Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

by Linda Castillo

  David sleeps soundly in the bed. The bruises on his face are in full bloom, but his color is healthy. Mattie is curled on the chair with her head resting on her hands, asleep. In the recliner, a heavyset Amish woman lies on her back, snoring softly. Next to her, a partially eaten tin of homemade cinnamon rolls makes my mouth water.

  I’m debating whether to come back later when David speaks from his bed. “You want a cinnamon roll? They taste good.”

  I glance over to see him sitting up, looking at me as if I’m some stray that’s wandered into the room and needs feeding.

  “Hey.” I feel a smile spread across my face as I go to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “My arm hurts and I miss my datt and Norah and Sam.” Using his uninjured arm, he brushes his hand over a cast that runs from wrist to elbow. “It’s broken.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” I look down at the cast to see that someone by the name of Matthew drew a cat on it. “I like the artwork.”

  His face splits into a big smile. “We have two cats at home. Whiskers and Frito. They’re my favorites. I like it when they purr because it tickles my ear.”

  “I like cats, too.”

  “Mamm says Datt and Norah and Sam are with God.”

  It hurts me to hear an innocent child make such a profound statement. I nod, not sure what to say to that.

  His brows knit and I know he’s trying to understand the incomprehensible: why three people he loved are gone from his life and won’t be coming back. “I think they miss me and Mamm, too. But heaven is the happiest place in the world, so we shouldn’t be sad. One of these days, I’ll be there, too, and I’m going to play hide-and-seek with Sammy and botch with Norah.”

  I’m not much on touching, but this little boy is so sweet and vulnerable, I can’t keep myself from reaching out and laying my hand over his. He looks up at me expectantly. I want badly to say something to comfort him, to reinforce and confirm what Mattie has already told him. But I find myself so moved I can’t speak.

  “Katie?”

  I turn to see Mattie rise from the chair. She looks rested, and for the first time since the accident, she’s not crying.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say.

  “I must have drifted off.” She looks past me and smiles at her son.

  The boy grins back, and she returns her attention to me. “The doctor says he can go home tomorrow.”

  For an instant, she almost looks like the girl I once knew. The one with the infectious laugh and mischievous expression. But grief returns quickly, making itself known in the hollows of her cheeks and the circles beneath her eyes. “That’s great news,” I tell her. “How are you holding up?”

  “These chairs aren’t exactly made for sleeping.” Putting her hand to her back, as if in pain, she chokes out a laugh. “I feel the way my brother must have felt the day he got tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him from the hayfield to the barn.”

  I hadn’t thought of the incident in years, but it rushes back with enough clarity to make me laugh. I’d been at Mattie’s house, helping her and her older brother, John, spear tobacco. At some point her brother, who had a crush on me, decided he wanted to show off his horsemanship skills and hopped onto the back of a young plow horse. The animal bucked him off. John’s wrist somehow became tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him all the way to the barn.

  The recliner across the room creaks. I glance over to see the Amish woman who’d been snoozing rise, eyeing me with unconcealed suspicion. “Hello,” she says.

  I nod a greeting, then I turn my attention to Mattie. “Can I speak to you privately?” I motion toward the door. “In the hall?”

  “Of course.” She looks at the woman. “Can you stay with David for a few minutes?” she asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  “Ja.”

  Mattie follows me into the hall. When we’re out of earshot of the room and the nurse’s station, I stop and turn to her. She’s looking at me expectantly, a little perplexed, and I still don’t know how to break the news. “I need to let you know,” I begin, “the driver that hit the buggy left the scene. It was a hit-and-run. We’re trying to find him.”

  “What?” She stares at me in disbelief. “The person didn’t stop?”

  “They didn’t stop. And they didn’t call the police. Failure to render aid is against the law, so we’re looking for the driver. I wanted to tell you because it’s all over the news. I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “Paul and the children…” Her voice breaks. “How could someone do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he got scared and panicked. Maybe he was drinking alcohol. Or texting. We don’t know.”

  She stares at me, her eyes wide, then her mouth tightens and she surprises me by saying, “I will pray for him.”

  I look away, not sure if I’m in awe of her capacity for forgiveness or annoyed because the son of a bitch doesn’t deserve it. My own feelings aren’t nearly as charitable.

  “Is it unusual for Paul to be out so late with the children?” I ask.

  “He’d taken them to the doctor in Painters Mill. He was on his way home. They had the last appointment of the day. Sometimes he bought them ice cream afterward.”

  “Were the kids sick?”

  Her eyes flick away and I realize the question hit a nerve. “All three of my children have Cohen syndrome, Katie. We take them to the clinic every week.”

  A wave of sympathy ripples through me. I’ve heard of Cohen syndrome, but I don’t know much about it. It’s a genetic disorder that causes mental and physical developmental problems in children. It’s thought to be caused by the small gene pool of the Amish. And I realize that parenthood for Mattie and Paul had been challenging. “I’m sorry.”

  Her mouth curves, but the smile looks sad on her face. “Sis Gottes wille.”

  I don’t believe a lifetime of mental and physical difficulties is what God had in mind for her children, but since many of my opinions are unpopular among my former brethren, I keep it to myself. “Mattie, I don’t want you to read anything in to what I’m going to ask you next, but I need to know if Paul had been involved in any recent disputes or arguments.”

  She blinks, wide gray eyes searching mine, and despite my request that she not read anything into the question, I see the wheels of her mind begin to spin. “Katie, I don’t understand. Why are you asking me that?”

  “These are routine questions,” I tell her. “Part of the investigation.”

  It’s a canned reply, and she’s astute enough to know it’s bullshit. I can tell by her expression that she knows I’m not being straightforward. But she’s too well mannered to call me on the carpet. I wish I could tell her more, but experience has taught me to keep my cards close, sometimes even with those I trust. People talk, after all—even the good guys—and the last thing I need are more rumors of premeditated murder flying around.

  She finally answers with a shake of her head. “Everyone loved Paul. He was a good man. A friend to all.” Her face crumbles. “A good father and husband.”

  It hurts to see her in so much pain. I look away and give her a moment to compose herself before I continue. “What about in the past? Did Paul have any enemies?”

  “No. He was kind and generous. A good deacon. Always trying to help people.”

  Amish deacons are highly respected members of the church district, helping with worship services and baptisms. If an Amish family falls on hard times and needs financial assistance, the deacon oversees the collection of cash. He is Armen-Diener, which means “minister to the poor.” But not all of a deacon’s responsibilities are benign; they also convey messages of excommunication.

  “Have there been any recent excommunications?” I ask. “Anything like that?”

  “Katie…” She presses her hand to her breast as if she’s run out of breath. “Did someone do this thing on purpose? Because they were angry with Paul?”

  “I don’t know.”

  �
�I may be Amish,” she snaps. “But I’m not stupid. Please don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying to spare you the—”

  “It would be much kinder for you to tell me the truth.”

  I nod. “It’s something we’re looking at.” I say the words quietly, but it’s not enough to temper the awful power behind them.

  “Mein Gott.” She puts her hand over her mouth as if to smother a cry. “Who would do such a thing? Who would want to hurt Paul or our children?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to do everything in my power to find out.” Reaching out, I take her hand and squeeze. “I promise.”

  Fresh tears glitter in her eyes. She stares at me as if she’s barely able to process the information I’ve thrown at her.

  “Mattie, have you talked to David about the accident?”

  “What do you mean?” Her gaze turns wary.

  “Have you asked him if he remembers anything that happened?”

  “Oh, Katie.” She raises her hands and backs away from me. “Please. He’s been through so much. I don’t want to upset him.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” I say gently. “But I need to know if he saw anything. Or anyone. I’ll do my best not to upset him.”

  She doesn’t respond for so long I think she’s going to refuse my request. Then, looking resigned, she sighs. “He’s so fragile. Be kind to him. Please.”

  “I’ll be gentle, Mattie. I promise.”

  She leads me back into the boy’s room. David is lying on his side, looking out the window, rubbing absently at the cast on his arm. He looks at me when I approach the bed and smiles.

  “Is that cast starting to get itchy already?” I ask.

  “Mamm told me not to scratch, but I can’t stop. It feels like that time I got poison ivy.”

  I pull the chair closer to the bed and lower myself into it. “Do you feel up to answering a couple of questions?”

  He lifts his uninjured shoulder in a shrug, as if he doesn’t know what information he could possibly have that would be valuable to me. “Okay.”

  “I was wondering if you remember anything about the buggy accident.”

  His brows knit, his eyes skating away from mine, and he picks at the cast with a fingernail. “Alls I remember is eating an ice cream cone and botching with Norah.”

  “You know, I used to like to botch.”

  “It’s a girl game.”

  “I bet Norah was good at it.”

  “She was the best.”

  “Were you botching when the accident happened?”

  “We were singing the botching song. ‘All Around the Mulberry Bush.’”

  “I like that one.” I smile at him. “Do you remember seeing a car or truck?”

  “No.”

  “What about people? Did you see anyone before or after the accident?”

  Shaking his head, he sinks more deeply into the bed and pulls the covers up to his chin. “I dunno.”

  “Do you remember anything at all about the accident?”

  “I remember lights.”

  His voice is so soft, I have to lean forward to hear him. “What kind of lights?”

  “The kind on English cars.”

  “You mean like headlights?”

  “Ja.”

  “What color were they?” I ask him to specify to make sure he’s not confusing headlights with the emergency lights afterward.

  “White.”

  Many traffic accident victims that sustain head injuries don’t recall the minutes, hours, or even days before or after the event. That David remembers seeing headlights could be significant.

  “What else can you tell me about the lights?”

  “There were two of them and they were bright.”

  I smile. “You have a good memory.”

  “That’s what Datt always says.” His expression is so sweet I want to pull him out of the bed and hug him to me.

  “Did you see the vehicle that hit the buggy?” I ask gently.

  He looks away from me to stare out the window, his expression troubled. His fingers scratch absently at the cast. “No. Just lights.”

  “So you didn’t notice the color? Or if it was a car or truck? Anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see any people?”

  “No.” He glances at Mattie, and for a moment I’m afraid he’s going to crawl out of the bed to get away from me and my questions. “Mamm, did I do something wrong?”

  The words go right through me, as sharp and hurtful as any blade. “No, honey. You did great.” I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

  Then Mattie is next to the bed, bending and pulling him to her. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart. Katie is a policeman and it’s her job to ask questions.”

  Feeling like an ogre, I rise and go to the window. I listen as Mattie coos to him, calming his fears. I try to remember if my own mamm ever did that for me and I can’t.

  A child’s heart is a tender thing that never forgets. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to lose a family member at such a formative age. When you’re Amish, your family is the center of your universe. Jacob and Sarah had been my best friends, my confidantes—and partners in crime. I didn’t have a perfect childhood, but I consider myself lucky to have had those few magical years.

  I turn from the window and address Mattie. “Will you let me know if you need anything?”

  She pulls away from her son and crosses to me. “Thank you, Katie, but we are fine.”

  I feel myself stiffen when she embraces me. I close my eyes against the rush of emotion. For her. For the boy. For everything they’ve lost. For what I lost somewhere along the way.

  I pull away first. Her hands slide down my arms and she eases me to arm’s length. Her gaze finds mine and for the span of several heartbeats our eyes hold.

  “Gott segen eich,” she whispers. God bless you.

  I turn away without responding.

  CHAPTER 12

  I arrive home to a dark house that smells of coffee and stale air. I go directly to my bedroom, removing my holster as I go and dropping it along with my .38 on the night table. My shirt finds its place on the floor. I step out of my trousers, toss them on the bed. Boots are kicked into the closet. In the dresser, I find a pair of ratty sweatpants and an oversized tee-shirt and put them on.

  The evening is cool, so I spend a few minutes walking the house, opening windows to let in some fresh air. I startle when I spot the orange tabby sitting on the brick sill outside the kitchen window, looking at me expectantly. He’s a stray that’s been coming around for months now. I’m no cat person, and this particular feline is neither pleasant to be around nor pleasing to the eye. But he’s a survivor and he’s loyal, two traits that usher me past the old battle scars and nasty personality.

  When he mewls, I walk to the pantry and snag the bag of dry food I keep on the shelf in the back. I find his bowl in the sink strainer, fill it, and push open the screen. “You know you eat better than I do, don’t you?”

  I hear him purring as I set the bowl on the sill.

  I’m standing at the refrigerator with the door open, hoping I can find something edible inside, when a tap at the back door startles me. I spin, my hand going automatically to where my .38 usually rests. Then I spot the familiar figure through the window and the stress of the day falls away.

  I walk to the door, swing it open, and smile at Tomasetti. “You know you’re on the verge of becoming predictable, don’t you?”

  “What can I say, Kate? I’ve got an addictive personality, and at the moment you’re at the top of my most-wanted list.”

  “You’re putting it out there this evening, aren’t you?”

  “Or piling it on, depending on your point of view.” His voice is light, but he’s looking at me a little too closely. He’s worried about how I’m reacting to the discovery of Daniel Lapp’s remains, I realize, and what that discovery could mean
if they’re identified.

  “You busy?” he asks.

  I roll my eyes. “Come in.”

  He enters the kitchen and goes to the table. I feel silly because I was expecting … something else. Pretending I wasn’t, I join him at the table.

  “I thought you might want to talk about those remains,” he begins.

  “You mean in addition to the possibility that I’m in deep shit?”

  He scowls at me. “Who’s the investigating agency?”

  “Coshocton County.”

  “You know them?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve met the sheriff, but I don’t know him. We’re not friends.”

  “We received a call from someone down there today,” he tells me. “Bones are already at the lab. They want DNA.”

  Of course I’d known that would happen. But hearing the words spoken aloud sends a quiver of anxiety through my gut. “What are the odds that they’ll get it?”

  “Seventeen years is a long time for DNA to survive, but it’s not out of the question.” He shrugs. “It depends on how well the bones fared. The pit is dry, and that bodes well for the preservation of DNA. If it was a wet, muddy area, probably not. There might be DNA in the teeth.” He gives me a direct look. “Since I’ve worked this area in the past, it won’t be deemed unusual for me to stay on top of it.”

  While it will be good to be kept abreast of any developments, forensic or otherwise, we both know there’s nothing we can do about the outcome.

  “Kate, do you think Lapp had dental records? I mean with him being Amish?”

  “The Amish generally don’t have a problem with going to the dentist if they’re having problems, like a toothache or something. That said, they’re not big on preventative tooth care. Daniel was young; I’m betting he hadn’t yet been to the dentist.”

  “That could work in our favor.”

  “Even if they are able to extract DNA,” I say, “don’t they need something to compare it to? A hair root or something?”