Robin Cook: Acceptable Risk

When the wagon reached Essex Street and turned to the west, the crowd surged after it. Standing out in the throng was Reverend Cotton Mather as the only person on horseback.

Almost a half hour later Ronald again heard the telltale sound of metal clanking against the cobblestones of the prison courtyard. Presently a second wagon appeared. In the back sat Elizabeth with her head bowed. Due to the weight of her iron manacles she’d not been able to stand. As the wagon lumbered past Ronald, Elizabeth did not raise her eyes nor did Ronald call out to her. Neither knew what to say.

Ronald followed at a distance, thinking it was like living in a nightmare. He felt great ambivalence about his presence. He wanted to flee and hide from the world, but at the same time he wanted to be with Elizabeth until the end.

Just west of Salem Town, after crossing the Town Bridge, the wagon turned off the main road and began to climb Gallows Hill. The road ascended through a scrub of thornbushes until it opened out onto an inhospitable rocky ridge dotted with a few oaks and locust trees. Elizabeth’s wagon pulled next to the empty first wagon and stopped.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Ronald stepped from behind the wagons. Ahead he could see the noisy throng of townspeople gathered around one of the larger oak trees. Cotton Mather was behind the crowd and still mounted. At the base of the tree stood the condemned. A black-hooded hangman who’d been brought from Boston had looped a rope over a stout branch. One end he’d tied to the base of the tree while the other he’d fashioned into a noose and fitted over the head of Sarah Good. Sarah Good at that moment was precariously poised on a rung of a ladder leaning against the tree.

Ronald could see Reverend Noyes of the Salem Town Church approach the prisoner. In his hand he clutched a Bible. “Confess, witch!” Reverend Noyes yelled.

“I am no more a witch than you are a wizard,” Sarah yelled back at him. She then cursed the minister, but Ronald could not hear her words for a jeer rose up from the crowd followed by someone yelling for the hangman to get on with it. Obligingly the hangman gave Sarah Good a push, and she swung clear of the ladder.

The crowd cheered and chanted “Die, witch,” as Sarah Good struggled against the strangulating rope. Her face empurpled then blackened. As soon as Sarah’s writhing ended, the hangman proceeded with the others, each in her turn.

With each successive victim, the crowd’s cheering mellowed. By the time the last woman had been pushed from the ladder and the first victims were being cut down, the crowd had lost interest. Although some people had drifted over to see the bodies tossed into a shallow, rocky, common grave, most had already started back toward town, where the revelry would continue.

It was then that Elizabeth was commended to the hangman. He had to help her walk to the ladder due to the excessive weight of her chains.

Ronald swallowed. His legs felt weak. He wanted to cry out in anger. He wanted to beg for mercy. But he did nothing. He could not move.

Reverend Mather, who caught sight of him, rode over. “It is God’s will,” he said. He struggled with his horse, which sensed Ronald’s torment.

Ronald did not take his eyes off Elizabeth. He wanted to rush forward and kill the hangman.

“You must remember what Elizabeth did and what she made,” Reverend Mather said. “You should thank the Lord death hath intervened to save our Zion. Remember you have seen the evidence with your own eyes.”

Ronald managed to nod as he vainly fought to hold back his tears. He’d seen the evidence. Clearly it was the devil’s work. “But why?” Ronald shouted suddenly. “Why Elizabeth?”

For a brief second Ronald saw Elizabeth’s eyes rise to meet his. Her mouth began to move as if she was about to speak, but before she could, the hangman gave her a decisive shove. In contrast to his technique with the others, the hangman had left slack in the rope around Elizabeth’s neck. As she left the ladder, her body fell for several feet before being jerked to a sudden, deathly stop. Unlike the others she did not struggle nor did her face turn black.

Ronald’s head sank into his hands and he wept.

Tuesday, July 12, 1994

Kimberly Stewart glanced at her watch as she went through the turnstile and exited the MBTA subway at Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was a few minutes before seven p.m. She knew she would be on time or only minutes late, but still she hurried. Pushing through the crowd milling about the news kiosk in the middle of the square, she half ran and half walked the short distance on Massachusetts Avenue before turning right on Holyoke Street.

Pausing to catch her breath in front of the Hasty Pudding Club building, Kimberly glanced up at the structure. She knew about the Harvard social club only in reference to the annual award it gave to an actor and an actress. The building was brick with white trim like most buildings at Harvard. She’d never been inside although it housed a public restaurant called Upstairs at the Pudding. This was to be her first visit.

With her breathing restored to near normal, Kim opened the door and entered only to be confronted by several sizable flights of stairs. By the time she got to the maitre d’s podium she was again mildly winded. She asked for the ladies’ room.

While Kim wrestled with her thick, raven hair which refused to do what she wanted it to do, she told herself there was no need to be nervous. After all, Stanton Lewis was family. The problem was that he had never before called at the last minute to say that he “needed” her to come to dinner and that it was an “emergency.”

Giving up on her hair and feeling totally thrown together, Kim again presented herself at the maitre d’s podium. This time she announced she was to meet Mr. and Mrs. Stanton Lewis.

“Most of your party is here,” the hostess said.

As Kim followed the hostess through the main part of the restaurant, her anxiety went up a notch. She didn’t like the sound of “party.” She wondered who else would be at the dinner.

The hostess led Kim out onto a trellised terrace that was crowded with diners. Stanton and his wife, Candice, were sitting at a four-top in the corner.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Kim said as she arrived at the table.

“You’re not late in the slightest,” Stanton said.

He leaped to his feet and enveloped Kim in an extended and demonstrative hug that bent her backwards. It also turned her face a bright red. She had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone on the crowded terrace was watching. Once she was able to break free from Stanton’s bear hug she retreated to the chair held out by the hostess and tried to melt into her seat.

Kim always felt uncomfortably obvious around Stanton. Although they were cousins, Kim thought they were the social antithesis of each other. While she considered herself moderately shy, occasionally even awkward, he was a paragon of confidence: an urbane and aggressively assertive sophisticate. He was built like a ski racer and stood straight and tall, overpowering people as the consummate entrepreneur. Even his wife, Candice, despite her demure smile, made Kim feel socially inept.

Kim hazarded a quick glance around her, and as she did so she inadvertently bumped the hostess, who was attempting to lay Kim’s napkin across her lap. Both apologized simultaneously.

“Relax, cousin,” Stanton said after the hostess had departed. He reached across the table and poured Kim a glass of white wine. “As usual you’re wound up like a banjo wire.”