
Mary smiled and somewhat blushed at the comment. Russell knew Bradley’s words were insincere and was annoyed, but didn’t show it. As they continued to exchange small talk, he wondered how long he’d have to put up with Alan’s bull. Russell wanted to have a good time with Mary, and didn’t want to share her with anyone. He especially didn’t want to be reminded of the deal he had made with the Bradley’s during his campaign.
In order to get elected, Mossier needed Alan Bradley Sr.’s support, and to get that he needed to play ball. It was a fairly small matter, but it still left a bad taste in his mouth. Alan Bradley Sr. let Mossier in on the plan he had to make his son the next Mayor of Seattle. For Bradley’s support of Mossier’s campaign, Russell had to agree to support Alan’s.
Once Alan was elected, Mossier was to show him the ropes, help him out so he would be a success. Actually, Russell knew he was the lucky one. The Bradley’s could have just as easily supported someone else, or Alan could have wanted to run for King County Executive himself instead of Mayor. This political back scratching was fairly common place, but Mossier didn’t care to be reminded of it.
“Shouldn’t you be on stakeout or something, Agent Bradley?” Mossier asked, hoping for an excuse for Alan to leave.
“Actually, I am on stakeout,” Alan lied. Alan found stakeouts to be boring and inconvenient to his personal schedule, so he avoided them as much as possible. They were, however, interesting subjects in conversations, and he often made up stories to tell in situations like this one.
“Really! Who are you watching?” Mrs. Mossier asked as she looked around.
“Don’t look around!” he warned her. “They’re probably watching us right now.”
Mary’s eyes got big as she put her fingers to her lips. “Sorry,” she whispered. “What kind of case is it?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Alan told her in a serious tone. “I will, however, tell you that I got a tip from an informant. There will be a drug exchange taking place on stage in the final act.”
“Right on stage?” she asked while trying to keep her voice down.
“That’s correct,” Bradley confirmed. “That’s how clever these people are. They make an exchange in broad day light in front of everyone. No one would ever suspect something illegal was happening.”
“But you know otherwise, don’t you, Agent Bradley,” she gasped. “How exciting!”
“After the exchange is made, I’ll be waiting back stage to cuff the perps,” he added.
“Perps?” She looked at him questioningly.
“Perpetrators, Ma’am,” he replied. “That’s what we call them.”
Russell couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the line of bull. He especially didn’t like the way Alan was taking advantage of his wife’s naiveté.
“In that case, Agent Bradley, we should let you get back to work. Besides, it’s time we found our seats for the second act.” Russell put down his drink, and gently took his wife’s hand in order to lead her away.
“That’s a good idea,” Alan replied. “You wouldn’t want to be around when the bullets start flying.”
That brought another gasp from Mary. “Please be careful, Agent Bradley,” she said with complete sincerity.
“I will,” he assured her as he watched her take her husbands arm then walk away. He couldn’t help but laugh after they had disappeared into the auditorium. He’d seen this show before, and knew that in the last scene a bright red birthday present would be exchanged. She’d definitely be watching the people involved and wondering about what he had said.
He took a sip from his drink and cringed, What was I thinking? He hated martinis. It was just a prop he used when wearing a tuxedo. He liked to act smooth like James Bond and order them shaken not stirred. What was the difference, anyway?
Alan put the drink down, and walked toward the front door. He wasn’t going to see the second act, and, in fact, never saw the first. This was a press the flesh mission―nothing more. He showed up only for intermission to be seen in public. Now he could have fun. He’d go home and change into something more casual. Then, it would be down to Jazz Alley for some music and a few micro-brews.
With any luck, he thought as he walked out the door and down the street. there would be a woman or two to pick up and take home at closing time. Alan untied his bow, loosened his collar then disappeared into the crowd.
A few blocks away, under the Space Needle in Key Arena, Special Agent in Charge O’Leary and his team were on a real stakeout. Only this was like no other stakeout he’d ever conducted. Ninety-nine out of a hundred stakeouts occurred in dark alleys in the freezing rain. You’d spend days and nights wet, cold, and miserable with only cold coffee and a stale sandwich to put in your stomach.
Here, he sat in the stands watching his favorite hockey team, the Seattle Thunderbirds, slap the puck around. In one hand he balanced a foot long hot dog with the works, and in the other a piping hot cup of Starbucks. Man, I could get used to this kind of work, he thought as he looked down at his target. Below him, just ten rows down wearing a white coat, was the drug supplier turned informant. He was to meet another man, from the Kingpin organization, to decide a date and location for their next drug delivery.
There were a half dozen agents in the Arena covering the exits. When the man with the connections showed up to meet the informant, an agent would notify O’Leary by radio. The 900 MHz receiver in his ear could pick up a signal from half a mile away, a far cry from the old days when you had to put a water glass on a wall to hear what was going on.
In the rafters, behind the lights, another agent pointed a laser microphone at the Informant. O’Leary would hear every word of the entire conversation between the Infor
mant and the Connection. Once they knew the date and location of the drug delivery, he could start planning the bust.
“The Connection has arrived.” O’Leary heard in his ear piece. A few moments later, a man in a black trench coat walked up and sat down next to the Informant. O’Leary watched the game and stuffed his face with the dog as he listened to the conversation.
“Targets are on the move,” his receiver announced. O’Leary looked down in surprise when he heard the report. The Connection in the black trench coat had gotten up, and the Informant in the white coat followed. This wasn’t supposed to happen, but O’Leary was prepared for it nonetheless. The man in the rafters could record the conversation until they left the building. At this instant, the agents at the exits were heading to their hiding spots. They had laser microphones as well, and from their various vantage points could follow the conversation wherever it went.
O’Leary followed from a long distance away continuing to listen in. He stuffed the rest of the dog in his mouth as he watched the targets walk out of the Arena. He smiled, pleased with the reception while he followed them toward the Space Needle.
They walked past the Needle and to the street just beyond, where a limousine stopped at the corner. The back door opened. The Connection stopped, looked at the Informant, and told him the date, time, and location of the drug exchange. O’Leary then watched the Connection get into the limo and speed away.
Perfect, O’Leary thought. Now all he needed to do was iron out the details of the bust. Everything was going like clock work. With any luck, they could pull this off without a hitch.
“Everyone disband and regroup back at HQ,” O’Leary ordered into the microphone on his throat. O’Leary turned and walked quickly towards the parking lot.
Deputy Joe Rissley sat in her patrol vehicle just off Interstate 5. It was a good location- lots of trees, and a curve in the road that hid her vehicle from view until it was too late. Her radar gun was set to alarm at 85 mph. She didn’t waste her time with the small fries, but instead waited for the big money tickets to come along—three this evening already.
There was a Porsche at 97, a Jaguar at 106, and, surprisingly enough, a Geo Metro at 92. The first two she’d given straight speeding tickets, while the Geo received both speeding and reckless driving citations. Although illegal to do so, the Porch and Jag were designed for high speed. She didn’t blame the owners for wanting to stretch their legs. The Geo, on the other hand, was just too dangerous at those speeds, and if she could have given the guy a ticket for being stupid she would have.
She didn’t particularly enjoy being on speed trap patrol, but it did have it’s benefits. In front of her, leaning against the steering wheel, was her psychology book. Being alone on patrol for long hours at a time allowed her to think, write term papers, and get her studying done.
This was her last year in the Masters of Psychology program. It had taken her seven years, while working full time, to get her undergraduate degree, then the Masters took another three. Next, she planned on getting her Doctorate, for which she had already started working on her thesis.
She didn’t plan on being a psychologist, per say. She chose this line of study because of her intense interest in people. For as long as she could remember, she had always noticed both the differences and similarities in people. She constantly wanted to know what made someone tick, why they felt a certain way, or why they acted in a particular manner. Although she admitted occasionally trying to psychoanalyze people, it wasn’t because she wanted to pry. It was instead because she cared about them. She had an intense desire to want to get to know people on a more intimate level. Not the day to day how’s the weather babble, but really get to know them.
She also used her studies to help her with her career in law enforcement. She studied criminal behavior and wrote countless term papers on the psyche of the criminal mind. For research, she visited many prisons, interviewed inmates, and wrote profiles on each one. The vast majority of the criminals she came in contact with were nothing more than common uninteresting thugs. Small time murderers, thieves, and the like that had nothing more to offer society other than a tax bill for rent and board at the local pen. They were a dime a dozen, one profile could be written to describe most all of them.
There were however, a small number of intriguing cases. These cases were of people with a high level of intelligence, who planned their crimes with methodical precision and detail. These were people who otherwise would and could be productive and successful in the community, but instead, chose to be criminals. Doctors, lawyers, business professionals, engineers, stock brokers, you name it and there are criminals in those fields that haven’t been caught yet.
What were the differences and similarities between these people and normal everyday law abiding citizens? The answers that she came up with had surprised her. Whether they were law abiding or criminal, successful people were intelligent, clever, focused and patient. The main difference was that these criminals either were unable to, or in her opinion, chose not to distinguish between what was moral and immoral, ethical and unethical.
Of course, each particular crime and criminal was different, but these types of people were basically just variations on the same theme. Such as the housewife in Houston who robbed convenient stores. She was a stay at home mom whose husband made six figures a year. She had plenty of money with not a want or care in the world, yet she planned and carried out her crime flawlessly.
She would shop in a convenience store for months before deciding on the right time for a robbery, and for seven years she got away with it. Wearing a wig, she would walk into a store, pick up a few things that she needed for dinner that evening, then go to the clerk and say, “I’ll have these items and everything in the till and safe please.” With her groceries and loot in hand, she’d calmly walk out of the store, get into her minivan and drive off to pick up the kids from school.
She wasn’t caught until her husband started looking in old storage boxes in the attic and found the money. She never spent a dime of it, or told anyone what she was doing. When interviewed by Joe, she had said that the money was just a way of keeping score. She never considered spending it.
Although the housewife knew that it was illegal, she didn’t consider it to be particularly wrong. When Joe had asked her why she chose a certain store the housewife replied, “Well, because they raised the price of Huggies seventy-five cents a pack,” fully expecting people to consider that a justifiable answer.
Easily and without emotion, the housewife would describe her day. “I washed some cloths, did the dishes, paid some bills, had the oil changed in the minivan, robbed a convenience store, picked up the kids, and got dinner on the table by the time my husband got home,” with absolutely no distinction between right and wrong.
Conversely, a rich banker in LA that considered people who stole money to be the lowest scum of the earth had no problem at all with stealing jewelry. He was a good husband and father, gave lots of money to charity, never cheated on his taxes, and always treated his employees fairly. Not particularly caring much for jewelry himself, he had however given plenty of it to his wife. Birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, you name it, jewelry was always a convenient gift.
For years while shopping for his wife, he would plan his crimes. Then one night he would break into a jewelry store and walk out with everything he could carry. He never sold any of stolen property or gave it as presents. Instead, he kept a fortune of jewels in old paint cans in the shed behind the house. When Joe had asked him why he did it, his only reply, without remorse or guilt, was to say, “With all the jewelry I’ve purchased in my life, I’ve never felt that I had gotten my moneys worth.” In addition to their main reasons, Joe was able to get both the banker and housewife to admit that they also enjoyed the added excitement of their secret lives hidden within their ordinarily humdrum existence.
With practice, Joe had become very good at pr
ofiling criminals. For extra credit she profiled such people as Ted Bundy, Al Capone, and Bonny and Clyde. Her professors considered her work so insightful that they made it available to the FBI. The FBI was so impressed that they offered her a profiler job upon graduation, but she turned it down. A fact she had told no one. Her reason was that she wanted to finish her studies, but she also wanted to stay local. It was her secret plan and dream to take over as Sheriff when Harper retired.
The Doctorate thesis, which she’d already started working on, was to be a comparison between the psyches of criminals verses that of the just. What were their differences? What were their similarities? Was a person born with a criminal mind, was it created as a defense mechanism to outside influences, or were they just bad people? Could just people be turned to crime given the right circumstances, or was that inherently impossible?
Conversely, could the criminal mind be changed so that the person could return to a normal productive life? She knew that these questions had been asked before without resolution, yet she felt that they must be continually asked until a successful solution was discovered. It was something she was determined to find out.
She wanted to profile and compare some of the worst criminals with some of the greatest leaders in history. This would be difficult because most of them were either dead, or it was just too impracticable to write about them. All of the most dynamic people in history have already had tons of material written about them, and she didn’t want to have to borrow from others work in order to complete her own.
She decided instead to compare two of her own case studies. For the just leader she had decided to use Sheriff Jim Harper. She didn’t yet know who she would use for the devious criminal mind, but she knew that eventually someone would turn up, in some prison somewhere, that would be worthy of her project.
A file with Jim’s name on it had been sitting in a drawer at home for quite a while, but it was still very thin. Joe had known Harper all her life, but had just barely scratched the surface into learning more about him. She had plenty of material on who he was on the outside, but nothing about who the man was underneath. As Sheriff and public leader for almost three decades, he was a pillar of the community. Harper was this County’s protector, shepherd, and guardian angle.
No matter what problem big or small, Jim would be there to help. When the lumber mill went bankrupt, Jim found a way to save peoples jobs and keep it open. Somehow he got both a software firm and a computer chip company to locate facilities in the county and hire mostly local workers. Even if it was something like getting snowed in, Jim was the first to grab a shovel.
Although she’d asked him many times, Harper had never told her how he was able to accomplish these things. He was just too shy that way, never bragging or tooting his own horn. But then he didn’t need to, everyone else in the community did it for him. She had interviewed everyone she could. They all had a story about how Jim had done this or that, and many had expressed a belief that he must have done some illegal arm-twisting along the way.
She had checked into each case and found that, although Jim had walked a fine line, he had always conducted himself within the letter of the law. The intent of the law, on the other hand, was occasionally bent or bruised, but she knew that it was what Jim described as small town justice. That’s where many of the disagreements had started between her and Harper.
She would ask him about a method he’d used to accomplish this or that, then tried to analyze it. When she pried too hard, he would get defensive and clam up, which usually started the argument. Joe believed that the line between what was right and wrong was clear and rigid, and that the intent of the law must be strictly adhered to. She felt that, although creative, many of his methods had twisted, bent, and blurred the line between black and white until there was mostly gray.
Harper, however, disagreed with her. He told Joe that his interpretation of the law had been molded by years of experience that came from living in the real world. Harper believed that Joe was young and naïve, and that she was trying to live life too much through a text book to be realistic.
No matter what their differences, Joe admired Harper because he was so unselfish. Everything he did was for everyone else. Jim reminded her of the character Jimmy Stewart played in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. He lived and worked a thankless, selfless life, and for what? So that he could protect the people and way of life he cared so much about. Did these same people know about everything Harper did for them? And if so, did they really care? Did they even deserve it? Probably not. But Jim would have done it anyway, regardless.
Harper especially cared for the children, and did everything he could to be a positive influence. He taught drivers education, and lectured at the high school about the dangers of under aged drinking and smoking. He spoke to grade school children about not playing with matches, handed out Mr. Yuck stickers, and played an active role in every youth sporting event around.
She smiled as she thought of him. That was her Sheriff. Always watching, always helping, always vigilant. No matter what the situation, Jim Harper found a way. That was what she admired most about him.
Although she considered Jim to be a close personal friend, getting to know him better had been hard. Jim was the strong silent type, who spoke with actions not words. If she wanted to know something personal about him, she had to practically pry it out with a crow bar.
In frustration she would complain, “Why don’t you talk more?”
He would jokingly reply back with something like. “You do enough talking for the both of us,” or, “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
He was too much like…well…a man! That was it, after all, wasn’t it? Men didn’t talk to each other like women do. They don’t talk about feelings, hopes, or dreams the way women do. Sure, they care about each other, but it’s usually unspoken.
“Do you want to go fish’n?” one would ask.
“Yup,” the other would answer.
“Do you want another beer?”
“Yup.”
Men! How they got a conversation out of that she didn’t know. If it wasn’t for women, human kind probably wouldn’t have developed speech at all. Most of men’s communication skills were lacking in some way or another, and she attributed that to how much female influence there was in their lives.
Joe believed that the more female contact a man had, especially at a young age, contributed greatly to a man’s ability to communicate. Her father and brothers did pretty well most of the time, because they had both herself and her mother to practice with everyday. Even then, conversation would be centered on baseball, or when the next monster truck rally was coming to town. When that so called conversation was over, there would be dead silence for quite a long time until one of her brothers would say…
“Do you want to go Fish’n?”
It made her want to just scream! Men!
Jim was the worst of them all. His whole life he hadn’t had much female influence to speak of, until Nikki came along. Since then, Joe had noticed a considerable improvement in Jim and was glad to see a change for the better. With any luck, Jim would open up more and make Joe’s thesis easier to complete.
But that was something she had to keep secret. If Harper found out she was studying and writing about him, he wouldn’t approve. Jim had never thought much of psychologists, and believed she was wasting her time pursuing such an obscure line of study.
She remembered the day that Jim had found out about her choice of majors. He came to her and tried to talk her out of it, and then when he couldn’t, he decided to approach her father. She recalled the way her father had described the situation. Jim had pulled him over in the middle of town to have a discussion. Harper tried to talk her father into influencing her to studying something more useful, and added that he was surprised that he had allowed his daughter to become such a misguided youth.
This was a story that she and her
father laugh about to this day. That was one of the reasons Joe never really talked about her studies to anyone other than her parents. When people found out you were studying psychology, they all begin to believe you were psychoanalyzing everything. People were just weird that way.
Beep!…beep!…beep!
Rissley’s radar gun alarmed as a red flash sped by. Looking at the display, she saw that it read 93. Tossing her textbook on the passenger seat, Joe started the vehicle, flipped on her lights and siren, and hit the gas. The Blazer jumped onto the highway, tires squealing and smoking as it raced after its prey.
By the time their late dinner was over, it was completely dark, except for the light of the fire. Clifford looked over at Buck and watched while his companion took a long drink from the second near empty bottle of whiskey. Buck belched loudly, then patted himself on the stomach with a satisfied smile on his face.
Clifford rolled his eyes and shook his head disapprovingly at his drunken friend, but said nothing. Instead, he turned his attention upward to the millions of stars in the sky. He had never seen so many stars. The lights of Seattle washed out the sky so much you were lucky to see only a few.
“Ha!” Buck laughs.
“What is it?” Clifford asked.
“That Rick sure knows how to pull a practical joke,” came the reply.
“I thought you were mad at him?”
“No, I can’t stay mad at Rick. He’s too good a buddy. Besides, I would’ve done the same to him if I got the chance,” Buck said, then took another drink from his bottle. He watched Clifford stab at the fire with a stick while looking into the flames as if bored. It was time for a story, he decided.
“Did you know these are the very mountains D.B. Cooper jumped into from that airplane he hijacked?” Buck asked.
“D.B. who?” Clifford replied.
Buck squinted across the fire at Clifford. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never heard of the great plane robber D.B. Cooper?”
Clifford shook his head. “I’ve heard of the great train robbers like Jesse James, Butch Cassidy, and the Sundance Kid, but I didn’t think someone could rob a plane.”
“That’s because no ones ever been able to do it except D.B. Cooper,” Buck said. “If you think about it, Cooper’s a lot like Jesse James or some of the other so called heroes of the West, only better. Cooper never shot people or blew things up like you see in the movies. He was smarter, had more style, more finesse.”
“Really? What happened?” Clifford asked, leaning towards the fire.
Bucks eyes narrowed when he saw he had a captive audience. He hesitated, for affect, before continuing. “Let me tell you the story of D.B. Cooper,” he said softly as he reached down next to him and picked up a fresh log. Throwing it into the center of the fire, a barrage of red embers shot out of the coals, racing into the dark night. Clifford’s eyes followed them as they danced their way towards the stars, then burned themselves out.
When he looked back at Buck, he saw the flames had risen such that all that could be seen of his companion was his face. Clifford watched Buck lean forward, towards the fire. Buck’s face was lit up by the flame that danced between them, sharply contrasting the deep blackness in the background. Clifford could see the heat from the fire eerily bend the image of Buck’s face, making it appear almost ghost-like.
“The year was nineteen seventy-one,” Buck said in a soft, practiced, monotone voice. “It was Thanksgiving, and people were busy traveling to be with their families. High in the air, a single passenger on a crowded plane stands up and yells, I’ve got a bomb!”
“D.B. Cooper!” Clifford exclaimed.
Buck continued to weave his tale now in a louder voice. “Instantly, the plane erupted in chaos. Babes cried and women fainted, but the lone man reassured them. No one will get hurt as long as I get what I want.”
“Did he steal all of their money and jewelry?” Clifford asked, his eyes widening with excitement.
“No, he wouldn’t steal a penny from common folk.” Buck shook his head in reply. “Cooper ordered the plane to land. Once on the ground he told the authorities he would exchange the hostages for a suitcase full of money. The Feds came through with the cash, and Cooper let everyone go except for the flight crew. All alone, Cooper ordered the plane to take off knowing full well, no matter where the plane landed, a swarm of Federal Agents would be waiting. In fact, a number of helicopters and airplanes followed Cooper’s plane through the air towards its unknown destination. On that cold, dark stormy, night the clouds hung low in this very valley and spewed great quantities of rain so thick you couldn’t see ten feet in front of you.”
Buck threw a small log into the fire. As if conjuring up magic, red hot embers leaped into the sky. Buck lifted his arms above his head and looked upward.
“Suddenly, the rumble of a low flying jet plane cut though the silence of the night, then disappeared as quickly as it came. Moments later, the dark silhouette of a man ripped through the clouds accelerating perilously towards the earth.” Buck lowered his hands slowly as if tracing a path in the sky.
“What happened? Did he hit the ground?” Clifford asked impatiently.
“A parachute shot open and stopped the man’s fall just feet from the ground!” Buck exclaimed. “The dark figure rolled as he hit the earth, then squatted, looking around.” Buck looked around as if imitating Cooper’s actions. “Then, as silently as he had come, D.B. Cooper collected the parachute and money, and disappeared into the darkness.”
Buck continued, not missing a beat. “Like a hungry pack of wolves, scores of Federal Agents and hundreds of the Army’s finest scoured these mountains looking for clues, but Cooper was too smart to be caught.”
Clifford looked at Buck in disbelief. “Are you saying that D.B. Cooper got away from the FBI and the Army?”
“That’s exactly what happened.” Buck assured him then took another drink from the bottle.
“How do you know?” Clifford questioned.
“Because he told me so,” Buck replied.
“What?” Clifford laughed. “You know D.B. Cooper?”
“That’s right. He is a good friend of mine,” Buck said, before letting out a huge belch.
“If he’s such a good friend of yours, why didn’t he give you some of his money?” Clifford asked.
“Oh, he’s given me a lot more than that!” Buck laughed heartily. “Actually, every time I come up here I take a little more of Cooper’s treasure home with me.”
Clifford gave Buck a strange look, wondering if he was nuts or just plain drunk. “What are you talking about?”
“Tell me, Clifford, what would you do with all that money anyway?”
Clifford’s eyes lit up, and he smiled. “I’d spend it!”
Buck again let out a huge laugh. “You remind me of myself when I was younger. My whole life I worked, saved, and invested… and for what? I didn’t know. Just for the sake of having money I guess. Then finally, just before I retired, I met these bankers in Saigon who had a get rich quick scheme they let me in on. They told me if I invested my life’s savings, they could make me a millionaire.” Buck took a long drink from the bottle.
“Well did you give it to them?” Clifford asked.
“Every penny,” Buck laughed as he replied. “I was such a fool!”
“What’s so funny about that?” Clifford asked, curiously.
“Nothing,” came the reply. “At least I didn’t think so then. After I gave them the money, they pretended not to know me anymore—I lost it all! I was so mad I drove a tank right through the front door of the bank! The Military Police drug me out kicking and screaming and I almost got court-martialed. Broke and humiliated, I spent the last of my tour in the lock up.” Buck looked at the ground, sighing heavily. Then after a moment raised his head and smiled. “After that I moved here, and D.B. Cooper showed me what true wealth was.”
“What wealth are you talk
ing about?” Clifford asked.
“In the seventy’s, I made a lot of money giving guided tours to would be Cooper hunters. I was making it hand over fist, and not only from my customers. The Forest Service paid me to keep the trails repaired and the trash picked up. So I was getting paid twice just for being up here,” Buck explained. “Even now, I get a few nostalgia lovers who want to dig up the past. I bring them up here, tell them stories and let them poke around a little.”
“But it hasn’t made you rich,” Clifford observed.
“Oh, I’m rich all right. In more ways than one,” Buck assured him. “But as I got older I realized money wasn’t as important as I originally thought. What is important is protecting the way of life I’ve come to know.”
Clifford flashed him a confused look, so Buck continued to explain.
“Look around you, boy,” Buck said as he stretched his arms out in both directions. “Don’t you know where you are? This is God’s country and I live right in the middle of it. I’m a bizillionare!” Buck smiled from ear to ear.
Clifford again gave Buck a strange look. “And you have to protect it from whom?”
“Big money, big business, big government.” Buck counted them out on his fingers. “You name it, they want it. They’ll cut all the trees, mine all the ore, and leave this place a waste land.”
“And you stop that from happening?” Clifford asked, skeptically.
“I do what I can,” Buck replied. “Even the simplest of gestures make a difference. I bring people up here and they go back to the city with a greater appreciation for the value of leaving nature alone and come Election Day they vote to keep it that way.”
Now Clifford was really starting to think Buck was very drunk or off his rocker or maybe both, so he changed the subject. “So if Cooper wasn’t interested in the money, why did he hijack the plane?”
“It wasn’t so much for the money as it was to prove a point,” Buck replied. “To show the Feds there was someone out here smarter than they were. Someone they could never catch. Cooper struck a blow for all us little guys.”
Clifford thought about that for a moment then spoke up again. “If he’s a friend of yours, then where is he?”
Taking another slug of whiskey, Buck replied. “Oh, he’s around. Sometimes when I’m up here alone he walks out of the darkness to visit me. I share my coffee, food, and the fire with him and then we go fishing. Then as quickly as he appeared, poof! He’s gone.”
Buck wobbled as he sat on the log. Lifting the bottle high into the air, he lost his balance taking another drink, and fell over. Clifford saw the bottle fly backward and Buck’s legs flew into the air. Buck landed flat on his back.
“Uncle Buck!” he yelled, jumping up and running over to see if he was all right. Clifford knelt next to the motionless man and felt Buck’s wrist for a pulse. Suddenly, Buck began to snore. Clifford slowly stood up and looked down at his drunken companion.
“Crazy old man,” he said, then turning he walked to the tent. Clifford returned with a blanket which he placed over Buck’s legs and chest. Then yawning, he went back to the tent and disappeared inside it.
* * * *
Chapter 9
Cowboy