Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

don’t like all of this lying, Katie.”
    “None of us do,” I say, meaning it. “But the alternative is worse.”
    She says nothing. That worries me because I know a decent number of cases are solved not because of solid police work, but because someone with intimate knowledge of the crime talks about it to the wrong person or says the wrong thing to the police.
    “What about Jacob?” she asks.
    “Don’t worry about Jacob. I’ve already talked to him.” When she says nothing, I add, “ Datt made a decision that day, Sarah. We were children; we didn’t have a choice but to go along with it.”
    “He was trying to protect you.”
    I don’t have anything to say about that, so I remain silent.
    She looks down at the baby, but there’s no joy in her eyes now. It’s as if she’s no longer seeing the child because of this massive black cloud I’ve brought with me and laid at her feet. Kate, always the bearer of something dark.
    “Sarah.” I say her name with an urgency I hadn’t intended. My sister is not a liar; it doesn’t come naturally to her. There’s a part of me that’s terrified she won’t keep her mouth shut. During the Slaughterhouse Murders, she sent a note to the bishop, telling him I knew something about Daniel Lapp. The bishop went to the mayor, who passed the note on to Tomasetti. He held on to the note, protecting me in doing so, but my sister’s actions put me in a precarious position. What if she does something like that again?
    “I’m the chief of police,” I remind her. “If word of this gets out—if you tell anyone what happened that day—I’ll lose my job. I’ll never work in law enforcement again. Sarah, I could be charged with a crime. All of us could be charged.”
    “It wasn’t your fault.”
    “That doesn’t matter. I killed a man. My guilt or innocence won’t be determined by you, but by a jury. If it goes that far, it’s over for me. At least in terms of my career.”
    “Fine.” She snaps the word without looking at me. “I’ll do it. But I don’t like it.”
    Leaving my coffee unfinished, my little niece unacknowledged, I rise and start toward the door without thanking her.

 
    CHAPTER 14
    I’m still worrying over the exchange with my sister when I pull onto the dirt track of the Wengerd farm fifteen minutes later. There’s no doubt in my mind that the sheriff’s investigators will be taking a hard look at the disappearance of Daniel Lapp—if they haven’t already. Even without DNA or dental records, they’ll be able to match height, age, and sex. They’ll look at the timing and start connecting the dots—right back to me.
    The Explorer bounces over deep potholes. To my left, a pasture with the grass shorn down to bare earth accommodates a dozen or more pygmy goats. On my right is a cornfield with slightly crooked rows of yellow stalks fluttering in a stiff breeze. The lane swerves and I see a mobile home with a nice wood deck tucked into a stand of trees. Beyond, a red metal building surrounded by a wood pen holds a dozen more goats with kids. Twenty yards away, Enos Wengerd stands next to a pile of burning brush, poking at it with a good-size stick, looking at me.
    The breeze carries gossamer fingers of smoke my way as I get out of the Explorer. Somewhere nearby, a dog begins to bark. I hit my radio, “Six two three. I’m ten twenty-three.”
    “Ten four.”
    I slam the driver’s side door and start toward Wengerd. “Enos Wengerd?”
    He stabs at the brush pile with the stick. “That’s me.”
    “Do you have a few minutes, sir? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “There’s no burn ban,” he says. “I checked.”
    I’m midway to him when I notice the truck parked at the side of the metal building. “Not too windy yet,” I comment.
    “It’ll do.”
    The truck is blue, but I can’t discern the make or model. I stop ten feet from Wengerd. “Is that your truck over there?”
    He leans on the stick, takes his time answering. “Yup.”
    He wears a straw, flat-brimmed hat, a faded work shirt, and gray trousers with suspenders. I guess him to be in his mid-twenties. Six feet tall. Two hundred pounds. I can tell from the breadth of his shoulders he partakes in a good bit of physical labor.
    “I hear it caused you some trouble with the deacon,” I say conversationally.
    “That’s not against the law, is it?”
    “No,” I tell him. “Unless you have an argument with the deacon and then he turns up dead.”
    “Wer