Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

a flash of headlights. An instant of horror and disbelief as Paul Borntrager realizes the vehicle isn’t going to stop. He plants his feet, hauls back on the reins. A firmly shouted, “whoa!” Then the horrific violence of the impact. No time to scream. An explosion of wood and steel and debris. The horse is killed instantly, the harness rigging ripped from the buggy. The victims are ejected, their broken bodies violently impacting the earth.
    “A lot of the Amish try to avoid the busier roads after dark,” I say.
    Both men look at me as if I’ve inadvertently spoken the words in Pennsylvania Dutch. I add, “They know it’s dangerous.”
    “We’ve all seen how impatient some of these damn drivers can be,” Rasmussen mutters.
    “I cited some guy from Wheeling a couple of days ago for passing a buggy on a double yellow line,” Maloney says. “I’d like to show him some photos from this scene.”
    The three of us nod and then Rasmussen glances at his watch. “It’s too late to canvass.”
    “I’ll get someone out here first thing in the morning.” I think about that a moment. “The driver might be looking for a body shop in the next few days.”
    Rasmussen nods. “We’ve got five or six body shops in Millersburg. I’ll send a couple of my guys out first thing in the morning.”
    “There are three in Painters Mill,” I tell him. “We might include Wooster, too.”
    “I’ll notify Wayne County,” Rasmussen offers.
    “Let’s pull past DUIs, too,” I suggest.
    “Can’t hurt.” Rasmussen’s eyes sharpen on mine. “Any chance the kid saw something?”
    “It’s possible, but he was in critical condition and in surgery when I left the hospital.” I glance at my watch. “I’ll find out and keep you posted.”
    But we know the majority of crash victims rarely remember the minutes preceding a crash, especially if they’ve sustained a head injury or lost consciousness.
    “With this kid being Amish,” I begin, “even if he saw the vehicle and remembers it, he may not be able to tell us the make or model.”
    “Well that’s just fucking peachy,” Rasmussen mutters. “We need to find this son of a bitch, people.”

 
    CHAPTER 4
    Deputy Maloney, Sheriff Rasmussen, and I spend several hours walking the scene, photographing, video-recording, sketching, and surmising. At 2:00 A.M. , Glock shows up with four large coffees from LaDonna’s Diner, and we swarm him like zombies seeking flesh. It’s hours before his shift starts, but he possesses a sort of sixth sense when it comes to showing up when he’s needed. He never seems to mind putting in the extra time, even though he’s got two babies and a wife at home. I’m invariably glad to have him on scene and unduly thankful for the caffeine.
    I’m standing next to my Explorer when a Painters Mill volunteer fire department tanker pulls onto the shoulder. I watch the young firefighter disembark, link the hose, and begin to flush the blood from the road and grassy areas. A few yards away, local farmer and town councilman Ron Jackson arrives in his big John Deere to haul the dead horse to the landfill.
    Glock wanders over and we watch a big Ford dually back a twenty-foot flatbed trailer to the debris field. A red-haired man from a local wrecker service contracted by the sheriff’s department gets out. Maloney and Rasmussen don gloves and begin picking up pieces, dropping them into bags, and loading them onto the trailer.
    For several minutes Glock and I stand there, sipping our coffees, watching.
    “Hell of a way to start the day,” he says.
    “Coffee helped.” I smile at him and he smiles back.
    “You get anything from the vehicle?” he asks.
    I tell him about the lack of debris and he shoots me a look. “That’s weird,” he says.
    We stare at each other, our minds working that over. “Maloney thinks this guy was going upwards of eighty miles an hour,” I say.
    “There should have been debris.”
    “A lot from the buggy,” I say.
    “Maybe the debris from the vehicle got mixed in with it.”
    Even as he says the words, something tugs at my brain, worrying me like a child yanking at his mother’s dress to get her attention.
    “Seems like the impact would have fucked up the grille of a vehicle,” Glock surmises. “Or busted out a headlight or signal light or something .”
    The feather touch of a chill brushes across the back of my neck, and I realize the lack of debris is the thing that’s been bothering me all along.