Kate Burkholder: Her Last Breath Part 2

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 s.h.i.+rt 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 G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l don't plan on forgiving the son of a b.i.t.c.h 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 to open the door for the bishop to help him out when I hear the screen door slam. I look toward the house to see Mattie Borntrager rush down the steps, her dress swis.h.i.+ng at her calves, a lantern thrust out in front of her.

"h.e.l.lo?" she calls out. "Paul? Is that you? Who's there?"

I start toward her, lower my beam. "Mattie, it's Kate Burkholder and Bishop Troyer."

"What? But why-" Her stride falters, and she stops a few feet away, her gaze going from me to the bishop and back to me. "Katie?" Alarm resonates in her voice now. Even in the dim light from her lantern, I see the confusion on her features. "I thought you were Paul," she says. "He took the children into town. They should have been home by now."

She's fully clothed, wearing a print dress, a prayer kapp, and sneakers, and I realize she was probably about to leave, perhaps to use the phone.

When I say nothing, she freezes in place and eyes me with an odd mix of suspicion and fear. She's wondering why I'm here with the Amish bishop at this hour when her husband and children are missing. I'm aware of Troyer coming up beside me and in that moment, I'm unduly relieved he's here because I'm not sure I could do this on my own without going to pieces and making everything worse.

"Why are you here?" A sort of wild terror leaps into her eyes, and for an instant, I think she's going to throw down the lantern and run back to the house and lock the door. "Where's Paul? Where are my children?"

"There's been an accident," I say. "I'm sorry, Mattie, but Paul and two of the children were killed. David survived."

"What? What?" A sound that's part scream, part sob tears from her throat and echoes like the howl of some mortally wounded animal. "No. That's not true. It can't be. They were just going to town. They'll be home soon." Her gaze fastens onto the bishop, her eyes beseeching him to contradict me. "I don't understand why she's saying these things."

The old man reaches out to her, sets his hand on her shoulder. "It is true, Mattie. They are with G.o.d now."

"No!" She spins away from him, swinging the lantern so hard the mantle flickers inside the globe. "G.o.d would not do that! He would not take them!"

"Sometimes G.o.d works in ways we do not understand," the bishop says softly. "We are Amish. We accept."

"I do not accept that." She steps back, but the old man goes with her, maintaining contact.

I reach for the lantern, ease it from her hand. "David is in the hospital," I tell her. "He needs-"

Before I can finish, her knees buckle and hit the ground. I rush forward; the bishop reaches for her, too. But the grief-stricken woman crumples. Shaking us off, she leans forward, and curls into herself, her head hanging. "Nooo!" Her hands clench at the gra.s.s, pulling handfuls from the ground. "Nooo!"

I give her a moment and glance at the bishop. The resolve and strength on his ancient face bolsters me, and not for the first time, I understand why this man is the leader of the congregation. Even in the face of insurmountable tragedy, his faith is utterly unshakable.

The old man kneels next to Mattie and sets his hand on her shoulder. "I know this is a heavy burden, my child, but David needs you."

"David! Oh, my sweet, precious boy." She chokes out the words as she straightens and wipes the tears from her cheeks. "Where is he? Is he hurt? Please, I need to see him."

I step forward and, gently, the bishop and I help her to her feet. She's unsteady and I'm afraid if I let go of her, she'll collapse again, so I maintain my grip. Her body shakes violently against mine and I wish there was some way I could stave off those tremors, absorb some of her pain, bear some of her burden.

"He's at the hospital," I tell her. "I'll take you."

Silent tears stream from her eyes. She brushes at them with shaking hands, but the effort is ineffective against the deluge. Slowly, haltingly, we start toward the house. When we reach the steps, I move ahead and open the screen door. The bishop helps her inside. We shuffle through a small porch where an old-fas.h.i.+oned wringer was.h.i.+ng machine watches our sad procession. We end up in the kitchen. A single lantern burns atop a large rectangular table with bench seats on two sides and a blue and white checkered tablecloth draped over its surface. I look at the table and I think of all the meals that will never again be shared.

While Bishop Troyer helps Mattie into a chair, I go to the sink and run tap water into a gla.s.s. Crossing to the table, I hand the water to Mattie. She's gone quiet and accepts the gla.s.s as if she's lapsed into a trance. She sips and then looks up at me. "How is David? Is he all right?"

"I don't know," I say honestly.

"I have to get to him." She rises without finis.h.i.+ng the water, then looks around the kitchen as if she's found herself in an unfamiliar place and doesn't know what to do next. "If Paul were here, he would know what to do."

I go to her side and gently take her arm. "We're here," I tell her. "We'll help you."

Bishop Troyer douses the lantern and we start toward the door.

Mattie, Bishop Troyer, and I arrive at the Emergency Room of Pomerene Hospital in Millersburg only to be told David was taken to surgery upon his arrival. Most hospitals won't perform any kind of surgery on a minor patient without parental consent unless it's a life or death situation. That the boy has already been taken into the operating room confirms his injuries are life threatening. I keep the thought to myself.

Mattie is barely able to hold it together as we take the elevator to the second floor. We garner a few curious stares as we make our way to the surgical waiting area. It never ceases to amaze me that there are people living in this part of Ohio who react as if they've never seen an Amish person.

It isn't until we're beneath the bright fluorescent lights of the surgical waiting room that I realize the stares aren't directed at the bishop, but at Mattie, and it has nothing to do with her Amishness. I've been so absorbed in the situation at hand, I hadn't noticed how strikingly beautiful she is.

Mattie was always pretty. When we were teenagers, her loveliness made her somewhat of a curiosity among our brethren. I remember the boys on rumspringa going to great lengths just to catch a glimpse of her. Mattie was demure enough to pretend she didn't notice. But she did, of course, and so did I. In contrast, I was a rather ordinary-looking girl. A long-limbed tomboy and a late bloomer to boot. I didn't begrudge Mattie her beauty; I wasn't jealous. But there was a part of me that secretly envied her. A part of me that wanted to be beautiful, too. I remember trying to mimic the way she laughed, the way she talked, even the way she wore her prayer kapp, with the ties hanging down her back just so. Generally speaking, the Amish have very little in terms of personal expression, especially when it comes to clothing. But where there's a will there's a way, especially if you're a teenage girl and determined to establish your ident.i.ty; we found creative ways to express our individualism.

Even after bearing three children, her body is slender and willowy. Though she spends a good deal of time in the sun, her skin is flawless and pale with a hint of color at her checks. Her eyes are an unusual shade of gray and fringed with thick, sooty lashes. All without the benefit of cosmetics.

She doesn't go to the gym or get her hair colored at some fancy salon. Her clothes are homemade, and she buys her shoes at the Walmart in Millersburg. But when Mattie Borntrager walks into a room, people stop what they're doing to look at her. It's as if a light s.h.i.+nes from within her. A light that cannot be doused even by insurmountable grief.

I buy two coffees at the vending machine and take them to Mattie and the bishop, who are sitting on the sofa in the waiting room. A television mounted on the wall is tuned to a sitcom I've never watched and turned up too loud, but neither seems to notice.

"I'll see what I can find out," I tell them.

At the nurse's station, I'm told David is listed in critical condition. He was taken to surgery after his blood pressure dropped. The physician believed he was bleeding internally-from an organ or perhaps a blood vessel that had been damaged-and went in to repair it.

Back in the waiting room, I relay the news to Mattie. Closing her eyes, she leans forward, bows her head, her elbows on her knees. It isn't until I notice her lips moving that I realize she's praying. When you're Amish, grief is a private affair. Generally speaking, they are stoic; their faith bolsters them in the face of life's trials. But they are also human and some emotions are too powerful to be contained, even by something as intrinsic as faith.

Speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch, Mattie asks if this could be some kind of misunderstanding. If the Englischers had somehow gotten their information wrong. She asks if perhaps G.o.d made a mistake. I don't respond, and the bishop doesn't look at me as he a.s.sures her G.o.d doesn't make mistakes and that it's not her place to question Him, but to accept His will.

Bishop Troyer knows how I feel about the tenet of acceptance. When I was Amish and fate was unjust, I raged against it. I still do; it's the way I'm wired. My inability to accept without question was one of many reasons I didn't fit in. Mattie's life stands in sharp contrast to my own. We may have been raised Amish, but we've lived in different worlds most of our lives. In light of what happened tonight, I wouldn't blame her if she railed against the unfairness of fate or cursed G.o.d for allowing it to happen. Of course, she doesn't do either of those things.

I didn't reveal to her that the accident was a hit-and-run. She deserves to know, and I'll fill her in once I have more information, hopefully before word gets around town-or the rumors start flying. But I don't see any point in adding to her misery tonight, especially when I have so few details.

By the time I'm ready to leave the hospital, Mattie has fallen silent. She sits quietly next to Bishop Troyer, her head bowed, staring at the floor, gripping a tissue as if it's her lifeline to the world. I leave her like that.

As I walk through the doors of the Emergency entrance and head toward my Explorer, the weight of my connection to Mattie presses down on me with an almost physical force. I know all too well that when you're a cop, any personal connection to a case is almost always a bad thing. Emotions cloud perceptions and judgments and have no place in police work. But as chief in a small town where everyone knows everyone, I don't have the luxury of pa.s.sing the buck to someone else.

And even as I vow not to let my past friends.h.i.+p with Mattie affect my job, I know I'm vulnerable to my own loyalties and a past I've never been able to escape.

CHAPTER 3.

The house wasn't anything special. In fact, it was probably one of the most unspectacular pieces of real estate John Tomasetti had ever laid eyes on. His Realtor had referred to it as a "Victorian fixer-upper, heavy on the fixer-upper." He didn't look very amused when Tomasetti had countered with "a broken down piece of s.h.i.+t, heavy on the s.h.i.+t."

The house, tumbling-down barn, and storm-damaged silo were located at the end of a quarter-mile-long gravel track. Set on six acres crowded with mature hardwood trees and a half-acre pond that had purportedly been stocked with catfish and ba.s.s, the three-bedroom farmhouse had just turned one hundred years old. It had looked peaceful and quaint in the brochure. All semblance of drive-up appeal ended the instant he saw the place up close and personal.

The house looked as if it had earned each of those one hundred birthdays the hard way, weathering blizzards and hailstorms and blazing sun without the benefit of maintenance. The paint had long since weathered to gray and the siding had rotted completely through in places. Tomasetti was pretty sure those were yellow jackets swarming out of that two-inch gap near the foundation. The rest of the exterior, including the eaves and trim, would need to be sc.r.a.ped, sanded, primed, and painted-all of which wasn't cheap.

At one time the windows had been adorned with slatted wood shutters. All but two lay in pieces on the ground, forgotten and left to rot in the knee-high weeds. The remaining shutters hung from rusty hinges at c.o.c.keyed angles, creaking in the breeze and giving the house the unbalanced appearance of a listing s.h.i.+p. The wrap-around porch had once been a focal point, but the wood planks sagged now, so that the house seemed to grin when you came up the lane. Not the dazzling smile of some proud patriarch looking out over his domain, but the lopsided, toothless grin of an old drunk, heavy on the drunk.

Tomasetti had almost turned around and left. But despite its state of disrepair, there was something appealing about the place. His Realtor had twittered on about the "astounding potential" and the "opportunity for investment" and reminded him that the place was "in foreclosure" and would go for a steal. Somehow, he'd persuaded Tomasetti to venture inside.

The house was small-by Ohio farmhouse standards, anyway-with just under three thousand square feet. The bedrooms and one of the two bathrooms were located on the second level; the living areas and second bath were downstairs. Not a bad floor plan considering the place had been built back when Woodrow Wilson was president and the Great War had yet to begin.

The age of the house was reflected in the interior, too, but the dilapidation was interspersed with unexpected flashes of character and the kind of architecture rarely seen in today's homes. Tall, narrow windows ensconced in woodwork adorned every external wall, ushering in a flourish of natural light. The ceilings were twelve feet high with intricate crown molding. A wide, arched doorway separated the formal dining room from the living area. The kitchen was "all original"-a term Tomasetti deemed interchangeable with "needs gutting and replacing." A peek beneath the threadbare olive-green carpeting revealed a gold mine of gleaming oak that had never seen the light of day. Tomasetti didn't have an eye for design or color. The thing he did have an eye for was potential and the old house brimmed with it.

Never a pushover, he'd left his Realtor standing in the driveway looking decidedly depressed-perhaps due to the "place is a dump" comment he'd uttered as they parted ways. He went back to his office in Richfield to immerse himself in work, which was an open case involving the unidentified remains of a Jane Doe found in Cortland, Ohio-and forget all about that dusty old farmhouse.

But he couldn't get it out of his head, which didn't make a whole lot of sense. Tomasetti was a city slicker from the word go. He preferred concrete over cornfields and the din of horns and gunned engines over the bawling of calves or spring peepers. He loved the hustle and bustle of downtown. The cultural centers and the bars and restaurants tucked away in unexpected places. He even liked the grittiness of the downtrodden neighborhoods and warehouse districts. So why the h.e.l.l was he thinking about that s.h.i.+t-hole farmhouse out in the middle of f.u.c.k-all?

He might not want to admit it, but he knew why. And the notion that his life was about to change, especially by his own hand, scared the living h.e.l.l out of him.

It had been a long time since he'd wanted anything with such ferocity, even longer since he thought he might actually have a chance of getting it. Or that he deserved something as ordinary as happiness or peace of mind or the opportunity for a fresh start. For the first time in four years, he was thinking about the future. A future that wasn't bleak.

Two days later Tomasetti called his Realtor and made a ridiculously low offer on the property. He a.s.sured himself even a motivated seller would never accept that level of highway robbery and a rejection would be fine by him. The last thing he needed was a G.o.dd.a.m.n money pit. But the owner had surprised him and accepted the price without a counter offer. Tomasetti had surprised himself by handing over the cash. Three weeks later, they closed the deal.

He'd figured the regret would sneak up on him any day now. The knowledge that he'd screwed up and made a bad investment. But a month had pa.s.sed and he had yet to lament his decision. He'd already resolved to do some work on the place. Put in a new kitchen. Granite countertops. Cherry cabinets. Travertine flooring. The kitchen, after all, was the room in which you garnered your best return. When the kitchen was finished, he'd sand and stain the hardwoods. Repair and paint the siding. Slap some paint on the interior. Then he'd sell the place to some sucker who wanted to live out in the middle of nowhere so he could listen to the frogs and get bitten up by mosquitoes. Hopefully, Tomasetti could make a little cash in the process.

His superiors at the Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation had been urging him to take some time off for a couple of years now-something Tomasetti had resisted because, up until now, he'd needed to work. When he'd walked in to Denny McNinch's office and announced he would be taking the entirety of his vacation time, he'd thought Denny was going to fall out of his chair. In fact, Denny had looked worried, like maybe he thought Tomasetti was teetering on some precipice with one foot already over the edge. Then he'd told Denny about the house and his superior had seemed not only relieved, but genuinely pleased.

The one person Tomasetti hadn't told was Kate. He wasn't sure why; he knew she'd be happy for him. h.e.l.l, knowing Kate she'd probably volunteer to drive up for the weekend to help him paint. But Tomasetti knew why he hadn't told her and it was those not-so-apparent motivations that scared him. This house wasn't just an investment or a place to live. It represented something much more important: the future.

Last summer, he and Kate had worked together on a string of missing persons cases in the northeastern part of the state. They spent some intense days together in the course of the case and one night he'd gotten caught up in the moment and asked her to move in with him. Tomasetti had never seen her look more uncertain-or terrified. He might have laughed if he hadn't been so d.a.m.ned disappointed.

Kate was independent to a fault. She could be closed off emotionally. Like him, she lugged around a good bit of baggage. She might be fearless when it came to her job, but she could be skittish when it came to their relations.h.i.+p.

Tomasetti got that, but he wanted her in his life. He wanted to share this with her. For the first time since he'd lost his wife and children, he wanted more. A lot more. The question was, did Kate?

He'd been making the forty-five-minute drive from Richfield to the farm for three days now and he'd fallen into a routine he liked, arriving at the crack of dawn, throwing open the windows, turning the old radio to a station in Dover. He spent twelve hours the first day demolis.h.i.+ng the kitchen. Everything had gone: cabinets, countertops, sink, and pantry and most of the Sheetrock. He'd ripped up the linoleum to expose the subflooring, and hauled everything to the Dumpster he'd rented. The crew of painters had arrived the second day, repairing the exterior siding and porch, installing new shutters-black-and finally giving the wood a coat of fresh white paint. The house no longer looked like somebody's nightmare-at least on the outside.

Now, after three days, sunburned and sore, with a smashed index finger that was probably going to shed its nail, Tomasetti looked around and actually liked what he saw. He'd measured for cabinets, countertops, and flooring yesterday and ordered what he needed. When the materials arrived, he would begin installation. Tomorrow, a quick stop at the home improvement store in Wooster and he could start painting the interior.

It was nearly 10:00 P.M. when he walked to the cooler he kept in the hall off the kitchen. Digging inside, he pulled out a Killian's Irish Red and carried it to the back porch. Taking his usual place on the step, he uncapped it and drank. A three-quarter moon glinted off the tin roof of the barn and illuminated the hulking form of the silo beyond. Being away from the hustle and bustle of the city had bothered him at first; the quiet seemed unnatural and made him feel isolated and edgy. But by the end of the second day, he'd begun to hear the music inside the silence: The chatter of the squirrel that lived in the spruce tree outside the kitchen window that was none too happy about the new interloper. The family of red-winged blackbirds that swooped from the spruce to the weeping willow on the bank of the pond. At dusk, the peepers and bullfrogs took over, their night song floating through the windows like some ballad you never wanted to end.

Tomasetti drank the beer and listened to the land. He listened to the buzz of the fluorescent light overhead. The creaks as the old house settled around him. He thought about Kate and wondered what she was doing. He wondered what she'd think of this place. He missed her, he realized. He wanted her here, wanted to share this with her. He took another swig and thought about calling her, but something told him to wait. He'd get a few rooms painted tomorrow. Get the house one step closer to finished. And then he'd invite her up for dinner. Tomorrow, he thought.

Tomorrow.

Though it's nearly midnight and my s.h.i.+ft is about to end, I won't be going home any time soon. The ambulances and fire trucks are gone, but the scene is lit up by the flas.h.i.+ng emergency lights of law enforcement vehicles and crawling with cops. I count five vehicles, including one from the State Highway Patrol, two from the Holmes County Sheriff's office, and one from my department. The fifth vehicle is a news van from a television station out of Columbus. A pretty blond woman wearing a hot-pink jacket finger-combs her hair beneath the glare of lights and the glowing red eye of the camera.

She spots me as I'm climbing out of the Explorer, shouts an alert to her cameraman, and starts toward me at a fast clip. "Chief Burkholder? Can we get a statement?"

I'm midway to the crime scene tape when she steps in front of me, effectively stopping me, and shoves the mike in my face. "Can you confirm that this was a hit-and-run accident that killed this Amish family tonight, Chief?"

"The accident is still under investigation." I step around her and keep going.

Holding the mike close to my face, she keeps pace with me. "Can you tell us how many people were killed?"

"There were three fatalities. We're not releasing names pending notification of next of kin."

"They were Amish?"

"That's correct."

"Was the buggy affixed with a slow-moving-vehicle sign?"

Reflective signage has been in the news recently, and is an ongoing point of contention between law enforcement and some of the Old Order Amish, who believe any kind of signage is ornamental and, therefore, against the rules set forth by the Ordnung.