Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

pasture, a small herd of cattle works its way toward me, watching me as they graze, curious. I can just make out the darkened silhouette of Mattie’s farmhouse two hundred yards away. When the quiet begins to annoy me, I tune my radio to an FM station out of Wooster. The same station Tomasetti and I listened to earlier. When I find my thoughts sliding in that direction, I force them back to Mattie and David and the killer who still walks free in my town.
    I’ve worked some mind-boggling cases in the years I’ve been in law enforcement; I’m no stranger to all of those dark crevices of the criminal mind. Still, the things people do to each other never ceases to disturb and confound me. Usually, I can get a handle on motive relatively quickly. From there, I can develop a theory, even when information is sketchy. This case is so far out there, so utterly senseless, I can’t get my mind around it.
    The evidence indicates premeditation and an effort to conceal the crime. Someone conceived the idea, anticipated the details and what the execution of it would entail, and then carried it out. But who would want to murder a well-liked Amish deacon and two children? What could he possibly stand to gain? If Mattie was the intended victim, the scenario is even more baffling. Why would anyone want an Amish wife and mother dead? What am I missing?
    By 4:00 A.M. frustration and fatigue are starting to take a toll. Worse, I’m beginning to feel foolish for sitting out here in the middle of nowhere when the only things moving are the cattle. I’m about to call it a night when movement in the pasture between the house and the woods snags my gaze. I squint through the windshield, wishing I’d taken the time to clean off the bugs when I filled the gas tank.
    At first I think it’s a deer that’s wandered into the pasture for some illicit grazing. But in the weak moonlight filtering through the clouds, I recognize the silhouette of a man. Six feet tall. One hundred eighty pounds. Dark clothing. Wishing for binoculars—or a night-vision scope—I watch him cross the pasture.
    “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper.
    Curiosity edges into alarm when he scales the rail fence. Then he’s in the side yard and walking toward the house. I’ve got my hand on the door handle when I realize the dome light could alert him to my presence. Never taking my eyes off the intruder, I lower the driver’s side window and slither out.
    Once I’m standing on the shoulder, I hit my lapel mike and whisper, “T.J., I’ve got ten eighty-eight at the Borntrager farm. Can you ten twenty-five?”
    “I’m ten seventy-six.”
    “What’s your ten seventy-seven?”
    “Ten minutes, Chief.”
    “Expedite. No lights or siren.”
    “Roger that.”
    The figure disappears behind an old outhouse and lilac bush, and I lose sight of him. When he reappears, he’s twenty yards from the house and making a beeline for the back door. I have no idea who it is or what his intentions are. I don’t know if he’s armed or lost or some drunken idiot trying to find his way home. The one thing I do know is that I’ve got to confront him.
    “Shit.” Setting my hand over my .38, I jog through the ditch and duck between the rails of the fence. Then I’m in the pasture. Wet grass beneath my boots. Staying low, I run full out toward the house. Twenty yards in, I squeeze between the rails of the fence and then I’m in the front yard. I ascend a small hill that puts me scant feet from the porch. I go left toward the rear of the house to intercept him at the back door.
    Thumbing the leather strap off my holster, I sidle along the side of the house, my senses honed on my surroundings. Every sound seems exaggerated. Something jingles my equipment belt. My boots crunch against the gravel that’s gathered at the drip line from the roof. Knowing surprise is my best tool, I slow down.
    Unlike the suburbs and cities, Amish country is extraordinarily dark at night. There are no street lamps or porch lights or even light from windows. There’s not much in the way of moonlight tonight, either, so I’m working blind, relying as much on my hearing as my sight.
    I reach the back of the house. From where I’m standing I can just make out the silhouettes of the barn and outbuildings. Pressing my back against the siding, I peer around the corner. At first, all I see are the hulking forms of the maples in the side yard. The pampas grass nearer the porch. The outline of a