Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel Read online

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  This book is dedicated to all of the people who’ve read and loved the books.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As is always the case when I complete a book, I have many people to thank for helping to make it happen. First and foremost, I wish to thank the usual suspects: The outstanding publishing professionals at Minotaur Books: Charles Spicer. Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Matthew Shear. Matthew Baldacci. Jeanne-Marie Hudson. Stephanie Davis. Sarah Melnyk. Hector DeJean. Kerry Nordling. April Osborn. David Rotstein. Thank you for your ideas, your endless hours of hard work, your support, and your undying enthusiasm for the Kate Burkholder series. I hope you know how much I appreciate each and every one of you.

  I also wish to thank some of the behind-the-scenes folks who, in the course of my writing Her Last Breath, went above and beyond to broaden my knowledge of the Amish culture. Heartfelt thanks to Denise Campbell-Johnson with the Dover Public Library for sharing your knowledge of the Amish with me and especially for those two fun-filled days in Ohio’s Amish Country. I appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule to hang out and show me around.

  Many thanks to Mark and Salome Oliver of Millersburg, Ohio, for inviting me into your home and offering me a glimpse of your lives. It was such a pleasure to sit and chat, and I very much appreciated the opportunity to drive your buggy. I hope you could tell by the smile on my face that I loved every minute!

  Thank you to my other Amish friends in Millersburg, Ohio, for opening your home to me. I enjoyed our dinner and the tour of your beautiful farm.

  I also wish to thank John and Janet Shafer of Killbuck, Ohio, for all of the research material you’ve shared with me over the years. Every story begins with an idea and you have supplied me with scores. In return, I can only hope to bring you many more hours of reading enjoyment.

  Once again, I’d also like to shout out a huge thank-you to Chief Dan Light of the Arcanum Ohio Police Department, for his insights and ideas with regard to motor vehicle accidents. As always, any procedural errors are mine.

  I’d like to thank my agent, Nancy Yost, for pulling off the impossible and making it look easy. You are the best of the best.

  Many thanks to the Divas: Jennifer Archer, Anita Howard, Marcy McKay, and April Redmon.

  Thank you to my author friends Jennifer Miller and Catherine Spangler for all the support over the years. What a journey it’s been!

  Finally, I’d like to thank my husband, Ernest, who has been by my side every step of the way. I love you.

  The cruelest lies are often told in silence.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson, Virginibus Puerisque

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Also by Linda Castillo

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  The clip-clop of the standardbred’s shod hooves against asphalt echoed within the canopy of the trees. Paul Borntrager had purchased the four-year-old gelding at the horse auction in Millersburg six months ago—against his better judgment. His daughter, Norah, promptly named the animal Sampson—after the world’s largest horse—because he was so big and strong. Fresh off the racetrack, Sampson had been a challenge at first, breaking his gait and spooking at cars and loose dogs. But after six months of training and a lot of miles, the horse turned out to be a good investment. Now, Sampson was one of the fastest trotters he’d ever owned and a pleasure to drive. Paul was glad he’d taken a chance on the animal.

  The leather reins were solid, but soft in his hands. The jingle of the harness and the rhythmic creaking of the buggy lulled Paul into a state of quiet contemplation. The children had behaved well this afternoon, even though they had to wait more than an hour for their appointment at the clinic. They were silent now, but only because he’d stopped at the Dairy Dream and bought them ice cream cones. The instant they finished, he was certain the chatter and games would return. The thought made him smile. It had been a good day.

  Dusk was fast approaching and the low clouds were spitting drizzle. He hoped it rained; the drought had been tough on the crops over the summer. Clucking, giving the reins a sharp snap, he pushed Sampson into an extended trot. Though he’d added battery-powered taillights and affixed a reflective slow-moving-vehicle sign to the rear of the buggy, Paul didn’t like being on the road after dark. The Englischers were always in a hurry and drove too fast. Half of the time they didn’t pay attention where they were going, especially with all the cell phones and texting they did.

  “Look, Datt! Die sunn is am unnergeh!”

  Smiling at the voice of his four-year-old son, Paul glanced to his right. Through the blood-red foliage of the maples, elms, and black walnut trees that grew alongside the road, glowing pink fingers of the setting sun speared through deepening clouds. “The Lord blessed us with another beautiful day, eh?”

  “Datt, David won’t botch with me,” came six-year-old Norah’s voice from the rear of the buggy.

  Botching was a clapping game their mamm had been teaching young Norah for the last few days. The girl had been pestering her older brother to play with her since. “I think he must be busy eating his ice cream,” Paul offered.

  “But he’s finished.”

  David, his oldest child at eight years of age, poked his head out from the interior of the buggy and looked up at him. “Botching is for girls, Datt. Don’t make me play with her.”

  Paul glanced over his shoulder at his daughter. “He has a point, Norah.”

  She came up beside her brother and set her hand on his shoulder. Paul saw a sticky-looking patch of melted chocolate ice cream on her knuckles. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said with grave seriousness.

  That made Paul laugh. Love for his children moved through him with such power his chest ached. Not for the first time that day, he thanked God for all of the blessings bestowed upon him.

  “We’re almost home,” he said. “Why don’t you sing one of the botching songs instead?” He posed the question absently; they were coming upon a blind intersection. He liked to be ready in case Sampson spooked.

  Tightening his grip on the reins, Paul craned his head forward to check for oncoming traffic. The trees were too thick to see, but there was no telltale glow of headlights. He didn’t hear an engine or the hiss of tires against the pavement. It was safe to proceed.

  In the rear of the buggy, Norah began to sing Pop Goes the Weasel.

  “All around the mulberry bush.

  The monkey chased the weasel.

  The monkey stopped to pull up his s
ock…”

  Paul could hear the children clapping now, and he knew Norah had persuaded her older brother to play. He smiled to himself; she was quite the little negotiator and strong willed, like her mother.

  They were nearly to the intersection and wholly alone on the road. Clucking to Sampson to pick up the pace, Paul began to sing along with the children.

  “All around the chicken coop,

  the possum chased the weasel.”

  The roar of an engine came out of nowhere, with the sudden violence of a jet falling from the sky. Paul caught a glimpse of the screaming black beast to his right. A knife slash of adrenaline streaked across his belly. A deep stab of fear. Too late, he hauled back on the reins, shouted, “Whoa!”

  The horse’s steel shoes slid on the asphalt.

  The impact jolted him violently. He heard the crash! of splintering fiberglass and wood. A hot streak of pain in his side. And then he was airborne. Around him, the buggy exploded into a hundred pieces. Paul thought he heard a child’s cry and then the ground rushed up and slammed into him.

  The next thing he knew he was on the ground with his face pressed against the earth. Dry grass scratching his cheek. The taste of blood in his mouth. The knowledge that he was badly injured trickling into his brain. But all he could think about was the children. Where were they? Why were they silent? He had to go to them, make sure they were all right.

  Please, dear Lord, watch over my children.

  He tried to move, groaning with the effort, but his body refused the command. Unable to move or speak, he listened for the children’s voices, their cries, for any sign of life, but he heard only silence, the tinkle of rain against the asphalt, and the whisper of wind through the trees.

  CHAPTER 1

  When it rains, it pours. Those words were one of my mamm’s favorite maxims when I was growing up. As a child, I didn’t understand its true meaning, and I didn’t spend much time trying to figure it out. In the eyes of the Amish girl I’d been, more was almost always a good thing. The world around me was a swiftly moving river, chock-full of white-water rapids and deep holes filled with secrets I couldn’t fathom. I was ravenous to raft that river, anxious to dive into all of those dark crevices and unravel their closely guarded secrets. It wasn’t until I entered my twenties that I realized there were times when that river overflowed its banks and a killing flood ensued.

  My mamm is gone now and I haven’t been Amish for fifteen years, but I often find myself using that old adage, particularly when it comes to police work and, oftentimes, my life.

  I’ve been on duty since 3:00 P.M. and my police radio has been eerily quiet for a Friday, not only in Painters Mill proper, but the entirety of Holmes County. I made one stop and issued a speeding citation, mainly because it was a repeat offense and the eighteen-year-old driver is going to end up killing someone if he doesn’t slow down. I’ve spent the last hour cruising the backstreets, trying not to dwell on anything too serious, namely a state law enforcement agent by the name of John Tomasetti and a relationship that’s become a lot more complicated than I ever intended.

  We met during the Slaughterhouse Murders investigation almost two years ago. It was a horrific case: A serial killer had staked his claim in Painters Mill, leaving a score of dead in his wake. Tomasetti, an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Identification and Investigation, was sent here to assist. The situation was made worse by my personal involvement in the case. They were the worst circumstances imaginable, especially for the start of a relationship, professional or otherwise. Somehow, what could have become a debacle of biblical proportion, grew into something fresh and good and completely unexpected. We’re still trying to figure out how to define this bond we’ve created between us. I think he’s doing a better job of it than I am.

  That’s the thing about relationships; no matter how hard you try to keep things simple, all of those gnarly complexities have a way of seeping into the mix. Tomasetti and I have arrived at a crossroads of sorts, and I sense change on the wind. Of course, change isn’t always a negative. But it’s rarely easy. The indecision can eat at you, especially when you’ve arrived at an important junction and you’re not sure which way to go—and you know in your heart that each path will take you in a vastly different direction.

  I’m not doing a very good job of keeping my troubles at bay, and I find myself falling back into another old habit I acquired from my days on patrol: wishing for a little chaos. A bar fight would do. Or maybe a domestic dispute. Sans serious injury, of course. I don’t know what it says about me that I’d rather face off with a couple of pissed-off drunks than look too hard at the things going on in my own life.

  I’ve just pulled into the parking lot of LaDonna’s Diner for a BLT and a cup of dark roast to go when the voice of my second shift dispatcher cracks over the radio.

  “Six two three.”

  I pick up my mike. “What do you have, Jodie?”

  “Chief, I just took a nine one one from Andy Welbaum. He says there’s a bad wreck on Delisle Road at CR 14.”

  “Anyone hurt?” Dinner forgotten, I glance in my rearview mirror and make a U-turn in the gravel lot.

  “There’s a buggy involved. He says it’s bad.”

  “Get an ambulance out there. Notify Holmes County.” Cursing, I make a left on Main, hit my emergency lights and siren. The engine groans as I crank the speedometer up to fifty. “I’m ten seventy-six.”

  I’m doing sixty by the time I leave the corporation limit of Painters Mill. Within seconds, the radio lights up as the call goes out to the Holmes County sheriff’s office. I make a left on Delisle Road, a twisty stretch of asphalt that cuts through thick woods. It’s a scenic drive during the day, but treacherous as hell at night, especially with so many deer in the area.

  County Road 14 intersects a mile down the road. The Explorer’s engine groans as I crank the speedometer to seventy. Mailboxes and the black trunks of trees fly by outside my window. I crest a hill and spot the headlights of a single vehicle ahead. No ambulance or sheriff’s cruiser yet; I’m first on scene.

  I’m twenty yards from the intersection when I recognize Andy Welbaum’s pickup truck. He lives a few miles from here. Probably coming home from work at the plant in Millersburg. The truck is parked at a haphazard angle on the shoulder, as if he came to an abrupt and unexpected stop. The headlights are trained on what looks like the shattered remains of a four-wheeled buggy. There’s no horse in sight; either it ran home or it’s down. Judging from the condition of the buggy, I’m betting on the latter.

  “Shit.” I brake hard. My tires skid on the gravel shoulder. Leaving my emergency lights flashing, I hit my high beams for light and jam the Explorer into park. Quickly, I grab a couple of flares from the back, snatch up my Maglite, and then I’m out of the vehicle. Snapping open the flares, I scatter them on the road to alert oncoming traffic. Then I start toward the buggy.

  My senses go into hyperalert as I approach, several details striking me at once. A sorrel horse lies on its side on the southwest corner of the intersection, still harnessed but unmoving. Thirty feet away, a badly damaged buggy has been flipped onto its side. It’s been broken in half, but it’s not a clean break. I see splintered wood, two missing wheels, and a ten-yard-wide swath of debris—pieces of fiberglass and wood scattered about. I take in other details, too. A child’s shoe. A flat-brimmed hat lying amid brown grass and dried leaves …

  My mind registers all of this in a fraction of a second, and I know it’s going to be bad. Worse than bad. It will be a miracle if anyone survived.

  I’m midway to the buggy when I spot the first casualty. It’s a child, I realize, and everything grinds to a halt, as if someone threw a switch inside my head and the world winds down into slow motion.

  “Fuck. Fuck.” I rush to the victim, drop to my knees. It’s a little girl. Six or seven years old. She’s wearing a blue dress. Her kapp is askew and soaked with blood and I think: head injury.

  “Sweetheart.” The word comes
out as a strangled whisper.

  The child lies in a supine position with her arms splayed. Her pudgy hands are open and relaxed. Her face is so serene she might have been sleeping. But her skin is gray. Blue lips are open, revealing tiny baby teeth. Already her eyes are cloudy and unfocused. I see bare feet and I realize the force of the impact tore off her shoes.

  Working on autopilot, I hit my lapel mike, put out the call for a 10-50F. A fatality accident. I stand, aware that my legs are shaking. My stomach seesaws, and I swallow something that tastes like vinegar. Around me, the night is so quiet I hear the ticking of the truck’s engine a few yards away. Even the crickets and night birds have gone silent as if in reverence to the violence that transpired here scant minutes before.

  Insects fly in the beams of the headlights. In the periphery of my thoughts, I’m aware of someone crying. I shine my beam in the direction of the sound, and spot Andy Welbaum sitting on the ground near the truck with his face in his hands, sobbing. His chest heaves, and sounds I barely recognize as human emanate from his mouth.

  I call out to him. “Andy, are you hurt?”

  He looks up at me, as if wondering why I would ask him such a thing. “No.”

  “How many in the buggy? Did you check?” I’m on my feet and looking around for more passengers, when I spot another victim.

  I don’t hear Andy’s response as I start toward the Amish man lying on the grassy shoulder. He’s in a prone position with his head turned to one side. He’s wearing a black coat and dark trousers. I try not to look at the ocean of blood that has soaked into the grass around him or the way his left leg is twisted with the foot pointing in the wrong direction. He’s conscious and watches me approach with one eye.