The Colorado Kid

by by Stephen King

  Stephanie jumped and thought, Maybe now the telepathy goes three ways.

  “—but I knew who she was, right away. I waved and she came to me and said, ‘Mr. Teague?’ And when I said yes, that’s who I was, she put down her bag and hugged me and said, ‘Thank you for coming to meet me. Thank you for everything. I can’t believe it’s him, but when I look at the picture, I know it is.’

  “It’s a good long drive down here—no one knows that better than you, Steff—and we had lots of time to talk. The first thing she asked me was if I had any idea what Jim was doing on the coast of Maine. I told her I did not. Then she asked if he’d registered at a local motel on the Wednesday night—” He broke off and looked at Dave. “Am I right? Wednesday night?”

  Dave nodded. “It would have been a Wednesday night she asked about, because it was a Thursday mornin Johnny and Nancy found him on. The 24th of April, 1980.”

  “You just know that,” Stephanie marveled.

  Dave shrugged. “Stuff like that sticks in my head,” he told her, “and then I’ll forget the loaf of bread I meant to bring home and have to go out in the rain and get it.”

  Stephanie turned back to Vince. “Surely he didn’t register at a motel the night before he was found, or you guys wouldn’t have spent so long calling him John Doe. You might have known him by some other alias, but no one registers at a motel under that name.”

  He was nodding long before she finished. “Dave and I spent three or four weeks after the Colorado Kid was found—in our spare time, accourse—canvassin motels in what Mr. Yeats would have called ‘a widenin gyre’ with Moose-Lookit Island at the center. It would’ve been damn near impossible during the summer season, when there’s four hundred motels, inns, cabins, bed-and-breakfasts, and assorted rooms to rent all competing for trade within half a day’s drive of the Tinnock Ferry, but it wasn’t anything but a part-time job in April, because seventy percent of em are shut down from Thanksgiving to Memorial Day. We showed that picture everywhere, Steffi.”

  “No joy?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Dave confirmed.

  She turned to Vince. “What did she say when you told her that?”

  “Nothing. She was flummoxed.” He paused. “Cried a little.”

  “Accourse she did, poor thing,” Dave said.

  “And what did you do?” Stephanie asked, all of her attention still fixed on Vince.

  “My job,” he said, with no hesitation.

  “Because you’re the one who always has to know,” she said.

  His bushy, tangled eyebrows went up. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.” And she looked at Dave for confirmation.

  “I think she nailed you there, pard,” Dave said.

  “Question is, is it your job, Steffi?” Vince asked with a crooked smile. “I think it is.”

  “Sure,” she said, almost carelessly. She had known this for weeks now, although if anyone had asked her before coming to the Islander, she would have laughed at the idea of deciding for sure on a life’s work based on such an obscure posting. The Stephanie McCann who had almost decided on going to New Jersey instead of to Moose-Lookit off the coast of Maine now seemed like another person to her. A flatlander. “What did she tell you? What did she know?”

  Vince said, “Just enough to make a strange story even stranger.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All right, but fair warning—this is where the through-line ends.”

  Stephanie didn’t hesitate. “Tell me anyway.”

  15

  “Jim Cogan went to work at Mountain Outlook Advertising in Denver on Wednesday, April the 23rd, 1980, just like any other Wednesday,” Vince said. “That’s what she told me. He had a portfolio of drawings he’d been working on for Sunset Chevrolet, one of the big local car companies that did a ton of print advertising with Mountain Outlook—a very valuable client. Cogan had been one of four artists on the Sunset Chevrolet account for the last three years, she said, and she was positive the company was happy with Jim’s work, and the feeling was mutual—Jim liked working on the account. She said his specialty was what he called ‘holy-shit women.’ When I asked what that was, she smiled and said they were pretty ladies with wide eyes and open mouths, and usually with their hands clapped to their cheeks. The drawings were supposed to say, ‘Holy shit, what a buy I got at Sunset Chevrolet!’ ”

  Stephanie laughed. She had seen such drawings, usually in free advertising circulars at the Shop ’N Save across the reach, in Tinnock.

  Vince was nodding. “Arla was a fair shake of an artist herself, only with words. What she showed me was a very decent man who loved his wife, his baby, and his work.”

  “Sometimes loving eyes don’t see what they don’t want to see,” Stephanie remarked.

  “Young but cynical!” Dave cried, not without relish.

  “Well, ayuh, but she’s got a point,” Vince said. “Only thing is, sixteen months is usually long enough to put aside the rose-colored glasses. If there’d been something going on—discontent with the job or maybe a little honey on the side would seem the most likely—I think she would have found sign of it, or at least caught a whiff of it, unless the man was almighty, almighty careful, because during that sixteen months she talked to everyone he knew, most of em twice, and they all told her the same thing: he liked his job, he loved his wife, and he absolutely idolized his baby son. She kept coming back to that. ‘He never would’ve left Michael,’ she said. ‘I know that, Mr. Teague. I know it in my soul.’ ” Vince shrugged, as if to say So sue me. “I believed her.”

  “And he wasn’t tired of his job?” Stephanie asked. “Had no desire to move on?”

  “She said not. Said he loved their place up in the mountains, even had a sign over the front door that said hernando’s hideaway. And she talked to one of the artists he worked with on the Sunset Chevrolet account, a fellow Cogan had worked with for years, Dave, do you recall that name—?”

  “George Rankin or George Franklin,” Dave said. “Cannot recall which, right off the top of my head.”

  “Don’t let it get you down, old-timer,” Vince said. “Even Willie Mays dropped a pop-up from time to time, I guess, especially toward the end of his career.”

  Dave stuck out his tongue.

  Vince nodded as if such childishness was exactly what he’d come to expect of his managing editor, then took up the thread of his story once more. “George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, told Arla that Jim had pretty much reached the top end of that which his talent was capable, and he was one of the fortunate people who not only knew his limitations but was content with them. He said Jim’s remaining ambition was to someday head Mountain Outlook’s art department. And, given that ambition, cutting and running for the New England coast on the spur of the moment is just about the last thing he would have done.”

  “But she thought that’s what he did do,” Stephanie said. “Isn’t it?”

  Vince put his coffee cup down and ran his hands through his fluff of white hair, which was already fairly crazy. “Arla Cogan’s like all of us,” he said, “a prisoner of the evidence.

  “James Cogan left his home at 6:45 AM on that Wednesday to make the drive to Denver by way of the Boulder Turnpike. The only luggage he had was that portfolio I mentioned. He was wearing a gray suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and a gray overcoat. Oh, and black loafers on his feet.”

  “No green jacket?” Stephanie asked.

  “No green jacket,” Dave agreed, “but the gray slacks, white shirt, and black loafers was almost certainly what he was wearing when Johnny and Nancy found him sittin dead on the beach with his back against that litter basket.”

  “His suit-coat?”

  “Never found,” Dave said. “The tie, neither—but accourse if a man takes off his tie, nine times out of ten he’ll stuff it into the pocket of his suit-coat, and I’d be willin to bet that if that gray suit-coat ever did turn up, the tie’d be in the pocket.”

  “H
e was at his office drawing board by 8:45 AM,” Vince said, “working on a newspaper ad for King Sooper’s.”

  “What—?”

  “Supermarket chain, dear,” Dave said.

  “Around ten-fifteen,” Vince went on, “George the Artist, be he Rankin or Franklin, saw our boy the Kid heading for the elevators. Cogan said he was goin around the corner to grab what he called ‘a real coffee’ at Starbucks and an egg salad sandwich for lunch, because he planned to eat at his desk. He asked George if George wanted anything.”

  “This is all what Arla told you when you were driving her out to Tinnock?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Taking her to speak with Cathcart, make a formal identification of the photo—‘This is my husband, this is James Cogan’—and then sign an exhumation order. He was waiting for us.”

  “All right. Sorry to interrupt. Go on.”

  “Don’t be sorry for asking questions, Stephanie, asking questions is what reporters do. In any case, George the Artist—”

  “Be he Rankin or Franklin,” Dave put in helpfully.

  “Ayuh, him—he told Cogan that he’d pass on the coffee, but he walked out to the elevator lobby with Cogan so they could talk a little bit about an upcoming retirement party for a fellow named Haverty, one of the agency’s founders. The party was scheduled for mid-May, and George the Artist told Arla that her mister seemed excited and looking forward to it. They batted around ideas for a retirement gift until the elevator came, and then Cogan got on and told George the Artist they ought to talk about it some more at lunch and ask someone else—some woman they worked with—what she thought. George the Artist agreed that was a pretty good idea, Cogan gave him a little wave, the elevator doors slid closed, and that’s the last person who can remember seeing the Colorado Kid when he was still in Colorado.”

  “George the Artist,” she almost marveled. “Do you suppose any of this would have happened if George had said, ‘Oh, wait a minute, I’ll just pull on my coat and go around the corner with you?’ ”

  “No way of telling,” Vince said.

  “Was he wearing his coat?” she asked. “Cogan? Was he wearing his gray overcoat when he went out?”

  “Arla asked, but George the Artist didn’t remember,” Vince said. “The best he could do was say he didn’t think so. And that’s probably right. The Starbucks and the sandwich shop were side by side, and they really were right around the corner.”

  “She also said there was a receptionist,” Dave put in, “but the receptionist didn’t see the men go out to the elevators. Said she ‘must have been away from her desk for a minute.’” He shook his head disapprovingly. “It’s never that way in the mystery novels.”

  But Stephanie’s mind had seized on something else, and it occurred to her that she had been picking at crumbs while there was a roast sitting on the table. She held up the forefinger of her left hand beside her left cheek. “George the Artist waves goodbye to Cogan—to the Colorado Kid—around ten-fifteen in the morning. Or maybe it’s more like ten-twenty by the time the elevator actually comes and he gets on.”

  “Ayuh,” Vince said. He was looking at her, bright-eyed. They both were.

  Now Stephanie held up the forefinger of her right hand beside her right cheek. “And the counter-girl at Jan’s Wharfside across the reach in Tinnock said he ate his fish-and-chips basket at a table looking out over the water at around five-thirty in the afternoon.”

  “Ayuh,” Vince said again.

  “What’s the time difference between Maine and Colorado? An hour?”

  “Two,” Dave said.

  “Two,” she said, and paused, and said it again. “Two. So when George the Artist saw him for the last time, when those elevator doors slid shut, it was already past noon in Maine.”

  “Assuming the times are right,” Dave agreed, “and assume’s all we can do, isn’t it?”

  “Would it work?” she asked them. “Could he possibly have gotten here in that length of time?”

  “Yes,” Vince said.

  “No,” Dave said.

  “Maybe,” they said together, and Stephanie sat looking from one to the other, bewildered, her coffee cup forgotten in her hand.

  16

  “That’s what makes this wrong for a newspaper like the Globe,” Vince said, after a little pause to sip his milky coffee and collect his thoughts. “Even if we wanted to give it up.”

  “Which we don’t,” Dave put in (and rather testily).

  “Which we don’t,” Vince agreed. “But if we did…Steffi, when a big-city newspaper like the Globe or the New York Times does a feature story or a feature series, they want to be able to provide answers, or at least suggest them, and do I have a problem with that? The hell I do! Pick up any big-city paper, and what do you find on the front page? Questions disguised as news stories. Where is Osama Bin Laden? We don’t know. What’s the President doing in the Middle East? We don’t know because he don’t. Is the economy going to get stronger or go in the tank? Experts differ. Are eggs good for you or bad for you? Depends on which study you read. You can’t even get the weather forecasters to tell you if a nor’easter is going to come in from the nor’east, because they got burned on the last one. So if they do a feature story on better housing for minorities, they want to be able to say if you do A, B, C, and D, things’ll be better by the year 2030.”

  “And if they do a feature story on Unexplained Mysteries,” Dave said, “they want to be able to tell you the Coast Lights were reflections on the clouds, and the Church Picnic Poisonings were probably the work of a jilted Methodist secretary. But trying to deal with this business of the time…”

  “Which you happen to have put your finger on,” Vince added with a smile.

  “And of course it’s outrageous no matter how you think of it,” Dave said.

  “But I’m willing to be outrageous,” Vince said. “Hell, I looked into the matter, just about dialed the phone off the damn wall, and I guess I have a right to be outrageous.”

  “My father used to say you can cut chalk all day, yet it won’t never be cheese,” Dave said, but he was also smiling a little.

  “That’s true, but let me whittle a little bit just the same,” Vince said. “Let’s say the elevator doors close at ten-twenty, Mountain Time, okay? Let’s also say, just for the sake of argument, that this was all planned out in advance and he had a car standin by with the motor running.”

  “All right,” Stephanie said, watching him closely.

  “Pure fantasy,” Dave snorted, but he also looked interested.

  “It’s farfetched, anyway,” Vince agreed, “but he was there at quarter past ten and at Jan’s Wharfside a little more than five hours later. That’s also farfetched, but we know it’s a fact. Now may I continue?”

  “Have on, McDuff,” Dave said.

  “If he’s got a car all warmed up and waiting for him, maybe he can make it to Stapleton in half an hour. Now he surely didn’t take a commercial flight. He could have paid cash for his ticket and used an alias—that was possible back then—but there were no direct flights from Denver to Bangor. From Denver to anyplace in Maine, actually.”

  “You checked.”

  “I did. Flying commercial, the best he could have done was arrive in Bangor at 6:45 PM, which was long after that counter-girl saw him. In fact at that time of the year that’s after the last ferry of the day leaves for Moosie.”

  “Six is the last?” Stephanie asked.

  “Yep, right up until mid-May,” Dave said.

  “So he must have flown charter,” she said. “A charter jet? Are there companies that flew charter jets out of Denver? And could he have afforded one?”

  “Yes on all counts,” Vince said, “but it would’ve cost him a couple of thousand bucks, and their bank account would have shown that kind of hit.”

  “It didn’t?”

  Vince shook his head. “There were no significant withdrawals prior to the fella’s disappearance. All the same, that’s what he must have done.
I checked with a number of different charter companies, and they all told me that on a good day—one when the jet stream was flowing strong and a little Lear like a 35 or a 55 got up in the middle of it—that trip would take just three hours, maybe a little more.”

  “Denver to Bangor,” she said.

  “Denver to Bangor, ayuh—there’s noplace closer to our part of the coast where one of those little burners can land. Not enough runway, don’tcha see.”

  She did. “So did you check with the charter companies in Denver?”

  “I tried. Not much joy there, either, though. Of the five companies that flew jets of one size n another, only two’d even talk to me. They didn’t have to, did they? I was just a small-town newspaperman lookin into an accidental death, not a cop investigating a crime. Also, one of em pointed out to me that it wasn’t just a question of checking up on the FBOs that flew jets out of Stapleton—”

  “What are FBOs?”

  “Fixed Base Operators,” Vince said. “Chartering aircraft is only one of the things they do. They get clearances, maintain little terminals for passengers who are flyin private so they can stay that way, they sell, service, and repair aircraft. You can go through U.S. Customs at lots of FBOs, buy an altimeter if yours is busted, or catch eight hours in the pilots’ lounge if your current flyin time is maxed out. Some FBOs, like Signature Air, are big business—chain operations just like Holiday Inn or McDonald’s. Others are seat-of-the-pants outfits with not much more than a coin-op snack machine inside and a wind-sock by the runway.”