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