Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (7 page)

“My shrink would probably call that some kind of breakthrough.”

“For me or you?”

“Both of us.”

I laugh, but I can’t think of a comeback.

“Kate, do you want me to drive down?”

“Do I sound that bad?”

“Maybe I just want to spend some time with my girl.”

“Is that what I am, Tomasetti?” I say the words in an offhand manner intended to lighten the conversation.

“You’re my best friend.”

Somehow the exchange has turned too serious, too personal. I try to think of some flippant response that will make us laugh and move the conversation back on solid ground, but I’m too moved to speak. All I can think is that if I do and he hears the emotion in my voice, he’ll know something about me I don’t want to share.

“In case you’re wondering,” he says easily, “that was a favorable observation with regard to our relationship.”

“I know.”

“I thought you might want to say something reciprocal, like ‘you’re my best friend, too.’”

“You are. I hope you know that.”

“I do now.” He pauses. “I’m taking some vacation time. I could drive down and we could hang out. Go on a picnic. Have sex. Not necessarily in that order.”

A laugh squeezes from my throat. “Tomasetti, you are so full of shit.”

“Don’t go all sentimental on me. I’m getting choked up.”

“I didn’t know you were on vacation.”

“It was a take-it-or-lose-it situation.”

I think about that a moment. “Let me tie up a few things here, and I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t wait too long.”

“I won’t.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“I am now,” I tell him and disconnect.

*   *   *

Sleep is a fickle thing that has little to do with fatigue and everything to do with peace of mind. When I finally fall into a fitful slumber, I dream of Mattie and Paul, and two dead children who stare at me with accusing black eyes and rotting mouths that chant
schinnerhannes! schinnerhannes!
, which is the Pennsylvania Dutch word for a man who hauls away dead farm animals.

I jerk awake to the sound of tapping. I’m tangled in the sheets and slicked with sweat. I don’t know the source of the sound, but I’m relieved to be free of the nightmare’s grip. I sit up, listening. A glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand tells me it’s almost 4:30
A.M.
I’m trying to convince myself I only imagined the sound when it comes again and I realize someone’s at the door.

Throwing the blankets aside, I get up, snag my revolver off the nightstand, and pad into the hall.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Not the front door, I realize, and I move silently through the dark and into the kitchen. A few feet away from the back door, I recognize his silhouette against the curtains. Setting my weapon on the counter, I cross to the door and open it.

John Tomasetti stands on my back porch, frowning as if he’s got every right to be here despite the hour and I’ve kept him waiting too long. “I’m sorry to wake you,” he begins.

I laugh at that because we both know he’s not. I take a moment to process the picture of him, standing there, looking at me as if I’m the only person left in the world and he’s ravenous for company, and I know this is one of those small slices of time that I’ll never forget. Instead of his usual slacks and jacket, he’s wearing faded blue jeans and a navy golf shirt. Shoes that look like a cross between a hiker and a work boot. His usual office pallor has been replaced by a tan.

“Vacation looks good on you,” I say.

“You look good on me.”

That makes me grin and I open the door wider. “Is everything okay?”

“You mean aside from the slight paranoia that goes along with parking in the alley behind the police chief’s house?”

“I thought that was part of the allure,” I say.

“Not even close.”

I catch a whiff of his aftershave as he steps past me, and my midsection flutters in a way that’s now familiar: a powerful mix of attraction, affection, and excitement.

“You know we’re probably not going to be able to keep this a secret too much longer,” I say, closing the door behind him.

“I’d hate to be the one to put a black mark on your reputation.”

“One more added to the collection isn’t going to make a difference.”

Up until this point, we’ve sort of been dancing around each other. Not getting too close. Not touching. Neither of us wanting to make that first telling move. If it wasn’t such an uncomfortable moment, I might have laughed at the absurdity of it.

I break the silence with, “I’ve got a couple of Killian’s in the fridge.”

“I thought you might.”

Before I can turn away, he reaches out and takes my arm, pulls me to him. Wrapping his fingers around both my biceps, he pushes me backward until my rump collides with the counter. I look into his eyes to find them dark and fixed on me, and my knees go weak. Then he bends to me and his mouth is on mine. I dive into the kiss with everything I have. His lips are firm and warm and move against mine with an urgency that sucks the breath from my lungs. My arms go around his neck. My body presses flush against his. I feel the hard ridge of him against my belly. His hands skim restlessly down the sides of my ribcage. Sensation courses through me with such power that I have to close my eyes against it, like some crazy ride at the county fair, the kind where you’re dizzy and holding your breath but you never want it to end.

After a moment, he pulls back and smiles down at me. “I’ve missed you.”

“I can tell.”

He laughs and then goes to the fridge and pulls out two beers. He hands one to me and, watching each other, we twist off the caps and sip.

“How’s the investigation going on the hit-skip?” he asks.

“It hasn’t changed in the last hour.” I’m still reeling from the effects of the kiss as I relay everything I know so far.

“You think it’s someone local?” he asks.

I go to the fridge, find some grapes, cheese, and crackers, and toss them onto a plate. “Probably. If not Painters Mill proper, then Holmes County or one of the surrounding counties. Vehicle was probably a truck.” I carry the plate to the table and sit.

Tomasetti takes the chair across from me, and for several moments we’re caught up in our thoughts.

“How’s your friend doing?” he asks.

“She’s devastated. Camped out at the hospital waiting for word on her son.”

“He going to be okay?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Anything I can do?”

“In the coming days, we’ll probably be using the lab. If things get jammed up, it would be a huge help if you could expedite.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

We stare across the table at each other for a moment, then he says, “Now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries out of the way, I’ve got something to tell you.”

A small thread of anxiety zips through me. Generally, I don’t like surprises. I prefer to know what’s coming so I can be prepared when it arrives. Tomasetti is a wild card. When I met him, he’d just lost his wife and children in a home invasion that left his life in tatters. Afterward, he fell to taking prescription drugs, mixing them with alcohol. I know he spent some time in an institution. He doesn’t talk about it, so details are sketchy. I’ve never pressed him.

He’s better now. Not fully healed, but I know he has happiness and hope in his life. I know I’m part of both of those things and that we’ve been good for each other.

“Do you remember that house in Wooster I told you about last summer?” he begins.

“The old farmhouse, on acreage?” An alarm begins to wail in the back of my head. A few months ago, I consulted on a case for the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. Several Amish teens had disappeared during their
rumspringas.
During that investigation he told me about a farmhouse he was thinking about buying, and then shocked the hell out of me by asking me to move in with him. I panicked and waffled and basically handled the situation badly, giving him a slew of mixed signals instead of the straightforward answer he deserved.

It was a cowardly response, but I’d felt waylaid and unprepared. He was astute enough to give me an out, but I knew the issue would resurface. He isn’t the kind of man to give up, after all, especially when he wants something. I’m going to have to figure out how I feel about the prospect of moving in with him and give him a definitive answer, whether it’s the one he wants to hear or not.

“I bought it,” he tells me. “I closed last month.”

I stare at him, aware that I’ve broken a sweat. The bottle of beer feels like an icicle in my hand, the cold emanating up my arm and into my shoulder.

“Congratulations,” I manage.

“The place needs work, so I took some time off. New kitchen. Painting. Floors need refinishing.”

Discomfort climbs over me, a big, lumbering beast that presses down with the weight of a house. I don’t know how to react to this. I’m not sure what to say or how to feel. I look away, take a long drink of beer.

“If you’re game, I’d like to show it to you.”

I meet his gaze to find his eyes already on me. He’s looking at me as if I’m a math problem that has unexpectedly perplexed him. “Sure.”

“I promise not to tie you to a chair and keep you as my sex slave.”

I laugh outright and some of the discomfort sloughs off. “Are you thinking about moving in?”

“When it’s ready.”

“What about the commute?”

“It’s a forty-five-minute drive from my office in Richfield.” His eyes burn into mine. “Half an hour from Painters Mill.”

“Convenient.”

“You’re afraid I’m going to ask you to move in with me again.” Studying me, he takes a long pull of beer. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“I’m not sure what I want. I think that’s part of the problem.” I set down my beer, look down at the tabletop. “Tomasetti, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He laughs. It’s not the response I expected. When I look at him I see something a little too close to sympathy reflecting back at me.

“I’m glad you find this so amusing,” I tell him.

“You don’t want to commit and you’re trying not to break my heart.”

“That’s not exactly what’s going on here.”

“Feel free to jump in and correct me at any time.”

“I’m still trying to figure this out, okay? I don’t want to screw things up.”

“You can’t.”

“Believe me. I can. Tomasetti, I could screw up a funeral.”

“Kate, I appreciate your handling me with kid gloves. But I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

We stare at each other. My heart is pounding. I wish I could read him, wish I knew what he was thinking, what he was feeling, but his expression is inscrutable. “Moving in with you would be a huge step for me. A big change. I need some time to think about it.”

“That’s all I need to hear.” He contemplates me. “Come by the farm for dinner tomorrow. I’ll grill steaks if you bring the wine.”

“Steaks and wine.” I smile. “That sounds serious.”

“As serious as you want it to be.”

He surprises me by scooting his chair back and rising. I feel my eyes widen as he steps toward me, takes my hands, and pulls me to my feet. “Maybe we ought to sleep on it.” He pulls me to him.

My arms find their way around his neck. “I have an early day,” I whisper, but there’s no enthusiasm behind the words.

“Me, too.”

When he kisses me, the doubt falls away.

And thoughts of the case dissolve into the night.

CHAPTER 5

At 9:00
A.M.
I’m back in the Explorer, on my way to Pomerene Hospital to check on Mattie and her son. Tomasetti was gone when I woke up, but I still feel his presence both on my body and in my heart. We talked until the wee hours of morning and made love until the eastern horizon turned pink. Shortly thereafter, I fell into a fitful slumber, but even in the afterglow, I couldn’t shut down my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mattie or get the images of Paul and those two dead children out of my head.

I call Pickles to see how the canvassing of the farms near the accident is going. “You guys have any luck?”

“Wish I had better news for you, Chief, but no one saw shit.”

The news isn’t a surprise, but I’m disappointed nonetheless. “You hit the Stutz place yet?”

“We’re heading that way now.”

“Keep me posted, will you?”

“You got it.”

I dial Glock’s number as I pull into the hospital parking lot. “You have any luck at the body shops?”

“Struck out, Chief. No one’s brought in a vehicle with a damaged front end, but they all agreed to let us know if something suspicious came in.”

I slide the Explorer into a No Parking zone near the front entrance and shut down the engine. “Will you do me a favor and help Lois set up a tip hotline? Let her know there’s a five-hundred-dollar reward for information that leads to an arrest and conviction. Tell her to get a press release out and send it to everyone she can think of.”

“Damn, Chief, how did you manage that reward?”

“I haven’t.” I don’t know where I’ll get the money; I’m already over budget for the year and it’s only September, but I know this is one expenditure the town council will support me on. If they balk, I’ll write the damn check myself.

“You been to the Brass Rail?” he asks.

“I thought I’d wait until the same shift comes on.”

“Good idea. Let me know if you need backup.”

I snort. “You just want to crack some heads.”

“Hey, a guy can hope.”

Disconnecting, I clip the phone to my belt, get out, and cross the parking lot at a brisk walk. In the back of my mind, I’m hoping the kid made it through surgery and is improving. I go through the double front doors and take the elevator to the second level. I’m expecting to find Mattie and the bishop in the surgical waiting area where I left them, but when I arrive they’re nowhere in sight. The television is tuned to an infomercial no one’s paying any attention to; a young couple sits in the corner talking quietly. For a moment, I’m afraid the boy passed away during the night. Feeling gut-punched, I stride to the nurses’ station where I’m told David Borntrager is being moved to a regular room.