Free Her Last Breath: A Kate Burkholder Novel by Linda Castillo Page A

lined up with the bed. Mindful of the IV line and stand, the nurse peels down the blanket and sheet and fluffs the pillow. In tandem, they lift the boy and transfer him to the bed. The child stirs briefly, but doesn’t wake. Once he’s lying supine, the orderly covers him with a sheet and woven blanket, while the nurse hooks the IV bag to the portable stand next to the bed.
    Mattie can’t seem to take her eyes off her son. She’s standing too close, getting in the way, but neither the nurse nor the orderly seems to mind.
    The nurse picks up the clipboard and makes a note. “The doctor will be in to talk to you later.”
    “Thank you.” Mattie bends and presses her cheek against her son’s, her eyes closed. “My sweet little miracle,” she whispers.
    Using an ear thermometer, the nurse takes the boy’s temperature and scribbles something on the clipboard. “If you folks need anything, just press the button over there.” She indicates a call button next to the bed, makes a quick adjustment to the IV drip, and leaves the room.
    Mattie hovers over her son, caressing his forehead, rounding the bed and touching him through the sheets, looking down at him as if she’s afraid to break contact lest he slip away.
    I sidle over to Bishop Troyer. “Do you need anything Bishop?”
    “We are fine.”
    “You should go home and get some rest.”
    He gives me a stern look. “If you’re worried that I’m going to collapse from old age, I should tell you that Mattie’s mamm is on her way.”
    “I would have picked her up and brought her.”
    “I know.”
    “And it never crossed my mind that you’re old.”
    His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t smile. That the boy is going to survive has eased the oppressive sense of doom from earlier. Still, we’re mindful that we’re in the midst of a monumental tragedy.
    “Everything is taken care of at the house?” I ask, referring to Mattie’s farm. “Someone is there to feed the livestock?”
    “Of course,” the Bishop replies. “We are Amish.”
    I’d known that would be the case, but I was compelled to ask. The Amish may not have phones in their homes, but the community has a healthy grapevine and news travels fast, especially in the face of tragedy. The instant word got out about Paul’s death—probably with the help of the bishop’s wife—Mattie’s friends and neighbors converged with prayers and able hands.
    “Katie?”
    I look up to see Mattie approach. Though she’s lost her husband and two of her children, the hopelessness is gone from her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispers. “For what you did. For being there. Thank you for everything.…”
    The next thing I know her arms are around me, pulling me close and squeezing hard. Her mouth is close to my ear and I hear her sob quietly. Her body shakes against mine. As if of their own volition, my arms go around her. She smells of laundry detergent and sunshine and I find myself hugging her back with a fierceness that surprises me. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I say quietly.
    “God called Paul and Norah and Little Sam home. It was His will and I accept that. But He decided this was not David’s day to go to heaven. He answered my prayers and gave me back my boy. For that, I am thankful.”
    There’s more to say. At some point, I’ll need to tell her the accident was a hit-and-run. If she asks about Paul’s final moments, I’m obliged to tell her he was alive when I arrived on the scene. But for now, she has enough on her plate.
    And I have a killer to find.

 
    CHAPTER 6
    I’m on my way to the station when my cell phone erupts. I glance down, see Sheriff Rasmussen’s name on the display, and snatch it up.
    “Where you at, Chief?”
    “Just left the hospital.”
    “How’s the kid?”
    I give him the rundown on David. “He’s going to make it.”
    “That’s terrific news.” But I know that’s not the reason he called. “Look, we may have gotten a break on identifying the hit-skip