Her Last Breath

by Linda Castillo

  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 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 swishing at her calves, a lantern thrust out in front of her.

  “Hello?” 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 God now.”

  “No!” She spins away from him, swinging the lantern so hard the mantle flickers inside the globe. “God would not do that! He would not take them!”

  “Sometimes God 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 grass, 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 thos
e 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-fashioned wringer washing 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 glass. Crossing to the table, I hand the water to Mattie. She’s gone quiet and accepts the glass 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 finishing 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 identity; 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 shines 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 God made a mistake. I don’t respond, and the bishop doesn’t look at me as he assures her God 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 God 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 passing the buck to someone else.

  And even as I vow not to let my past friendship 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 shit, heavy on the shit.”

  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 bass, 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. Tomas
etti 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 scraped, 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 cockeyed angles, creaking in the breeze and giving the house the unbalanced appearance of a listing ship. 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.