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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