Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

“They’re going to haul everything down to impound, take a closer look under some lights.”
    Rasmussen approaches us. “I think we’ve got everything loaded up.”
    I address the sheriff. “Did you find any more debris from the vehicle?”
    “Just the side-view mirror so far,” Maloney replies.
    I see a creeping suspicion enter the sheriff’s eyes. “If that son of a bitch was going as fast as you say, he should have left pieces scattered all the way to Cleveland.”
    “Even with the work lights and generator, it’s dark as a damn cave out here,” Maloney says. “Maybe we missed something. Maybe it got tossed in with all those pieces from the buggy.”
    “Driver might have had a brush guard on his front end,” Glock offers.
    Rasmussen nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Even with a brush guard, he would have busted out a headlight or knocked off some plastic. Vehicles have a lot of plastic these days.”
    “Maybe it’s some kind of homemade job,” Glock offers.
    Maloney tosses him an interested look and adds, “All you need is a welder and some steel.” He turns to me. “Any vehicles from around here come to mind?” he asks. “Souped-up truck, maybe?”
    “Or a fuckin’ tank,” Glock mutters beneath his breath.
    Images of a hundred vehicles scroll through my mind. Stops I’ve made. Citations I’ve issued. Recent DUIs.
    “A lot of farm trucks,” I tell them. “I’ll see if I can come up with a list.”
    “A lot of them farm boys got welders,” Maloney adds.
    The sheriff makes a sound of frustration. “We’ll take a closer look at everything in the morning. In the interim, if you see something that fits the bill, make the stop.”
    He tips his hat and the two men start toward their respective vehicles.
    I glance at my watch, surprised to see it’s almost 3:00 A.M. “You want body shops or farms?” I ask Glock.
    “Body shops.” He grins. “Amish don’t trust me for some reason.”
    “That’s because you cuss too much.”
    He grins. “Now that makes me feel misunderstood.”
    “Hit every body shop or auto shop that does collision work, including anyone who works out of a home shop or keeps a can of Bondo on his workbench. If someone brings in a vehicle with a messed-up grille, I want to know about it.”
    “I’m all over it.”
    “I’ll get Skid and Pickles to cover these farms in the morning.”
    We saunter to the place where the accident happened and look in both directions. The grassy shoulder is trampled from all the traffic and muddy where the fire department flushed away the biohazard. The tractor that hauled away the dead horse left deep ruts. I think about the hit-and-run driver and something scratches at the back of my brain.
    “Where was he going anyway?” I say, thinking aloud.
    “If he was headed west,” Glock replies, “he was on his way to Painters Mill. Millersburg, maybe.”
    “If he was stinking drunk, where was he coming from?”
    Our gazes meet. “The Brass Rail,” we say in unison.
    The Brass Rail Saloon is a couple of miles down the road; the scene of the accident is smack dab between that bar and Painters Mill. It’s one of the area’s more disreputable drinking establishments. If you want to get drunk, fight, buy dope, or get laid—and not necessarily in that order—The Brass Rail Saloon is one-stop shopping.
    “Probably a long shot.” But I can’t quite dispel the rise of dark anticipation that comes with the possibility of that all-important first lead.
    “Unless the bartender remembers someone leaving in a souped-up truck five minutes before the accident.”
    “Stranger things have happened.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. “Let me know what you find out from the body shops, will you?”
    “You bet.”
    I leave him there, frowning and looking just a little bit worried.
    *   *   *
    I swing by the house for a shower and a few hours of sleep. I don’t notice the blood on my shirt until I’m standing naked in the bathroom and look down at my uniform heaped on the floor. I’m usually pretty mindful of any kind of biohazard, but I don’t remember when I picked it up. I don’t know whose it is.
    I look down at my hands and see dried blood on my palms and beneath my nails and cuticles. That’s when it strikes me this blood represents the death of a man I’ve known most of my life. The deaths of two innocent children. The injury of a third child. And the hell of grief for a woman who was once my best