The Ghost(英文版)- 第30部分

　　“You’re　British？”　he　said；　squinting　at　me。

　　“I　am。”

　　“That’s　okay。　You　can　shelter。　Sheltering’s　free。”

　　I　didn’t　know　enough　about　America　to　be　able　to　tell　from　his　accent　where　he　was　from；　or　what　he　might　have　done。　But　I　guessed　he　was　a　retired　professional　and　fairly　well…off—you　had　to　be；　living　in　a　place　where　a　shack　with　an　outside　lavatory　would　cost　you　half　a　million　dollars。

　　“British；　eh？”　he　repeated。　He　studied　me　through　rimless　spectacles。　“You　anything　to　do　with　this　feller　Lang？”

　　“In　a　way；”　I　said。

　　“Seems　intelligent。　Why’d　he　want　to　get　himself　mixed　up　with　that　damn　fool　in　the　White　House？”

　　“That’s　what　everyone　would　like　to　know。”

　　“War　crimes！”　he　said；　with　a　roll　of　his　head；　and　I　caught　a　glimpse　of　two　flesh…colored　hearing　aids；　one　in　either　ear。　“We　could　all　have　been　charged　with　those！　And　maybe　we　ought　to　have　been。　I　don’t　know。　I　guess　I’ll　just　have　to　put　my　trust　in　a　higher　judgment。”　He　chuckled　sadly。　“I’ll　find　out　soon　enough。”

　　I　didn’t　know　what　he　was　talking　about。　I　was　just　glad　to　be　standing　where　it　was　dry。　We　leaned　on　the　weathered　handrail　and　stared　out　together　at　the　rain　while　the　dog　skittered　dementedly　on　its　claws　around　the　veranda。　Through　a　gap　in　the　trees　I　could　just　make　out　the　sea—vast　and　gray；　with　the　white　lines　of　the　incoming　waves　moving　remorselessly　down　it；　like　interference　on　an　old　black…and…white　TV。

　　“So　what　brings　you　to　this　part　of　the　Vineyard？”　asked　the　old　man。

　　There　seemed　no　point　in　lying。　“Someone　I　knew　was　washed　up　on　the　beach　down　there；”　I　said。　“I　thought　I’d　take　a　look　at　the　spot。　To　pay　my　respects；”　I　added；　in　case　he　thought　I　was　a　ghoul。

　　“Nowthat　was　a　funny　business；”　he　said。　“You　mean　the　British　guy　a　few　weeks　ago？　Noway　should　that　current　have　carried　him　this　far　west。　Not　at　this　time　of　year。”

　　“What？”　I　turned　to　look　at　him。　Despite　his　great　age；　there　was　still　something　youthful　about　his　sharp　features　and　keen　manner。　His　thin　white　hair　was　combed　straight　back　off　his　forehead。　He　looked　like　an　antique　Boy　Scout。

　　“I’ve　known　this　sea　most　of　my　life。　Hell；　a　guy　tried　to　throwme　off　that　damn　ferry　when　I　was　still　at　the　World　Bank；　and　I　can　tell　you　this：　if　he’d　succeeded；　I　wouldn’t　have　floated　ashore　in　Lambert’s　Cove！”

　　I　was　conscious　of　a　drumming　in　my　ears；　but　whether　it　was　my　blood　or　the　downpour　hitting　the　shingle　roof　I　couldn’t　tell。

　　“Did　you　mention　this　to　the　police？”

　　“The　police？　Young　man；　at　my　age；　I　have　better　things　to　do　with　what　little　time　I　have　left　than　spend　it　with　the　police！　Anyway；　I　told　all　this　to　Annabeth。　She　was　the　one　who　was　dealing　with　the　police。”　He　saw　my　blank　expression。　“Annabeth　Wurmbrand；”　he　said。　“Everybody　knows　Annabeth—Mars　Wurmbrand’s　widow。　She　has　the　house　nearest　the　ocean。”　At　my　failure　to　react；　he　became　slightly　testy。　“She’s　the　one　who　told　the　police　about　the　lights。”

　　“The　lights？”

　　“The　lights　on　the　beach　on　the　night　the　body　was　washed　up。　Nothing　happens　round　here　that　she　doesn’t　see。　Kay　used　to　say　she　was　always　happy　leaving　Mohu　in　the　fall；　knowing　she　could　be　sure　Annabeth　would　keep　an　eye　on　things　all　winter。”

　　“What　kind　of　lights　were　these？”

　　“Flashlights；　I　guess。”

　　“Why　wasn’t　this　reported　in　the　media？”

　　“In　the　media？”　He　gave　another　of　his　grating　chuckles。　“Annabeth’s　never　spoken　to　a　reporter　in　her　life！　Except　maybe　an　editor　from　theWorld　of　Interiors。　It　took　her　a　decade　even　to　trust　Kay；　because　of　thePost　。”

　　That　started　him　off　talking　about　Kay’s　big　old　place　up　on　Lambert’s　Cove　Road　that　Bill　and　Hillary　used　to　like　so　much；　and　where　Princess　Diana　had　stayed；　of　which　only　the　chimneys　now　remained；　but　by　then　I　had　stopped　listening。　It　seemed　to　me　the　rain　had　eased　somewhat　and　I　was　eager　to　get　away。　I　interrupted。

　　“Do　you　think　you　could　point　me　in　the　direction　of　Mrs。　Wurmbrand’s　house？”

　　“Sure；　but　there’s　not　much　point　in　going　there。”

　　“Why　not？”

　　“She　fell　downstairs　two　weeks　ago。　Been　in　a　coma　ever　since。　Poor　Annabeth。　Ted　says　she’s　never　going　to　regain　consciousness。　So　that’s　another　one　gone。　Hey！”　he　shouted；　but　by　then　I　was　halfway　down　the　steps　from　the　veranda。

　　“Thanks　for　the　shelter；”　I　called　over　my　shoulder；　“and　the　talk。　I’ve　got　to　get　going。”

　　He　looked　so　forlorn；　standing　there　alone　under　his　dripping　roof；　with　the　Stars　and　Stripes　hanging　like　a　dishrag　from　its　slick　pole；　that　I　almost　turned　back。

　　“Well；　tell　your　Mr。　Lang　to　keep　his　spirits　up！”　He　gave　me　a　trembling　military　salute　and　turned　it　into　a　wave。　“You　take　care　now。”

　　I　righted　my　bike　and　set　off　down　the　track。　I　wasn’t　even　noticing　the　rain　anymore。　About　a　quarter　of　a　mile　down　the　slope；　in　a　clearing　close　to　the　dunes　and　the　pond；　was　a　big；　low　house　surrounded　by　a　wire　fence　and　discreet　signs　announcing　it　was　private　property。　There　were　no　lamps　lit；　despite　the　darkness　of　the　storm。　That；　I　surmised；　must　be　the　residence　of　the　comatose　widow。　Could　it　be　true？　She　had　seenlights　？　Well；　it　was　certainly　the　case　that　from　the　upstairs　windows　one　would　have　a　good　view　of　the　beach。　I　leaned　the　bike　against　a　bush　and　scrambled　up　the　little　path；　through　sickly；　yellowish　vegetation　and　lacy　green　ferns；　and　as　I　came　to　the　crest　of　the　dune　the　wind　seemed　to　push　me　away；　as　if　this　too　were　a　private　domain　and　I　had　no　business　trespassing。

　　I’d　already　glimpsed　what　lay　beyond　the　dunes　from　the　old　guy’s　house；　and　as　I’d　cycled　down　the　track；　I’d　heard　the　boom　of　the　surf　getting　progressively　louder。　But　it　was　still　a　shock　to　clamber　up　and　suddenly　be　confronted　by　that　vista—that　seamless　gray　hemisphere　of　scudding　clouds　and　heaving　ocean；　the　waves　hurtling　in　and　smashing　against　the　beach　in　a　continuous；　furious　detonation。

　　The　low；　sandy　coast　ran　away　in　a　curve　to　my　right　for　about　a　mile　and　ended　in　the　jutting　outcrop　of　Makonikey　Head；　misty　through　the　spray。　I　wiped　the　rain　out　of　my　eyes　to　try　to　see　better；　and　I　thought　of　McAra　alone　on　this　immense　shore—facedown；　glutted　with　salt　water；　his　cheap　winter　clothes　stiff　with　brine　and　cold。　I　imagined　him　emerging　out　of　the　bleak　dawn；　carried　in　on　the　tide　from　Vineyard　Sound；　scraping　the　sand　with　his　big　feet；　being　washed　out　again；　and　then　returning；　slowly　creeping　higher　up　the　beach　until　at　last　he　grounded。　And　then　I　imagined　him　dumped　over　the　side　of　a　dinghy　and　dragged　ashore　by　men　with　flashlights；　who’d　come　back　a　few　days　later　and　thrown　a　garrulous　old　witness　down　her　architect…designed　stairs。

　　A　few　hundred　yards　along　the　beach　a　pair　of　figures　emerged　from　the　dunes　and　started　walking　toward　me；　dark　and　tiny　and　frail　amid　all　that　raging　nature。　I　glanced　in　the　other　direction。　The　wind　was　whipping　spouts　of　water　from　the　surface　of　the　waves　and　flinging　them　ashore；　like　the　outlines　of　some　amphibious　invasion　force：　they　made　it　halfway　up　the　beach　and　then　dissolved。

　　What　I　ought　to　do；　I　thought；　staggering　slightly　in　the　wind；　is　give　all　this　to　a　journalist；　some　tenacious　reporter　from　theWashington　Post　；　some　noble　heir　to　the　tradition　of　Woodward　and　Bernstein。　I　could　see　the　headline。　I　could　write　the　story　in　my　mind。

　　WASHINGTON—The　death　of　Michael　McAra；　aide　to　former　British　prime　minister　Adam　Lang；　was　a　covert　operation　that　went　tragically　wrong；　according　to　sources　within　the　intelligence　community。

　　Was　that　so　implausible？　I　took　another　look　at　the　figures　on　the　beach。　It　seemed　to　me　they　had　quickened　their　pace　and　were　heading　toward　me。　The　wind　slashed　rain　in　my　face　and　I　had　to　wipe　it　away。　I　ought　to　get　going；　I　thought。　By　the　time　I　looked　again　they　were　closer　still；　stumbling　determinedly　up　the　expanse　of　sand。　One　was　short；　the　other　tall。　The　tall　one　was　a　man；　the　short　one　a　woman。

　　The　short　one　was　Ruth　Lang。

　　I　WAS　AMAZED　THATshe　should　have　turned　up。　I　waited　until　I　was　sure　it　was　her；　then　I　went　halfway　down　the　beach　to　meet　her。　The　noise　of　the　wind　and　the　sea　wiped　out　our　first　exchanges。　She　had　to　take　my　arm　and　pull　me　down　slightly；　so　that　she　could　shout　in　my　ear。“I　said；”　she　repeated；　and　her　breath　was　almost　shockingly　hot　against　my　freezing　skin；“Dep　told　me　you　were　here！”　The　wind　whipped　her　blue　nylon　hood　away　from　her　face　and　she　tried　to　fumble　for　it　at　the　nape　of　her　neck；　then　gave　up。　She　shouted　something；　but　just　at　that　moment　a　wave　exploded　against　the　shore　behind　her。　She　smiled　helplessly；　waited　until　the　noise　had　subsided；　then　cupped　her　hands　and　shouted；　“What　are　you　doing？”

　　“Oh；　just　taking　the　air。”

　　“No—really。”

　　“I　wanted　to　see　where　Mike　McAra　was　found。”

　　“Why？”

　　I　shrugged。　“Curiosity。”

　　“But　you　didn’t　even　know　him。”

　　“I’m　starting　to　feel　as　if