The Ghost

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 throw me 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 the World of Interiors. It took her a decade even to trust Kay, because of the Post .”
    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 seen lights ? 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