Kate Burkholder: Her Last Breath Part 11

He's looking at me as if he's thinking about traversing the s.p.a.ce between us and slugging me in the mouth. Leland Dull is a vicious drunk and a woman-beating son of a b.i.t.c.h. There's a small, angry part of me that wishes he'd take his best shot.

I gesture toward the Dodge. "That your truck?"

"It's parked in my driveway. Who the h.e.l.l else would it belong to?"

"You got any other vehicles?"

"I got a Corolla. Wife drives it."

"Any other trucks?"

"Nope."

"Where were you last night?"

"Here."

"You make any stops on your way home from work?"

"Nope."

"Leland." My lips curve, but the smile feels nasty on my face. "You know it's against the law to lie to the police, don't you?"

"I swung by the Bra.s.s Rail after work."

"What time was that?"

"A little after five."

"What time did you leave the bar?"

"I ain't sure. Seven thirty or so." His eyes narrow. "What's this all about, anyway?"

"What route did you take home?"

"Same route I always-" He cuts the words short. "Oh, for s.h.i.+t's sake. You don't think I'm the one killed them Amish, do you?"

"I'm asking you a simple question."

"You're looking for an escape goat is what you're doing. Well, you're sniffing up the wrong a.s.s."

I puzzle over both of those statements a moment and make an effort not to laugh. "I'd appreciate it if you just answered the question."

"I took CR 14 to the highway, d.a.m.n it."

I walk to his truck, make a show of looking at the front end. "Were you drunk?"

"On f.u.c.kin' apple juice."

I turn my back and walk to the detached garage, peer through the window. The gla.s.s is grimy, but I can see there's no vehicle inside. Just an old washer and dryer. A table saw against the wall. A couple of fifty-gallon drums.

I hear him behind me. "Why are you snooping around my garage, anyway?"

"The official term for it is taking a look around." I turn, make eye contact with him. "What's in those fifty gallon drums, Leland?"

I hear a sound like chalk against slate. It takes me a few seconds to realize he's grinding his teeth. I walk over to him, stop a scant foot away. I'm so close I can smell the dead-animal stench of his breath. The odors of filth and rage coming off him in waves. He's only a few inches taller than me, older and slower, but he's got eighty pounds on me. I suspect that beneath all that wrinkled, stinking skin is a reserve of muscle I'd be wise not to underestimate.

"Do you know anything about that hit-and-run?" I ask.

His lips curl, like two worms exposed to flame. "I think it's time you hit the f.u.c.kin' road."

I turn away and start toward the Explorer. "Thanks for your cooperation," I tell him and slide in without looking back.

CHAPTER 11.

Ten minutes later I'm on my way to Pomerene Hospital to talk to Mattie, not as a friend this time, but a cop. I'm not convinced the deaths of Paul Borntrager and his two children were acts of premeditated murder, but with the evidence leaning in that direction, the possibility must be explored. That means I need to ask the hard questions I've been putting off, and delve more deeply into Paul's life. I need to know if he'd had any recent disagreements or disputes. If he had any enemies or if there'd been any threats against him or his family.

It's also my responsibility to keep Mattie apprised on how the case is progressing. That entails relaying some of the details I'd been withholding to spare her the pain of knowing the "accident" was, in fact, something more sinister. None of it's going to be pleasant, especially when I'm tired and cranky and increasingly distracted by the discovery of Lapp's remains.

At the door to David's room, I knock quietly and step inside. The air smells of an odd combination of medicine, flowers, and cinnamon. On the windowsill, a little brown teddy bear is tucked into a bouquet of pink carnations. Next to it, several gas-filled balloons tug at the ribbons that bind them to the wicker handle.

David sleeps soundly in the bed. The bruises on his face are in full bloom, but his color is healthy. Mattie is curled on the chair with her head resting on her hands, asleep. In the recliner, a heavyset Amish woman lies on her back, snoring softly. Next to her, a partially eaten tin of homemade cinnamon rolls makes my mouth water.

I'm debating whether to come back later when David speaks from his bed. "You want a cinnamon roll? They taste good."

I glance over to see him sitting up, looking at me as if I'm some stray that's wandered into the room and needs feeding.

"Hey." I feel a smile spread across my face as I go to the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"My arm hurts and I miss my datt and Norah and Sam." Using his uninjured arm, he brushes his hand over a cast that runs from wrist to elbow. "It's broken."

"I'm sorry about that." I look down at the cast to see that someone by the name of Matthew drew a cat on it. "I like the artwork."

His face splits into a big smile. "We have two cats at home. Whiskers and Frito. They're my favorites. I like it when they purr because it tickles my ear."

"I like cats, too."

"Mamm says Datt and Norah and Sam are with G.o.d."

It hurts me to hear an innocent child make such a profound statement. I nod, not sure what to say to that.

His brows knit and I know he's trying to understand the incomprehensible: why three people he loved are gone from his life and won't be coming back. "I think they miss me and Mamm, too. But heaven is the happiest place in the world, so we shouldn't be sad. One of these days, I'll be there, too, and I'm going to play hide-and-seek with Sammy and botch with Norah."

I'm not much on touching, but this little boy is so sweet and vulnerable, I can't keep myself from reaching out and laying my hand over his. He looks up at me expectantly. I want badly to say something to comfort him, to reinforce and confirm what Mattie has already told him. But I find myself so moved I can't speak.

"Katie?"

I turn to see Mattie rise from the chair. She looks rested, and for the first time since the accident, she's not crying.

"I hope I didn't wake you," I say.

"I must have drifted off." She looks past me and smiles at her son.

The boy grins back, and she returns her attention to me. "The doctor says he can go home tomorrow."

For an instant, she almost looks like the girl I once knew. The one with the infectious laugh and mischievous expression. But grief returns quickly, making itself known in the hollows of her cheeks and the circles beneath her eyes. "That's great news," I tell her. "How are you holding up?"

"These chairs aren't exactly made for sleeping." Putting her hand to her back, as if in pain, she chokes out a laugh. "I feel the way my brother must have felt the day he got tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him from the hayfield to the barn."

I hadn't thought of the incident in years, but it rushes back with enough clarity to make me laugh. I'd been at Mattie's house, helping her and her older brother, John, spear tobacco. At some point her brother, who had a crush on me, decided he wanted to show off his horsemans.h.i.+p skills and hopped onto the back of a young plow horse. The animal bucked him off. John's wrist somehow became tangled in the reins and the horse dragged him all the way to the barn.

The recliner across the room creaks. I glance over to see the Amish woman who'd been snoozing rise, eyeing me with unconcealed suspicion. "h.e.l.lo," she says.

I nod a greeting, then I turn my attention to Mattie. "Can I speak to you privately?" I motion toward the door. "In the hall?"

"Of course." She looks at the woman. "Can you stay with David for a few minutes?" she asks in Pennsylvania Dutch.

"Ja."

Mattie follows me into the hall. When we're out of earshot of the room and the nurse's station, I stop and turn to her. She's looking at me expectantly, a little perplexed, and I still don't know how to break the news. "I need to let you know," I begin, "the driver that hit the buggy left the scene. It was a hit-and-run. We're trying to find him."

"What?" She stares at me in disbelief. "The person didn't stop?"

"They didn't stop. And they didn't call the police. Failure to render aid is against the law, so we're looking for the driver. I wanted to tell you because it's all over the news. I wanted you to hear it from me."

"Paul and the children..." Her voice breaks. "How could someone do such a thing?"

"I don't know. Maybe he got scared and panicked. Maybe he was drinking alcohol. Or texting. We don't know."

She stares at me, her eyes wide, then her mouth tightens and she surprises me by saying, "I will pray for him."

I look away, not sure if I'm in awe of her capacity for forgiveness or annoyed because the son of a b.i.t.c.h doesn't deserve it. My own feelings aren't nearly as charitable.

"Is it unusual for Paul to be out so late with the children?" I ask.

"He'd taken them to the doctor in Painters Mill. He was on his way home. They had the last appointment of the day. Sometimes he bought them ice cream afterward."

"Were the kids sick?"

Her eyes flick away and I realize the question hit a nerve. "All three of my children have Cohen syndrome, Katie. We take them to the clinic every week."

A wave of sympathy ripples through me. I've heard of Cohen syndrome, but I don't know much about it. It's a genetic disorder that causes mental and physical developmental problems in children. It's thought to be caused by the small gene pool of the Amish. And I realize that parenthood for Mattie and Paul had been challenging. "I'm sorry."

Her mouth curves, but the smile looks sad on her face. "Sis Gottes wille."

I don't believe a lifetime of mental and physical difficulties is what G.o.d had in mind for her children, but since many of my opinions are unpopular among my former brethren, I keep it to myself. "Mattie, I don't want you to read anything in to what I'm going to ask you next, but I need to know if Paul had been involved in any recent disputes or arguments."

She blinks, wide gray eyes searching mine, and despite my request that she not read anything into the question, I see the wheels of her mind begin to spin. "Katie, I don't understand. Why are you asking me that?"

"These are routine questions," I tell her. "Part of the investigation."

It's a canned reply, and she's astute enough to know it's bulls.h.i.+t. I can tell by her expression that she knows I'm not being straightforward. But she's too well mannered to call me on the carpet. I wish I could tell her more, but experience has taught me to keep my cards close, sometimes even with those I trust. People talk, after all-even the good guys-and the last thing I need are more rumors of premeditated murder flying around.

She finally answers with a shake of her head. "Everyone loved Paul. He was a good man. A friend to all." Her face crumbles. "A good father and husband."

It hurts to see her in so much pain. I look away and give her a moment to compose herself before I continue. "What about in the past? Did Paul have any enemies?"

"No. He was kind and generous. A good deacon. Always trying to help people."

Amish deacons are highly respected members of the church district, helping with wors.h.i.+p services and baptisms. If an Amish family falls on hard times and needs financial a.s.sistance, the deacon oversees the collection of cash. He is Armen-Diener, which means "minister to the poor." But not all of a deacon's responsibilities are benign; they also convey messages of excommunication.

"Have there been any recent excommunications?" I ask. "Anything like that?"

"Katie..." She presses her hand to her breast as if she's run out of breath. "Did someone do this thing on purpose? Because they were angry with Paul?"

"I don't know."

"I may be Amish," she snaps. "But I'm not stupid. Please don't patronize me."

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to spare you the-"

"It would be much kinder for you to tell me the truth."

I nod. "It's something we're looking at." I say the words quietly, but it's not enough to temper the awful power behind them.

"Mein Gott." She puts her hand over her mouth as if to smother a cry. "Who would do such a thing? Who would want to hurt Paul or our children?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to do everything in my power to find out." Reaching out, I take her hand and squeeze. "I promise."

Fresh tears glitter in her eyes. She stares at me as if she's barely able to process the information I've thrown at her.

"Mattie, have you talked to David about the accident?"

"What do you mean?" Her gaze turns wary.

"Have you asked him if he remembers anything that happened?"

"Oh, Katie." She raises her hands and backs away from me. "Please. He's been through so much. I don't want to upset him."

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important," I say gently. "But I need to know if he saw anything. Or anyone. I'll do my best not to upset him."

She doesn't respond for so long I think she's going to refuse my request. Then, looking resigned, she sighs. "He's so fragile. Be kind to him. Please."