Robin Cook: Acceptable Risk

“Hey, relax,” Kinnard said, lifting up his hands as if to defend himself. “I understand. We’re friends, remember?”

“I’m sorry,” Kim said. “I must seem hyper to you. The fact of the matter is that I’m the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks.” She reached over and gave Kinnard’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you for being my friend.”

After leaving the park, they walked down Newbury Street and window-shopped. Then they indulged in one of Kim’s favorite Boston pastimes. They went into Waterstone’s Booksellers and browsed. Kim bought a paperback Dick Francis novel while Kinnard bought a travel book on Sicily. He said it was a place he always wanted to go.

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.

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 Katharine 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 if 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.