Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

had taken his children the afternoon of the accident. On impulse, I pull into the lot and park opposite a shedrow designed to shelter the buggy horses. A single black buggy is parked inside, the sorrel horse standing with its rear leg cocked, swatting flies with its tail. Six parking spaces are marked not only with the buggy symbol, but a handicapped sign as well, and I’m reminded the clinic deals mainly with children afflicted with some of the genetic disorders plaguing the Amish. It opened a few years ago to study several rare genetic diseases that apparently aren’t so rare among the Amish.
    The facility is housed in a small farmhouse that’s been completely refashioned to look like an Amish home, with hanging planters, a porch swing, and even an old-fashioned clothesline in the side yard. The owner of the original property, Ronald Hope, passed away four years ago. His son, Ronald Jr., rather than sell the entire farm, donated the house and outbuildings to the clinic while maintaining ownership of the land for farming. People still talk about the appropriateness of the donor’s last name.
    I park adjacent the shedrow, cross the parking lot to the house, and ascend the steps to the porch. The facility is wheelchair friendly with a ramp stenciled with horseshoe prints. A sign in Pennsylvania Dutch written in an Olde English font proclaims Welcome to All.
    A bell jingles merrily when I enter the homey reception area. The receptionist is a fifty-something woman with curly brown hair and blue eyes. She’s wearing pink scrubs with a tag telling me her name is N ATALIE . Beneath her name are the words T HERE’S A LWAYS H OPE .
    “Hi! May I help you?”
    I show her my badge and introduce myself. “I’m working on a case and was wondering if someone can talk to me about Paul Borntrager.”
    “Oh my goodness.” She presses her hand against her matronly bosom. “That was awful about Paul and those sweet little children. Just horrible. I cried my eyes out when I heard what happened. All of us here at the clinic were just crushed.”
    A door that presumably leads to the interior of the clinic opens. A young blond woman, also clad in pink scrubs, steps out and then holds open the door for an Amish woman pushing a wheelchair. A boy of about eight or nine sits in the chair, playing with a stuffed bear. He’s wearing trousers and suspenders and a white shirt. Through the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, I see that he suffers with what used to be referred to as lazy eye.
    I offer both of them a smile. The Amish woman takes in the sight of my uniform, gives me an obligatory smile, and continues on. The boy, however, hits me with huge, lopsided grin that’s so infectious I find myself grinning back.
    “Chief Burkholder, Doctor Armitage has a few minutes until his next appointment,” the receptionist tells me. “He can speak with you now if you’d like.”
    “That would be great.”
    She stands and calls out to the Amish boy. “See you next week, Jonas! Bye, Sweetie!”
    The boy turns in his chair and waves vigorously. “Bye!”
    Still smiling, the receptionist motions me through the door. “Third door on the right, Chief.”
    My boots thud dully against the hardwood floors as I make my way down the hall. I pass three examination rooms with paper-covered exam tables, laminate counters, and sinks. But all semblance of clinical ends there. Framed photos of farm animals—horses and pigs and ducks—cover the walls. An oil winterscape of Amish children frolicking on a snowy hillside. A second painting depicts a horse and sleigh and a group of children ice skating on a frozen pond.
    The last door on the right is partially open, and a brass nameplate reads: D OCTOR M IKE IS IN! I push open the door and find myself looking into a large office with a double set of French doors that open to a small deck. Judging from the size of the room, I suspect it was originally a master bedroom. It has gleaming hardwood floors and plenty of natural light. An old-fashioned banker’s lamp sits atop a lovingly distressed cherrywood desk, the surface of which is littered with papers and forms and files. On the wall, a dozen or more tastefully framed diplomas and certificates are prominently displayed.
    Through the French doors, I see red-stained Adirondack furniture. Two chairs, a lounger, and a table. Beyond, in a small patch of manicured grass, is an old-fashioned rocking horse and a sandbox filled with plastic shovels and colorful