Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

wasn’t an accident,” he says.
    Only then do I identify the emotion I see in his eyes as rage. He’s entitled, but it’s not a good fit. I choose my words carefully because the last thing I want to do is fan the flames. “I don’t know that for a fact, but it’s something we’re looking into.” I hold his gaze, trying to get a feel for his frame of mind. “Do you know something about that, Mr. Erb?”
    “Paul was a deacon,” he tells me.
    “I’m aware of that.”
    “Mattie sent me here. To speak with you. She reminded me that Enos Wengerd was excommunicated a few weeks ago. She thought I should let you know about it.”
    I don’t know Wengerd personally; our paths never crossed when I was Amish, and I’ve never had cause to speak to him since I’ve been back. But I keep my thumb on the Amish grapevine. I know he has a reputation for being Amish when it’s convenient and breaking the rules when it suits him. He raises sheep on a small farm between Painters Mill and Millersburg.
    I open my desk drawer and remove a pad of paper. “Do you know why he was excommunicated?”
    “He bought a truck. He attended Mennischt church services. Er is en maulgrischt. ” He is a pretend Christian.
    The mention of his buying a truck makes my antennae go up. “Do you think his being excommunicated is somehow related to what happened to Paul and the children?”
    Erb leans forward, his expression intensifying. “When I went to the horse auction in Millersburg last weekend, I saw him arguing with Paul. Der siffer hot zu viel geleppert.” The drunkard had sipped too much.
    “Wengerd was drinking alcohol?”
    “Ja.”
    “What were they arguing about?”
    “I don’t know, but Enos was in a state. He was angry about being placed under the bann. His family would no longer take meals with him. His parents refused to let him into their home. He blamed Paul when it was his own doing.”
    “Do you know what kind of truck he purchased?”
    He shakes his head. “I don’t know anything about English vehicles.”
    “Did Enos threaten Paul?”
    “I do not know.”
    “Did the confrontation get physical?”
    “Not that I saw.”
    “Did anyone else witness the argument?” I ask.
    “I don’t know. They were out where they park the buggies.” He looks down at his hat. “I wish I had done something. Talked to them.”
    “I’ll talk to Enos,” I tell him.
    Andy rises with the arthritic slowness of a man twice his age and I know the anguish of the last two days has taken a toll.
    “Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Erb.”
    He leaves without responding.
    *   *   *
    It’s too early for an official visit from the police department—even for the Amish, who rise early—so I decide to swing by my brother’s farm before talking to Enos Wengerd. It’s been months since I spoke to Jacob, and like so many visits in the past, I suspect it’s going to be tense at best, unpleasant if I want to be honest about it. Jacob and I excel at both.
    The old farm had once been owned by my parents and was passed down to Jacob—the eldest male child—after the death of our mother three years ago. I drive by the place several times a week when I’m on patrol. Every time, I envision myself stopping in to say hello to Jacob or sharing a cup of coffee with my sister-in-law, Irene. I envision myself getting to know my two young nephews, becoming part of their lives. But I always find an excuse to keep going.
    When we were kids, Jacob, Sarah, and I were tight. We worked as much as we played and somehow we always managed to have fun. Jacob and I were particularly close. He was my big brother and I looked up to him the way only a little sister can. He could run faster, throw farther, and jump higher than anyone else in the world. If an Amish girl could have had a superhero, Jacob was mine. I could always count on him to watch my back, even if whatever trouble I’d found was my own doing, which was often the case. All of that changed when I was fourteen years old and Daniel Lapp came into our house and introduced me to the dark side of human nature. All of us lost our innocence that day.
    I pull into the long gravel lane and speed toward the old farmhouse, white dust billowing in my wake. I steel myself against the familiarity of the place, but the memories encroach. To my right lies the apple orchard planted by my grandfather over fifty years ago, a place where Jacob, Sarah, and I spent many an afternoon picking