Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

I hit my high beams for light and jam the Explorer into park. Quickly, I grab a couple of flares from the back, snatch up my Maglite, and then I’m out of the vehicle. Snapping open the flares, I scatter them on the road to alert oncoming traffic. Then I start toward the buggy.
    My senses go into hyperalert as I approach, several details striking me at once. A sorrel horse lies on its side on the southwest corner of the intersection, still harnessed but unmoving. Thirty feet away, a badly damaged buggy has been flipped onto its side. It’s been broken in half, but it’s not a clean break. I see splintered wood, two missing wheels, and a ten-yard-wide swath of debris—pieces of fiberglass and wood scattered about. I take in other details, too. A child’s shoe. A flat-brimmed hat lying amid brown grass and dried leaves …
    My mind registers all of this in a fraction of a second, and I know it’s going to be bad. Worse than bad. It will be a miracle if anyone survived.
    I’m midway to the buggy when I spot the first casualty. It’s a child, I realize, and everything grinds to a halt, as if someone threw a switch inside my head and the world winds down into slow motion.
    “Fuck. Fuck. ” I rush to the victim, drop to my knees. It’s a little girl. Six or seven years old. She’s wearing a blue dress. Her kapp is askew and soaked with blood and I think: head injury.
    “Sweetheart.” The word comes out as a strangled whisper.
    The child lies in a supine position with her arms splayed. Her pudgy hands are open and relaxed. Her face is so serene she might have been sleeping. But her skin is gray. Blue lips are open, revealing tiny baby teeth. Already her eyes are cloudy and unfocused. I see bare feet and I realize the force of the impact tore off her shoes.
    Working on autopilot, I hit my lapel mike, put out the call for a 10-50F. A fatality accident. I stand, aware that my legs are shaking. My stomach seesaws, and I swallow something that tastes like vinegar. Around me, the night is so quiet I hear the ticking of the truck’s engine a few yards away. Even the crickets and night birds have gone silent as if in reverence to the violence that transpired here scant minutes before.
    Insects fly in the beams of the headlights. In the periphery of my thoughts, I’m aware of someone crying. I shine my beam in the direction of the sound, and spot Andy Welbaum sitting on the ground near the truck with his face in his hands, sobbing. His chest heaves, and sounds I barely recognize as human emanate from his mouth.
    I call out to him. “Andy, are you hurt?”
    He looks up at me, as if wondering why I would ask him such a thing. “No.”
    “How many in the buggy? Did you check?” I’m on my feet and looking around for more passengers, when I spot another victim.
    I don’t hear Andy’s response as I start toward the Amish man lying on the grassy shoulder. He’s in a prone position with his head turned to one side. He’s wearing a black coat and dark trousers. I try not to look at the ocean of blood that has soaked into the grass around him or the way his left leg is twisted with the foot pointing in the wrong direction. He’s conscious and watches me approach with one eye.
    I kneel at his side. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell him. “You’ve been in an accident. I’m here to help you.”
    His mouth opens. His lips quiver. His full beard tells me he’s married, and I wonder if his wife is lying somewhere nearby.
    I set my hand on his. Cold flesh beneath my fingertips. “How many other people on board the buggy?”
    “Three … children.”
    Something inside me sinks. I don’t want to find any more dead children. I pat his hand. “Help is on the way.”
    His gaze meets mine. “Katie…”
    The sound of my name coming from that bloody mouth shocks me. I know that voice. That face. Recognition impacts me solidly. It’s been years, but there are some things—some people—you never forget. Paul Borntrager is one of them. “Paul.” Even as I say his name, I steel myself against the emotional force of it.
    He tries to speak, but ends up spitting blood. I see more on his teeth. But it’s his eye that’s so damn difficult to look at. One is gone completely; the other is cognizant and filled with pain. I know the person trapped inside that broken body. I know his wife. I know at least one of his kids is dead, and I’m terrified he’ll see that awful truth in my face.
    “Don’t try to