Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (22 page)

He grinned, pleased to have received a response, and shot the girls a this-is-going-to-be-fun look. “Do you mind if my friend and I ask you a few questions? We’re working on a report for school. You know, about Amish people.”

More snickers.

Mattie sucked on her straw, studying him from beneath long lashes. “What’s in it for us?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “What do you want?”

“Buy us a couple of chocolate shakes and we’ll tell you everything you ever wanted to know.” She smiled sweetly. “Won’t we, Katie?”

I kicked her, annoyed because I was certain she was about to get us involved in something that would surely backfire.

The two boys exchanged looks, then the brown-haired boy nodded. “Sure.” Rising, he fished his wallet from his pocket and walked to the counter.

“What are you doing?” I whispered in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“You wanted ice cream, didn’t you?” she shot back.

I shook my head, dread building in my chest. This wasn’t going to be fun and it wasn’t the way I’d wanted to spend my afternoon.

I risked a glance at the table next to us. Only then did I notice the girls sitting there by themselves, looking irritated, and it struck me that they didn’t appreciate their boyfriends buying ice cream for us. I experienced a moment of triumph because I realized it was part of Mattie’s plan.

A few minutes later, the brown-haired boy set two chocolate shakes in front of us, and they joined us at our table.

Mattie wrapped her lips around the straw.
“Danki.”

For the first time, the brown-haired boy’s smile was genuine. He liked the Pennsylvania Dutch. Almost as much as he liked the way she was sucking on that straw. “What’s your name, anyway?” he asked.

“Mattie. What’s yours?”

“Hunter.” He motioned to his friend. “This is Patrick.”

Patrick leaned forward. “No offense, but what’s up with the old lady getup? You know, the granny dresses? You two are pretty hot-looking and that shit you’re wearing isn’t exactly sexy.”

The girls giggled.

Cruelty glinted within his smile, telling me he was out to impress his friends and that was going to happen at Mattie’s and my expense.

“Ask her if they shave their legs,” one of the girls blurted out.

“Better yet, why don’t you
show
us your legs?” Patrick said.

The girl wearing the blue jeans cackled. “I bet their legs are hairier than yours, Hunter!”

Hunter shook his head. “As you can see, my friends have no manners.” He spread his hands, trying for innocuous. “But we’d really like to know. Do you ladies shave your legs?”

To my utter shock, Mattie swiveled from her chair, hiked up her dress and exposed a slender, beautiful,
shaved
leg.

The other girl slapped her hand over her mouth and hooted around red-tipped fingers.

“Wow.” But Hunter couldn’t take his eyes off that long stretch of milky flesh. “I’ll never think of an Amish woman in the same light ever again.”

A moment of silence ensued as the teens took a good, long look. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blue-jean-clad girl staring, her eyes alight with jealousy.

“What about your armpits?” she blurted.

“Do you trim up those Amish snatches of yours?” Patrick asked.

“Oh my
Gawd!
” one of the girls chirped.

I nudged Mattie with my foot, letting her know I’d had enough and wanted to leave. When her eyes flicked to mine, I was surprised to see that she wasn’t the least bit upset by any of this. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying herself. I didn’t understand how she could remain so cool while I was embarrassed and humiliated. Worse, I was angry because they’d ruined my big afternoon out with my best friend.

“You girls want to go smoke a joint?” asked Hunter. “We promise not to bite.”

“I hear the Amish have the best shit,” one of the girls added.

I stood abruptly, my shake forgotten. All four sets of eyes burned into me, their expressions alight with the anticipation of fireworks. The blue-jean-clad girl looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my feet. “Oh my God, look at her shoes!”

“That takes practical to a whole new level,” muttered the girl sitting next to her.

“That takes
ugly
to a whole new level,” she amended.

“I’m leaving,” I said to Mattie in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Taking her time, Mattie picked up her shake and scooted away from the table. “Don’t forget your ice cream,” she said, picking up my glass.

Ignoring her, I started toward the door without looking back. My face was burning, my heart pounding. I’d been taught to be forgiving, and that included forgiving people for ignorance and cruelty. But I was a teenager; I hadn’t yet learned to curb my emotions. I wanted to put these cruel
Englischers
in their place. I wasn’t proud of the fact that I didn’t have the guts.

Before I could make my escape, one of the boys stuck out his leg and lifted the hem of my dress with the toe of his sneaker. My hand whipped out, brushed my dress back down. I didn’t look at him. Didn’t stop walking. I didn’t voice the words running through my head.

“D’you see those fuckin’ bloomers!” he screeched. “My granny wears those! Holy shit!”

Laughter exploded from the table. Praying I’d find Mattie right behind me, I glanced back to see that she’d paused next to the boy who’d lifted my dress. All I could think was:
Oh, Mattie what are you going to do?
I almost couldn’t believe my eyes when she raised both of our cups and dumped the shakes onto his lap.

CHAPTER 17

It’s 2:00
A.M.
when I leave Tomasetti’s farm. I didn’t want to go. Tonight was probably the closest thing to a perfect evening I’d ever had in my life. Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe I’ve arrived at this place. That two people as damaged as us have been granted this small slice of happiness by the same God who took so much from us in the past. When we’re together, yesterday doesn’t matter. The future is without limit and ours for the taking. I don’t have to play the tired role in which I’d been cast. The one with the hackneyed script and rehashed lines. My new role is fresh, and I like the character I’ve become.

We spent the evening cooking on a camp stove set atop a card table Tomasetti brought from his loft in Cleveland. I scaled and deboned the fish while he showered. He fried the mangled filets while I washed the grapes and sliced cheese. We sat on the stoop out back and ate fresh bass from paper plates and drank cabernet from plastic glasses.

We didn’t talk about the Borntrager case. He didn’t ask me about Lapp. We didn’t discuss the past. We didn’t even talk about the future or where all of this might lead. For the first time since I’ve known him, we simply lived in the moment. It came as a shock when I realized there was no place else in the world I wanted to be.

Earlier, during the drive over, I’d feared he would bring up my moving in with him again. By the end of the evening, I almost wished he would because I realized that being with him like this makes me happy. It makes me want more.

After dinner, he gave me a tour of the house and outbuildings. We walked the pasture and he told me about all the things he had planned for the property. The amount of work to be done is mind-boggling, but to my surprise, Tomasetti is handy and plans to do most of it himself.

Later, as we stood on the front porch, looking out over the land, he kissed me. I lost half of my clothes before we made it through the door and onto the cot he’d rented, laughing because it was too small for two people. We made love twice, somehow ending up on the floor, tangled in his sleeping bag. Afterward, I lay against him, my head on his shoulder, my leg thrown over his, and we dozed.

I should be tired, but I’m not. I’ve never partaken in illicit drugs, but I feel high, a warm and pleasant buzz that hums through my body and mind like music. I know it’s stupid, but I’m only twenty minutes from the farm and already I miss him. I miss him so much my chest hurts and I want to turn around and go back. I know at some point I’ll have to come back to earth. Back to the realities of the Borntrager case and the secrets of my past that have returned to haunt me. I know it will probably be a hard landing when I do.

I’m ten minutes out of Painters Mill, doing fifty-five miles per hour with my window down and humming along to an old Sting tune when the truth of what I’ve let happen hits me. Abruptly, all the breath leaches from my lungs. I’ve never had an anxiety attack, but I’m pretty sure one has me in its grip. Tugging at the collar of my uniform, feeling as if I can’t get enough air into my lungs, I pull off the road and onto the shoulder, braking so hard the tires skid in the gravel and the Explorer goes sideways. Then I’m out the door, cool air on my face. I stumble to the front of the Explorer, breaths ripping from my throat. I set my hand against the hood, concentrate on the warm steel against my palm.

I’ve always fancied myself immune to the craziness that sometimes accompanies intense emotional entanglements. The kind that makes smart people lose perspective and do foolish things. I was always above it and too cautious to give up too much of myself to someone else. Love was some intangible frailty to which I was not predisposed. Now, standing on a deserted road in the middle of the night and in the throes of a panic attack, it shocks me to realize I was wrong.

The problem is, I like my life the way it is: even keel. I own my emotions. I call the shots. I don’t have to rely on anyone else or, God forbid, be responsible for someone else’s happiness. All I have to worry about is me—and I’m an easy keeper.

For a full minute, I concentrate on getting oxygen into my lungs. Slowly, my surroundings come back into focus. The trill of the crickets from the woods. The hoot of an owl from the abandoned barn across the road. A dog barking in the distance. When I can breathe again, I push away from the Explorer and stand there, trying to figure out how to handle this new and uneasy situation. And I realize I’ve been lying to myself all along. I can no longer deny what I’ve allowed to happen. I’m going to have to face it. Deal with it. I’m going to have to decide where I stand and if I want to move forward. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve let myself fall in love with John Tomasetti and I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do about it.

*   *   *

At 2:30
A.M.
, I radio T.J., who’s on graveyard, and let him know I’m on my way to relieve him from surveillance duty at the Borntrager farm.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” I begin.

“I wasn’t—” Realizing I’m ribbing him, he laughs. “You’re up late tonight, Chief.”

“I got some rest earlier,” I tell him. “I just wanted to let you know I’m on my way to the Borntrager farm. You can head out, finish your shift. Thanks for covering.”

“No problem,” he says. “Place was quiet all evening.”

“That’s the way we like it.”

He pauses. “You expecting trouble?”

“I’m probably being overly cautious.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Our vehicles pass where the dirt road Ts at the highway, and we flash our headlights in greeting. A minute later, I park the Explorer on the gravel turnaround fifty yards from the mouth of the Borntrager farm.

I open the window a few inches, punch off the headlights, and kill the engine. A chorus of crickets, frogs, and peepers from the swampy area at the edge of the woods encroaches. It’s a clear, crisp night; I can see the Big Dipper through the treetops to the west. My police radio is quiet, which is normal for Holmes County this time of night. Sliding my seat back for some extra legroom, I settle in for a wait.

In the 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?”