The Ghost(英文版)-第34章

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　had　been　the　last　driver　to　enter　an　address。　It　might　have　been　some　other　guest　of　Rhinehart’s；　it　might　have　been　Dep　or　Duc；　it　could　even　have　been　the　police。　Whatever　the　truth；　it　was　certainly　in　the　back　of　my　mind　that　if　things　started　to　get　remotely　alarming；　I　could　stop　at　any　point；　and　I　suppose　that　gave　me　a　false　sense　of　reassurance。

　　Once　I　was　out　of　Edgartown　and　onto　Vineyard　Haven　Road；　I　heard　nothing　more　from　my　heavenly　guide　for　several　minutes。　I　passed　dark　patches　of　woodland　and　small　white　houses。　The　few　approaching　cars　had　their　headlights　on　and　were　traveling　slowly；　swishing　over　the　water…slicked　road。　I　sat　well　forward；　peering　into　the　grimy　morning。　I　passed　a　high　school；　just　starting　to　get　busy　for　the　day；　and　beside　it　the　island’s　set　of　traffic　lights　（they　were　marked　on　the　map；　like　a　tourist　attraction：　something　to　go　and　look　at　in　the　winter）。　The　road　bent　sharply；　the　trees　seemed　to　close　in；　the　screen　showed　a　fresh　set　of　evocative　names：　Deer　Hunter’s　Way；　Skiff　Avenue。　In　two　hundred　yards；　turn　right。　In　fifty　yards；　turn　right。　Turn　right。

　　I　steered　down　the　hill　into　Vineyard　Haven；　passing　a　school　bus　toiling　up　it。　I　had　a　brief　impression　of　a　deserted　shopping　street　away　to　my　left；　and　then　I　was　into　the　flat；　shabby　area　around　the　port。　I　turned　a　corner；　passed　a　café；　and　pulled　up　in　a　big　car　park。　About　a　hundred　yards　away；　across　the　puddled；　rain…swept　tarmac；　a　queue　of　vehicles　was　driving　up　the　ramp　of　a　ferry。　The　red　arrow　pointed　me　toward　it。

　　In　the　warmth　of　the　Ford；　as　shown　on　the　navigation　screen；　the　proposed　route　was　inviting；　like　a　child’s　painting　of　a　summer　holiday—a　yellow　jetty　extending　into　the　bright　blue　of　Vineyard　Haven　Harbor。　But　the　reality　through　the　windscreen　was　distinctly　uninviting：　the　sagging　black　mouth　of　the　ferry；　smeared　at　the　corners　with　rust；　and；　beyond　it；　the　heaving　gray　swell　and　the　flailing　hawsers　of　sleet。

　　Someone　tapped　on　the　glass　beside　me　and　I　fumbled　for　the　switch　to　lower　the　window。　He　was　wearing　dark　blue　oilskins　with　the　hood　pulled　up；　and　he　had　to　keep　one　hand　pressed　firmly　on　top　of　it　to　prevent　it　flying　off　his　head。　His　spectacles　were　dripping　with　rain。　A　badge　announced　that　he　worked　for　the　Steamship　Authority。

　　“You’ll　have　to　hurry；”　he　shouted；　turning　his　back　into　the　wind。　“She　leaves　at　eight…fifteen。　The　weather’s　getting　bad。　There　might　not　be　another　for　a　while。”　He　opened　the　door　for　me　and　almost　pushed　me　toward　the　ticket　office。　“You　go　pay。　I’ll　tell　them　you’ll　be　right　there。”

　　I　left　the　engine　running　and　went　into　the　little　building。　Even　as　I　stood　at　the　counter；　I　remained　of　two　minds。　Through　the　window　I　could　see　the　last　of　the　cars　boarding　the　ferry；　and　the　car　park　attendant　standing　by　the　Ford；　stamping　his　feet　to　ward　off　the　cold。　He　saw　me　staring　at　him　and　beckoned　at　me　urgently　to　get　a　move　on。

　　The　elderly　woman　behind　the　desk　looked　as　though　she；　too；　could　think　of　better　places　to　be　at　a　quarter　past　eight　on　a　Friday　morning。

　　“You　going　or　what？”　she　demanded。

　　I　sighed；　took　out　my　wallet；　and　slapped　down　seven　ten…dollar　bills。

　　ONCE　I’D　DRIVEN　UPthe　clanking　metal　gangway　into　the　dark；　oily　belly　of　the　ship；　another　man　in　waterproofs　directed　me　to　a　parking　space；　and　I　inched　forward　until　he　held　up　his　hand　for　me　to　stop。　All　around　me；　drivers　were　leaving　their　vehicles　and　squeezing　through　the　narrow　gaps　toward　the　stairwells。　I　stayed　where　I　was　and　carried　on　trying　to　figure　out　how　the　navigation　system　worked。　But　after　about　a　minute　the　crewman　tapped　on　my　window　and　indicated　by　a　mime　that　I　had　to　switch　off　the　ignition。　As　I　did　so；　the　screen　died　again。　Behind　me；　the　ferry’s　rear　doors　closed。　The　ship’s　engines　started　to　throb；　the　hull　lurched；　and　with　a　discouraging　scrape　of　steel　we　began　to　move。

　　I　felt　trapped　all　of　a　sudden；　sitting　in　the　chilly　twilight　of　that　hold；　with　its　stink　of　diesel　and　exhaust　fumes；　and　it　was　more　than　just　the　claustrophobia　of　being　belowdecks。　It　was　McAra。　I　could　sense　his　presence　next　to　me。　His　dogged；　leaden　obsessions　now　seemed　to　have　become　mine。　He　was　like　some　heavy；　half…witted　stranger　one　makes　the　mistake　of　talking　to　on　a　journey　and　who　then　refuses　to　leave　one　alone。　I　got　out　of　the　car　and　locked　it；　and　went　in　search　of　a　cup　of　coffee。　At　the　bar　on　the　upper　deck　I　queued　behind　a　man　readingUSA　Today　；　and　over　his　shoulder　I　saw　a　picture　of　Lang　with　the　secretary　of　state。　“Lang　to　face　war　crimes　trial”　was　the　headline。　“Washington　shows　support。”　The　camera　had　caught　him　grinning。

　　I　took　my　coffee　over　to　a　corner　seat　and　considered　where　my　curiosity　had　led　me。　For　a　start；　I　was　technically　guilty　of　stealing　a　car。　I　ought　at　least　to　call　the　house　and　let　them　know　I’d　taken　it。　But　that　would　probably　entail　talking　to　Ruth；　who　would　demand　to　know　where　I　was；　and　I　didn’t　want　to　tell　her。　Then　there　was　the　question　of　whether　or　not　what　I　was　doing　was　wise。　If　thiswas　McAra’s　original　route　I　was　following；　I　had　to　face　the　fact　that　he　hadn’t　returned　from　the　trip　alive。　How　was　I　to　know　what　lay　at　the　end　of　the　journey？　Perhaps　I　should　tell　someone　what　I　was　contemplating；　or　better　still；　take　a　companion　along　as　a　witness？　Or　perhaps　I　should　simply　disembark　at　Woods　Hole；　wait　in　one　of　the　bars；　catch　the　next　ferry　back　to　the　island；　and　plan　the　whole　thing　properly；　rather　than　launch　myself　into　the　unknown　so　unprepared？

　　Oddly　enough；　I　didn’t　feel　any　particular　sense　of　danger—I　suppose　because　it　was　all　so　ordinary。　I　glanced　around　at　the　faces　of　my　fellow　passengers：　working　people　mostly；　to　judge　by　their　denims　and　boots—weary　guys　who　had　just　made　an　early…morning　delivery　to　the　island；　or　people　going　over　to　America　to　pick　up　supplies。　A　big　wave　hit　the　side　of　the　ship　and　we　all　swayed　as　one；　like　rippling　weed　on　the　seabed。　Through　the　brine…streaked　porthole；　the　low　gray　line　of　coast　and　the　restless；　freezing　sea　appeared　completely　anonymous。　We　could　have　been　in　the　Baltic　or　the　Solent　or　the　White　Sea—any　dreary　stretch　of　flattened　shoreline　where　people　have　to　find　a　means　of　turning　a　living　at　the　very　edge　of　the　land。

　　Someone　went　out　on　deck　for　a　cigarette；　letting　in　a　gust　of　cold；　wet　air。　I　didn’t　attempt　to　follow　him。　I　had　another　coffee　and　relaxed　in　the　safety　of　the　warm；　damp；　yellowish　atmosphere　of　the　bar；　until；　about　half　an　hour　later；　we　passed　Nobska　Point　Lighthouse　and　a　loudspeaker　instructed　us　to　return　to　our　vehicles。　The　deck　pitched　badly　in　the　swell；　hitting　the　side　of　the　dock　with　a　clang　that　rang　down　the　length　of　the　hull。　I　was　knocked　against　the　metal　doorframe　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs。　A　couple　of　car　alarms　started　howling　and　my　feeling　of　security　vanished；　replaced　by　panic　that　the　Ford　was　being　broken　into。　But　as　I　swayed　closer；　it　looked　untouched；　and　when　I　opened　my　case　to　check；　Lang’s　memoirs　were　still　there。

　　I　switched　on　the　engine；　and　by　the　time　I　emerged　into　the　gray　rain　and　wind　of　Woods　Hole；　the　satellite　screen　was　offering　me　its　familiar　golden　path。　It　would　have　been　a　simple　matter　to　have　pulled　over　and　gone　into　one　of　the　nearby　bars　for　breakfast；　but　instead　I　stayed　in　the　convoy　of　traffic　and　let　it　carry　me　on—on　into　the　filthy　New　England　winter；　up　Woods　Hole　Road　to　Locust　Street　and　Main　Street；　and　beyond。　I　had　half　a　tank　of　fuel　and　the　whole　day　stretched　ahead　of　me。

　　In　two　hundred　yards；　at　the　circle；　take　the　second　exit。

　　I　took　it；　and　for　the　next　forty…five　minutes　I　headed　north　on　a　couple　of　big　freeways；　more　or　less　retracing　my　route　back　to　Boston。　That　appeared　to　answer　one　question；　at　any　rate：　whatever　else　McAra　had　been　up　to　just　before　he　died；　he　hadn’t　been　driving　to　New　York　to　see　Rycart。　I　wondered　what　could　have　tempted　him　to　Boston。　The　airport；　perhaps？　I　let　my　mind　fill　with　images　of　him　meeting　someone　off　a　plane—from　England；　maybe—his　solemn　face　turned　expectantly　toward　the　sky；　a　hurried　greeting　in　the　arrivals　hall；　and　then　off　to　some　clandestine　rendezvous。　Or　perhaps　he　had　planned　to　fly　somewhere　by　himself？　But　just　as　that　scenario　was　taking　firm　shape　in　my　imagination；　I　was　directed　west　toward　Interstate…95；　and　even　with　my　feeble　grasp　of　Massachusetts　geography　I　knew　I　must　be　heading　away　from　Logan　Airport　and　downtown　Boston。

　　I　drove　as　slowly　as　I　could　along　the　wide　road　for　perhaps　fifteen　miles。　The　rain　had　eased；　but　it　was　still　dark。　The　thermometer　showed　an　outside　temperature　of　twenty…five　degrees　Fahrenheit。　I　remember　great　swathes　of　woodland；　interspersed　with　lakes　and　office　blocks　and　high…tech　factories　gleaming　brightly　amid　landscaped　grounds；　as　delicately　positioned　as　country　clubs；　or　cemeteries。　Just　as　I　was　beginning　to　think　that　perhaps　McAra　had　been　making　a　run　for　the　Canadian　border；　the　voice　told　me　to　take　the　next　exit　from　the　interstate；　and　I　came　down　onto　another　big　six…lane　freeway　which；　according　to　the　screen；　was　the　Concord　Turnpike。

　　I　could　make　out　very　little　through　the　screen　of　trees；　even　though　their　branches　were　bare。　My　slow　speed　was　infuriating　the　drivers　behind　me。　A　succession　of　big　trucks　came　lumbering　up　behind　me　and　blazed　their　headlights　and　blared　their　horns；　before　pulling　out　to　overtake　in　a　fountain　of　dirty　spray。

　　The　woman　in　the　back　seat　spoke　up　again。In　two　hundred　yards；　take　the　next　exit。

　　I　moved　into　the　right…hand　lane　and　came　down　the　access　road。　At　the　end　of　the　curve　I　found　myself　in　a　sylvan　suburbia　of　big　houses；　double　garages；　wide　drives；　and　open　lawns—a　rich　but　neighborly　kind　of　a　place；　the　houses　screened　from　one　another　by　trees；　almost　every　mailbox　bearing　a　yellow　ribbon　in　honor　of　the　military。　I　believe　it　was　actually　called　Pleasant　Street。

　　A　sign　pointed　to　Belmont　Center；　and　that　was　more　or　less　the　way　I　went；　along　roads　that　gradually　became　less　pop