Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (3 page)

When I’m finished, I drift back to where I left Paul, expecting to find him being loaded onto a litter. I’m shocked to see a blue tarp draped over his body, rain tapping against it, and I realize he’s died.

I know better than to let this get to me. I haven’t talked to Paul or Mattie in years. But I feel something ugly and unwieldy building inside me. Anger at the driver responsible. Grief because Paul is dead and Mattie must be told. The pain of knowing I’ll probably be the one to do it.

“Oh, Mattie,” I whisper.

A lifetime ago, we were inseparable—more like sisters than friends. We shared first crushes, first “singings,” and our first heartbreaks. Mattie was there for me during the summer of my fourteenth year when an Amish man named Daniel Lapp introduced me to violence. My life was irrevocably changed that day, but our friendship remained a constant. When I turned eighteen and made the decision to leave the Plain Life, Mattie was one of the few who supported me, even though she knew it would mean the end of our friendship.

We lost touch after I left Painters Mill. Our lives took different paths and never crossed again. I went on to complete my education and become a police officer. Mattie joined the church, married Paul, and started a family. For years, we’ve been little more than acquaintances, rarely sharing anything more than a wave on the street. But I never forgot those formative years, when summer lasted forever, the future held infinite promise—and we still believed in dreams.

Dreams that, for one of us, ended tonight.

I walk to Andy Welbaum’s truck. It’s an older Dodge with patches of rust on the hood. A crease on the rear quarter panel. Starting with the front bumper, I circle the vehicle, checking for damage. But there’s nothing there. Only then do I realize this truck wasn’t involved in the accident.

I find Andy leaning against the front bumper of a nearby Holmes County ambulance. Someone has given him a slicker. He’s no longer crying, but he’s shaking beneath the yellow vinyl.

He looks at me when I approach. He’s about forty years old and balding, with circles the size of plums beneath hound dog eyes. “That kid going to be okay?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” The words come out sounding bitchy, and I take a moment to rein in my emotions. “What happened?”

“I was coming home from work like I always do. Slowed down to turn onto the county road and saw all that busted-up wood and stuff scattered all over the place. I got out to see what happened…” Shaking his head, he looks down at his feet. “Chief Burkholder, I swear to God I ain’t never seen anything like that before in my life. All them kids. Damn.” He looks like he’s going to start crying again. “Poor family.”

“So your vehicle wasn’t involved in the accident?”

“No ma’am. It had already happened when I got here.”

“Did you witness it?”

“No.” He looks at me, grimaces. “I think it musta just happened though. I swear to God the dust was still flying when I pulled up.”

“Did you see any other vehicles?”

“No.” He says the word with some heat. “I suspect that sumbitch hightailed it.”

“What happened next?”

“I called nine one one. Then I went over to see if I could help any of them. I was a medic in the Army way back, you know.” He falls silent, looks down at the ground. “There was nothing I could do.”

I nod, struggling to keep a handle on my outrage. I’m pissed because someone killed three people—two of whom were children—injured a third, and left the scene without bothering to render aid or even call for help.

I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“I don’t blame you. I don’t see how you cops deal with stuff like this day in and day out. I hope you find the bastard that done it.”

“I’m going to need a statement from you. Can you hang around for a little while longer?”

“You bet. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

I turn away from him and start toward the road to see a Holmes County sheriff’s department cruiser glide onto the shoulder, lights flashing. An ambulance pulls away, transporting the only survivor to the hospital. Later, the coroner’s office will deal with the dead.

I step over a chunk of wood from the buggy. The black paint contrasts sharply against the pale yellow of the naked wood beneath. A few feet away, I see a little girl’s shoe. Farther, a tattered afghan. Eyeglasses.

This is now a crime scene. Though the investigation will likely fall under the jurisdiction of the Holmes County Sheriff’s office, I’m going to do my utmost to stay involved. Rasmussen won’t have a problem with it. Not only will my Amish background be a plus, but his department, like mine, works on a skeleton crew, and he’ll appreciate all the help he can get.

Now that the injured boy has been transported, any evidence left behind will need to be preserved and documented. We’ll need to bring in a generator and work lights. If the sheriff’s department doesn’t have a deputy trained in accident reconstruction, we’ll request one from the State Highway Patrol.

I think of Mattie Borntrager, at home, waiting for her husband and children, and I realize I’ll need to notify her as soon as possible.

I’m on my way to speak with the paramedics for an update on the condition of the injured boy when someone calls out my name. I turn to see my officer, Rupert “Glock” Maddox, approaching me at a jog. “I got here as quick as I could,” he says. “What happened?”

I tell him what little I know. “The driver skipped.”

“Shit.” He looks at the ambulance. “Any survivors?”

“One,” I tell him. “A little boy. Eight or nine years old.”

“He gonna make it?”

“I don’t know.”

His eyes meet mine and a silent communication passes between us, a mutual agreement we arrive upon without uttering a word. When you’re a cop in a small town, you become protective of the citizens you’ve been sworn to serve and protect, especially the innocent, the kids. When something like this happens, you take it personally. I’ve known Glock long enough to know that sentiment runs deep in him, too.

We start toward the intersection, trying to get a sense of what happened. Delisle Road runs in a north-south direction; County Road 14 runs east-west with a two-way stop. The speed limit is fifty-five miles per hour. The area is heavily wooded and hilly. If you’re approaching the intersection from any direction, it’s impossible to see oncoming traffic.

Glock speaks first. “Looks like the buggy was southbound on Delisle Road.”

I nod in agreement. “The second vehicle was running west on CR 14. Probably at a high rate of speed. Blew the stop sign. Broadsided the buggy.”

His eyes drift toward the intersection. “Fucking T-boned them.”

“Didn’t even pause to call nine one one.”

He grimaces. “Probably alcohol related.”

“Most hit-and-runs are.”

Craning his neck, he eyeballs Andy Welbaum. “He a witness?”

“First on scene. He’s pretty shaken up.” I look past him at the place where the wrecked buggy lies on its side. “Whatever hit that buggy is going to have a smashed up front end. I put out a BOLO for an unknown with damage.”

He looks out over the carnage. “Did you know them, Chief?”

“A long time ago,” I tell him. “I’m going to pick up the bishop and head over to their farm to notify next of kin. Do me a favor and get Welbaum’s statement, will you?”

“You got it.”

I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t meet his gaze. I don’t want to share the mix of emotions inside me at the devastation that’s been brought down on this Amish family. I don’t want him to know the extent of the sadness I feel or my anger toward the perpetrator.

To my relief, he looks away, lets it go. “I’d better get to work.” He taps his lapel mike. “Call me if you need anything.”

I watch him walk away, then turn my attention back to the scene. I take in the wreckage of the buggy. The small pieces of the victims’ lives that are strewn about like trash. And I wonder what kind of person could do something like this and not stop to render aid or call for help.

“You better hide good, you son of a bitch, because I’m coming for you.”

CHAPTER 2

One of the most difficult responsibilities of being chief is notifying next of kin when someone is killed. It’s a duty I’ve carried out several times in the course of my career. I want to believe experience has somehow made me more compassionate or better at softening that first devastating hammer blow of grief. But I know this is one of those occasions when past experience doesn’t count for shit.

My headlights slice through the darkness as I speed down the long gravel lane of Bishop Troyer’s farm. There’s no lantern light in the windows. It’s not yet 9:00
P.M.
, but they’ve probably been asleep for hours. I park next to a ramshackle shed, grab my Maglite, and take the sidewalk to the back door. I know the bedrooms are upstairs, and the Troyers are getting up in years, so I open the screen door and use the Maglite to knock.

Several minutes pass before I see movement inside. Then the door swings open and the bishop thrusts a lantern at me. He blinks at me owlishly. “Katie Burkholder?”

I’ve known Bishop Troyer most of my life. When I was a teenager, I thought he was a judgmental, mean-spirited bastard who had it out for me because I was different—and different isn’t ever a good thing when you’re Amish. No matter how minor my offense, he never seemed to cut me any slack. More than once he took a hard line when I broke the rules. Now that I’m older, I’ve come to see him as fair-minded and kind, traits he balances with unyielding convictions, especially when it comes to the rules set forth by the
Ordnung,
or the unwritten rules of the church district. We’ve butted heads a few times since I’ve been chief. He doesn’t approve of my leaving the fold; he certainly doesn’t appreciate my lifestyle or some of the choices I’ve made. But while he never hesitates to express his disapproval, I know if I ever found myself in crisis, he’d be the first in line to help me.

Tonight, it’s Mattie Borntrager who’s in crisis. She’s going to need his faith and strength to get through the coming hours. I know he’ll be there for her, too.

“Was der schinner is letz?”
he asks in a wet-gravel voice.
What in the world is wrong?

I stare at him for the span of several seconds, trying to put my thoughts in order and get the words out. We need to get over to the Borntrager farm stat and relay the news to Mattie before she finds out secondhand from someone else. I need to get back to the scene so I can get a jump on what promises to be a long and grueling investigation. Instead, I do the one thing I’ve never done in all of my years as a cop and burst into tears.

“Katie?”

I try to disguise that first telltale sob as a cough and noisily clear my throat. But the tears that follow betray me.

Shock flashes on the bishop’s face, followed quickly by sharp concern. “Come inside.”

I hold up my hand, angry with myself for breaking down at a time like this. I remind myself this isn’t about me or my emotions, but a young mother whose world is about to be shattered. “Paul Borntrager and two of his children were killed tonight,” I tell him.

“Paul?” He presses a hand against his chest, steps back as if pushed by some invisible force. “The children? But how?”

Quickly, I tell him about the buggy accident. “Mattie doesn’t know yet, Bishop. I need to tell her. I thought it would be helpful if you were there.”

“Yes, of course.” He looks shaken as he glances down at the long flannel sleeping shirt he’s wearing. “I need to dress.” But he makes no move to leave. “Which child survived?” he asks.

“A boy. The oldest child, I think.”

“David.” He nods. “
Mein Gott.
Is he going to be all right?”

“I don’t know. They took him to the hospital.” Mortified that I lost control of my emotions, I use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the tears.

Reaching out, he squeezes my arm. “Katie, remember God always has a plan. It is not our place to question, but to accept.”

The words are intended to comfort me, but I wince. The tenet of acceptance is one of the belief systems I disagreed with most when I was Amish. Maybe because my own philosophy differs so profoundly. I refuse to accept the deaths of three innocent people as part of some big divine plan. I sure as hell don’t plan on forgiving the son of a bitch responsible.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Bishop Troyer and I are in my Explorer, heading toward the Borntrager farm. Dread rides shotgun, a dark presence whose breath is like ice on the back of my neck.

Glock called while I was waiting for the bishop and informed me that one of Sheriff Rasmussen’s deputies is a certified accident reconstructionist, which will be extremely beneficial in terms of resources. It will also allow us to restrict the investigation to two jurisdictions: the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department and the Painters Mill PD. I’m not territorial when it comes to my job. If an outside agency offers the resources I need, I’ll be the first in line to ask for help. But in all honesty, I’m relieved to keep this case in house because I don’t want to share.

The Borntrager farm is located on a dirt road that dead ends at a heavily wooded area that backs up to the greenbelt along Painters Creek. Neither the bishop nor I speak as I turn onto the gravel lane and start toward the house. It’s almost nine thirty now; Paul and the children should have been home hours ago. I suspect Mattie is out of her mind with worry.

I notice the yellow glow of lantern light in the kitchen as I make the turn and the rear of the house comes into view. I imagine Mattie inside, pacing from room to room, wondering where her family is and trying to decide if she should walk to the neighbor’s house to use the phone. I hate it, but I’m about to make her worst nightmare a reality.…

My headlights wash over the falling-down wire fence of a chicken coop as I park. Disturbed by the light, two bantam hens flutter down from their roost, clucking their outrage.

“What are the names and ages of her children?” I don’t look at the bishop as I shut down the engine.

“David is eight,” he tells me. “Samuel was the youngest. About four years old, I think. Norah just turned six.”