Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

away.”
    “Did he ever lose his temper or threaten you in any way?”
    “Oh, no, Katie. He knew it was the devil’s thoughts running through his mind. He fought them and in the end he won.”
    “Is he a jealous man? Did he ever show any anger toward you or Paul?”
    “Never.”
    “When’s the last time you had contact with Kuhns?”
    “That night on the road six months ago. I’ve prayed for him every day since.”
    “Has he tried to contact you?”
    “No.”
    “Did he ever stalk you?”
    “No,” she says.
    “Have you seen him at all? Or run into him anywhere? Even by accident?”
    “I see him at worship on occasion. He never even looks my way.”
    “What about in town? Or when you’re out running errands?”
    “No.”
    “Have you seen him hanging around the farm?”
    “Never.”
    I stare hard at her. “Is there anything else you want to tell me about Kuhns? Is there anything you left out?”
    “He didn’t do this thing, Katie. He would never hurt Paul or the children. He is a husband and soon to be a father. More importantly, he is Amish. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Of that, I’m certain.”
    As I rise and make my way to the door, all I can think is that she has a hell of a lot more faith in human nature than I do.
    *   *   *
    When you’re Amish—even formerly Amish, like me—some things are so ingrained you can’t escape them. Harsh judgment is one of them. I haven’t been Amish for almost eighteen years—more than half of my life—but as I turn onto the highway I feel all of those tattered morals rising to the surface. I don’t consider myself a religious woman. I don’t attend church or pray before meals. But I do believe in fidelity.
    I’m well aware that the Amish are held to higher moral standards than their English counterparts. Because of their strict belief system, they have farther to fall from that perch of righteousness. It’s hypocritical of me to stand in judgment of another soul. My own résumé isn’t exactly squeaky clean, and you sure don’t have to dig too deep to find dirt. I’m a sinner just like everyone else. Perhaps more so because of the nature of my crimes. But old habits die hard.
    I find myself chomping at the bit to speak with Wayne Kuhns. Finally, I have a possible motive. It wouldn’t be the first time a stalker had acted on some dark impulse. One of the first objectives of the stalker is to isolate his victim. Eliminate their support system in the hope they will turn to him. In Mattie’s case, he would have also eliminated his competition: her husband.
    I call Lois on my way to the station and ask her to run Wayne Kuhns through LEADS. I’m not surprised when he comes back clean. But even seemingly decent, God-loving people can have a hidden dark side, especially when it comes to lust.
    Normally, when dealing with the Amish, I prefer to do it alone, for the simple reason that they’re more apt to speak openly to me, if only because of my background. But because of my past friendship with Mattie, I want an objective opinion, so I swing by the station and pick up Glock. I give him the details of my conversation with Mattie on the way to Kuhns’s house.
    “You think Kuhns was stalking her?” he asks.
    “I thought we might ask him.”
    “Damn.” He whistles. “The kids. That’s cold blooded.”
    “Wouldn’t be the first time some obsessive narcissist took out his competition.”
    “Takes a sick son of a bitch to do something like that.” He motions right. “There’s the street.”
    I make a hard right and park at the curb in front of a nondescript frame house with white siding and small concrete porch in the front. From where I’m sitting, I see a one-car detached garage off the alley. The overhead door stands open and yellow lantern light spills into the backyard.
    Most Amish in the area live on farms. But with a limited amount of land, and the cost of owning it increasing, some have adapted their lifestyle to keep up with the times. Glock and I take the sidewalk to the front porch. The sound of hammering draws my attention and I realize someone is in the garage off the alley. Instead of going to the front door, we take the sidewalk around the side of the house toward the rear. An old chain-link fence stops us, but there’s no dog in sight, so I open the gate and we continue toward the garage.
    I’m a few yards from the door when the sound of sawing reaches me. Through the window, I see Kuhns hunched over whatever project