Acceptable Risk

by Robin Cook

  Late in the afternoon they stopped into an Indian restaurant and had a delicious tandoor-style dinner. The only problem was that the restaurant lacked a liquor license. Both agreed the spicy food would have been far better with cold beer.

  From the Indian restaurant they walked back to Beacon Hill. Sitting on Kinnard’s couch, they each had a glass of cold white wine. Kim soon felt herself getting sleepy.

  She turned in early in anticipation of having to get up at the crack of dawn for work. She did not need any Xanax when she slipped between Kinnard’s freshly laundered sheets. Almost immediately she fell into a deep, restful sleep.

  19

  * * *

  Monday,

  October 3, 1994

  Kim had almost forgotten how hard a normal day was in the SICU. She was the first to acknowledge that after a month’s vacation she was out of shape for both the physical and emotional stamina that was needed. But as the day drew to a close, she had to admit that she’d truly enjoyed the intensity, the challenge, and the sense of accomplishment of helping people in dire need, not to mention the comradeship of shared endeavor.

  Kinnard had appeared several times during the day with patients coming from surgery. Kim made it a point to be available to help. She thanked him again for the best night’s sleep she’d had in weeks. He told her that she was welcome anytime, even that night, despite the fact that he was on call and would be spending the night in the hospital.

  Kim would have liked to stay. After her isolation at the compound, she’d enjoyed being in Boston, and she’d become nostalgic for the time she’d lived there. But she knew she had to get back. She wasn’t under any delusion that Edward would be available, but she still felt a strong obligation to be there.

  As soon as Kim’s shift was over, she walked to the corner of Charles and Cambridge streets and caught the Red Line to Harvard Square. The trains were frequent at that hour, and after only twenty minutes she was walking northwest on Massachusetts Avenue on her way to the Harvard Law School.

  Kim slowed her pace when she realized she was perspiring. It was another hot Indian summer day, without the previous day’s crystalline clarity. There was no breeze whatsoever, and a hazy, muggy canopy was stalled over the city, making it seem more like summer than fall. The weatherman warned of possible violent thunderstorms.

  Kim got directions to the Law Library from a student. She found it with no difficulty. The air-conditioned interior was a relief.

  Another inquiry directed her to Helen Arnold’s office. Kim gave her name to a secretary and was told she’d have to wait. No sooner had Kim sat down when a tall, slender, and strikingly attractive black woman appeared in a connecting doorway and waved her in.

  “I’m Helen Arnold, and I’ve got some good news for you,” the woman said enthusiastically. She led Kim into her office and motioned for her to sit down.

  Kim was struck by the woman’s appearance. It wasn’t what she expected at a law school library. Her hair was done in the most exquisite cornrows Kim had ever seen, and her dress was a brilliantly colored silk chemise loosely gathered at the waist with a gold chain belt.

  “I spoke this morning, quite early if you must know, with Ms. Sturburg, who is a wonderful woman by the way, and she told me all about your interest in a work by Rachel Bingham.”

  Kim nodded through this dialogue which Helen delivered in rapid-fire.

  “Have you found it?” Kim asked as soon as Helen paused.

  “Yes and no,” Helen said. She smiled warmly. “The good news is that I confirmed Katherine Sturburg’s belief that the work survived the fire of 1764. I am absolutely sure of this. Mark my word. Apparently it had been rather permanently housed in the chambers of one of the tutors who’d lived outside Old Harvard Hall. Isn’t that good news?”

  “I’m pleased,” Kim said. “In fact I’m thrilled it wasn’t destroyed. But you qualified your answer to my question whether you’d found it. What did you mean by ‘yes and no’?”

  “I meant simply that although I hadn’t found the book itself, I did find reference to the fact that the work did indeed come here to the Law School for the Law Library. I also learned there’d been some confusion and difficulty of how or where to file the work, although it had something to do with Ecclesiastic Law as your letter from Increase Mather suggested. By the way, I thought the letter was a fabulous find, and I understand you have offered to give it to Harvard. That’s very generous of you.”

  “It’s the least I could do for all this trouble I’ve caused,” Kim said. “But what about the Rachel Bingham work? Does anybody know where it might be?”

  “There is someone,” Helen said. “After a bit more digging around, I discovered the work had been transferred from the Law Library to the Divinity School in 1825, right after the construction of Divinity Hall. I don’t know why it was transferred; perhaps it had something to do with the filing difficulties here at the Law Library.”

  “My Lord!” Kim exclaimed. “What a journey this book has had.”

  “I took the liberty of calling my counterpart over at the Divinity School Library just before noon,” Helen said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” Kim said. She was pleased Helen had taken the initiative.

  “Her name is Gertrude Havermeyer,” Helen said. “She’s something of a battleax, but she’s got a good heart. She promised she’d look right into it.” Helen took a piece of note paper and wrote down Gertrude’s name and phone number. She then took out a single-sheet map of the Harvard campus and circled the Divinity School.

  A few minutes later Kim was on her way across the campus. She passed the Physics Lab and skirted the Museum Building to reach Divinity Avenue. From there it was just a few steps to Gertrude Havermeyer’s office.

  “So you’re the reason my entire afternoon has been wasted,” Gertrude said when Kim introduced herself. Gertrude Havermeyer was standing in front of her desk with her hands aggressively settled on her hips. As Helen Arnold had suggested, Gertrude projected a severe, uncompromising temperament. Otherwise her bravado belied her appearance. She was a petite, white-haired woman who squinted at Kim through wire-rimmed trifocals.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you,” Kim said guiltily.

  “Since I took the call from Helen Arnold I’ve not had a second to do my own work,” Gertrude complained. “It’s taken me literally hours.”

  “I hope at least your efforts weren’t in vain,” Kim said.

  “I did find a receipt in a ledger from that period,” Gertrude said. “So Helen was right. The Rachel Bingham work was sent from the Law School, and it did arrive here at the Divinity School. But as luck would have it, I could not find any reference to the book in the computer or in the old card catalogue or even in the very old catalogue which we’ve saved in the basement.”

  Kim’s heart fell. “I’m so sorry to have put you through all this for nothing,” she said.

  “Well, I didn’t give up there,” Gertrude said. “Not on your life. When I get committed to something, I don’t let it rest. So I went back through all the old handwritten cards from when the library was first organized. It was frustrating, but I did find another reference more by luck than anything else except perseverance. For the life of me I cannot figure out why it wasn’t included in the main library index.”

  Kim’s hopes brightened. Following the trail of Elizabeth’s evidence was like riding an emotional roller coaster. “Is the work still here?” she asked.

  “Heavens, no,” Gertrude said indignantly. “If it were, it would have been in the computer. We run a tight ship here. No, the final reference I found indicated that it had been sent to the Medical School in 1826 after being here for less than a year. Apparently no one knew where to put the material. It’s all very mysterious because there wasn’t even an indication of what category it belonged to.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Kim said with frustration. “Searching for this book or whatever it might be is
getting too much. It’s becoming a bad joke.”

  “Buck up!” Gertrude ordered. “I went through a lot of effort on your behalf. I even called over to the Countway Medical Library and spoke to John Moldavian, who’s in charge of rare books and manuscripts. I told him the story, and he assured me he’d look right into it.”

  After thanking Gertrude, Kim went back to Harvard Square and reboarded the Red Line for Boston.

  It was now rush hour, and Kim had to squeeze onto the train. There were no seats so she had to stand. As the train thundered over the Longfellow Bridge, Kim began to think seriously about giving up the whole Elizabeth quest. It had been like chasing a mirage. Every time she thought she was getting close, it turned out to be a false lead.

  Climbing into her car in the MGH garage, Kim started the engine and then thought about the heavy traffic she’d be facing on her way out to Salem. At that hour just getting through the Leverett Circle interchange would probably take close to a half hour.

  With a change of heart, Kim turned her car in the opposite direction and headed for the Countway Medical Library. She’d decided she might as well follow up on Gertrude’s lead rather than sit in traffic.

  John Moldavian seemed perfectly suited for work in a library. He was a soft-spoken, gentle man whose love for books was immediately apparent by the affectionate and caring manner he handled them.

  Kim introduced herself and mentioned Gertrude’s name. John responded immediately by searching for something among the clutter on his desk.

  “I’ve got something here for you,” he said. “Where in the devil did I put it?”

  Kim watched him as he shuffled through his papers. He had a thin face dominated by heavy black-framed glasses. His thin mustache looked almost too perfect, as if it had been drawn with an eyebrow pencil.

  “Is the Rachel Bingham work here at the library?” Kim hazarded to ask.

  “No, it’s no longer here,” John said. Then his face brightened. “Ah, here’s what I wanted.” He lifted a single sheet of copy paper.

  Kim silently sighed. So much for the Gertrude lead, she thought.

  “I looked through the Medical School Library records for 1826,” John said. “And I found this reference to the work you’re seeking.”

  “Let me guess,” Kim said. “It was sent somewhere else.”

  John regarded Kim over the top of the paper he was holding. “How did you guess?” he asked.

  Kim gave a short laugh. “It’s been a pattern,” she said. “Where did it go from here?”

  “It went to the Department of Anatomy,” John said. “Of course today it is called the Department of Cell Biology.”

  Kim shook her head in disbelief. “Why on earth would it have been sent there?” she asked rhetorically.

  “I’ve no idea,” John said. “The entry I found was rather strange. It was in the form of a hastily handwritten card that had apparently been attached to the book or manuscript or drawing. I made you a copy.” John handed the paper to Kim.

  Kim took it. It was hard to read, forcing her to turn herself in order to take advantage of the light coming through the window. It seemed to say: Curiosity by Rachel Bingham contrived in 1691. Looking at the word “curiosity” reminded Kim of Mary Custland telling her that a “repository of curiosities” had been lost in the 1764 fire, suggesting that the Rachel Bingham work had been a part of that collection. Thinking back to Jonathan’s letter to his father, Kim surmised that the handwriting she was now looking at was Jonathan’s. In her mind’s eye she could see a nervous Jonathan Stewart rapidly scribbling the card in a panic to get out of the tutor’s chamber where he’d surreptitiously entered to change the name to Rachel Bingham. Had he been discovered he probably would have been asked to leave the college.

  “I called over to the department chairman,” John said, interrupting Kim’s ruminations. “He referred me to another gentleman by the name of Carl Nebolsine, who’s the curator in charge of the Warren Anatomical Museum. So I called him. He told me that if I wanted to see the exhibit to come over to the administration building.”

  “You mean he has it?” Kim asked with disbelief.

  “Apparently so,” John said. “The Warren Anatomical Museum is on the fifth floor of building A, catty-corner from the front of the library. Are you interested in going over there?”

  “By all means,” Kim said. She could feel her pulse quicken at the thought that she might finally have found Elizabeth’s evidence.

  John reached for his phone. “Let’s see if Mr. Nebolsine is still over there. He was a little while ago, but I believe he has several offices. Apparently he takes care of a number of the smaller museums and collections sprinkled around the Harvard community.”

  John had a quick conversation in the middle of which he gave Kim a thumbs-up sign. Hanging up, he said, “You’re in luck. He’s still there, and he’ll meet you in the museum if you head over there immediately.”

  “I’m on my way,” Kim said. She thanked John and quickly crossed to building A, a Greek Revival structure faced with a massive pediment supported by Doric columns. A guard stopped her just inside the door but then waved her on when he spotted her MGH identity card.

  Kim got off on the fifth floor. The museum, such as it was, was tucked along the wall to the left and consisted of a series of glass-fronted display cases. They contained the usual collection of primitive surgical instruments capable of making a stoic wince, old photos, and pathological specimens. There were lots of skulls, including one with a hole through the left eye socket and the top of the forehead.

  “That’s quite an interesting case,” a voice said. Kim looked up to see a much younger man than she’d expected for a museum curator. “You must be Kimberly Stewart. I’m Carl Nebolsine.” They shook hands.

  “See that rod in there?” Carl said, pointing at a five-foot-long steel rod. “That’s called a tamping rod. It was used to pack powder and clay into a hole drilled for the purpose of blasting. One day a hundred or so years ago that rod went through that man’s head.” Carl pointed to the skull. “The amazing thing is that the man lived through it.”

  “Was he all right?” Kim asked.

  “It says his personality wasn’t as agreeable after he’d recovered from the trauma, but whose would be?” Carl said.

  Kim scanned some of the other exhibits. In the far corner she spotted some books on display.

  “I understand you’re interested in the Rachel Bingham exhibit,” Carl said.

  “Is it here?” Kim asked.

  “No,” Carl said.

  Kim looked at the man as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “It’s downstairs in the storeroom,” Carl said. “We don’t get a lot of requests to see it, and we don’t have nearly enough space to display everything we have. Would you like to see it?”

  “Very much,” Kim said with relief.

  They took the elevator down to the basement and followed a labyrinthine route that Kim would not have liked to retrace on her own. Carl unlocked a heavy steel door. Reaching in, he turned on the lights, such as they were: several bare light bulbs.

  The room was full of dusty old-style glass display cases.

  “Sorry about the mess down here,” Carl said. “It’s very dirty. No one comes in here very often.”

  Kim followed Carl as he weaved his way among the cabinets. Passing each one, Kim spied assortments of bones, books, instruments, and jars of preserved organs. Carl stopped. Kim came up behind him. He stepped aside and gestured within the cabinet in front of him.

  Kim recoiled with a mixture of horror and disgust. She was totally unprepared for what she was seeing. Crammed into a large glass jar filled with brown-stained preservative was a four-to-five-month-old fetus that looked like a monster.

  Oblivious to Kim’s reaction, Carl opened the cabinet. He reached in and dragged the heavy canister forward, jiggling the contents so that it danced grotesquely, causing bits of tissue to rain down like a glass bubble snow-scene paperweigh
t.

  Kim clasped a hand to her mouth as she stared at the anencephalic fetus, which had no brain and a flat cranium. It had a cleft palate that made it appear as if the mouth were drawn up into the nose. Its features were further distorted by being pressed up against the glass of the container. From just behind its relatively huge froglike eyes, the head was flat and covered with a shock of coal-black hair. The massive jaw was totally out of proportion to the face. The fetus’s stubby upper limbs ended in spadelike hands with short fingers, some of which were fused together. The effect was almost like cloven hooves. From the rump extended a long fishlike tail.

  “Would you like me to lift it down so we can carry it out to better light?” Carl asked.

  “No!” Kim said, a little too harshly. In a calmer voice she told Carl she could see the exhibit just fine where it was.

  Kim understood completely how the seventeenth-century mind would have viewed such a beastly malformation. This poor creature could easily have been taken for the devil incarnate. Indeed, copies of woodcut prints of the devil that Kim had seen from that era looked identical.

  “Would you like me at least to turn it around so you can see the other side?” Carl asked.

  “Thank you, no,” Kim said, unconsciously stepping back from the specimen. Now she knew why the Law School and the Divinity School had not known what to do with it. She also recalled the note John Moldavian had shown her in the Medical Library. It didn’t say, Curiosity by Rachel Bingham contrived in 1691. The word was conceived, not contrived!

  And Kim remembered the entry in Elizabeth’s diary where Elizabeth expressed concern over innocent Job. Job hadn’t been a biblical reference. Elizabeth had known she was pregnant and had already named the baby Job. How tragically apropos, Kim thought.