Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (24 page)

“Do you use the path in the woods?” I ask.

She nods. “Paul and the children used it sometimes when they would walk back there to fish or swim.”

“Does anyone else know about it?”

“We’re the only ones who use the path, Katie. It’s on our property. No one else even knows about it.”

“Someone does,” I tell her.

Craning her head, she moves closer as if to get a better look at my face. She puts her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Katie. You’re hurt.”

“Looks like you took one for the team,” the deputy says. “Do you want me to call an ambulance or drop you at the hospital?”

“I’m okay,” I tell him. “Looks worse than it is, I think.”

Mattie turns to the kerosene-powered refrigerator. “Let me make you a cold pack at least.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her.

“It’s not okay. None of this is okay.” She opens the freezer door and begins rummaging around inside. “You could have been seriously injured.”

The deputy catches my gaze. “I’m going to take a look around, Chief. You okay in here?”

I give him a nod and he leaves the room.

For several seconds it’s so quiet I can hear the tick of the clock on the wall. The hiss of the gas in the light fixture overhead. Mattie turns to me, a frozen bag of peas in her hand.

“You sure you’re all right?” I ask.

“Silly of you to ask me that when you’re standing there bleeding.” She wraps the bag in a dish towel and shoves it at me.

Obediently, I press it to my cheek. “Thanks.”

“Katie, I don’t understand what’s happening.” When she raises her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, I see it shaking. “Why would someone try to break into our home? What does he want?”

I motion to the table. “Let’s sit, Mattie.”

For a moment, she looks like she’s going to refuse. She’s frustrated and wants answers. I wish I could give them to her; I wish I could offer her peace of mind. But I don’t have either of those things. Not even for myself.

She goes to the table, pulls out a chair, and lowers herself into it. “What if he’d gotten in?” she asks. “What if he’d hurt David? Katie, he’s all I have left. What if—”

“He didn’t,” I cut in as I slide into the chair across from her. “Mattie, I want you to tell me everything that happened. From start to end. Don’t leave anything out, even if it seems unimportant.”

“I already—”

“Tell me again,” I snap.

Tightening her lips, she takes me through everything that transpired. “By the time I got to the kitchen, he was gone. The door was standing open and there was glass everywhere. I ran to David’s room, but he was still sleeping.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“I told you. No.”

“Not even as he ran away? An impression?”

“I didn’t even see him. It was dark.” She frowns as if she’s angry with herself. “Katie, why did he come here? What does he want?”

“Do you keep valuables in the house?”

“A little cash.” She motions toward a cookie jar on the counter. “Paul kept it there. A couple hundred dollars.”

“Can you think of any other reason someone would try to break in?”

She sets her hand over her mouth, as if to smother a cry, and looks at me over the top of her fingers, tears glittering in her eyes. “What if he’s after David? Katie, I’ve heard of children being kidnapped and their parents never seeing them again. There’ve been stories of children being taken for terrible reasons—”

“No one’s going to take David,” I tell her.

“I know God will take care of us. But I’m frightened for my son. He’s all I have left.” She stands abruptly, looking around as if she’s expecting some masked gunman to come through the door to mow us down. “I’m going to move him into my room. Tonight. We’ll sleep in the same bed until the man is—”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to either of you.” I know better than to make those kinds of open-ended promises. I can’t guarantee her absolute safety; I don’t have the manpower or budget for twenty-four-hour protection. Despite the fact that I mean those words, I know all too well that good intentions aren’t enough.

She offers a sad smile. “That’s my Katie. You were always so brave. You still are.”

“I’m doing my job, Mattie.”

I see admiration in her eyes and I realize she’s counting on me to keep them safe. The weight of that responsibility is crushing because I don’t think I could bear it if something happened to them.

My cheek is numb from the frozen peas, so I remove the bag and set it on the table. Never taking her eyes from mine, she rounds the table and lowers herself into the chair to my left.

“Mattie,” I begin, “have you had any unusual encounters or confrontations with anyone in the last months?”

“No.” Guileless eyes. No hesitation.

“What about your daily routine? Has anything unusual happened in the course of your day? Maybe a stranger came to your door? Someone selling something? Someone looking for work? Any strangers approach you while you were in town?”

“None of those things.”

“Maybe Paul hired someone to do some work around the house or help in the fields? Anything like that?”

“Paul never hired out help. He did all the work himself to save money.”

“What about while you were in town? Has anyone bothered you recently? Or said something inappropriate? Paid too much attention to you?”

Her brows knit as if she’s thinking back, trying to remember. “No.”

“Maybe it was something that didn’t seem unusual at the time,” I prod. “An odd look as someone passed you on the street.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember any such thing.”

I recall the way the suspect scaled the fence. He’s in good physical condition. Athletic. “What about teenagers, Mattie? Any teenage boys misbehaving around you? Saying things they shouldn’t?”

“I don’t even know any teenaged boys.” She raises her gaze to mine. “I think it must be someone I don’t know.”

I don’t respond, because I’m familiar with the statistics. If someone has become fixated on Mattie, chances are she has at least met him at some point.

“What about your children?” I ask. “Has anyone approached them? Said or done anything inappropriate?”

“No.”

“What about Paul? Did he mention anyone approaching him or causing problems?”

“Just Enos Wengerd.” We fall silent. Mattie looks down at her hands, her expression anxious and upset. “Katie, I’m scared. If he’d gotten into the house, he could have killed us both.”

I choose my next words carefully. I don’t want to frighten her any more than she already is, but I know that in cases like this one, ignorance is never bliss. “I want you to talk to your
datt
and see if he’ll stay here with you for a while. At least until we figure out what’s going on. Or maybe you could pack a few things and stay with your parents.”

“I’ll check with
datt.
”

“You need to be proactive about your personal safety. That means be aware of your surroundings at all times, Mattie. Keep your doors locked, day and night. Let me know if you need to go into town and I’ll either go with you or have someone accompany you. I’m going to get you a cell phone, too.”

“No cell phone, Katie. You know the
Ordnung
forbids—”

I silence her by raising my hand. “Don’t argue, Mattie. This is a serious situation. No one needs to know.”

Her mouth tightens, but she’s either too smart—or too scared—to argue.

“I’ll do my best to keep an officer here at the farm, too, but I can’t guarantee it.”

“I understand.”

I sigh. “Do you keep a firearm here at the house?”

“Paul keeps a shotgun in our closet. For hunting.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

“Katie, I haven’t fired a shotgun since I was ten years old and my
datt
took me quail—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes. I know how to use it.”

“What about shells?”

“There’s a box on the shelf, I think.”

“I want you to load it. Keep it out of David’s reach. But keep it loaded and handy. Do you understand?”

“Of course I understand.”

I stare at her, hating it that she looks more frightened now than when I arrived.

*   *   *

It’s nearly dawn by the time the CSU arrives. I leave him with instructions to capture any footwear imprints from the path in the woods and the perimeter of the house, and to dust the back door for fingerprints. Twice, Glock suggested I swing by the hospital to have the cut on my cheek checked out. Twice, I tell him I’m fine. But by the time I climb into the Explorer and start the engine, my head is pounding.

At 6:00
A.M.
, I park in my driveway and let myself into the house. I barely notice the clutter that has accumulated over recent days or the stuffy air as I lock the door behind me. I’m hungry so I go directly to the kitchen. I find some mushy grapes and old cheese in the fridge. I’m in the process of cutting away the mold when I hear a scratch at the window. The orange tabby peers at me from his place on the sill.

Smiling despite the headache, I go to the pantry for the bag of cat food and fill his bowl. Back at the sink, I open the window and push open the screen. “Sorry I’m late, buddy.”

He ignores me and hunkers down to eat.

I shed my clothes on the way to the bathroom. I know better than to look in the mirror; somehow seeing the damage done to my face is only going to make it hurt more. I look anyway. The cut isn’t too bad, but the lump beneath is a hard blue knot. The area under my left eye is filled with fluid, and I suspect in the coming hours I’ll have a full-blown black eye.

Snagging a bottle of ibuprofen that expired two months ago from the medicine cabinet, I down four of them with a full glass of tap water and drag myself into the shower.

*   *   *

Ask for a lot, get a little.

That’s been my mantra when dealing with Painters Mill’s governing body, the town council. In the three years I’ve been chief, that philosophy has served me well. At 9:00
A.M.
I’m standing before the six council members and Mayor Auggie Brock, ten minutes into my pitch for the allocation of funds so I can hire a new police officer. I’ve given them a summary of the Borntrager investigation, ending with my encounter in the woods last night. It took them less than a minute to shoot down my request, so I moved on to Plan B, which is additional budgeting for overtime.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not above using whatever tool I have at my disposal to get what I want. That includes brandishing the hen’s-egg-size bruise on my cheek and my burgeoning black eye, both of which are in full bloom this morning. My wounds are drawing plenty of attention, and I make sure everyone gets a damn good look, because they are the biggest bullet in my box of ammo.

“Three members of the Borntrager family were killed,” I explain. “The incident is still under investigation, but the evidence gathered by the Holmes County sheriff’s office and my own department suggests this was no ordinary hit-and-run accident, but a deliberate act of homicide.”

Auggie gasps with the appropriate level of shock. “I’ve heard the rumors, but
murder
? My God, Kate, are you sure?”

I give him my full attention and decide to put my neck on the chopping block. “I’m reasonably certain Paul Borntrager and his two children were murdered.”

“Do you know who did it?” he blurts.

“Not yet, but the investigation is ongoing.”

Town councilwoman Janine Fourman speaks up. “Chief Burkholder, with all due respect to you and your department, murdering a family of Amish people with a truck seems rather far-fetched and, frankly, an odd way to kill someone.”

She’s in her midfifties, with dyed black hair, shifty brown eyes, and a body as short and round as a milk-fed heifer. We’ve butted heads a dozen times in the years I’ve been chief. Still, I give her points for making it this far in a town that still has a boy’s-club mentality. I suspect she’s got her sights set on the mayor’s office, an ambition that would be detrimental to not only me, but my department.

“She’s got a point, Kate,” Auggie says. “A hit-and-run seems like a roundabout way to go about it. And what would the motive be?”

I bullet-point everything we’ve uncovered so far, beginning with the lack of debris at the scene and the bogus invoice, and ending with the attempted break-in, the foot chase, and ensuing struggle last night.

Councilman Stubblefield grimaces. “Is that how you got the tattoo there on your face?”

I nod, let him take a good, long look at it. “I believe the suspect I chased is the same person who killed Paul Borntrager and those kids. I believe Mattie Borntrager was his target. If I hadn’t been there last night, he might have killed her and her young son.” I pause to let that sink in and look from member to member. “I think he’ll try again.” I make eye contact with Auggie. “I need eyes on that house twenty-four–seven, Auggie. That means a budget for overtime.”

The mayor’s expression twists as if he’s in the grip of a stomach cramp that’s going to end badly. “Kate, I know you’re stretched thin—”

“I’ve been stretched thin for three years,” I cut in.

“Painters Mill isn’t exactly New York City.” Bruce Jackson pipes up for the first time.

I don’t look at him, don’t let my annoyance alter my expression.

Auggie spreads his hands, a generous king who’s run out of bread for his starving peasants. “You’re already over budget.”

“The budget allotted the police department wasn’t adequate to begin with,” I point out.

“You signed off on it,” Janine interjects.

I ignore her, knowing that if I speak I’ll overstep the boundaries of civility, which won’t help. “My officers can’t even take a vacation day without my having to call someone in to cover. This woman and her son, and the community as a whole, deserve better than that. They deserve protection.”

I can’t tell if they’re moved by my argument or if this is just another business-as-usual meeting. They are, after all, politicians. Best case scenario, they’ll sanction additional budget for overtime. Worse case, they’ll send me off with a pat on the hand and a warning to get my labor cost under control.