The Ghost(英文版)-第43章

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n　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　populated　as　the　price　of　the　real　estate　rose。　I　passed　a　golf　course　and　turned　right　into　some　woods。　A　red　squirrel　ran　across　the　road　in　front　of　me　and　jumped　on　top　of　a　sign　forbidding　the　lighting　of　campfires；　and　that　was　when；　in　the　middle　of　what　seemed　to　be　nowhere；　my

　　guardian　angel　at　last　announced；　in　a　tone　of　calm　finality：You　have　reached　your　destination。

　　THIRTEEN

　　Because　I　am　so　enthusiastic　about　the　ghostwriting　profession；　I　may　have　given　the　impression　that　it　is　an　easy　way　to　make　a　living。　If　so；　then　I　should　qualify　my　words　just　a　little　with　a　warning。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　I　PULLED　UP　ONTOthe　verge　and　turned　off　the　engine。　Looking　around　at　the　dense　and　dripping　woodland；　I　felt　a　profound　sense　of　disappointment。　I　wasn’t　sure　exactly　what　I’d　been　expecting—not　Deep　Throat　in　an　underground　car　park；　necessarily；　but　certainly　more　than　this。　Yet　again；　McAra　had　surprised　me。　Here　was　a　man　reportedly　even　more　hostile　to　the　country　than　I　was；　and　yet　his　trail　had　merely　led　me　to　a　hiker’s　paradise。

　　I　got　out　of　the　car　and　locked　it。　After　two　hours’　driving　I　needed　to　fill　my　lungs　with　cold；　damp　New　England　air。　I　stretched　and　started　to　walk　down　the　e　from　its　perch　across　the　road。　I　took　a　couple　of　paces　toward　it　and　clapped　my　hands　at　the　cute　little　rodent。　It　streaked　up　into　a　nearby　tree；　flicking　its　tail　at　me　like　a　swollen　middle　finger。　I　hunted　around　for　a　stick　to　throw　at　it；　then　stopped　myself。　I　was　spending　far　too　much　time　alone　in　the　woods；　I　decided；　as　I　moved　on　down　the　road。　I’d　be　happy　not　to　hear　the　deep；　vegetative　silence　of　ten　thousand　trees　for　a　very　long　while　to　come。

　　I　walked　on　for　about　fifty　yards　until　I　came　to　an　almost　invisible　gap　in　the　trees。　Demurely　set　back　from　the　road；　a　five…barred　electric　gate　blocked　access　to　a　private　drive；　which　turned　sharply　after　a　few　yards　and　disappeared　behind　trees。　I　couldn’t　see　the　house。　Beside　the　gate　was　a　gray　metal　mailbox　with　no　name　on　it；　just　a　number—3551—and　a　stone　pillar　with　an　intercom　and　a　code　pad。　A　sign　said；THESE　PREMISES　ARE　PROTECTED　BY　CYCLOPS　SECURITY　；　a　toll…free　number　was　printed　across　an　eyeball。　I　hesitated；　then　pressed　the　buzzer。　While　I　waited；　I　glanced　around。　A　small　video　camera　was　mounted　on　a　nearby　branch。　I　tried　the　buzzer　again。　There　was　no　answer。

　　I　stepped　back；　uncertain　what　to　do。　It　briefly　crossed　my　mind　to　climb　the　gate　and　make　an　unauthorized　inspection　of　the　property；　but　I　didn’t　like　the　look　of　the　camera；　and　I　didn’t　like　the　sound　of　Cyclops　Security。　I　noticed　that　the　mailbox　was　crammed　too　full　to　close　properly；　and　I　saw　no　harm　in　at　least　discovering　the　name　of　the　house’s　owner。　With　another　glance　over　my　shoulder；　and　an　apologetic　shrug　toward　the　camera；　I　pulled　out　a　handful　of　mail。　It　was　variously　addressed　to　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Paul　Emmett；　Professor　and　Mrs。　Paul　Emmett；　Professor　Emmett；　and　Nancy　Emmett。　Judging　by　the　postmarks；　it　looked　as　though　there　was　at　least　two　days’　worth　uncollected。　The　Emmetts　were　either　away；　or—what？　Lying　inside；　dead？　I　was　developing　a　morbid　imagination。　Some　of　the　letters　had　been　forwarded；　with　a　sticker　covering　the　original　address。　I　scraped　one　of　the　labels　back　with　my　thumb。　Emmett；　I　learned；　was　president　emeritus　of　something　called　the　Arcadia　Institution；　with　an　address　in　Washington；　DC。

　　Emmett…Emmett…For　some　reason　that　name　was　familiar　to　me。　I　stuffed　the　letters　back　in　the　box　and　returned　to　my　car。　I　opened　my　suitcase；　took　out　the　package　addressed　to　McAra；　and　ten　minutes　later　I’d　found　what　I　had　vaguely　remembered：　P。　Emmett　（St。　John’s）　was　one　of　the　cast　of　the　Footlights　revue；　pictured　with　Lang。　He　was　the　oldest　of　the　group；　the　one　who　I’d　thought　was　a　postgraduate。　He　had　shorter　hair　than　the　others；　looked　more　conventional：　“square；”　as　the　expression　went　at　that　time。　Was　this　what　had　brought　McAra　all　the　way　up　here：　yet