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

pieces left behind by the vehicles involved—is the first step in identifying the vehicle and locating the driver.
    Rasmussen sighs. “We’re going to be picking up pieces of that buggy for a while. We’re going to load everything up and take it to impound for a closer look under some light.”
    “Anything from the vehicle?” I ask.
    “The only piece we’ve been able to identify is a side-view mirror,” the sheriff tells me.
    As if by unspoken agreement, the three of us start toward the intersection. Someone has denoted the locations where the deceased victims came to rest with fluorescent orange marking paint. From where I stand I can see the blue tarp covering the horse. We stop a few yards from the point of impact and I take a moment to establish the debris field and for the first time I get a sense of the scope of the carnage.
    “My God, this guy was fucking flying,” I say to no one in particular.
    Maloney points to the place where Paul Borntrager had died just a few hours earlier. “Adult male was thrown fifty-three feet.”
    Rasmussen shakes his head. “Youngsters were thrown even farther.”
    “What about skid marks?” I ask. “Or tire imprints?” Sometimes, if the skid marks are clean enough to get a measurement of the tire, we can use that information to help identify the offending vehicle. On rare occasions the tread is visible. Photos are scanned into a computer. From there, they can sometimes be matched to a manufacturer or retailer and, in some cases, if there is some identifiable mark on the tire—a cut or defect in the rubber, for example—a specific vehicle. Combined, those things can be invaluable to the identification process. Not to mention the trial.
    Maloney and Rasmussen exchange looks that makes the back of my neck prickle.
    “There are no skid marks,” Maloney says.
    “Not a single one,” Rasmussen reiterates.
    Something cold and sharp scrapes up my back. “The driver made no attempt to stop?”
    “Looks that way,” Maloney replies.
    “The road surface was wet,” I tell him, thinking aloud. “Is it possible he tried to stop, but couldn’t due to conditions?”
    “That son of a bitch didn’t even tap the brake,” Rasmussen mutters.
    “Could we be dealing with some kind of mechanical failure?” It’s an optimistic offering, but I pose the question anyway.
    Maloney shrugs. “It’s possible, I guess.”
    “If someone’s brakes fail and they slam into a fucking buggy, you’d think they’d stop and render aid,” Rasmussen growls.
    Maloney nods. “Even if they get scared and panic, they’d call 911.”
    “Unless they’ve got something to hide.” I say what all of us are thinking. What we already know. “We’re probably dealing with a DUI.”
    “That’s my vote,” Rasmussen says.
    “Or some idiot texting,” Maloney puts in.
    I think of Paul Borntrager’s last minutes. He’d been broken and bleeding and yet his only concern had been for his children. I think of Mattie, holding vigil at the hospital, waiting for word on the condition of her only surviving child. I think of David, an innocent little boy, hurting and frightened and fighting for his life. I think of the three lives lost and the countless others that will be destroyed by their passing. I think of the pain that has been brought down on a community that’s seen more than its share of heartbreak in the last few years. And gnarly threads of rage burgeon again inside me.
    I study the scene. My mind’s eye shows me a horse and buggy approaching the intersection. I hear the clip-clop of shod hooves against the asphalt. The jingle of the harness. The creak of the buggy. The chatter of the children, oblivious to the impending tragedy. Dusk has fallen. It’s drizzling. Visibility is low. The road surface is wet. Concerned about the coming darkness, Paul would have been pushing the horse, hurrying home. Around them, the symphony of crickets from the woods fills the air.
    There would have been a flash