Robin Cook - Acceptable Risk

Acceptable Risk

Robin Cook

Saturday, February 6, 1692

Spurred on by the penetrating cold, Mercy Griggs snapped her riding crop above the back of her mare.

The horse picked up the pace, drawing the sleigh effortlessly over the hard-packed snow. Mercy

snuggled deeper into the high collar of her sealskin coat and clasped her hands together within her muff in

a vain attempt to shield herself from the arctic air.

It was a windless, clear day of pallid sunshine. Seasonally banished to its southern trajectory, the sun had

to struggle to illuminate the snowy landscape locked in the grip of a cruel New England winter. Even at

midday long violet shadows extended northward from the trunks of the leafless trees. Congealed masses

of smoke hung motionlessly above the chimneys of the widely dispersed farmhouses as if frozen against

the ice blue polar sky.

Mercy had been traveling for almost a half hour. She’d come southwest along the Ipswich Road from

her home at the base of Leach’s Hill on the Royal Side. She’d crossed bridges spanning the Frost Fish

River, the Crane River, and the Cow House River and now entered into the Northfields section of Salem

Town. From that point it was only a mile and a half to the town center.

But Mercy wasn’t going to town. As she passed the Jacobs’ farmhouse, she could see her destination. It

was the home of Ronald Stewart, a successful merchant and shipowner. What had drawn Mercy away

from her own warm hearth on such a frigid day was neighborly concern mixed with a dose of curiosity.

At the moment the Stewart household was the source of the most interesting gossip.

Pulling her mare to a stop in front of the house, Mercy eyed the structure. It certainly bespoke of Mr.

Stewart’s acumen as a merchant. It was an imposing, multi-gabled building, sheathed in brown clapboard

and roofed with the highest-grade slate. Its many windows were glazed with imported, diamond-shaped

panes of glass. Most impressive of all were the elaborately turned pendants suspended from the corners

of the second-floor overhang. All in all the house appeared more suited to the center of town than to the

countryside.

Confident that the sound of the sleigh bells on her horse’s harness had announced her arrival, Mercy

waited. To the right of the front door was another horse and sleigh, suggesting that company had already

arrived. The horse was under a blanket. From its nostrils issued intermittent billows of vapor that

vanished instantly into the bone-dry air.

Mercy didn’t have long to wait. Almost immediately the door opened and within the doorframe stood a

twenty-seven-year-old, raven-haired, green-eyed woman whom Mercy knew to be Elizabeth Stewart. In

her arms she comfortably cradled a musket. From around her sides issued a multitude of children’s

curious faces; unexpected social visits in isolated homes were not common in such weather.

"Mercy Griggs," called the visitor. "Wife of Dr. William Griggs. I’ve come to bid you good day."

"~’Tis a pleasure, indeed," called Elizabeth in return. "Come in for some hot cider to chase the chill from

your bones." Elizabeth leaned the musket against the inside doorframe and directed her oldest boy,

Jonathan, age nine, to go out to cover and tether Mrs. Griggs’ horse.

With great pleasure Mercy entered the house, and, following Elizabeth’s direction, turned right into the

common room. As she passed the musket, she eyed it. Elizabeth, catching her line of sight, explained:

"~’Tis from having grown up in the wilderness of Andover. We had to be on the lookout for Indians all

hours of the day."

"I see," Mercy said, although a woman wielding a musket was apart from her normal experience. Mercy

hesitated for a moment on the threshold of the kitchen and surveyed the domestic scene, which appeared

more like a school-house than a home. There were more than a half dozen children.

On the hearth was a large, crackling fire that radiated a welcome warmth. Enveloping the room was a

mixture of savory aromas: some of them were coming from the kettle of pork stew simmering on its lug

pole over the fire; others were rising from a large bowl of cooling corn pudding; but most were coming

from the beehive oven built into the back of the fireplace. Inside, multiple loaves of bread were turning a

dark, golden brown.

"I hope in God’s name I am not a bother," Mercy said.

"Heavens, no," Elizabeth replied as she took Mercy’s coat and directed her to a ladder-back chair near

the fire. "You’re a welcome reprieve from the likes of these unruly children. But you have caught me

baking, and I must remove my bread." Quickly she hefted a long-handled peel, and with short, deft

thrusts picked up the eight loaves one by one and deposited them to cool on the long trestle table that

dominated the center of the room.

Mercy watched Elizabeth as she worked, remarking to herself that she was a fine-looking woman with

her high cheekbones, porcelain complexion, and lithesome figure. It was also apparent she was

accomplished in the kitchen by the way she handled the bread-making and with the skill she evinced

stoking the fire and adjusting the trammel holding the kettle. At the same time Mercy sensed there was

something disturbing about Elizabeth’s persona. There wasn’t the requisite Christian meekness and

humbleness. In fact Elizabeth seemed to project an alacrity and boldness that was unbecoming of a

Puritan woman whose husband was away in Europe. Mercy began to sense that there was more to the

gossip that she’d heard than idle hearsay.

"The aroma of your bread has an unfamiliar piquancy," Mercy said as she leaned over the cooling

loaves.

"~’Tis rye bread," Elizabeth explained as she began to slip eight more loaves into the oven.

"Rye bread?" Mercy questioned. Only the poorest farmers with marshy land ate rye bread.

"I grew up on rye bread," Elizabeth explained. "I do indeed like its spicy taste. But you may wonder why

I am baking so many loaves. The reason is I have in mind to encourage the whole village to utilize rye to

conserve the wheat supplies. As you know, the cool wet weather through spring and summer and now

this terrible winter has hurt the crop."

"It is a noble thought," Mercy said. "But perhaps it is an issue for the men to discuss at the town

meeting."

Elizabeth then shocked Mercy with a hearty laugh. When Elizabeth noticed Mercy’s expression, she

explained herself: "The men don’t think in such practical terms. They are more concerned with the

polemic between the village and the town. Besides, there is more than a poor harvest. We women must

think of the refugees from the Indian raids since it is already the fourth year of King William’s War and

there’s no end in sight."

"A woman’s role is in the home~.~.~." Mercy began, but she trailed off, taken aback by Elizabeth’s

pertness.

"I’ve also been encouraging people to take the refugees into their homes," Elizabeth said as she dusted

the flour from her hands on her smocked apron. "We’ve taken in two children after the raid on Casco,

Maine, a year ago last May." Elizabeth called out sharply to the children and interrupted their play by

insisting they come to meet the doctor’s wife.

Elizabeth first introduced Mercy to Rebecca Sheaf, age twelve, and Mary Roots, age nine. Both had

been cruelly orphaned during the Casco raid, but now both appeared hale and happy. Next Elizabeth

introduced Joanna, age thirteen, Ronald’s daughter from a previous marriage. Then came her own

children: Sarah, age ten; Jonathan, age nine; and Daniel, age three. Finally Elizabeth introduced Ann

Putnam, age twelve; Abigail Williams, age eleven; and Betty Parris, age nine, who were visiting from

Salem Village.

After the children dutifully acknowledged Mercy, they were allowed to return to their play, which Mercy

noticed involved several glasses of water and fresh eggs.

"I’m surprised to see the village children here," Mercy said.

"I asked my children to invite them," Elizabeth said. "They are friends from attending the Royal Side

School. I felt it best that my children not school in Salem Town with all the riffraff and ruffians."

"I understand," Mercy said.

"I will be sending the children home with loaves of rye bread," Elizabeth said. She smiled friskily. "It will

be more effective than giving their families a mere suggestion."

Mercy nodded but didn’t comment. Elizabeth was mildly overwhelming.

"Would you care for a loaf?" Elizabeth asked.

"Oh, no, thank you," Mercy said. "My husband, the doctor, would never eat rye bread. It’s much too

coarse."

As Elizabeth turned her attention back to her second batch of bread, Mercy’s eyes roamed the kitchen.

She noticed a fresh wheel of cheese having come directly from the cheese press. She saw a pitcher of

cider on the corner of the hearth. Then she noticed something more striking. Arrayed along the

windowsill was a row of dolls made from painted wood and carefully sewn fabric. Each was dressed in

the costume of a particular livelihood. There was a merchant, a blacksmith, a goodwife, a cartwright, and

even a doctor. The doctor was dressed in black with a starched lace collar.

Mercy stood up and walked to the window. She picked up the doll dressed as a doctor. A large needle

was thrust into its chest.

"What are these figures?" Mercy asked with barely concealed concern.

"Dolls that I make for the orphan children," Elizabeth said without looking up from her labor with her

bread. She was removing each loaf, buttering its top, and then replacing it in the oven. "My deceased

mother, God rest her soul, taught me how to make them."

"Why does this poor creature have a needle rending its heart?" Mercy asked.

"The costume is unfinished," Elizabeth said. "I am forever misplacing the needle and they are so dear."

Mercy replaced the doll and unconsciously wiped her hands. Anything that suggested magic and the

occult made her uncomfortable. Leaving the dolls, she turned to the children, and after watching them for

a moment asked Elizabeth what they were doing.

"It’s a trick my mother taught me," Elizabeth said. She slipped the last loaf of bread back into the oven.

"It’s a way of divining the future by interpreting the shapes of egg white dropped into the water."

"Bid them to stop immediately," Mercy said with alarm.

Elizabeth looked up from her work and eyed her visitor. "But why?" she asked.

"It is white magic," Mercy admonished.

"It is harmless fun," Elizabeth said. "It is merely something for the children to do while they are confined

by such a winter. My sister and I did it many times to try to learn the trade of our future husbands."

Elizabeth laughed. "Of course it never told me I’d marry a shipowner and move to Salem. I thought I was

to be a poor farmer’s wife."

"White magic breeds black magic," Mercy said. "And black magic is abhorrent to God. It is the devil’s

work."

"It never hurt my sister or myself," Elizabeth said. "Nor my mother, for that matter."

"Your mother’s dead," Mercy said sternly.

"Yes, but-"

"It is sorcery," Mercy continued. Blood rose to her cheeks. "No sorcery is harmless. And remember the

bad times we are experiencing with the war and with the pox in Boston only last year. Just last sabbath

Reverend Parris’ sermon told us that these horrid problems are occurring because people have not been

keeping the covenant with God by allowing laxity in religious observance."

"I hardly think this childish game disturbs the covenant," Elizabeth said. "And we have not been lax in our

religious obligations."

"But indulging in magic most certainly is," Mercy said. "Just like tolerance of the Quakers."

Elizabeth waved her hand in dismissal. "Such problems are beyond my purview. I surely don’t see

anything wrong with the Quakers since they are such a peaceful, hardworking people."

"You must not voice such opinions," Mercy chided. "Reverend Increase Mather has said that the

Quakers are under a strong delusion of the devil. Perhaps you should read Reverend Cotton Mather’s

book Memorable Providences: Relating to Witchcraft and Possessions. I can loan it to you since my

husband purchased it in Boston. Reverend Mather says the bad times we are experiencing stem from the

devil’s wish to return our New England Israel to his children, the red men."

Directing her attention to the children, Elizabeth called out to them to quiet down. Their shrieking had

reached a crescendo. Still, she quieted them more to interrupt Mercy’s sermonizing than to subdue their

excited talk. Looking back at Mercy, Elizabeth said she’d be most thankful for the opportunity to read

the book.

"Speaking of church matters," Mercy said. "Has your husband considered joining the village church?

Since he’s a landowner in the village he’d be welcome."

"I don’t know," Elizabeth said. "We’ve never spoken of it."

"We need support," Mercy said. "The Porter family and their friends are refusing to pay their share of the

Reverend Parris’ expenses. When will your husband return?"

"In the spring," Elizabeth said.

"Why did he go to Europe?" Mercy asked.

"He’s having a new class of ship built," Elizabeth said. "It is called a frigate. He says it will be fast and

able to defend itself against French privateers and Caribbean pirates."

After touching the tops of the cooling loaves with the palms of her hands, Elizabeth called out to the

children to tell them it was time to eat. As they drifted over to the table, she asked them if they wanted

some of the fresh, warm bread. Although her own children turned up their noses at the offer, Ann

Putnam, Abigail Williams, and Betty Parris were eager. Elizabeth opened a trapdoor in the corner of the

kitchen and sent Sarah down to fetch some butter from the dairy storage.

Mercy was intrigued by the trapdoor.

"It was Ronald’s idea," Elizabeth explained. "It functions like a ship’s hatch and affords access to the

cellar without having to go outside."

Once the children were set with plates of pork stew and thick slices of bread if they wanted it, Elizabeth

poured herself and Mercy mugs of hot cider. To escape the children’s chatter, they carried the cider into

the parlor.

"My word!" Mercy exclaimed. Her eyes had immediately gone to a sizable portrait of Elizabeth hanging

over the mantel. Its shocking realism awed her, especially the radiant green eyes. For a moment she

stood rooted in the center of the room while Elizabeth deftly kindled the fire that had reduced itself to

glowing coals.

"Your dress is so revealing," Mercy said. "And your head is unadorned."

"The painting disturbed me at first," Elizabeth admitted. She stood up from the hearth and positioned two

chairs in front of the now blazing fire. "It was Ronald’s idea. It pleases him. Now I hardly notice it."

"It’s so popish," Mercy said with a sneer. She angled her chair to exclude the painting from her line of

sight. She took a sip from the warm cider and tried to organize her thoughts. The visit had not gone as

she’d imagined. Elizabeth’s character was disconcerting. Mercy had yet to even broach the subject of

why she’d come. She cleared her throat.

"I’d heard a rumor," Mercy began. "I’m certain there can be no verity to it. I’d heard that you had the

fancy to buy the Northfields’ property."

"~’Tis no rumor," Elizabeth said brightly. "It will be done. We shall own land on both sides of the

Wooleston River. The tract even extends into Salem Village where it abuts Ronald’s village lots."

"But the Putnams had the intention to buy the land," Mercy said indignantly. "It is important for them.

They need access to the water for their endeavors, particularly their iron works. Their only problem is the

proper funds, for which they must wait for the next harvest. They shall be very angry if you persevere,

and they will try to stop the sale."

Elizabeth shrugged. "I have the money now," she said. "I want the land because we intend to build a new

house to enable us to take in more orphans." Elizabeth’s face brightened with excitement and her eyes

sparkled. "Daniel Andrew has agreed to design and build the house. It’s to be a grand house of brick like

those of London town."

Mercy could not believe what she was hearing. Elizabeth’s pride and covetousness knew no bounds.

Mercy swallowed another mouthful of cider with difficulty. "Do you know that Daniel Andrew is married

to Sarah Porter?" she asked.

"Indeed," Elizabeth said. "Before Ronald left we entertained them both."

"How, may I ask, do you have access to such vast sums of money?"

"With the demands of the war, Ronald’s firm has been doing exceptionally well."

"Profiteering from the misfortune of others," Mercy stated sententiously.

"Ronald prefers to say that he is providing sorely needed matériel."

Mercy stared for a moment into Elizabeth’s bright green eyes. She was doubly appalled that Elizabeth

seemed to have no conception of her transgression. In fact, Elizabeth brazenly smiled and returned

Mercy’s gaze, sipping her cider contentedly.

"I’d heard the rumor," Mercy said finally. "I couldn’t believe it. Such business is so unnatural with your

husband away. It is not in God’s plan, and I must warn you: people in the village are talking. They are

saying that you are overstepping your station as a farmer’s daughter."

"I shall always be my father’s daughter," Elizabeth said. "But now I am also a merchant’s wife."

Before Mercy could respond, a tremendous crash and a multitude of screams burst forth from the

kitchen. The sudden noise brought both Mercy and Elizabeth to their feet in terror. With Mercy directly

behind her, Elizabeth rushed from the parlor into the kitchen, snapping up the musket en route.

The trestle table had been tipped on its side. Wooden bowls empty of their stew were strewn across the

floor. Ann Putnam was lurching fitfully about the room as she tore at her clothes and collided with

furniture while screaming she was being bitten. The other children had shrunk back against the wall in

shocked horror.

Dispensing with the musket, Elizabeth rushed to Ann and grasped her shoulders. "What is it, girl?"

Elizabeth demanded. "What is biting you?"

For a moment Ann remained still. Her eyes had assumed a glazed, faraway appearance.

"Ann!" Elizabeth called. "What is wrong with you?"

Ann’s mouth opened and her tongue slowly protruded to its very limit while her body began chorea-like

movements. Elizabeth tried to restrain her, but Ann fought with surprising strength. Then Ann clutched at

her throat.

"I can’t breathe," Ann rasped. "Help me! I’m being choked."

"Let us get her upstairs," Elizabeth shouted at Mercy. Together they half-carried and half-dragged the

writhing girl up to the second floor. No sooner had they got her onto the bed than she began to convulse.

"She’s having a horrid fit," Mercy said. "I think it best I fetch my husband, the doctor."

"Please!" Elizabeth said. "Hurry!"

Mercy shook her head in dismay as she descended the stairs. Having recovered from her initial shock,

the calamity didn’t surprise her, and she knew its cause. It was the sorcery. Elizabeth had invited the devil

into her house. Tuesday, July 12, 1692

Ronald Stewart opened the cabin door and stepped out onto the deck and into the cool morning air,

dressed in his best knee breeches, his scarlet waistcoat with starched ruffles, and even his powdered

peruke. He was beside himself with excitement. They had just rounded Naugus Point, off Marblehead,

and had set a course directly for Salem Town. Already over the bow he could see Turner’s Wharf.

"Let us not furl the sails until the last moment," Ronald called to Captain Allen standing behind the helm.

"I want the town folk to see the speed of this vessel."

"Aye, aye, sir," Captain Allen shouted back.

Ronald leaned his sizable and muscled frame on the gunwale as the sea breeze caressed his tanned

broad face and tousled his sandy blond hair peeking from beneath his wig. Happily he gazed at the

familiar landmarks. It was good to be coming home, although it was not without a degree of anxiety.

He’d been gone for almost six months, two months longer than anticipated, and he’d not received a

single letter. Sweden had seemed to be the end of the earth. He wondered if Elizabeth had received any

of the letters he’d sent. There’d been no guarantee of their delivery since he’d not found any vessel going

directly to the Colony, or even to London for that matter.

"~’Tis time," Captain Allen shouted as they approached land. "Otherwise this craft will mount the pier

and not stop till Essex Street."

"Give the orders," Ronald shouted.

The men surged aloft at the captain’s command and within minutes the vast stretches of canvas were

pulled in and lashed to the spars. The ship slowed. At a point a hundred yards from the wharf, Ronald

noticed a small boat being launched and quickly oared in their direction. As it approached Ronald

recognized his clerk, Chester Procter, standing in the bow. Ronald waved merrily, but Chester did not

return the gesture.

"Greetings," Ronald shouted when the boat was within earshot. Chester remained silent. As the small

boat drew alongside, Ronald could see his clerk’s thin face was drawn and his mouth set. Ronald’s

excitement was tempered by concern. Something was wrong.

"I think it best you come ashore immediately," Chester called up to Ronald once the skiff was made

secure against the larger craft.

A ladder was extended into the small boat, and after a quick consultation with the captain, Ronald

climbed down. Once he was sitting in the stern, they shoved off. Chester sat next to him. The two

seamen amidships lent their backs to their oars.

"What is wrong?" Ronald asked, afraid to hear the answer. His worst fear was an Indian raid on his

home. When he’d left he knew they’d been as close as Andover.

"There have been terrible happenings in Salem," Chester said. He was overwrought and plainly nervous.

"Providence has brought you home barely in time. We have been much disquieted and distressed that

you would arrive too late."

"It is my children?" Ronald asked with alarm.

"Nay, it is not your children," Chester said. "They are safe and hale. It is your goodwife, Elizabeth. She

has been in prison for many months."

"On what charge?" Ronald demanded.

"Witchcraft," Chester said. "I beg your pardon for being the bearer of such ill tidings. She has been

convicted by a special court and there is a warrant for her execution the Tuesday next."

"This is absurd," Ronald growled. "My wife is no witch!"

"That I know," Chester said. "But there has been a witchcraft frenzy in the town since February, with

almost one hundred people accused. There has already been one execution. Bridget Bishop on June

tenth."

"I knew her," Ronald admitted. "She was a woman of a fiery temperament. She ran the unlicensed tavern

out on Ipswich Road. But a witch? It seems most improbable. What has happened to cause such fear of

malefic will?"

"It is because of ‘fits,’~" Chester said. "Certain women, mostly young women, have been afflicted in a

most pitiful way."

"Have you witnessed these fits?" Ronald asked.

"Oh, yes," Chester said. "The whole town has seen them at the hearings in front of the magistrates. They

are terrible to behold. The afflicted scream of torment and are not in their right minds. They go alternately

blind, deaf, and dumb, and sometimes all at once. They shake worse than the Quakers and shriek they

are being bitten by invisible beings. Their tongues come out and then are as if swallowed. But the worst is

that their joints do bend as if to break."

Ronald’s mind was a whirlwind of thought. This was a most unexpected turn of events. Sweat broke

forth on his forehead as the morning sun beat down upon him. Angrily he tore his wig from his head and

threw it to the floor of the boat. He tried to think what he should do.

"I have a carriage waiting," Chester said, breaking the heavy silence as they neared the pier. "I thought

you’d care to go directly to the prison."

"Aye," Ronald said tersely. They disembarked and walked quickly to the street. They climbed aboard

the vehicle, and Chester picked up the reins. With a snap the horse started. The wagon bumped along

the cobblestone quay. Neither man spoke.

"How was it decided these fits were caused by witchcraft?" Ronald asked when they reached Essex

Street.

"It was Dr. Griggs who said so," Chester said. "Then Reverend Parris from the village, then everyone,

even the magistrates."

"What made them so confident?" Ronald asked.

"It was apparent at the hearings," Chester said. "All the people could see how the accused tormented the

afflicted, and how the afflicted were instantly relieved from their suffering when touched by the accused."

"Yet they didn’t touch them to torment them?"

"It was the specters of the accused who did the mischief," Chester explained. "And the specters could

only be seen by the afflicted. It was thus that the accused were called out upon by the afflicted."

"And my wife was called out upon in this fashion?" Ronald asked.

"~’Tis so," Chester said. "By Ann Putnam, daughter of Thomas Putnam of Salem Village."

"I know Thomas Putnam," Ronald said. "A small, angry man."

"Ann Putnam was the first to be afflicted," Chester said hesitantly. "In your house. Her first fit was in

your common room in the beginning of February. And to this day she is still afflicted, as is her mother,

Ann senior."

"What about my children?" Ronald asked. "Are they afflicted as well?"

"Your children have been spared," Chester said.

"Thank the Lord," Ronald said.

They turned onto Prison Lane. Neither man spoke. Chester pulled to a stop in front of the jail. Ronald

told him to wait and alighted from the carriage.

With brittle emotions Ronald sought out the jailer, William Dounton. Ronald found him in his untidy office

eating fresh corn bread from the bakery. He was an obese man with a shock of unwashed hair and a red,

nodular nose. Ronald despised him, a known sadist who delighted in tormenting his charges.

William was obviously not pleased to see Ronald. Leaping to his feet, he cowered behind his chair.

"No visitors to see the condemned," he croaked through a mouthful of bread. "By order of Magistrate

Hathorne."

Barely in control of himself, Ronald reached out and grasped a fistful of William’s woolen shirt and drew

his face within an inch of his own. "If you have mistreated my wife you’ll answer to me," Ronald snarled.

"It’s not my fault," William said. "It is the authorities. I must respect their orders."

"Take me to her," Ronald snapped.

"But~.~.~." William managed before Ronald tightened his grip and constricted his throat. William

gurgled. Ronald relaxed his fist. William coughed but produced his keys. Ronald let go of him and

followed him. As he unlocked a stout oak door he said, "I will report this."

"There is no need," Ronald said. "As soon as I leave here I will go directly to the magistrate and tell him

myself."

Beyond the oak door they passed several cells. All were full. The inmates stared back at Ronald with

glazed eyes. Some he recognized, but he didn’t address them. The prison was enveloped with a heavy

silence. Ronald had to pull out a handkerchief to cover his nose from the smell.

At the top of a stone staircase, William stopped to light a shielded candle. After opening another stout

oak door, they descended into the worst area of the prison. The stench was overwhelming. The

basement consisted of two large rooms. The walls were damp granite. The many prisoners were all

manacled to the walls or the floor with either wrist or leg irons or both. Ronald had to step over people

to follow William. There was hardly room for another person.

"Just a moment," Ronald said.

William stopped and turned around.

Ronald squatted down. He’d recognized someone he knew to be a pious woman. "Rebecca Nurse?"

Ronald questioned. "What in God’s name are you doing here?"

Rebecca shook her head slowly. "Only God knows," she managed to say.

Ronald stood up feeling weak. It was as if the town had gone crazy.

"Over here," William said, pointing toward the far corner of the basement. "Let us finish this."

Ronald followed. His anger had been overwhelmed by pity. William stopped and Ronald looked down.

In the candlelight he could barely recognize his wife. Elizabeth was covered with filth. She was manacled

in oversized chains and barely had the energy to scatter the vermin which freely roamed the

semidarkness.

Ronald took the candle from William and bent down next to his wife. Despite her condition she smiled at

him.

"I’m glad you are back," she said weakly. "Now I don’t have to worry about the children. Are they all

right?"

Ronald swallowed with difficulty. His mouth had gone dry. "I have come directly from the ship to the

prison," he said. "I have yet to see the children."

Robin Cook - Acceptable Risk

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