Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel (35 page)

“She was my best friend.”

“I’m your best friend.”

The words, the kindness, and the truth behind them triggers something inside me, like the shattering of glass. Setting down the beer, I lower my face into my hands and begin to cry.

*   *   *

It took me two days to catch the cat. It’s not that he doesn’t like me. He does. But he’s feral. Like me, he’s been kicked around a little and sometimes it shows, usually to his own detriment. He doesn’t easily trust. Sometimes he scratches the people who care for him most. I finally nab him using his favorite food. He’s not a happy camper when I put him in the carrier.

“It’s for your own good,” I tell him as I lug the carrier to my rental car and place it on the passenger seat.

He responds by hissing at me.

Ten minutes later, I take the Toyota Corolla down the lane of Mattie’s parents’ farm. I pass by an old barn with a fresh coat of white paint, and then the lane curls right, taking me toward the house.

It’s been seventeen years since I’ve been here, but so little has changed I feel as if I’m fifteen years old again as the house looms into view. The kitchen window where Mattie and I used to wash dishes while we whispered about boys still looks out over a cornfield that never seems to produce enough corn. The big maple tree still stands sentinel outside the window that had once been Mattie’s bedroom. The same tree she climbed down the night we went to see the midnight screening of
Basic Instinct.
Even the clothesline post still leans slightly toward the barn. I wonder how a place can remain the same for so many years when the rest of the world barrels on with such astounding speed.

It’s been two days since my ordeal at the clinic with Mattie and Michael Armitage. I’ve been put on administrative leave, though I’ve been told I’ll be back on the job by tomorrow afternoon. I haven’t slept since that night. Strangely, I’m not tired. I haven’t been able to eat, but I’m not hungry. I’m hurting, but it’s a silent pain because, after that first morning with Tomasetti, I haven’t been able to cry.

Being here today is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life. Tomasetti tried to talk me out of it. It’s not the first time I didn’t heed his good advice. Avoiding Mattie’s parents made me feel like a coward. I’m a lot of things—and not all of those things are good. But I’m not a coward.

Ten yards away, the door to the milk barn stands open, so I pick up the cat carrier and the brown paper bag that contains his kibble and head that way. I hear the generator that powers the milk machine rumbling from inside the small building next to the barn. I find Andy Erb in the aisle, sanitizing the udders of the cows he’s just brought in from the field. The rest of the cattle are in stanchions and David is pouring feed into the long feeder.

Man and boy look up from their work when I approach.
“Guder mariya,”
I say.

Andy Erb stiffens. His expression doesn’t change as he straightens and looks at me. He reaches for his grandson, but young David is already running toward me, grinning. “We’re getting ready to milk the cows. Do you wanna watch? I know how to do it.”

I muss his hair, amazed at how resilient he is. That life goes on for him, even without his mother, father, and siblings. “It looks like fun, sweetheart, but I can’t stay.”

He’s already eyeing the pet carrier. “What’s inside the little box?” he asks.

Andy approaches us, sets his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and eases him away from me. When the Amish man’s eyes meet mine, I feel an instant of guilt. I spent half of my life wondering if he’d abused his daughter, never doubting Mattie’s insinuation that he had. I’d hated him; I’d hated his wife for looking the other way. If Mattie had asked for my help, I would have done anything to protect her from them. Now, as an adult—and a police officer—I’m relieved she hadn’t, because we would have destroyed this man’s life and torn his family apart in the process.

Andy’s eyes flick to the house, telling me Mattie’s mother, Lizzie, is inside and I’m not to go there. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

“Mr. Erb…” I say his name, but all the words I so diligently rehearsed on the way over tangle in my throat. Instead, I shove the cat carrier at him. “I brought this,” I blurt. “For David.”

“What is it? I want to see!” The boy disentangles himself from his grandfather’s hands and bends to peer inside. “
Grossdaddi
!
Sis kot
! An orange one! Can I keep him?”

To the cat’s credit, he doesn’t hiss.

Erb stares at the cat as if he’s never seen one before. After a moment, he pulls a white kerchief from the pocket of his trousers and wipes his eyes. “Is he a good mouser?” he asks.

“He’s the laziest cat I’ve ever owned,” I tell him. “He’s got an unpleasant personality. A mean streak, actually. He hisses. A lot. Sometimes he scratches. But he’s never bitten me. I suspect he never forgave me for having him neutered.”

The Amish man nods. “He sounds like a good cat.”

David lets out a squeal. “What’s his name?”

“I’ve been calling him Custer, but you can rename him if you like.”

“Hi there, Custer.
Wei bischt du heit
?” David peers into the carrier. “You have a nice pink nose.”

I kneel next to the boy. Setting both hands on his shoulders, I turn him to face me. “You promise to take good care of him? Make sure he has plenty of food and water at all times, right? Make sure he has shade in the summer and a warm place to curl up in winter?”

“
Ja
! We’re going to be best friends. I won’t be lonely anymore.”

I offer him the carrier, trying not to look at the cat. I’m not attached to him. Sure, he’s gotten me through some tough times; I’ll miss him. But I work too many hours to be a good owner to him. Besides, David needs him more than I do.

“Offer him some milk, David,” Mr. Erb says.

“Okay,
Grossdaddi.
” The boy looks into the carrier and eyes the cat. “You’re going to like the milk here, Custer.”

He starts to walk away, but I stop him with, “Hey.”

He grins at me and I bend to give him a quick, awkward hug. “Take care, sweetie.”

“I will.” But his attention is on the cat. “Come on, Custer.”

We watch him walk away. The silence that follows is thoughtful and somehow rings with a sense of finality. After a moment, Erb looks through the open door at the field beyond and sighs with the weariness of a beaten man. “We knew something was wrong with her.”

He says the words without looking at me, uncomfortably, and the pain I see on his face profound, as if he, as a parent, somehow failed.

I let the silence ride until he meets my gaze. “I didn’t,” I tell him. “I loved her. I spent a lot of time with her. And I didn’t know.”

The sound of a door slamming draws our attention. I turn to see Mattie’s mother coming down the steps of the back porch of the house, wiping her hands on a dish towel, looking our way.

Mr. Erb motions for me to leave. “
Die zeit fer is nau.
”
Time to go now.

I want to embrace him, but I’m not sure it will be welcomed, so I don’t. Instead, I turn away and leave the barn. As I’m walking toward the Toyota, I glance over at Mattie’s mother. She’s standing at the foot of the steps, clutching the towel, her eyes on me, crying.

The sight of her crushes something inside me. I fight tears as I get into the car and I drive away without looking back.

CHAPTER 26

It’s pouring rain by the time I arrive at Tomasetti’s farm. I’d hoped to do some fishing with him on the dock—catch dinner, maybe—drink a couple of beers, listen to the arrival of dusk. But I can’t complain about the rain since it’s been dry most of the summer and it matches my mood to a T.

I park behind his Tahoe and punch off the headlights. Grabbing the grocery bag off the passenger seat, I swing open the door and hightail it to the back porch. I’m soaked by the time I enter the kitchen, but I don’t mind. The rain feels good against my skin. Cleansing somehow. A new start. I keep a change of clothes in the bedroom closet, anyway. Jeans and a tee-shirt I’d brought for an overnight stay, but didn’t use.

The house smells of paint and freshly sawed wood. I’d expected to find Tomasetti in the kitchen, finishing up the cabinets that had been delivered the day before, but he’s not there. The radio sitting on the five-gallon bucket in the corner is on, the newscaster announcing flash flood warnings for all of Holmes, Warren, and Coshocton Counties until midnight. It crosses my mind that I should get back to Painters Mill in case Painters Creek floods and some dummy decides to drive through the water that sometimes rushes over Dog Leg Road. Then I remember I’m off duty and I put it out of my mind.

“Tomasetti?”

No answer.

I wander into the living room. An aluminum stepladder is set up near the window. A five-gallon bucket of paint sits atop a plastic drop cloth on the floor. Tomasetti is nowhere in sight, so I take the stairs to the second level.

I find him in the largest of the three bedrooms, using a roller with an extension bar as he rolls paint onto the ceiling. He’s painted the walls butter yellow. The woodwork and crown molding are still the original stained mahogany. It’s a nice look that reminds me of red-winged blackbirds and misty summer mornings.

He glances at me over his shoulder when I enter the room and his eyes linger. He’s wearing faded blue jeans that are speckled with paint and worn through at one knee. A gray tee-shirt with the logo from the Cleveland Division of Police. I’m moved by the sight of him. This man who’s looking at me so intently, as if he’s glad to see me. I don’t see how anyone could be glad to see me these days; I haven’t exactly been pleasant.

“Forget your umbrella?” he asks.

I glance down at my wet clothes. “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m dripping all over your floor.”

“You can drip all over my floor any time, Chief.” He finishes the section he’d been painting and sets the roller in the paint tray. “How did it go?”

The question needs no explanation. “All right, I think. They’re pretty broken up, but…” Unsure how to finish the sentence, I let my words trail.

He waits, as if knowing there’s more I need to say. “Rasmussen talked to Wayne Kuhns,” I tell him. “He thinks that at one point Mattie tried to use Kuhns’s obsession with her to manipulate him. She told Kuhns that Paul was abusive and Kuhns believed her. She didn’t come right out and say it, but she tried to persuade him to do away with Paul. She used the promise of sex as a lure. Once she realized he didn’t have what it took, she turned to Armitage.”

“That’s classic sociopath behavior.”

“Initially, I thought Kuhns was a viable suspect. But he wasn’t. It was her. Kuhns was in love with her. Nothing more than an errant husband. That’s why he was so worried about us talking to his wife.”

Tomasetti crosses the distance between us and stops a foot away from me. “What about the boy?”

I see David’s face in my mind’s eye. The way he looked at me when I handed him the carrier. The simple joy in his eyes at the sight of the cat. The protective way his grandfather set his gnarled hand on his shoulder. “I think he’s going to be okay.”

He tilts his head, as if trying to get a better look at my face. “What about you?”

“You know me.” I smile, but it feels tremulous on my face. “I always land on my feet.”

He nods, but I see something in his eyes that belies the gesture. “I hate to bring this up, but I thought you should know. Sheriff Redmon has requested a forensic anthropologist from BCI. They’ve already identified those pellets as number six lead shot.”

The words impact me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. The kind that takes your breath and makes you sick to your stomach. I look away, trying to absorb the enormity of them. I should have been prepared; I’d known all of this would come. But there are some things no one can ever prepare for. The reemergence of a past that wields the power to destroy your life is one of them.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” I tell him.

“I know. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“So what’s next? I mean, in terms of the case?” Even as I ask the question, I already know.

“They’re trying to extract DNA from the teeth.”

I nod, grappling for a calm I don’t feel. “This hits kind of close to home for you, doesn’t it?”

Tomasetti ignores the statement. “The FA is going to take a look at everything. Soil. Whatever’s left of the clothing. Whatever was in the pockets. The bones are probably going to be the most important in terms of cause and manner of death.”

“I thought … I mean, I’d hoped … there would be some deterioration.”

“I’m sure there is, but to what extent, we don’t know.”

I can actually feel the blood stalling and going cold in my veins as the reality of the situation sinks in.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you’ve been carrying this around inside you for a long time. I know you want it to be over.”

“How long do you think the investigation will take?”

“You know nothing ever happens quickly in these kinds of situations. Everything has to be looked at. Labs get backed up. Reports have to be written.” He shrugs. “A few months.”

I’ve borne the knowledge of what happened that terrible day for half of my life. I learned to live with what I did. I learned to cohabitate, however uneasily, with the knowledge that I took a man’s life, that my family covered it up. I learned to deal with the ever-present fear of discovery and the possibility that if the truth is revealed, my life as I know it would end.

As if reading my thoughts, he adds, “They’re not going to be able to tie you to the case, Kate. I’ve looked at every angle. There’s nothing there. No evidence.”

“I have to be prepared either way. So do you.”

He bends, picks up a five-gallon can of paint, and dumps some into the pan. Straightening, he saturates the roller and goes to work on another section of the ceiling.

“Look, Kate, I know you’ve already tried and convicted yourself, but those bones are too deteriorated to reveal any meaningful evidence. Coroner’s going to rule cause and manner of death undetermined.”