Someone must die.
You knew there was a trick, Browning told himself. There had to be.
No, it wasn’t a trick. It was a hitch. He ought to have known it couldn’t be as easy as paying cash on the barrel. A life given for a life returned. That was how it worked, and he ought to have been relieved, now that it made sense.
Relieved? Someone has to die for Charlie to live.
His wife would do it. That was the first thing he thought, even as the idea horrified him. Dorothy would gladly give her life for her son’s. Yet that didn’t help at all. What would the boy do without his mama? What would Browning do without his wife? Their family would be torn asunder as much as it was now.
I could get another wife. I can’t get another son.
Again, his mind recoiled, but again, it didn’t quite drop the idea. Dorothy was a good housekeeper and a fine cook. He would not wish to lose her. But if he had to choose . . . and if the decision was hers, made on her own, without his prodding . . .
“You cannot expect us to do that,” Doc Adams was saying. “While there are those who would give their lives for the children, we would again need proof before such a decision could be made. No one will sacrifice himself on such a chance.”
Browning turned sharply on his heel, to motion for the doctor to be silent, not to give offense, but again Eleazar seemed to take none, only nodding in understanding.
“The good doctor is right,” Eleazar said. “Normally, there would be someone near death willing to offer his or her life—eager, even, to leave this world of pain and pass into the kingdom of heaven. But you have lost all your elderly and infirm in the same tragedy that claimed the lives of the young. There is but one elder remaining.”
“No,” Doc Adams said. “I fear there is not.”
“Oh, but there is.” Eleazar motioned to his assistant. “Rene has offered himself for this demonstration.”
“What?” Dobbs said, stepping forward.
Browning made a move to shush him as his heart filled with hope again.
“It’s all right,” Rene said in his creaking old voice. “A man as young as your blacksmith cannot understand what it is to wish his life done. I pray that he may never know the horrors of age. My body has failed me, and yet it stubbornly clings to life. I cannot end it myself or I would be damned. So I offer it to this village, to the mayor’s young son. I will die so he may live.”
* * *
That was the end of the discussion. It had been decided, apparently, even before the men arrived in Chestnut Hill. The old man would die so the younger one could prove his skill. With Charlie. Browning’s son would live again, and there would be no price to pay. None at all. Of course, he would not tell the others that. He’d pretend that he’d paid his three hundred to help cover the cost of others. As for the other price . . .
How will I tell them? Where will we find volunteers?
Did it matter? Charlie was coming back. The others could deal with that choice themselves when the time came.
Eleazar killed his assistant in the back room.
There was no hesitation, no preparation. He didn’t even say what he was doing, only asked Dobbs and Browning to take Charlie’s coffin out the front, where the villagers could see. They were not to say what was to come—it must be a surprise. As they’d told him, they didn’t want to raise hopes unnecessarily. Take the coffin out and make some excuse, and he’d be there in a moment. Doc Adams ought to speak to anyone still outside. With that, Eleazar and the old man disappeared into the back.
Browning was still carrying Charlie’s coffin to the door when Eleazar appeared.
“Rene has passed,” he announced.
“What?” Dobbs nearly dropped his end of the coffin.
“It was swift and merciful. Doctor, could you please confirm it is done? He’s resting in the back.”
Doc Adams did as he was asked, while Browning and Dobbs carried the coffin outside.
Most people had gone home now, content to wait and hear what the mysterious men wanted. Some had lingered, though, and when they brought out the coffin, a gasp went up.
“All is fine,” Doc Adams assured them as he came out. “All is fine. The men have asked us to bring one of our dearly departed into the sunlight, so they might better see his condition.”
Whispers snaked through the smattering of people. The men were doctors then, or scientists. A few left in disappointment.
As Browning stepped away from his son’s closed casket, he caught sight of a man striding along the road, a slender woman beside him, her blond hair pushed up under a bonnet.
Preacher. Bringing his schoolteacher wife to chastise them.
He’s going to stop this. Take away your chance. Take away your Charlie.
The warnings seemed to slide around him, whispers like . . .
The voice of God. That’s what it was. Resurrection was God’s work, and now this “preacher” thought he’d stop it. The preacher who hadn’t stopped Charlie from dying. The preacher whose own daughter lived. A girl who’d wanted to see his son before he passed.
The voice whispered, You know there’s a reason she lived. And a reason your son died. A strong, healthy boy, older than the others, contracts the disease after the rest? It’s unnatural.
Browning shoved past the villagers, ignoring their grunts of surprise. He bore down on Preacher. The schoolteacher started forward, chin raised, eyes flashing, but her husband pulled her back with a whispered word. He strode forward to meet Browning.
“If you dare—” Browning began.
“Dare what? Dare stop you from something we both know will fail?” Preacher said, lowering his voice. “If I thought it would do any good, I’d try, but your course is clearly decided. Nothing will help now but for you to see failure, however hard that will be for all of us.”
Browning clenched and unclenched his fists. The rage still wound around his gut like a cyclone.
Hit him. Show him who’s the mayor.
But he’s given me no cause.
Hit him anyway. Drive him off. Tell him begone. He’s a doubting Thomas. He’ll spoil everything.
“If you’ll excuse us,” the schoolteacher said, elbowing between the men. “Addie is here somewhere, and we’d like to find her.”
Browning looked down at the woman. It took a moment for his gaze to focus, the rage still nearly blinding him. He felt his fists clench again. Felt them start to rise. Then he realized what he was doing, whom he was about to hit, and they dropped quickly, and he stepped back.
“Thank you,” the schoolteacher said.
“Your Worship?” It was Eleazar, calling to him. “We’re ready to begin.”