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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 Cove。 My driver didn’t utter a word the whole journey； just scrutinized me in the mirror。