Her Final Prayer: A totally gripping and heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Clara Jefferies Book 2) Read online

  Her Final Prayer

  A totally gripping and heart-stopping crime thriller

  Kathryn Casey

  Books by Kathryn Casey

  Detective Clara Jefferies Series

  The Fallen Girls

  Her Final Prayer

  The Sarah Armstrong Mystery Series

  Singularity

  Blood Lines

  The Killing Storm

  The Buried

  True Crime

  Evil Beside Her

  She Wanted It All

  A Warrant to Kill

  Die, My Love

  Shattered

  A Descent Into Hell

  Deadly Little Secrets

  Murder, I Write

  Possessed

  Deliver Us

  In Plain Sight

  AVAILABLE IN AUDIO

  The Fallen Girls (Available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Hear More from Kathryn

  Books by Kathryn Casey

  A Letter from Kathryn

  The Fallen Girls

  Acknowledgments

  *

  One

  “I’m late,” Naomi muttered. She turned right out of the trailer park and heard a faint grinding coming from the white van. She wondered about the health of the wheel bearings, or if the brakes needed repair. Before Abe died, he kept the family’s vehicles in top condition. Back then, in addition to the van all three sister-wives had their own cars. Now the family had only the aging van. Naomi glanced at the odometer: 148,692 miles, most of it on mountain roads. How long would it last?

  A little more than a year since Abe’s passing, their world had become infinitely harder, and Naomi had begun to think of her life as before and after. Before, they had the big house in town. Mornings were busy but manageable. A calming force, Abe circulated and gave each child a kiss on the forehead and encouraged them to study hard and make him proud.

  After? Naomi pulled back an errant strand of her brown hair—just beginning to fade at forty-five—and deftly tucked it back into her topknot. She could think of only one word: chaos.

  This morning, a Monday, was a perfect example. Up before sunrise, the women rushed about in the cramped double-wide trailer, surrounded by sixteen of their jostling and complaining offspring. Too many bodies in a small space bred confusion. While Sariah flipped pancakes, Ardeth fulfilled her status as first wife and head of the family by shouting orders: “Sit down at the table! Eat! Get dressed! Don’t forget to collect your homework!”

  Meanwhile, Naomi tried in vain to quiet the storm for a brief morning prayer. She had finally calmed the other children when Kaylynn clamped on to her leg and held tight, scrunching her eyes shut in rebellion and screaming that she wouldn’t go to pre-kindergarten. Not that morning. Not ever.

  “Child, let go!” Naomi had shouted. She didn’t like raising her voice with the little ones, but everyone had a limit, and the girl had found hers. “Kaylynn, I insist you be still. You will obey me. I am your mother.”

  In spite of the confusion, by the time the sun came up, the children had eaten and dressed. The girls in their long prairie dresses and the boys in khaki pants and button-down shirts rifled through the dozens of hand-me-down winter jackets that hung from hooks. At the last possible moment, they all, including Kaylynn, ran out the door to catch the school bus.

  Yet the hubbub delayed Naomi’s departure. Forty minutes later than she’d planned, she left the trailer to work the hives.

  Winters in Utah’s high valleys could be hard, and she had to prepare the bees. The first hard freeze was expected that night, and snow already dusted the mountaintops surrounding the small town of Alber. If her hives were to live through the frigid months to come, Naomi had to make preparations. A lot to accomplish—she had little time to spare. In three hours, Naomi had to return the van to the trailer so Ardeth could do the family’s bi-weekly grocery shopping.

  Considering the time crunch, Naomi wondered if she should have made the promise the day before. Heading southeast, she glanced over at the metal and plastic object wrapped in a plastic bag that sat on the seat beside her.

  At Sunday’s church service, Naomi had had a long conversation with Laurel Johansson about her baby, Jeremy. “I’m afraid he’s not getting enough nourishment,” Laurel had confided. “Two months old and he’s not much over his birth weight.”

  Saying she understood the young woman’s concerns, Naomi explained the benefits of using a breast pump. In fact, Naomi said she had one Laurel could use. “I’ll drop it off in the morning.”

  A big, handsome man with shaggy dark blond hair and laser-like blue eyes, Laurel’s husband, Jacob, had stood beside them, listening intently. “That would be kind of you, Naomi. What time will you arrive?”

  Giving Jacob a broad smile, Naomi vowed, “I’ll be there at seven thirty, no later.”

  A first-time mother, Laurel had been so grateful that she threw her arms around Naomi and hugged her.

  Naomi turned off the highway, passing the Johansson family’s bison grazing in the surrounding fields. Naomi wondered if Laurel realized how lucky she was to be Jacob’s second wife. He came from a respected family, one with a business that funded all their needs. More than a thousand head roamed the Johanssons’ 300 acres. Skilled marketers, they sold to high-end meat markets where big-city folk paid premium prices.

  “Envy is the devil’s cauldron,” Naomi mumbled, reminding herself to be grateful for all she did have and not resent the good fortune of others.

  Yet she did envy. And what had convinced Naomi to keep her promise, even though she was running late, was the opportunity to tell Jacob good morning. As she drove, Naomi thought about Jacob’s two young wives: Laurel and his first wife, Anna, and their three children. Naomi wondered what it would be like to be in Ardeth’s position as the most senior woman in a family.

  A short drive and she reached the gate, with MRJ Ranch in wrought iron at its crest. She looked beyond it in appreciation of the wide columns at the front of the impressive house, the vast maze of corrals that led to a massive barn. Naomi couldn’t help but compare it to the run-down double-wide she lived in, when she suddenly noticed something that appeared out of place.

  Pulling onto the driveway, she eyed a stark white shape that lay on the ground, the breeze billowing its sides and corners. It looked like a fallen sail, but that struck he
r as ridiculous. Alber lay far from anywhere anyone could use such a boat.

  Normally, Naomi would have driven up to the house and parked near the front door, but something—she wasn’t sure what—so bothered her about the scene that she stopped a hundred feet back, close to the barn. For a moment, she hesitated, uneasy. Then, scolding herself for being silly, Naomi plopped the visor down and took a last look at her light brown hair. She ran her tongue over her teeth and pinched her cheeks.

  She grabbed the bag holding the breast pump with one hand as she grasped the door handle with the other. Then, again, she froze. Staring out at the strange object, she decided it looked like a bedsheet. She considered the outline and spotted three distinct areas where something appeared to be hidden beneath it: one long, flat bulge, two smaller and shorter ones.

  Maybe they planted fall flowers they want to protect from the freeze, Naomi thought, readjusting her wire-rimmed glasses on her long, thin nose.

  Fighting a sense of dread, she flung the door open and slid down onto the driveway. The breast pump tucked against her middle, the flowing skirt of her denim dress rippling in the breeze, she approached the house. As she did, she walked closer to the sheet. Not far away, newly hung wash flapped on a clothesline. A basket holding more laundry sat below it. Naomi considered the sheet spread across the ground and wondered if it could have blown out of the basket or off the line. No, she decided. It was laid out too precisely. As she thought through the possibilities, she stopped and stared at the white cotton fabric. Her eyes settled on scattered bright red spots near all three of the mounds.

  Above her, a bird let out a raspy squawk. Startled, Naomi followed the sound to the bare, gnarled branches of a thick-trunked oak. Three vultures so black their feathers showed blue stared down at her. One huffed, as if expressing annoyance at her arrival. Naomi looked again at the sheet, again at the red stains, again at the vultures in the tree. Her heartbeat hastened.

  “Dear God,” she whispered.

  A sharp breeze ruffled the last remaining leaves, and in the tree one of the vultures beat the air with its muscular wings. As the gust trailed along the ground, it snagged a corner of the sheet. It flew up, executed a pirouette, and as it fell folded back into a twisted triangle. Twice Naomi blinked, trying to make sense of what the wind had uncovered: smooth, pale flesh exposed between the hem of a pair of blue corduroy pants and a white athletic sock that ended in a toddler-size tennis shoe.

  “A child,” she whispered. Bending down, her heart fluttered as if one of the gloomy birds had flown from its perch and roosted in her chest. She picked up the sheet ever so slightly and peeked beneath it. Naomi gagged back a scream at what she saw: a motionless boy, his hair matted with something thick, across his forehead a trail of drying blood.

  “Benjamin,” Naomi whispered.

  Her hand trembling, Naomi dropped the sheet and stood erect. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she scanned the yard. Empty. Her eyes traveled over the house, the porch where three empty chairs lazily rocked in the breeze, surrounded by scattered children’s toys. She gazed up at the dark windows and saw no one staring down. Turning back to the body, her eyes migrated to the other two shapes hidden beneath the sheet. Feeling suddenly ill, she reconsidered the bright red stains.

  Naomi reached into her pocket and realized that in the morning’s haste she’d left the family’s lone cell phone at home. Looking again at the Johanssons’ house, she listened for any sound out of place. Far off in the field, the bison bellowed, letting loose short grunts and deep throaty roars. Above her the vultures shuffled in the tree, impatient. What she feared hearing, she didn’t: Something human.

  Swallowing a growing panic, Naomi drew closer to the house, the van’s keys in her hand in case anything convinced her to turn and run. Up the steps, onto the porch, she hesitated at the door. Her heart felt as if it were a separate being trapped inside her, one that pounded against the cage of her chest, demanding to be let out. Ever so cautiously, she edged the screen door open and turned the handle on the unlocked inner wooden door.

  At first, she saw no signs of a disturbance. A well-furnished house, comfortable-looking, a living room, dining room. She stopped at the base of the staircase, pausing long enough to confirm the silence. A few feet farther in, she came to an abrupt stop.

  Just inside the kitchen, two thick legs clothed in jeans splayed out across an off-white tile floor. Before she rounded the corner, Naomi heard the sound—a rhythmic gurgling. She peeked around the corner. A man lay there, his chest heaving, struggling to breathe. Blood bubbled from the front of his neck.

  “Dear Lord, Jacob!” Naomi called out. She ran to him and knelt beside him.

  Jacob Johansson’s eyes fluttered, opened, found her, and locked on to her face. Naomi sensed a slight smile, then his lids drifted down. She put her hand on his chest and felt the rise and fall of life. “Please, don’t die,” she whispered. She scanned the room. An old-fashioned Trimline phone hung near the stove. She rushed to it, grasped the handset and pushed three buttons. She looked down and realized that blood stained the front of her skirt.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  Naomi tried but couldn’t speak.

  “Who’s calling? What’s your emergency?” The operator sounded impatient, perhaps wondering if the silent caller could be a child pulling a prank.

  Naomi cleared her throat, trying to free her ensnared vocal cords. “I’m… I’m… at the Johansson ranch southeast of Alber. Send an ambulance. Send the police. Quick. He’s dying.”

  “Who’s dying? Ma’am, who are you?” the dispatcher demanded. “Are you in danger?”

  “I-I’m… Just send help. I saw a body, a little boy, Benjamin. I think there are more. Jacob is bleeding on the kitchen floor,” she stuttered. Her hands shook so that the phone threatened to drop from her grasp. Then, from somewhere above her in the house, she heard a long, shrill cry. The baby.

  Two

  Crack. The metal made a high-pitched sound as it hit rock. In response, I moved a foot to the right and started over, pressing my boot down on the spade, struggling to force the blade into the cold earth. Three months earlier, a monster had made this land his hunting ground. After ten years as a Dallas cop, I’d returned to stop him. I’d planned to go back to Texas. Instead I signed on as my hometown’s police chief. Yet my relationship with Alber, Utah, came with bad memories, the kind that too often woke me up at night wondering if I’d made a foolhardy decision.

  Although we’d closed the case, the prospect of undiscovered victims pricked at my conscience. At least one young woman remained unaccounted for. Her family hoped for answers, and I felt responsible. If I didn’t find her, who would? So, when I drove streets and highways, I watched for areas where the ground appeared recently disturbed. And on mornings like this one, when I roused early and couldn’t fall back asleep, I threw on old clothes and grabbed my shovel.

  This particular patch of earth caught my attention because of a pile of rocks that looked like it might be discards from someone else’s dig. Nearby I noticed a patch of disturbed dirt. Big enough for a woman’s body? Maybe.

  The November sky was still dark, and the morning air brought a definite nip. Our valley had had a light snowfall the week before, blanketing the town at dawn with flurries of less than an inch. By noon it all melted, except for the bright white caps that topped the surrounding mountains and the rooftops. I wondered if the spirits of our ancestors, in local lore said to live atop our highest mountain, Samuel’s Peak, watched me conduct my fruitless searches. What must they think of me, of the fact that I stayed in a town doing all I could to protect people who at every opportunity made it clear they didn’t want me?

  The shovel heavy, I threw its contents onto the growing mound of dirt beside me. Most of the trees were bare, only the pines stubbornly holding onto their green, and as I dug, their scent surrounded me. The rising sun painted the horizon gold and pink.

  The rhythm of the dig occupied my bod
y and freed my mind. I thought about the prior Saturday evening, my weekly dinner with Max. We’d fallen into a pattern. The relationship felt comfortable, and that bothered me. I knew he wanted more than friendship; I wasn’t ready to take that step. At times, there was a heavy silence between us, and much remained unsaid. I had issues I wasn’t ready to face. Max had buried a wife he loved. Every time Miriam came up, his lips clenched and no words escaped. He felt guilty. I sensed it. But why? A couple of times he appeared to be considering explaining, then stayed silent.

  We both had so much baggage, our pasts unsettled.

  Damaged, that was the word for Max, and for me. We weren’t as we’d once been, a boy and a girl who yearned for each other. I first noticed Max in grade school, our desks three apart in fourth grade. In my home-sewn prairie dresses, my hair in dark braids, I was a somber child, silent much of the time, perhaps too introspective. I followed orders and listened to my parents; I hid in my books and never let anything pull me away from my homework. As good a student, Max had a bit of the imp about him. We were still children when he started passing me little notes, silly, childish jokes printed on notebook paper with pencil. When I read them, I shot him a grin, and Max erupted in giggles. I loved his laugh. More often than not, the teacher hauled him up to the front of the classroom. I felt embarrassed, as if we’d made ourselves a spectacle, but Max never seemed to mind. By sixth grade, he picked me daisies in the summer and left them on our family’s front porch.