Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

lauert an der Wand, Heert sie eegni Schand.” It’s an old Amish sobriquet about gossip. If you listen through the wall, you will hear others recite your faults. “Andy Erb gossips like an old woman,” Wengerd says, but he doesn’t look quite as cocky now that he knows why I’m here.
    “Did you have an argument with Paul Borntrager?” I ask.
    He stares at me for a long time before answering. “We had a disagreement.”
    “What about?”
    “Paul and the bishop put me under the bann. ” The muscle in his jaw begins to work and I realize the bad attitude is by design, perhaps to conceal just how much the excommunication has upset him.
    “Why?”
    “Because I bought a truck. It’s against the Ordnung. ” He doesn’t mention attending Mennonite services. “But then you know all about breaking the rules, don’t you, Kate Burkholder?”
    I ignore the question. “Did you get angry?”
    Instead of replying, he stabs at the smoldering brush, sending a scatter of sparks into the air.
    “Where did the argument happen?” I ask.
    “At the auction. In Millersburg. You already knew that, though, or you wouldn’t be here.” He pokes harder, watching as new flames lick at the dry kindling. He’s got large, strong hands and forearms turned brown from the sun. He wraps his fingers around the length of wood so tightly his knuckles go white. “I didn’t run him over, if that’s what you’re going to ask me next.”
    “Where were you two nights ago?”
    “Here. Clearing brush.”
    “Was there anyone with you?”
    He sighs. “It was just me and all these goats.”
    “Do you mind if I take a quick look at your truck, Mr. Wengerd?” I say amicably. “Then I’ll get out of your hair and let you get back to work.”
    “It’s right there.” He motions toward the vehicle, but his attention stays riveted on me.
    “Thanks.” I start toward the truck, aware that he’s right behind me, stick in hand. Not for the first time, I wish I had eyes in the back of my head.
    “It run okay?” I glance over my shoulder. He’s less than three feet away. So close I can smell the smoke and sweat coming off his clothes.
    “Good enough to get me under the bann, ” he grumbles.
    The truck is an old blue F-150. Not the model I’m looking for. I’m no expert, but it also looks older. “What year?”
    “Nineteen ninety-two.”
    I look at him over the hood as I round the front of the truck. There’s no damage. No recent body work. It’s not the right color, either, though I’m well aware how easily paint can be changed. But it doesn’t look freshly painted. The driver’s side door is covered with patches of primer. There’s no brush guard. No evidence the front end has been altered in any way. Both headlights are intact and covered with dried-on insects. Aside from a small crease and a few areas of rust, the bumper is undamaged. This truck was not involved in any recent accident, certainly not the kind that took out that buggy.
    “Do you own any other vehicles?” I ask.
    He gives me an are-you-kidding look and shakes his head.
    I make two complete circles around the vehicle and then turn to him, extend my hand. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Wengerd.”
    He looks surprised by the gesture, but quickly reciprocates the handshake. It makes me wonder if it’s the only gesture of kindness he’s received since his Amish brethren excommunicated him.
    *   *   *
    The people I’m closest to have told me I have an obsessive personality, particularly when it comes to my job. I argue the point, but my defense is usually halfhearted, because they’re right. When I’m in the midst of an investigation—especially a horrific and baffling one like the Borntrager case—I think of little else. I have difficulty focusing on other things that are going on in my life. I’ve been known to brood.
    I’ve always chalked up my obsessive behavior to my work ethic, my black-and-white stance on right and wrong, or maybe my intolerance of people who hurt others. It wasn’t until I worked the Plank case last October—the murders of an entire family—that I was forced to take a hard look at myself and examine my shortcomings. I stepped over a line in the course of that investigation. I did some things I shouldn’t have. But I hate injustice. Even more, I hate the thought of someone getting away with murder.
    I’m on my way back to the station when I drive by the Hope Clinic for the Amish. It’s the medical facility where Paul