Part 1 (1/2)
Her Last Breath.
A Kate Burkholder Novel.
Number V of Kate Burkholder.
Linda Castillo.
About the Author.
LINDA CASTILLO, author of New York Times bestselling Sworn to Silence, lives in Texas with her husband and is currently at work on her next book in this series, also set in Amish Country and featuring Chief of Police Kate Burkholder.
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This book is dedicated to all of the people who've read and loved the books..
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
As is always the case when I complete a book, I have many people to thank for helping to make it happen. First and foremost, I wish to thank the usual suspects: The outstanding publis.h.i.+ng professionals at Minotaur Books: Charles Spicer. Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Matthew Shear. Matthew Baldacci. Jeanne-Marie Hudson. Stephanie Davis. Sarah Melnyk. Hector DeJean. Kerry Nordling. April Osborn. David Rotstein. Thank you for your ideas, your endless hours of hard work, your support, and your undying enthusiasm for the Kate Burkholder series. I hope you know how much I appreciate each and every one of you.
I also wish to thank some of the behind-the-scenes folks who, in the course of my writing Her Last Breath, went above and beyond to broaden my knowledge of the Amish culture. Heartfelt thanks to Denise Campbell-Johnson with the Dover Public Library for sharing your knowledge of the Amish with me and especially for those two fun-filled days in Ohio's Amish Country. I appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule to hang out and show me around.
Many thanks to Mark and Salome Oliver of Millersburg, Ohio, for inviting me into your home and offering me a glimpse of your lives. It was such a pleasure to sit and chat, and I very much appreciated the opportunity to drive your buggy. I hope you could tell by the smile on my face that I loved every minute!
Thank you to my other Amish friends in Millersburg, Ohio, for opening your home to me. I enjoyed our dinner and the tour of your beautiful farm.
I also wish to thank John and Janet Shafer of Killbuck, Ohio, for all of the research material you've shared with me over the years. Every story begins with an idea and you have supplied me with scores. In return, I can only hope to bring you many more hours of reading enjoyment.
Once again, I'd also like to shout out a huge thank-you to Chief Dan Light of the Arcanum Ohio Police Department, for his insights and ideas with regard to motor vehicle accidents. As always, any procedural errors are mine.
I'd like to thank my agent, Nancy Yost, for pulling off the impossible and making it look easy. You are the best of the best.
Many thanks to the Divas: Jennifer Archer, Anita Howard, Marcy McKay, and April Redmon.
Thank you to my author friends Jennifer Miller and Catherine Spangler for all the support over the years. What a journey it's been!
Finally, I'd like to thank my husband, Ernest, who has been by my side every step of the way. I love you.
The cruelest lies are often told in silence.
-Robert Louis Stevenson, Virginibus Puerisque.
PROLOGUE.
The clip-clop of the standardbred's shod hooves against asphalt echoed within the canopy of the trees. Paul Borntrager had purchased the four-year-old gelding at the horse auction in Millersburg six months ago-against his better judgment. His daughter, Norah, promptly named the animal Sampson-after the world's largest horse-because he was so big and strong. Fresh off the racetrack, Sampson had been a challenge at first, breaking his gait and spooking at cars and loose dogs. But after six months of training and a lot of miles, the horse turned out to be a good investment. Now, Sampson was one of the fastest trotters he'd ever owned and a pleasure to drive. Paul was glad he'd taken a chance on the animal.
The leather reins were solid, but soft in his hands. The jingle of the harness and the rhythmic creaking of the buggy lulled Paul into a state of quiet contemplation. The children had behaved well this afternoon, even though they had to wait more than an hour for their appointment at the clinic. They were silent now, but only because he'd stopped at the Dairy Dream and bought them ice cream cones. The instant they finished, he was certain the chatter and games would return. The thought made him smile. It had been a good day.
Dusk was fast approaching and the low clouds were spitting drizzle. He hoped it rained; the drought had been tough on the crops over the summer. Clucking, giving the reins a sharp snap, he pushed Sampson into an extended trot. Though he'd added battery-powered taillights and affixed a reflective slow-moving-vehicle sign to the rear of the buggy, Paul didn't like being on the road after dark. The Englischers were always in a hurry and drove too fast. Half of the time they didn't pay attention where they were going, especially with all the cell phones and texting they did.
”Look, Datt! Die sunn is am unnergeh!”
Smiling at the voice of his four-year-old son, Paul glanced to his right. Through the blood-red foliage of the maples, elms, and black walnut trees that grew alongside the road, glowing pink fingers of the setting sun speared through deepening clouds. ”The Lord blessed us with another beautiful day, eh?”
”Datt, David won't botch with me,” came six-year-old Norah's voice from the rear of the buggy.
Botching was a clapping game their mamm had been teaching young Norah for the last few days. The girl had been pestering her older brother to play with her since. ”I think he must be busy eating his ice cream,” Paul offered.
”But he's finished.”
David, his oldest child at eight years of age, poked his head out from the interior of the buggy and looked up at him. ”Botching is for girls, Datt. Don't make me play with her.”
Paul glanced over his shoulder at his daughter. ”He has a point, Norah.”
She came up beside her brother and set her hand on his shoulder. Paul saw a sticky-looking patch of melted chocolate ice cream on her knuckles. ”I won't tell anyone,” she said with grave seriousness.
That made Paul laugh. Love for his children moved through him with such power his chest ached. Not for the first time that day, he thanked G.o.d for all of the blessings bestowed upon him.
”We're almost home,” he said. ”Why don't you sing one of the botching songs instead?” He posed the question absently; they were coming upon a blind intersection. He liked to be ready in case Sampson spooked.
Tightening his grip on the reins, Paul craned his head forward to check for oncoming traffic. The trees were too thick to see, but there was no telltale glow of headlights. He didn't hear an engine or the hiss of tires against the pavement. It was safe to proceed.
In the rear of the buggy, Norah began to sing Pop Goes the Weasel.
”All around the mulberry bush.
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey stopped to pull up his sock...”
Paul could hear the children clapping now, and he knew Norah had persuaded her older brother to play. He smiled to himself; she was quite the little negotiator and strong willed, like her mother.
They were nearly to the intersection and wholly alone on the road. Clucking to Sampson to pick up the pace, Paul began to sing along with the children.
”All around the chicken coop, the possum chased the weasel.”
The roar of an engine came out of nowhere, with the sudden violence of a jet falling from the sky. Paul caught a glimpse of the screaming black beast to his right. A knife slash of adrenaline streaked across his belly. A deep stab of fear. Too late, he hauled back on the reins, shouted, ”Whoa!”
The horse's steel shoes slid on the asphalt.