Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

with Armitage.
    “So what’s your take on the bruising?” he asks.
    “It’s troubling,” I tell him. “Whether you approve or disapprove of spanking as a form of punishment—and most Amish fall into the former category—this particular situation is unfortunate because he’s special needs.”
    “Did the doc say which parent did the spanking?”
    “Paul Borntrager.”
    “Do you think it’s relevant?” he asks. “I mean, to the case?”
    “No.”
    “It’s interesting that Mattie’s the one who had the standing appointment,” he says.
    “I think that’s the bigger issue.”
    “If this hit-and-run was planned, do you think she might have been a target? Or do you think this was random? What?”
    “I don’t know. None of it makes any sense.”
    Another stretch of silence, then he says, “You don’t think this has anything to do with those special-needs kids, do you?”
    The words creep over me like a stench and linger. “That paints a pretty ugly picture. I can’t fathom a motive.”
    “Me, either. Something to consider, though.”
    I pause, the possibilities running through my head. “I’d feel better if we could keep an eye on things out there until we get a handle on this.”
    “You mean around the clock?”
    “Ideally.”
    “Going to require some O.T.” He whistles. “Or a miracle.”
    “Never underestimate the power of groveling.”
    He guffaws. “There is that.”
    “If Rasmussen can spare a deputy, we might be able to cover it between our two departments.”
    “Rasmussen can’t spare the toilet paper to wipe his ass.”
    But the words have already passed between us. I know if my request is denied, we’ll find another way. I know I’ll be able to count on Glock.
    “I’m on my way to the funerals,” I tell him. “Will you let the rest of the team know about all of this?”
    “You bet.”
    *   *   *
    I’d wanted to arrive at the Borntrager farm to speak with Mattie well before the funerals. I’d wanted to accompany her to the graabhof —not as the chief of police, but as her friend—to bury her husband and children. Instead, I got caught behind a procession of buggies and ended up issuing a citation to an impatient tourist for passing on a double yellow line. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t happy about the ticket. I told him no one driving to the cemetery was particularly happy either, so he’s in good company. Have a nice day.
    By the time I arrive, dozens of black buggies, each numbered with white chalk so they know the order in which they belong in the convoy, are parked in the gravel lot. The smells of horses and leather and fresh-cut grass float on a light breeze. The lot is filled to capacity and many of the remaining buggy drivers have begun to park alongside the road. Using my emergency lights to alert traffic to the slow-moving and stopped vehicles, I park on the shoulder well out of the way, grab a few flares and toss them onto the road to make sure passing drivers slow down.
    The graveyard exists as the Amish have existed for over two centuries: plainly. Hundreds of small, uniform headstones form razor-straight rows in a field that had once flourished with soybeans and corn. Unlike English cemeteries where the headstones vary from massive works of sculpted granite to tiny crosses, the Amish graabhof is an ocean of white markers etched with a simple cross, the name of the deceased, their birth date and the date of their death.
    The cemetery is a somber yet peaceful place and pretty in its own way. My mamm and datt are buried fifty yards from where I stand. The reality of that sends a wash of guilt over me. I haven’t been here since I worked the Plank case last fall and attended the funerals of five members of an Amish family slain in their farmhouse. I tell myself I’m too busy to spend my time mingling with the dead. The truth of the matter is that, despite its bucolic beauty, this is the one place in Painters Mill that scares me.
    I pass through the gate and start toward the gravesite. Dozens of families, young couples, the elderly, scads of children, and mothers with babies stand in the cool afternoon air. As is usually the case, the Amish community has come out in force to mourn the Borntrager family and support Mattie and young David. Grief hovers in the air like a pall.
    Because I’m no longer Amish—and not necessarily welcome here—I hang back from the mourners, an outsider even in death. Once everyone is in place,