The Ghost(英文版)- 第7部分

　　“But　Lang’s　book　is　a　boring　crock　of　shit！”　said　Rick。　“The　only　people　they　want　to　keep　it　away　from　at　this　point　are　their　shareholders！That’s　why　it’s　under　wraps。”

　　I　was　starting　to　feel　a　fool。　I　would　have　let　the　subject　go；　but　Rick　was　enjoying　himself　too　much。

　　“‘A　tethered　goat’！”　I　could　have　heard　his　shout　of　laughter　from　the　other　terminal　even　without　the　phone。　“Let　me　get　this　straight。　According　to　your　theory；　someone　must　have　known　Kroll　was　in　town；　known　where　he　was　Friday　morning；　known　what　he’d　come　to　discuss—”

　　“All　right；”　I　said。　“Let’s　leave　it。”

　　“—knownhe　might　just　give　Lang’s　manuscript　to　a　new　ghost；　known　who　you　were　when　you　came　out　of　the　meeting；　known　where　you　lived。　Because　you　said　they　were　waiting　for　you；　didn’t　you？　Wow。　This　must’ve　been　some　operation。　Too　big　for　a　newspaper。　This　must’ve　been　a　government　—”

　　“Forget　it；”　I　said；　finally　managing　to　cut　him　off。　“You’d　better　catch　your　flight。”

　　“Yeah；　you’re　right。　Well；　you　have　a　safe　trip。　Get　some　sleep　on　the　plane。　You’re　sounding　weird。　Let’s　talk　next　week。　And　don’t　worry　about　it。”　He　rang　off。

　　I　stood　there　holding　my　silent　phone。　It　was　true。　I　was　sounding　weird。　I　went　into　the　men’s　room。　The　bruise　where　I’d　been　punched　on　Friday　had　ripened；　turned　black　and　purple；　and　was　fringed　with　yellow；　like　some　exploding　supernova　beamed　back　by　the　Hubble　Telescope。

　　A　short　time　later　they　announced　that　the　Boston　flight　was　boarding；　and　once　we　were　in　the　air　my　nerves　steadied。　I　love　that　moment　when　a　drab　gray　landscape　flickers　out　of　sight　beneath　you；　and　the　plane　tunnels　up　through　the　cloud　to　burst　into　the　sunshine。　Who　can　be　depressed　at　ten　thousand　feet　when　the　sun　is　shining　and　the　other　poor　saps　are　still　stuck　on　the　ground？　I　had　a　drink。　I　watched　a　movie。　I　dozed　for　a　while。　But　I　must　admit　I　also　scoured　that　business…class　cabin　for　every　Sunday　newspaper　I　could　find；　ignored　the　sports　pages　for　once；　and　read　all　that　had　been　written　about　Adam　Lang　and　those　four　suspected　terrorists。

　　WE　MADE　OUR　FINALapproach　to　Logan　Airport　at　one　in　the　afternoon；　local　time。

　　As　we　came　in　low　over　Boston　Harbor；　the　sun　we　had　been　chasing　all　day　seemed　to　travel　over　the　water　alongside　us；　striking　the　downtown　skyscrapers　one　after　the　other：　erupting　columns　of　white　and　blue；　gold　and　silver；　a　fireworks　display　in　glass　and　steel。　O　my　America；　I　thought；　my　new…found…land—my　land　where　the　book　market　is　five　times　the　size　of　the　United　Kingdom’s—shine　thy　light　on　me！　As　I　queued　for　immigration　I　was　practically　humming　“The　Star…Spangled　Banner。”　Even　the　guy　from　the　Department　of　Homeland　Security—embodying　the　rule　that　the　folksier　an　institution’s　name；　the　more　Stalinist　its　function—couldn’t　dent　my　optimism。　He　sat　frowning　behind　his　glass　screen　at　the　very　notion　of　anyone　flying　three　thousand　miles　to　spend　a　month　on　Martha’s　Vineyard　in　midwinter。　When　he　discovered　I　was　a　writer　he　couldn’t　have　treated　me　with　greater　suspicion　if　I　had　been　wearing　an　orange　jumpsuit。

　　“What　kind　of　books　you　write？”

　　“Autobiographies。”

　　This　obviously　baffled　him。　He　suspected　mockery　but　wasn’t　quite　sure。　“Autobiographies；　huh？　Don’t　you　have　to　be　famous　to　do　that？”

　　“Not　anymore。”

　　He　stared　hard　at　me；　then　slowly　shook　his　head；　like　a　weary　St。　Peter　at　the　pearly　gates；　confronted　by　yet　another　sinner　trying　to　wheedle　his　way　into　paradise。　“Not　anymore；”　he　repeated；　with　an　expression　of　infinite　distaste。　He　picked　up　his　metal　stamp　and　punched　it　twice。　He　let　me　in　for　thirty　days。

　　When　I　was　through　immigration；　I　turned　on　my　phone。　It　showed　a　welcoming　message　from　Lang’s　personal　assistant；　someone　named　Amelia　Bly；　apologizing　for　not　providing　a　driver　to　collect　me　from　the　airport。　Instead　she　suggested　I　take　a　bus　to　the　ferry　terminal　at　Woods　Hole　and　promised　a　car　would　meet　me　when　I　landed　at　Martha’s　Vineyard。　I　bought　theNew　York　Times　and　theBoston　Globe　and　checked　them　while　I　waited　for　the　bus　to　leave　to　see　if　they　had　the　Lang　story；　but　either　it　had　broken　too　late　for　them　or　they　weren’t　interested。

　　The　bus　was　almost　empty；　and　I　sat　up　front　near　the　driver　as　we　pushed　south　through　the　tangle　of　freeways；　out　of　the　city；　and　into　open　country。　It　was　a　few　degrees　below　freezing　and　the　sky　was　clear；　but　there　had　been　snow　not　long　before。　It　was　piled　in　banks　next　to　the　road　and　clung　to　the　higher　branches　in　the　forests　that　stretched　away　on　either　side　in　great　rolling　waves　of　white　and　green。　New　England　is　basically　Old　England　on　steroids—wider　roads；　bigger　woods；　larger　spaces；　even　the　sky　seemed　huge　and　glossy。　I　had　a　pleasing　sense　of　gaining　time；　imagining　a　gloomy；　wet　Sunday　night　in　London；　in　contrast　to　this　sparkling　afternoon　winterland。　But　gradually　it　began　to　darken　here　as　well。　I　guess　it　must　have　been　almost　six　when　we　reached　Woods　Hole　and　pulled　up　at　the　ferry　terminal；　and　by　then　there　were　a　moon　and　stars。

　　Oddly　enough；　it　wasn’t　until　I　saw　the　sign　for　the　ferry　that　I　remembered　to　spare　a　thought　for　McAra。　Not　surprisingly；　the　dead…man’s…shoes　aspect　of　the　assignment　wasn’t　one　I　cared　to　dwell　on；　especially　after　my　mugging。　But　as　I　wheeled　my　suitcase　into　the　ticket　office　to　pay　my　fare；　and　then　stepped　back　out　again　into　the　bitter　wind；　it　was　only　too　easy　to　imagine　my　predecessor　going　through　similar　motions　a　mere　three　weeks　earlier。　He　had　been　drunk；　of　course；　which　I　wasn’t。　I　looked　around。　There　were　several　bars　just　across　the　car　park。　Perhaps　he　had　gone　into　one　of　those？　I　wouldn’t　have　minded　a　drink　myself。　But　then　I　might　sit　on　exactly　the　same　bar　stool　as　he　had；　and　that　would　be　ghoulish；　I　thought；　like　taking　one　of　those　tours　of　murder　scenes　in　Hollywood。　Instead　I　joined　the　passenger　queue　and　tried　to　read　theTimes　Sunday　magazine；　turning　to　the　wall　for　protection　from　the　wind。　There　was　a　wooden　board　with　painted　lettering：CURRENT　NATIONWIDE　THREAT　LEVEL　IS　ELEVATED　。　I　could　smell　the　sea　but　it　was　too　dark　to　see　it。

　　The　trouble　is；　once　you　start　thinking　about　a　thing；　you　can’t　always　make　yourself　stop。　Most　of　the　cars　waiting　to　board　the　ferry　had　their　engines　running　so　the　drivers　could　use　their　heaters　in　the　cold；　and　I　found　myself　checking　for　a　tan…colored　Ford　Escape　SUV。　Then；　when　I　actually　got　on　the　boat；　and　climbed　the　clanging　metal　stairwell　to　the　passenger　deck；　I　wondered　whether　this　was　the　way　McAra　had　come。　I　told　myself　to　leave　it；　that　I　was　working　myself　up　for　nothing。　But　I　suppose　that　ghosts　and　ghostwriters　go　naturally　together。　I　sat　in　the　fuggy　passenger　cabin　and　studied　the　plain；　honest　faces　of　my　fellow　travelers；　and　then；　as　the　boat　shuddered　and　cast　off　from　the　terminal；　I　folded　my　paper　and　went　out　onto　the　open　top　deck。

　　It’s　amazing　how　cold　and　darkness　conspire　to　alter　everything。　The　Martha’s　Vineyard　ferry　on　a　summer’s　evening　I　imagine　must　be　delightful。　There’s　a　big　stripy　funnel　straight　out　of　a　storybook；　and　rows　of　blue　plastic　seats　facing　outward；　running　the　length　of　the　deck；　where　families　no　doubt　sit　in　their　shorts　and　T…shirts；　the　teenagers　looking　bored；　the　dads　jumping　about　with　excitement。　But　on　this　January　night　the　deck　was　deserted；　and　the　north　wind　blowing　down　from　Cape　Cod　sliced　through　my　jacket　and　shirt　and　chilled　my　skin　to　gooseflesh。　The　lights　of　Woods　Hole　slipped　away。　We　passed　a　marker　buoy　at　the　entrance　to　the　channel　swinging　frantically　this　way　and　that　as　if　trying　to　free　itself　from　some　underwater　monster。　Its　bell　tolled　in　time　with　the　waves　like　a　funeral　chime　and　the　spray　flew　as　vile　as　witch’s　spit。

　　I　jammed　my　hands　in　my　pockets；　hunched　my　shoulders　up　around　my　neck；　and　crossed　unsteadily　to　the　starboard　side。　The　handrail　was　only　waist…high；　and　for　the　first　time　I　appreciated　how　easily　McAra　might　have　gone　over。　I　actually　had　to　brace　myself　to　keep　from　slipping。　Rick　was　right。　The　line　between　accident　and　suicide　isn’t　always　clearly　defined。　You　could　kill　yourself　without　ever　really　making　up　your　mind。　The　mere　act　of　leaning　out　too　far　and　imagining　what　it　might　be　like　could　tip　you　over。　You’d　hit　that　heaving　icy　black　water　with　a　smack　that　would　take　you　ten　feet　under；　and　by　the　time　you　came　up　the　ship　might　be　a　hundred　yards　away。　I　hoped　McAra　had　absorbed　enough　booze　to　blunt　the　horror；　but　I　doubted　if　there　was　a　drunk　in　the　world　who　wouldn’t　be　sobered　by　total　immersion　in　a　sea　only　half　a　degree　above　freezing。

　　And　nobody　would　have　heard　him　fall！　That　was　the　other　thing。　The　weather　wasn’t　nearly　as　bad　as　it　had　been　three　weeks　earlier；　and　yet；　as　I　glanced　around；　I　could　see　not　a　soul　on　deck。　I　really　started　shivering　then；　my　teeth　were　chattering　like　some　fairground　clockwork　novelty。

　　I　went　down　to　the　bar　for　a　drink。

　　WE　ROUNDED　THE　WESTChop　Lighthouse　and　came　into　the　ferry　terminal　at　Vineyard　Haven　just　before　seven；　docking　with　a　rattle　of　chains　and　a　thump　that　almost　sent　me　flying　down　the　stairs。　I　hadn’t　been　expecting　a　welcoming　committee；　which　was　fine；　because　I　didn’t　get　one；　just　an　elderly　local　taxi　driver　holding　a　torn…out　page　from　a　notebook　on　which　my　name　was　misspelled。　As　he　heaved　my　suitcase　into　the　back；　the　wind　lifted　a　big　sheet　of　clear　plastic　and　sent　it　twisting　and　flapping　over　the　ice　sheets　in　the　car　park。　The　sky　was　packed　white　with　stars。

　　I’d　bought　a　guidebook　to　the　island；　so　I　had　a　vague　idea　of　what　I　was　in　for。　In　summer　the　population　is　a　hundred　thousand；　but　when　the　vacationers　have　closed　up　their　holiday　homes　and　migrated　west　for　the　winter；　it　drops　to　fifteen　thousand。　These　are　the　hardy；　insular　natives；　the　folks　who　call　the　mainland　“America。”　There　are　a　couple　of　highways；　one　set　of　traffic　lights；　and　dozens　of　long　sandy　tracks　leading　to　places　with　names　like　Squibnocket　Pond　and　Jobs　Neck