Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

hit-skip?”
    “We’re working on it.” I step back, hating it that my knees are shaking.
    As I start toward the door, I feel the men’s eyes burning into my back.
    *   *   *
    By the time I reach the Explorer, I’m in the throes of an all-out panic attack. I grip the wheel and suck in slow, deep breaths until it subsides. After a few minutes, I pull myself together, start the engine, and turn onto the road. A mile down I pull over and call Tomasetti.
    He answers on the second ring with, “I knew you couldn’t stay away from me for long.”
    “They found the bones,” I tell him.
    A too-long pause ensues. “Lapp?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Are you okay?”
    “I’m scared.”
    “We probably shouldn’t discuss this on the phone. Do you want me to drive down?”
    “I’m working this hit-skip. Give me a few hours to get some things done.”
    “In the interim, will you do me a favor and stay the hell away from the scene?”
    “Too late, Tomasetti.”
    “Kate.” He growls my name.
    My laugh is a frazzled, anxious sound. But knowing he cares, knowing I can count on him if the situation takes a turn for the worse, goes a long way toward calming me down.
    “They don’t know anything,” I tell him.
    Tomasetti doesn’t respond to that. Maybe because we both know that could change in a blink.
    “Sit tight,” he tells me. “And stay the hell away from that scene.”
    He disconnects without saying good-bye.

 
    CHAPTER 10
    I spend the afternoon at the station, poring over the list of names Pickles and Skid assembled on the registered owners of 1996 gray Ford F-250 trucks living in Holmes, Wayne, and Coshocton Counties. So far, everyone they’ve talked to has alibis for the time of the hit-and-run. None of the vehicles they’ve checked are damaged or have reinforced front ends. But I’m giving the task only a fraction of my attention. I can’t stop thinking about the discovery of those remains in the grain elevator.
    At 5:00 P.M. , I head for the Brass Rail Saloon to talk to the bartender. The parking lot is jam packed with vehicles. I want to believe people stop in to wind down with a beer after work or maybe indulge in a burger-and-fries dinner before heading home for the day. It’s an optimistic offering. The beer is watered down, the burgers are barely fit for human consumption, and about half of these vehicles have been here since noon. The truth of the matter is there’s a faction of people in the county who’d rather drink their day away than earn an honest wage. The methamphetamine trade is at pandemic levels and rural areas have been hit particularly hard. While Amish country might be the poster child for wholesome living, it hasn’t escaped the scourge.
    I park next to a newish Toyota SUV that’s been keyed from headlight to taillight on the passenger side. I try not to notice the baby seat in the rear as I walk past. Ten yards from the door, the bass rumble of music vibrates the ground beneath my feet. By the time I step inside, I can feel it pulsing in my bone marrow.
    The interior of the bar is dark as a cave and smells of cigarette smoke, cooking grease, and an unpleasant combination of aftershave and body odor. An old Talking Heads rocker blasts from dual speakers the size of caskets mounted on either side of a dance floor where a thin young man wearing a DeKalb cap humps a girl who’s more interested in her beer than him.
    Most of the patrons are young and male, an assemblage of tee-shirts and jeans, with the occasional leather jacket, which is good for secreting a weapon. Chances are I won’t run into any problems; most of the people who frequent this bar aren’t looking for trouble with the police. But I’ve been chief long enough to know even pretty, small towns have an underbelly, and that sometimes even the most benign of individuals can turn on you.
    A pool game is in full swing at the rear. Cigarette smoke hovers like fog beneath the dim light of a stained-glass chandelier. A blond woman in snug yellow shorts leans across the table to make a difficult shot, drawing every male gaze within eyeshot. A couple of the pool players have noticed me. I stare back as I make my way to the bar, knowing it’s never a good sign when a police uniform outstrips short shorts in a perfect size six.
    I recognize the barkeep. Jimmie Baines is a small-time hood who keeps all the wrong company. He’s in his mid-thirties with the rangy build of a welterweight. Word around town is that he