by Robin Cook
Edward skirted Divinity Hall and entered the Harvard biological labs. From a departmental secretary he got directions to Kevin Scranton’s lab. He found his thin, bearded friend busy in his office. Kevin and Edward had gone to Wesleyan together but hadn’t seen each other since Edward had returned to Harvard to teach.
They spent the first ten minutes rehashing old times before Edward got down to the reason for his visit. He put the three containers on the corner of Kevin’s desk.
“I want you to see if you can find Claviceps purpurea,” Edward said.
Kevin picked up one of the containers and opened the lid. “Can you tell me why?” he asked. He fingered a small amount of the dirt.
“You’d never guess,” Edward said. He then told Kevin how he’d obtained the samples and the background concerning the Salem witch trials. He didn’t mention the Stewart family name, thinking he owed as much to Kim.
“Sounds intriguing,” Kevin said when Edward finished his story. Kevin stood up and proceeded to make a wet mount of a small sample of the dirt.
“I thought it could make a cute little paper for Science or Nature,” Edward said. “Provided we find spores from Claviceps.”
Kevin slipped the wet mount under his office microscope and began scanning the sample. “Well, there are plenty of spores in here, but of course that’s not unusual.”
“How’s the best way to see if they’re Claviceps or not?” Edward asked.
“There are several ways,” Kevin said. “How soon do you want an answer?”
“As soon as possible,” Edward said.
“DNA would take some time,” Kevin said. “There are probably three to five thousand different fungal species in each sample. Besides, the most definitive method would be if we can grow some Claviceps. The problem is, it’s not that easy. But I’ll give it a shot.”
Edward stood up. “I’d appreciate whatever you can do.”
Taking a minute to collect herself, Kim raised her gloved hand so that her bare forearm could push her hair off her forehead. It had been a typically busy day in the surgical intensive-care unit, rewarding yet intense. She was exhausted and looking forward to getting off in another twenty minutes. Unfortunately her moment of relaxation was interrupted. Kinnard Monihan came into the unit with a sick patient.
Kim as well as the other nurses who were momentarily free lent a hand getting the new admission settled. Kinnard helped as did an anesthesiologist who’d come in with him.
While they worked, Kim and Kinnard avoided eye contact. But Kim was acutely aware of his presence, especially when their efforts on the patient’s behalf brought them side by side. Kinnard was a tall, wiry man of twenty-eight with sharply angular features. He was light on his feet and agile, more like a boxer in training than a doctor in the middle of a surgical residency.
With the patient settled, Kim headed for the central desk. She felt a hand on her arm, and she turned to look up into Kinnard’s dark, intense eyes.
“You’re not still angry?” Kinnard asked. He had no trouble bringing up sensitive issues right in the middle of the intensive-care unit.
Feeling a wave of anxiety, Kim looked away. Her mind was a muddle of conflicted emotion.
“Don’t tell me you’re not even going to talk to me,” Kinnard said. “Aren’t you carrying your hurt feelings a bit too far?”
“I warned you,” Kim began when she found her voice. “I told you that things would be different if you insisted on going on your fly-fishing trip when we’d planned to go to Martha’s Vineyard.”
“We never made definite plans for the Vineyard,” Kinnard said. “And I hadn’t anticipated Dr. Markey offering to include me on the camping trip.”
“If we hadn’t made plans,” Kim said, “how come I had arranged to have the time off? And how come I’d called my family’s friends and arranged to stay in their bungalow?”
“We’d only mentioned it once,” Kinnard said.
“Twice,” Kim said. “And the second time I told you about the bungalow.”
“Listen,” Kinnard said. “It was important for me to go on the camping trip. Dr. Markey is the number-two man in the department. Maybe you and I had a little miscommun-ication, but it shouldn’t cause all this angst.”
“What makes it even worse is that you don’t feel contrite in the slightest,” Kim said. Her face reddened.
“I’m not going to apologize when I don’t think I did anything wrong,” Kinnard said.
“Fine,” Kim said. She started for the central desk again. Kinnard again restrained her.
“I’m sorry you are upset,” Kinnard said. “I really thought you’d have calmed down by now. Let’s talk about it more on Saturday night. I’m not on call. Maybe we could have dinner and see a show.”
“I’m sorry, but I already have plans,” Kim said. It was untrue, and she felt her stomach tighten. She hated confrontations and knew she wasn’t good at them. Any type of discord affected her viscerally.
Kinnard’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, I see,” he said. His eyes narrowed.
Kim swallowed. She could tell he was angry.
“This is a game that two can play,” he said. “There’s someone I’ve been thinking about dating. This is my opportunity.”
“Who?” Kim asked. The second the question came out of her mouth she regretted it.
Kinnard gave her a malicious smile and walked off.
Concerned about losing her composure, Kim retreated to the privacy of the storeroom. She was shaking. After a few deep breaths she felt more in control and ready to get back to work. She was about to return to the unit when the door opened and Marsha Kingsley, her roommate, walked in.
“I happened to overhear that encounter,” Marsha said. She was a petite, spirited woman with a mane of auburn hair which she wore in a bun while working in the surgical intensive-care unit. Not only were Kim and Marsha roommates, they were also SICU colleagues.
“He’s an ass,” Marsha said. She knew the history of Kim’s relationship with Kinnard better than anyone. “Don’t let that egotist get your goat.”
Marsha’s sudden appearance disarmed Kim’s control over her tears. “I hate confrontations,” Kim said.
“I think you handled yourself exemplarily,” Marsha said. She handed Kim a tissue.
“He wouldn’t even apologize,” Kim said. She wiped her eyes.
“He’s an insensitive bum,” Marsha said supportively.
“I don’t know what I did wrong,” Kim said. “Up until recently I thought we’d had a good relationship.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marsha said. “It’s his problem. He’s too selfish. Look at the comparison between his behavior and Edward’s. Edward’s been sending you flowers every day.”
“I don’t need flowers every day,” Kim said.
“Of course not,” Marsha said. “It’s the thought that counts. Kinnard doesn’t think of your feelings. You deserve better.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Kim said. She blew her nose. “Yet one thing is for sure. I have to make some changes in my life. What I’m thinking of doing is to move up to Salem. I’ve got the idea to fix up an old house on the family compound I inherited with my brother.”
“That’s a great idea,” Marsha said. “It will be good for you to have a change of scene, especially with Kinnard living on Beacon Hill.”
“That was my thought,” Kim said. “I’m heading up there right after work. How about coming along? I’d love the company, and maybe you’d have some good ideas about what to do with the place.”
“Give me a rain check,” Marsha said. “I’ve got to meet some people at the apartment.”
After finishing work and giving a report, Kim left the hospital. She climbed into her car and drove out of town. There was a little traffic, but it moved quickly, particularly after she passed over the Tobin Bridge. Her first stop was her childhood home on Marblehead Neck.
“Anybody here?” Kim called out as she entered the foyer of
the French château–style home. It was beautifully sited directly on the ocean. There were some superficial similarities between it and the castle, although it was far smaller and more tasteful.
“I’m in the sunroom, dear,” Joyce answered from afar.
Skirting the main stairs, Kim walked down the long central corridor and out into the room in which her mother spent most of her time. It was indeed a sunroom with glass on three sides. It faced south overlooking the terraced lawn, but to the east it had a breathtaking vista over the ocean.
“You’re still in your uniform,” Joyce said. Her tone was deprecatory, as only a daughter could sense.
“I came directly from work,” Kim said. “I wanted to avoid the traffic.”
“Well, I hope you haven’t brought any hospital germs with you,” Joyce said. “That’s all I need right now is to get sick again.”
“I don’t work in infectious disease,” Kim said. “Where I work in the unit there’s probably less bacteria than here.”
“Don’t say that,” Joyce snapped.
The two women didn’t look anything alike. Kim favored her father in terms of facial structure and hair. Joyce’s face was narrow, her eyes deeply set, and her nose slightly aquiline. Her hair had once been brunette but was now mostly gray. She’d never colored it. Her skin was as pale as white marble despite the fact that it was almost midsummer.
“I notice you are still in your dressing gown,” Kim said. She sat on a couch across from her mother’s chaise.
“There was no reason for me to dress,” Joyce said. “Besides, I haven’t been feeling well.”
“I suppose that means that Dad is not here,” Kim said. Over the years she’d learned the pattern.
“Your father left last evening on a short business trip to London,” Joyce said.
“I’m sorry,” Kim said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Joyce said. “When he’s here, he ignores me anyway. Did you want to see him?”
“I’d hoped to,” Kim said.
“He’ll be back Thursday,” Joyce said. “If it suits him.”
Kim recognized her mother’s martyred tone of voice. “Did Grace Traters go along with him?” Kim asked. Grace Traters was Kim’s father’s personal assistant in a long line of personal assistants.
“Of course Grace went along,” Joyce said angrily. “John can’t tie his shoes without Grace.”
“If it bothers you, why do you put up with it, Mother?” Kim asked.
“I have no choice in the matter,” Joyce said.
Kim bit her tongue. She could feel herself getting upset. She felt sorry for her mother on the one hand for what she had to deal with and angry with her on the other for her playing the victim. Her father had always had affairs, some more open than others. It had been going on for as long as Kim could remember.
Changing the subject, Kim asked about Elizabeth Stewart.
Joyce’s reading glasses dropped off the end of her nose where they had been precariously perched. They dangled against her bosom from a chain around her neck.
“What a strange question,” Joyce said. “Why on earth are you inquiring about her?”
“I happened to stumble across her portrait in Granddad’s wine cellar,” Kim said. “It rather startled me, especially since I seem to have the same color eyes. Then I realized I knew very little about her. Was she really hanged for witchcraft?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Joyce said.
“Oh, Mother, why on earth not?” Kim asked.
“It’s simply a taboo subject,” Joyce said.
“You should remind your nephew Stanton,” Kim said. “He brought it up at a recent dinner party.”
“I will indeed remind him,” Joyce said. “That’s inexcusable. He knows better.”
“How can it be a taboo subject after so many years?” Kim asked.
“It’s not something to be proud of,” Joyce said. “It was a sordid affair.”
“I did some reading about the Salem witch trials yesterday,” Kim said. “There’s a lot of material available. But Elizabeth Stewart is never mentioned. I’m beginning to wonder if she was involved.”
“It’s my understanding she was involved,” Joyce said. “But let’s leave it at that. How did you happen to come across her portrait?”
“I was in the castle,” Kim said. “I went to the compound on Saturday. I have it in mind to fix up the old house and live in it.”
“Why in heaven’s name would you want to do that?” Joyce asked. “It’s so small.”
“It could be charming,” Kim said. “And it’s larger than my current apartment. Besides, I want to get out of Boston.”
“I’d think it would be an enormous job to make it habitable,” Joyce said.
“That’s part of the reason I wanted to talk to Father,” Kim said. “Of course he’s not around. I have to say, he has never been around when I needed him.”
“He wouldn’t have any idea about such a project,” Joyce said. “You should talk to George Harris and Mark Stevens. They are the contractor and the architect who just finished the renovation in this house, and the project couldn’t have gone any better. They work as a team, and their office is conveniently located in Salem.
“The other person you should talk to is your brother, Brian.”
“That goes without saying,” Kim said.
“You call your brother from here,” Joyce said. “While you’re doing that, I’ll get the phone number of the contractor and the architect.”
Joyce climbed out of her chaise and disappeared. Kim smiled as she lifted the phone onto her lap. Her mother never ceased to amaze her. One minute she could be the epitome of self-absorbed immobility, the next a whirlwind of activity, totally involved in someone else’s project. Intuitively Kim knew what the problem was: her mother didn’t have enough to do. Unlike her friends she’d never gotten involved in volunteer activities.
Kim glanced at her watch as the call went through and tried to guess the time in London. Not that it mattered. Her brother was an insomniac who worked at night and slept in snatches during the day like a nocturnal creature.
Brian answered on the first ring. After they had exchanged hellos, Kim described her idea. Brian’s response was overwhelmingly positive, and he encouraged her to go ahead with the plan. He thought it would be much better to have someone on the property. Brian’s only question was about the castle and all its furnishings.
“I’m not going to touch that place,” Kim said. “We’ll attack that when you come back.”
“Fair enough,” Brian said.
“Where’s Father?” Kim asked.
“John’s at the Ritz,” Brian said.
“And Grace?”
“Don’t ask,” Brian said. “They’ll be back Thursday.”
While Kim was saying goodbye to Brian, Joyce reappeared and wordlessly handed her a scrap of paper with a local phone number. As soon as Kim hung up from Brian, Joyce told her to dial the number.
Kim dialed. “Who should I ask for?” she said.
“Mark Stevens,” Joyce said. “He’s expecting your call. I phoned him on the other line while you were speaking with Brian.”
Kim felt a mild resentment toward her mother’s interference, but she didn’t say anything. She knew Joyce was only trying to be helpful. Yet Kim could remember times when she was in middle school and had to fight to keep her mother from writing her school papers.
The conversation with Mark Stevens was short. Having learned from Joyce that Kim was in the area, he suggested they meet at the compound in half an hour. He said he’d have to see the property in order to advise her intelligently. Kim agreed to meet with him.
“If you decide to renovate that old house, at least you’ll be in good hands,” Joyce said after Kim had hung up.
Kim got to her feet. “I’d better be going,” she said. Despite a conscious attempt to suppress it, Kim felt irritation returning toward her mother. It was the interference and lack of privacy that
bothered her. She recalled her mother asking Stanton to fix her up after telling him Kim had broken off her relationship with Kinnard.
“I’ll walk you out,” Joyce said.
“There’s no need, Mother,” Kim said.
“I want to,” Joyce said.
They started down the long hall.
“When you speak with your father about the old house,” Joyce said, “I advise you not to bring up the issue about Elizabeth Stewart. It will only irritate him.”
“Why would it irritate him?” Kim demanded.
“Don’t get upset,” Joyce said. “I’m just trying to keep peace in the family.”
“But it is ridiculous,” Kim snapped. “I don’t understand.”
“I only know that Elizabeth came from a poor farming family from Andover,” Joyce said. “She wasn’t even an official member of the church.”
“As if that matters today,” Kim said. “The irony is that within months of the affair there were public apologies from some of the jury members and justices because they realized innocent people had been executed. And here we are three hundred years later refusing to even talk about our ancestor. It doesn’t make any sense. And why isn’t her name in any of the books?”
“Obviously it’s because the family didn’t want it to be,” Joyce said. “I don’t think the family thought she was innocent. That’s why it’s an affair that should be left in the closet.”
“I think it’s a bunch of rubbish,” Kim said.
Kim got into her car and drove off Marblehead Neck. When she got into Marblehead proper she had to force herself to slow down. Thanks to a vague sense of unease and vexation, she’d been driving much too fast. As she passed the Witch House in Salem, she put words to her thoughts, and admitted to herself that her curiosity about Elizabeth and the witch trials had gone up a notch despite her mother’s warnings, or perhaps because of them.
When Kim pulled up to the family compound gate, a Ford Bronco was parked at the side of the road. As she got out of her car with the keys to the gate’s padlock, two men climbed from the Bronco. One was stocky and muscular as if he worked out with weights on a daily basis. The other was borderline obese and seemed to be out of breath merely from the effort of getting out of the car.