Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel

the first in line to help me.
    Tonight, it’s Mattie Borntrager who’s in crisis. She’s going to need his faith and strength to get through the coming hours. I know he’ll be there for her, too.
    “Was der schinner is letz?” he asks in a wet-gravel voice. What in the world is wrong?
    I stare at him for the span of several seconds, trying to put my thoughts in order and get the words out. We need to get over to the Borntrager farm stat and relay the news to Mattie before she finds out secondhand from someone else. I need to get back to the scene so I can get a jump on what promises to be a long and grueling investigation. Instead, I do the one thing I’ve never done in all of my years as a cop and burst into tears.
    “Katie?”
    I try to disguise that first telltale sob as a cough and noisily clear my throat. But the tears that follow betray me.
    Shock flashes on the bishop’s face, followed quickly by sharp concern. “Come inside.”
    I hold up my hand, angry with myself for breaking down at a time like this. I remind myself this isn’t about me or my emotions, but a young mother whose world is about to be shattered. “Paul Borntrager and two of his children were killed tonight,” I tell him.
    “Paul?” He presses a hand against his chest, steps back as if pushed by some invisible force. “The children? But how?”
    Quickly, I tell him about the buggy accident. “Mattie doesn’t know yet, Bishop. I need to tell her. I thought it would be helpful if you were there.”
    “Yes, of course.” He looks shaken as he glances down at the long flannel sleeping shirt he’s wearing. “I need to dress.” But he makes no move to leave. “Which child survived?” he asks.
    “A boy. The oldest child, I think.”
    “David.” He nods. “ Mein Gott. Is he going to be all right?”
    “I don’t know. They took him to the hospital.” Mortified that I lost control of my emotions, I use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe away the tears.
    Reaching out, he squeezes my arm. “Katie, remember God always has a plan. It is not our place to question, but to accept.”
    The words are intended to comfort me, but I wince. The tenet of acceptance is one of the belief systems I disagreed with most when I was Amish. Maybe because my own philosophy differs so profoundly. I refuse to accept the deaths of three innocent people as part of some big divine plan. I sure as hell don’t plan on forgiving the son of a bitch responsible.
    *   *   *
    Ten minutes later, Bishop Troyer and I are in my Explorer, heading toward the Borntrager farm. Dread rides shotgun, a dark presence whose breath is like ice on the back of my neck.
    Glock called while I was waiting for the bishop and informed me that one of Sheriff Rasmussen’s deputies is a certified accident reconstructionist, which will be extremely beneficial in terms of resources. It will also allow us to restrict the investigation to two jurisdictions: the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department and the Painters Mill PD. I’m not territorial when it comes to my job. If an outside agency offers the resources I need, I’ll be the first in line to ask for help. But in all honesty, I’m relieved to keep this case in house because I don’t want to share.
    The Borntrager farm is located on a dirt road that dead ends at a heavily wooded area that backs up to the greenbelt along Painters Creek. Neither the bishop nor I speak as I turn onto the gravel lane and start toward the house. It’s almost nine thirty now; Paul and the children should have been home hours ago. I suspect Mattie is out of her mind with worry.
    I notice the yellow glow of lantern light in the kitchen as I make the turn and the rear of the house comes into view. I imagine Mattie inside, pacing from room to room, wondering where her family is and trying to decide if she should walk to the neighbor’s house to use the phone. I hate it, but I’m about to make her worst nightmare a reality.…
    My headlights wash over the falling-down wire fence of a chicken coop as I park. Disturbed by the light, two bantam hens flutter down from their roost, clucking their outrage.
    “What are the names and ages of her children?” I don’t look at the bishop as I shut down the engine.
    “David is eight,” he tells me. “Samuel was the youngest. About four years old, I think. Norah just turned six.”
    Grabbing my Maglite, I swing open the door and slide from the Explorer. I’m in the process of going around the front end