Acceptable Risk

by Robin Cook

  “Where do you live?” Edward asked.

  “Beacon Hill,” Kim said.

  “I hear that’s a great neighborhood,” Edward said.

  “It’s convenient to the hospital,” Kim said. “And I have a great apartment. Unfortunately I have to move come September because my roommate is getting married and she has the lease.”

  “I’ve got a similar problem,” Edward said. “I live in a charming apartment on the third floor of a private house, but the owners have a baby coming and need the space. So I have to be out September first as well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Kim said.

  “It’s not so bad,” Edward said. “I’ve been meaning to move for years, but I’ve just been putting it off.”

  “Where’s the apartment?” Kim asked.

  “Close by,” Edward said. “Within walking distance.” Then he added hesitantly: “Would you care to come over for a visit?”

  “Maybe another night,” Kim said. “Like I said, morning comes early for me.”

  They reached the entrance to the subway. Kim turned and looked up into Edward’s pale blue eyes. She liked what she saw; there was sensitivity.

  “I want to congratulate you on asking to see the old house,” Kim said. “I know it wasn’t easy for you, and the reason I know is because it would have been equally difficult for me. In fact I probably couldn’t have done it at all.”

  Edward blushed. Then he chuckled. “I’m certainly no Stanton Lewis,” he said. “The truth of the matter is that I can be kind of a klutz.”

  “I think we have some similarities in that area,” Kim said. “I also think you are a lot more socially adept than you give yourself credit for.”

  “You get the credit,” Edward said. “You make me feel relaxed, and since we’ve only just met, that’s saying something.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Kim said.

  They gripped hands for a moment. Then Kim turned and hurried down into the subway.

  2

  * * *

  Saturday,

  July 16, 1994

  EDWARD double-parked on Beacon Street across from the Boston Common and ran into the foyer of Kim’s building. After ringing her bell, he kept his eye out for a Boston meter maid. He knew of their reputation from sore experience.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Kim said when she appeared. She was dressed in khaki shorts and a simple white T-shirt. Her dark, voluminous hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “I’m sorry for being late,” Edward said. By mutual consent Edward was dressed in a similar, casual fashion. “I had to run by the lab.”

  They both stared at each other for a beat, then burst out laughing.

  “We’re too much,” Kim admitted.

  “I can’t help it.” Edward chuckled. “I’m always apologizing. Even when it isn’t warranted. It’s ridiculous, but you know something? I wasn’t even aware of it until you pointed it out at dinner last night.”

  “I only noticed it because I do it too,” Kim said. “After you dropped me off last night, I thought about it. I think it comes from feeling overly responsible.”

  “You’re probably right,” Edward said. “When I was growing up I always thought it was my fault when something went wrong or someone was upset.”

  “The similarities are frightening,” Kim mused with a smile.

  They climbed into Edward’s Saab and headed north out of town. It was a bright, clear day, and even though it was early morning, the sun already gave adequate hint of its summer strength.

  Kim lowered the passenger-side window and jauntily stuck her arm out. “This feels like a mini-vacation,” she said.

  “Particularly for me,” Edward said. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I usually spend just about every day in the lab.”

  “Weekends too?” Kim questioned.

  “Seven days a week,” Edward admitted. “The usual way I can tell it is a Sunday is when there are fewer people around. I guess I’m just a boring guy!”

  “I’d say dedicated,” Kim said. “I’d also say you’re very considerate. The flowers you’ve been sending me daily are glorious, but I’m hardly accustomed to such gallantry. I certainly don’t deserve it.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” Edward said.

  Kim could sense his unease. He pushed his hair off his forehead several times in a row.

  “It’s certainly not ‘nothing’ to me,” Kim said. “I want to thank you again.”

  “Did you have any trouble getting the keys to the old house?” Edward asked, changing the subject.

  Kim shook her head. “Not in the slightest. I went over to the lawyers right after work yesterday.”

  They drove north on route 93, then turned east on 128. The traffic was light.

  “I certainly enjoyed our dinner last night,” Edward said.

  “Me too,” Kim said. “Thank you. But when I thought about it this morning I wanted to apologize for dominating the conversation. I think I talked too much about myself and my family.”

  “There you go apologizing again,” Edward said.

  Kim struck her thigh in mock punishment. “I’m afraid I’m a hopeless case.” She laughed.

  “Besides”—Edward chuckled—“I should be the one apologizing. It was my fault because I bombarded you mercilessly with questions that I’m afraid might have been borderline too personal.”

  “I wasn’t offended in the slightest,” Kim said. “I just hope I didn’t scare you when I mentioned those anxiety attacks I used to get when I first went to college.”

  “Oh, please!” Edward laughed. “I think we all get them, especially those of us who tend to be compulsive, like doctors. I used to get anxiety attacks in college before every test even though I never had any problems with grades.”

  “I think mine were a little worse than run-of-the-mill,” Kim said. “For a short time I even had trouble riding in the car, thinking I might get one while I was cooped up.”

  “Did you ever take anything for them?” Edward asked.

  “Xanax for a short time,” Kim said.

  “Did you ever try Prozac?” Edward asked.

  Kim turned to look at Edward. “Never!” she said. “Why would I take Prozac?”

  “Just that you mentioned you had both anxiety and shyness,” Edward said. “Prozac could have helped both.”

  “Prozac has never been suggested,” Kim said. “Plus even if it had been I wouldn’t have taken it. I’m not in favor of using drugs for minor personality flaws like shyness. I think drugs should be reserved for serious problems, not mere everyday difficulties.”

  “Sorry,” Edward said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I’m not offended,” Kim said. “But I do feel strongly about it. As a nurse I see too many people taking too many drugs. Drug companies have got us to think there is a pill for every problem.”

  “I basically agree with you,” Edward said. “But as a neuroscientist I now see behavior and mood as biochemical, and I’ve reevaluated my attitude toward clean psychotropic drugs.”

  “What do you mean, ‘clean’ drugs?” Kim asked.

  “Drugs that have little or no side effects.”

  “All drugs have side effects,” Kim said.

  “I suppose that’s true,” Edward said. “But some side effects are quite minor and certainly an acceptable risk in relation to the potential benefits.”

  “I guess that’s the crux of the philosophical argument,” Kim said.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Edward said. “I remembered those two books I’d promised to loan you.” He reached in the backseat, grabbed the books, and slipped them into Kim’s lap. Kim leafed through them, jokingly complaining that there weren’t any pictures. Edward laughed.

  “I tried to look up your ancestor in the one on the Salem witch trials,” Edward said. “But there is no Elizabeth Stewart in the index. Are you sure she was executed? Those authors did extensive research.”

  “As far as I know,” Kim sai
d. She glanced in the index of Salem Possessed. It went from “spectral testimony” to “Stoughton, William.” There was no Stewart at all.

  After a half-hour drive they entered Salem. Their route took them past the Witch House. Edward’s interest was immediately aroused, and he pulled to the side of the road.

  “What’s that place?” he asked.

  “It’s called the Witch House,” Kim said. “It’s one of the prime tourist attractions in the area.”

  “Is it truly seventeenth century?” Edward asked as he stared at the old building. “Or is it Disneyland-like re-creation?”

  “It’s authentic,” Kim said. “It’s also on its original site. There is another seventeenth-century house nearby at the Peabody-Essex Institute, but it had been moved from another location.”

  “Cool,” Edward said. The building had a storybook appeal. He was enthralled by the way the second story protruded from the first, and by the diamond-shaped panes of glass.

  “Calling it cool dates you.” Kim laughed. “Call it ‘awesome.’”

  “OK,” Edward said agreeably. “It’s awesome.”

  “It’s also surprisingly similar to the old house I’m going to show you on the Stewart family compound,” Kim said. “But it’s technically not a witch house since no witch lived in it. It was the home of Jonathan Corwin. He was one of the magistrates who conducted some of the preliminary hearings.”

  “I remember the name from Salem Possessed,” Edward said. “It certainly brings history to life when you see an actual site.” Then he turned to Kim. “How far is the Stewart compound from here?”

  “Not far,” Kim said. “Maybe ten minutes tops.”

  “Did you have breakfast this morning?”

  “Just some juice and fruit,” Kim said.

  “How about stopping for coffee and a donut?” Edward asked.

  “Sounds good,” Kim said.

  Since it was still early and the bulk of the tourists had yet to arrive, they had no trouble finding parking near the Salem Commons. Just across the street was a coffee shop. They got coffee-to-go and strolled around the center of town, peeking into the Witch Museum and a few of the other tourist attractions. As they walked down the pedestrian mall on Essex Street, they noticed how many shops and pushcarts were selling witch-related souvenirs.

  “The witch trials spawned an entire cottage industry,” Edward commented. “I’m afraid it’s a little tacky.”

  “It does trivialize the ordeal,” Kim said. “But it also stands as testament to the affair’s appeal. Everybody finds it so fascinating.”

  Wandering into the National Park Service Visitor Center, Kim found herself confronted by a virtual library of books and pamphlets on the trials. “I had no idea there was so much literature available,” she said. After a few moments of browsing, she purchased several books. She explained to Edward that once she got interested in something she usually went overboard.

  Returning to the car, they drove out North Street, passing the Witch House again, and turned right on Orne Road. As they passed the Greenlawn Cemetery Kim mentioned that it had once been part of the Stewarts’ land.

  Kim directed Edward to turn right onto a dirt road. As they bumped along, Edward had to fight with the steering wheel. It was impossible to miss all the potholes.

  “Are you sure we’re on the right road?” Edward asked.

  “Absolutely,” Kim assured him.

  After a few twists and turns they approached an impressive wrought-iron gate. The gate was suspended from massive stanchions constructed of rough-hewn granite blocks. A high iron fence topped with sharpened spikes disappeared into the dense forest on either side of the road.

  “Is this it?” Edward questioned.

  “This is it,” Kim answered as she alighted from the car.

  “Rather imposing,” Edward called as Kim struggled to open the heavy padlock securing the gate. “And not that inviting.”

  “It was an affectation of the age,” Kim yelled back. “People with means wanted to project a baronial image.” After removing the padlock, she pushed the gate open. Its hinges creaked loudly.

  Kim returned to the car and they drove through the gate. After a few more twists and turns the road opened up to a large grassy field. Edward stopped again.

  “Good Lord,” Edward said. “Now I understand why you said baronial.”

  Dominating the enormous field was a huge, multistoried stone house complete with turrets, crenellations, and machicolations. The roof was slate and pockmarked with fanciful decorations and finial-topped dormers. Chimneys sprouted like weeds from all parts of the structure.

  “An interesting mélange of styles,” Edward said. “It’s part medieval castle, part Tudor manor, part French château. It’s amazing.”

  “The family has always called it the castle,” Kim explained.

  “I can see why,” Edward said. “When you described it as a huge, drafty old place, I had no idea it was going to look like this. This belongs down in Newport with the Breakers.”

  “The North Shore of Boston still has quite a few of these huge old houses,” Kim said. “Of course some of them have been torn down. Others have been recycled into condos, but that market is flat at the moment. You can understand why it’s a white elephant for me and my brother.”

  “Where’s the old house?” Edward asked.

  Kim pointed to the right. In the distance Edward could just make out a dark-brown building nestled in a stand of birch trees.

  “What’s that stone building to the left?” Edward asked.

  “That was once a mill,” Kim said. “But it was turned into stables a couple of hundred years ago.”

  Edward laughed. “It’s amazing you can take all this in stride,” he said. “In my mind anything over fifty years old is a relic.”

  Edward started driving again but quickly stopped. He’d come abreast of a fieldstone wall that was mostly overgrown with weeds.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the wall.

  “That’s the old family burial ground,” Kim said.

  “No fooling,” Edward said. “Can we look?”

  “Of course,” Kim said.

  They got out of the car and climbed over the wall. They couldn’t use the entrance since it was blocked by a dense thicket of blackberry bushes.

  “Looks like a lot of the headstones are broken,” Edward said. “And fairly recently.” He picked up a broken piece of marble.

  “Vandalism,” Kim said. “There’s not much we can do about it since the place is vacant.”

  “It’s a shame,” Edward said. He looked at the date. It was 1843. The name was Nathaniel Stewart.

  “The family used this plot until the middle of the last century,” Kim explained.

  Slowly they walked back through the overgrown graveyard. The farther they went the more simple the headstones became and the older they got.

  “Is Ronald Stewart in here?” Edward asked.

  “He is,” Kim said. She led him over to a simple round headstone with a skull and crossed bones done in low relief. On it was written: Here lyes buried y body of Ronald Stewart y son of John and Lydia Stewart, aged 81 years Dec’d. oct. y 1. 1734.

  “Eighty-one,” Edward remarked. “Healthy guy. To reach such a ripe old age he must have been smart enough to stay away from doctors. In those days with all the reliance on bloodletting and a primitive pharmacopoeia, doctors were as lethal as most of the illnesses.”

  Next to Ronald’s grave was Rebecca Stewart’s. Her stone described her as Ronald’s wife.

  “I guess he got remarried,” Kim said.

  “Is Elizabeth buried in here?” Edward asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kim said. “No one ever pointed out her grave to me.”

  “Are you sure this Elizabeth even existed?” Edward asked.

  “I think so,” Kim said. “But I can’t swear to it.”

  “Let’s see if we can find her,” Edward suggested. “She’d have to be in this gen
eral area.”

  For a few minutes they searched in silence, Kim going one way, Edward another.

  “Edward!” Kim called.

  “Did you find her?” Edward asked.

  “Well, sort of,” Kim said.

  Edward joined her. She was looking at a headstone similar in design to Ronald’s. It belonged to Jonathan Stewart, who was described as the son of Ronald and Elizabeth Stewart.

  “At least we know she existed,” Kim said.

  They searched for another half hour but didn’t find Elizabeth’s grave. Finally they gave up and went back to the car. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the old house. They both got out.

  “You weren’t kidding when you said it looked like the Witch House,” Edward said. “It’s got the same massive central chimney, the same steeply pitched gable roof, the same clapboard siding, and the same diamond-shaped panes of glass. And most curious, there is the same protrusion of the second story over the first. I wonder why they did that.”

  “I don’t think anyone knows for certain,” Kim said. “The Ward House at the Peabody-Essex Institute has the same feature.”

  “The pendants under the overhang are much more decorative than those at the Witch House,” Edward said.

  “Whoever turned those had quite a flair,” Kim agreed.

  “It’s a charming house,” Edward said. “It has so much more class than the castle.”

  Slowly they strolled around the aged building, pointing out its details. In the back Edward noticed a freestanding, smaller structure. He asked if it were equally as old.

  “I believe so,” Kim said. “I was told it was for the animals.”

  “A mini-barn,” Edward said.

  Returning to the front door, Kim had to try multiple keys before she found one that unlocked the door. As she pushed it open it creaked just like the outer gate to the compound.

  “Sounds like a haunted house,” Edward said.

  “Don’t say that,” Kim protested.

  “Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts?” Edward said.

  “Let’s just say I respect them,” Kim said with a laugh. “So you go first.”

  Edward stepped through the door into a small front hall. Directly ahead was a flight of stairs that twisted up out of sight. On either side were doors. The door on the right led into the kitchen, the one on the left to the parlor.