Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

old.”
    “He gonna make it?”
    “I don’t know.”
    His eyes meet mine and a silent communication passes between us, a mutual agreement we arrive upon without uttering a word. When you’re a cop in a small town, you become protective of the citizens you’ve been sworn to serve and protect, especially the innocent, the kids. When something like this happens, you take it personally. I’ve known Glock long enough to know that sentiment runs deep in him, too.
    We start toward the intersection, trying to get a sense of what happened. Delisle Road runs in a north-south direction; County Road 14 runs east-west with a two-way stop. The speed limit is fifty-five miles per hour. The area is heavily wooded and hilly. If you’re approaching the intersection from any direction, it’s impossible to see oncoming traffic.
    Glock speaks first. “Looks like the buggy was southbound on Delisle Road.”
    I nod in agreement. “The second vehicle was running west on CR 14. Probably at a high rate of speed. Blew the stop sign. Broadsided the buggy.”
    His eyes drift toward the intersection. “Fucking T-boned them.”
    “Didn’t even pause to call nine one one.”
    He grimaces. “Probably alcohol related.”
    “Most hit-and-runs are.”
    Craning his neck, he eyeballs Andy Welbaum. “He a witness?”
    “First on scene. He’s pretty shaken up.” I look past him at the place where the wrecked buggy lies on its side. “Whatever hit that buggy is going to have a smashed up front end. I put out a BOLO for an unknown with damage.”
    He looks out over the carnage. “Did you know them, Chief?”
    “A long time ago,” I tell him. “I’m going to pick up the bishop and head over to their farm to notify next of kin. Do me a favor and get Welbaum’s statement, will you?”
    “You got it.”
    I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t meet his gaze. I don’t want to share the mix of emotions inside me at the devastation that’s been brought down on this Amish family. I don’t want him to know the extent of the sadness I feel or my anger toward the perpetrator.
    To my relief, he looks away, lets it go. “I’d better get to work.” He taps his lapel mike. “Call me if you need anything.”
    I watch him walk away, then turn my attention back to the scene. I take in the wreckage of the buggy. The small pieces of the victims’ lives that are strewn about like trash. And I wonder what kind of person could do something like this and not stop to render aid or call for help.
    “You better hide good, you son of a bitch, because I’m coming for you.”

 
    CHAPTER 2
    One of the most difficult responsibilities of being chief is notifying next of kin when someone is killed. It’s a duty I’ve carried out several times in the course of my career. I want to believe experience has somehow made me more compassionate or better at softening that first devastating hammer blow of grief. But I know this is one of those occasions when past experience doesn’t count for shit.
    My headlights slice through the darkness as I speed down the long gravel lane of Bishop Troyer’s farm. There’s no lantern light in the windows. It’s not yet 9:00 P.M. , but they’ve probably been asleep for hours. I park next to a ramshackle shed, grab my Maglite, and take the sidewalk to the back door. I know the bedrooms are upstairs, and the Troyers are getting up in years, so I open the screen door and use the Maglite to knock.
    Several minutes pass before I see movement inside. Then the door swings open and the bishop thrusts a lantern at me. He blinks at me owlishly. “Katie Burkholder?”
    I’ve known Bishop Troyer most of my life. When I was a teenager, I thought he was a judgmental, mean-spirited bastard who had it out for me because I was different—and different isn’t ever a good thing when you’re Amish. No matter how minor my offense, he never seemed to cut me any slack. More than once he took a hard line when I broke the rules. Now that I’m older, I’ve come to see him as fair-minded and kind, traits he balances with unyielding convictions, especially when it comes to the rules set forth by the Ordnung, or the unwritten rules of the church district. We’ve butted heads a few times since I’ve been chief. He doesn’t approve of my leaving the fold; he certainly doesn’t appreciate my lifestyle or some of the choices I’ve made. But while he never hesitates to express his disapproval, I know if I ever found myself in crisis, he’d be