The Ghost(英文版)- 第48部分

　　Turn　around　when　possible。

　　Wearily；　I　surrendered　to　fate。　I　flicked　the　indicator　and　turned　into　a　little　street　of　houses—Summer　Street；　I　think　it　was　called；　inappropriately　enough—and　braked。　The　rain　pounded　on　the　roof　of　the　Ford；　the　windscreen　wiper　thudded　back　and　forth。　A　small　black…and…white　terrier　was　defecating　in　the　gutter；　with　an　expression　of　intense　concentration　on　its　ancient　wise　face。　Its　owner；　too　thickly　swaddled　against　the　wet　and　cold　for　me　to　tell　either　age　or　sex；　turned　clumsily　to　look　at　me；　like　a　spaceman　maneuvering　himself　on　a　lunar　walk。　In　one　hand　was　a　pooperscooper；　in　the　other　a　white　plastic　scrotum　of　dog’s　crap。　I　quickly　reversed　back　out　into　Main　Street；　swinging　the　wheel　so　hard　I　briefly　mounted　the　curb。　With　a　thrilling　screech　of　tire；　I　set　off　back　up　the　hill。　The　arrow　swung　wildly；　before　settling　contentedly　over　the　yellow　route。

　　Exactly　what　I　thought　I　was　doing　I　still　don’t　really　know。　I　couldn’t　even　be　sure　that　McAra　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　re