by Robin Cook
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE Saturday, February 6, 1692
1 Tuesday, July 12, 1994
2 Saturday, July 16, 1994
3 Monday, July 18, 1994
4 Friday, July 22, 1994
5 Saturday, July 23, 1994
6 Monday, July 25, 1994
7 Friday, July 29, 1994
8 Saturday, July 30, 1994
9 Friday, August 12, 1994
10 Friday, August 26, 1994
11 Early September 1994
12 Monday, September 19, 1994
13 Late September 1994
14 Monday, September 26, 1994
15 Thursday, September 29, 1994
16 Friday, September 30, 1994
17 Saturday, October 1, 1994
18 Sunday, October 2, 1994
19 Monday, October 3, 1994
20 Tuesday, October 4, 1994
EPILOGUE Saturday, November 5, 1994
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ACCEPTABLE RISK
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
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Copyright © 1994 by Robin Cook
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First edition (electronic): July 2001
The Devil hath power
to assume a pleasing shape
—Hamlet
William Shakespeare
Also by Robin Cook
CONTAGION
ACCEPTABLE RISK
BLINDSIGHT
BRAIN
COMA
FATAL CURE
FEVER
GODPLAYER
HARMFUL INTENT
MINDBEND
MORTAL FEAR
MUTATION
OUTBREAK
SPHINX
TERMINAL
VITAL SIGNS
THE YEAR OF THE INTERN
CHROSOME 6
TOXIN
For Jean
“the guiding light”
PROLOGUE
* * *
Saturday,
February 6, 1692
SPURRED on by the penetrating cold, Mercy Griggs snapped her riding crop above the back of her mare. The horse picked up the pace, drawing the sleigh effortlessly over the hard-packed snow. Mercy snuggled deeper into the high collar of her sealskin coat and clasped her hands together within her muff in a vain attempt to shield herself from the arctic air.
It was a windless, clear day of pallid sunshine. Seasonally banished to its southern trajectory, the sun had to struggle to illuminate the snowy landscape locked in the grip of a cruel New England winter. Even at midday long violet shadows extended northward from the trunks of the leafless trees. Congealed masses of smoke hung motionlessly above the chimneys of the widely dispersed farmhouses as if frozen against the ice blue polar sky.
Mercy had been traveling for almost a half hour. She’d come southwest along the Ipswich Road from her home at the base of Leach’s Hill on the Royal Side. She’d crossed bridges spanning the Frost Fish River, the Crane River, and the Cow House River and now entered into the Northfields section of Salem Town. From that point it was only a mile and a half to the town center.
But Mercy wasn’t going to town. As she passed the Jacobs’ farmhouse, she could see her destination. It was the home of Ronald Stewart, a successful merchant and shipowner. What had drawn Mercy away from her own warm hearth on such a frigid day was neighborly concern mixed with a dose of curiosity. At the moment the Stewart household was the source of the most interesting gossip.
Pulling her mare to a stop in front of the house, Mercy eyed the structure. It certainly bespoke of Mr. Stewart’s acumen as a merchant. It was an imposing, multi-gabled building, sheathed in brown clapboard and roofed with the highest-grade slate. Its many windows were glazed with imported, diamond-shaped panes of glass. Most impressive of all were the elaborately turned pendants suspended from the corners of the second-floor overhang. All in all the house appeared more suited to the center of town than to the countryside.
Confident that the sound of the sleigh bells on her horse’s harness had announced her arrival, Mercy waited. To the right of the front door was another horse and sleigh, suggesting that company had already arrived. The horse was under a blanket. From its nostrils issued intermittent billows of vapor that vanished instantly into the bone-dry air.
Mercy didn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately the door opened and within the doorframe stood a twenty-seven-year-old, raven-haired, green-eyed woman whom Mercy knew to be Elizabeth Stewart. In her arms she comfortably cradled a musket. From around her sides issued a multitude of children’s curious faces; unexpected social visits in isolated homes were not common in such weather.
“Mercy Griggs,” called the visitor. “Wife of Dr. William Griggs. I’ve come to bid you good day.”
“’Tis a pleasure, indeed,” called Elizabeth in return. “Come in for some hot cider to chase the chill from your bones.” Elizabeth leaned the musket against the inside doorframe and directed her oldest boy, Jonathan, age nine, to go out to cover and tether Mrs. Griggs’ horse.
With great pleasure Mercy entered the house, and, following Elizabeth’s direction, turned right into the common room. As she passed the musket, she eyed it. Elizabeth, catching her line of sight, explained: “’Tis from having grown up in the wilderness of Andover. We had to be on the lookout for Indians all hours of the day.”
“I see,” Mercy said, although a woman wielding a musket was apart from her normal experience. Mercy hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the kitchen and surveyed the domestic scene, which appeared more like a schoolhouse than a home. There were more than a half dozen children.
On the hearth was a large, crackling fire that radiated a welcome warmth. Enveloping the room was a mixture of savory aromas: some of them were coming from the kettle of pork stew simmering on its lug pole over the fire; others were rising from a large bowl of cooling corn pudding; but most were coming from the beehive oven built into the back of the fireplace. Inside, multiple loaves of bread were turning a dark, golden brown.
“I hope in God’s name I am not a bother,” Mercy said.
“Heavens, no,” Elizabeth replied as she took Mercy’s coat and directed her to a ladder-back chair near the fire. “You’re a welcome reprieve from the likes of these unruly children. But you have caught me baking, and I must remove my bread.” Quickly she hefted a long-handled peel, and with short, deft thrusts picked up the eight loaves one by one and deposited them to cool on the long trestle table that dominated the center of the room.
Mercy watched Elizabeth as she worked, remarking to herself that she was a fine-looking woman with her high cheekbones, porcelain complexion, and
lithesome figure. It was also apparent she was accomplished in the kitchen by the way she handled the bread-making and with the skill she evinced stoking the fire and adjusting the trammel holding the kettle. At the same time Mercy sensed there was something disturbing about Elizabeth’s persona. There wasn’t the requisite Christian meekness and humbleness. In fact Elizabeth seemed to project an alacrity and boldness that was unbecoming of a Puritan woman whose husband was away in Europe. Mercy began to sense that there was more to the gossip that she’d heard than idle hearsay.
“The aroma of your bread has an unfamiliar piquancy,” Mercy said as she leaned over the cooling loaves.
“’Tis rye bread,” Elizabeth explained as she began to slip eight more loaves into the oven.
“Rye bread?” Mercy questioned. Only the poorest farmers with marshy land ate rye bread.
“I grew up on rye bread,” Elizabeth explained. “I do indeed like its spicy taste. But you may wonder why I am baking so many loaves. The reason is I have in mind to encourage the whole village to utilize rye to conserve the wheat supplies. As you know, the cool wet weather through spring and summer and now this terrible winter has hurt the crop.”
“It is a noble thought,” Mercy said. “But perhaps it is an issue for the men to discuss at the town meeting.”
Elizabeth then shocked Mercy with a hearty laugh. When Elizabeth noticed Mercy’s expression, she explained herself: “The men don’t think in such practical terms. They are more concerned with the polemic between the village and the town. Besides, there is more than a poor harvest. We women must think of the refugees from the Indian raids since it is already the fourth year of King William’s War and there’s no end in sight.”
“A woman’s role is in the home . . .” Mercy began, but she trailed off, taken aback by Elizabeth’s pertness.
“I’ve also been encouraging people to take the refugees into their homes,” Elizabeth said as she dusted the flour from her hands on her smocked apron. “We’ve taken in two children after the raid on Casco, Maine, a year ago last May.” Elizabeth called out sharply to the children and interrupted their play by insisting they come to meet the doctor’s wife.
Elizabeth first introduced Mercy to Rebecca Sheaff, age twelve, and Mary Roots, age nine. Both had been cruelly orphaned during the Casco raid, but now both appeared hale and happy. Next Elizabeth introduced Joanna, age thirteen, Ronald’s daughter from a previous marriage. Then came her own children: Sarah, age ten; Jonathan, age nine; and Daniel, age three. Finally Elizabeth introduced Ann Putnam, age twelve; Abigail Williams, age eleven; and Betty Parris, age nine, who were visiting from Salem Village.
After the children dutifully acknowledged Mercy, they were allowed to return to their play, which Mercy noticed involved several glasses of water and fresh eggs.
“I’m surprised to see the village children here,” Mercy said.
“I asked my children to invite them,” Elizabeth said. “They are friends from attending the Royal Side School. I felt it best that my children not school in Salem Town with all the riffraff and ruffians.”
“I understand,” Mercy said.
“I will be sending the children home with loaves of rye bread,” Elizabeth said. She smiled friskily. “It will be more effective than giving their families a mere suggestion.”
Mercy nodded but didn’t comment. Elizabeth was mildly overwhelming.
“Would you care for a loaf?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh, no, thank you,” Mercy said. “My husband, the doctor, would never eat rye bread. It’s much too coarse.”
As Elizabeth turned her attention back to her second batch of bread, Mercy’s eyes roamed the kitchen. She noticed a fresh wheel of cheese having come directly from the cheese press. She saw a pitcher of cider on the corner of the hearth. Then she noticed something more striking. Arrayed along the windowsill was a row of dolls made from painted wood and carefully sewn fabric. Each was dressed in the costume of a particular livelihood. There was a merchant, a blacksmith, a goodwife, a cartwright, and even a doctor. The doctor was dressed in black with a starched lace collar.
Mercy stood up and walked to the window. She picked up the doll dressed as a doctor. A large needle was thrust into its chest.
“What are these figures?” Mercy asked with barely concealed concern.
“Dolls that I make for the orphan children,” Elizabeth said without looking up from her labor with her bread. She was removing each loaf, buttering its top, and then replacing it in the oven. “My deceased mother, God rest her soul, taught me how to make them.”
“Why does this poor creature have a needle rending its heart?” Mercy asked.
“The costume is unfinished,” Elizabeth said. “I am forever misplacing the needle and they are so dear.”
Mercy replaced the doll and unconsciously wiped her hands. Anything that suggested magic and the occult made her uncomfortable. Leaving the dolls, she turned to the children, and after watching them for a moment asked Elizabeth what they were doing.
“It’s a trick my mother taught me,” Elizabeth said. She slipped the last loaf of bread back into the oven. “It’s a way of divining the future by interpreting the shapes of egg white dropped into the water.”
“Bid them to stop immediately,” Mercy said with alarm.
Elizabeth looked up from her work and eyed her visitor. “But why?” she asked.
“It is white magic,” Mercy admonished.
“It is harmless fun,” Elizabeth said. “It is merely something for the children to do while they are confined by such a winter. My sister and I did it many times to try to learn the trade of our future husbands.” Elizabeth laughed. “Of course it never told me I’d marry a shipowner and move to Salem. I thought I was to be a poor farmer’s wife.”
“White magic breeds black magic,” Mercy said. “And black magic is abhorrent to God. It is the devil’s work.”
“It never hurt my sister or myself,” Elizabeth said. “Nor my mother, for that matter.”
“Your mother’s dead,” Mercy said sternly.
“Yes, but—”
“It is sorcery,” Mercy continued. Blood rose to her cheeks. “No sorcery is harmless. And remember the bad times we are experiencing with the war and with the pox in Boston only last year. Just last sabbath Reverend Parris’ sermon told us that these horrid problems are occurring because people have not been keeping the covenant with God by allowing laxity in religious observance.”
“I hardly think this childish game disturbs the covenant,” Elizabeth said. “And we have not been lax in our religious obligations.”
“But indulging in magic most certainly is,” Mercy said. “Just like tolerance of the Quakers.”
Elizabeth waved her hand in dismissal. “Such problems are beyond my purview. I surely don’t see anything wrong with the Quakers since they are such a peaceful, hard-working people.”
“You must not voice such opinions,” Mercy chided. “Reverend Increase Mather has said that the Quakers are under a strong delusion of the devil. Perhaps you should read Reverend Cotton Mather’s book Memorable Providences: Relating to Witchcraft and Possessions. I can loan it to you since my husband purchased it in Boston. Reverend Mather says the bad times we are experiencing stem from the devil’s wish to return our New England Israel to his children, the red men.”
Directing her attention to the children, Elizabeth called out to them to quiet down. Their shrieking had reached a crescendo. Still, she quieted them more to interrupt Mercy’s sermonizing than to subdue their excited talk. Looking back at Mercy, Elizabeth said she’d be most thankful for the opportunity to read the book.
“Speaking of church matters,” Mercy said. “Has your husband considered joining the village church? Since he’s a landowner in the village he’d be welcome.”
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve never spoken of it.”
“We need support,” Mercy said. “The Porter family and their friends are refusing to pay their
share of the Reverend Parris’ expenses. When will your husband return?”
“In the spring,” Elizabeth said.
“Why did he go to Europe?” Mercy asked.
“He’s having a new class of ship built,” Elizabeth said. “It is called a frigate. He says it will be fast and able to defend itself against French privateers and Caribbean pirates.”
After touching the tops of the cooling loaves with the palms of her hands, Elizabeth called out to the children to tell them it was time to eat. As they drifted over to the table, she asked them if they wanted some of the fresh, warm bread. Although her own children turned up their noses at the offer, Ann Putnam, Abigail Williams, and Betty Parris were eager. Elizabeth opened a trapdoor in the corner of the kitchen and sent Sarah down to fetch some butter from the dairy storage.
Mercy was intrigued by the trapdoor.
“It was Ronald’s idea,” Elizabeth explained. “It functions like a ship’s hatch and affords access to the cellar without having to go outside.”
Once the children were set with plates of pork stew and thick slices of bread if they wanted it, Elizabeth poured herself and Mercy mugs of hot cider. To escape the children’s chatter, they carried the cider into the parlor.
“My word!” Mercy exclaimed. Her eyes had immediately gone to a sizable portrait of Elizabeth hanging over the mantel. Its shocking realism awed her, especially the radiant green eyes. For a moment she stood rooted in the center of the room while Elizabeth deftly kindled the fire that had reduced itself to glowing coals.
“Your dress is so revealing,” Mercy said. “And your head is unadorned.”
“The painting disturbed me at first,” Elizabeth admitted. She stood up from the hearth and positioned two chairs in front of the now blazing fire. “It was Ronald’s idea. It pleases him. Now I hardly notice it.”
“It’s so popish,” Mercy said with a sneer. She angled her chair to exclude the painting from her line of sight. She took a sip from the warm cider and tried to organize her thoughts. The visit had not gone as she’d imagined. Elizabeth’s character was disconcerting. Mercy had yet to even broach the subject of why she’d come. She cleared her throat.
