Her Final Prayer

by Kathryn Casey

Genres: Women's Fiction; Mystery; International Crime & Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries; Female Sleuths; Romantic Suspense; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Three empty chairs lazily rocked in the breeze, surrounded by scattered children’s toys. In the yard, there were mounds of earth. Graves. Only big enough for children…

When Detective Clara Jefferies is called to a ranch just outside of Alber, Utah, she’s sickened to find two innocent young children murdered alongside their mothers. Their father, Jacob Johansson, has been rushed to hospital where he fights for his life. Blissfully unaware, his two-month-old son Jeremy has been left untouched in his crib.

In the eyes of the community Jacob is the perfect, devout husband, seemingly living a peaceful, happy life. But Clara is certain that the crime is personal: one of Jacob’s wives was killed differently, her lips painted after she died. Soon, Clara discovers photos of her in Jacob’s best friend’s trailer, and her flower necklace underneath the bed.

When witnesses, including Clara’s own mother, refuse to speak about the case, it becomes clear that loyalty to the community is more important than finding a killer at large. The people of Alber will never trust Clara; she may have returned home but they will always see her as the girl who abandoned her family.

And yet Clara won’t give up. She is sure that Jacob and baby Jeremy are still at risk, and the longer the secretive town stands in the way of her solving this case, the more danger they’re in…

Impossible to put down, Her Final Prayer is perfect for readers of Lisa Regan, Melinda Leigh and Kendra Elliot. You’ll race through the pages until the final heart-pounding twist.

What readers are saying about Her Final Prayer :

“This was the first book I have ever read by Kathryn Casey and I can't wait to read more. It’s absolutely brilliant. I was sucked in from page one and couldn’t put it down. ” Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

“So good! Absolutely love this series and so excited to read more. This is definitely on my list of favorite series to read and follow. Well-written. Love the characters. Love the story… Highly recommend!!!!” Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars

“The author has shown she knows how to keep her readers captivated before and guess what… She does it again!... Incredibly good book. ” B is for Book Review, 5 stars

 

Release date: October 2, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 336

Sample

“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 her 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.

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 body 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.

But that was all in the past. In the intervening years, life had thrown us to the curb and left us broken.

“Clara, how about dinner Monday, at my house?” Max had asked as he walked me from the restaurant to my SUV on Saturday evening. “Brooke can join us, and I’ll make a pot of chili.”

“I’d love that, sure,” I’d said. Then I had misgivings about including his daughter. “But, Max, maybe Brooke will get the wrong idea about us?”

Max had clenched his lips tight and stared at me as he reached over and opened the door. I’d seen the disappointment in his eyes. “Would that be the worst thing?” he asked. “If we were more than we are?”

“I-I don’t…” I had started, but then fell silent.

Disarming my qualms, Max had smiled, and images flooded me from that same smile so many years ago. “You’ve always been so serious, Clara,” he’d whispered as he moved closer. “Can’t you find a way to let your mind rest?”

I’d taken a deep breath and tried to quiet my pulse as he ran his hand along my shoulder. I’d stared into Max’s eyes, the softest of browns speckled with gold and dark green. I’d reached up and tousled his light brown hair, caressed the dark stubble that covered his dimpled chin. My body had responded, my nerve endings tingling and my heart opening. For a moment, I’d hesitated, but then I forced myself to pull away.

“Clara, please…” Max had frowned and looked at me as if pleading. “Can’t we—”

“I need to go,” I’d blurted out. “It’s late and I have a lot to do, work waiting for me.”

Max’s eyes settled on mine, and I’d instinctively understood that he knew I lied. I had nothing I had to do that night. I sensed that he understood that our closeness frightened me. I’d felt vulnerable. My reaction to his touch had made it clear that, someplace deep inside of me, I hadn’t given up on us. In that moment, all I’d yearned for was to nestle against him. But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I’d turned to leave.

As I’d closed the SUV’s door, Max had shouted, “No strings attached, just a bowl of my special chili and a little time for you to get to know Brooke.”

I’d started to shake my head no, but then, despite my misgivings, I’d nodded.

Now Monday had arrived, and this evening would be my first real time with Brooke. And I wondered again: Is this something we should do?

Crack. I hit another rock, relocated a bit to my right and pushed Max from my mind.

Two hours on, the sun rose ever higher into the sky and, despite autumn’s chill, sweat formed on my neck and under my parka. I pulled it off, hung it on a branch, and focused on my work. A foot or so down, the pine-scented air became impregnated with the thick, rancid odor that I recognized as death. I considered calling for assistance but decided I had to know for sure. To filter the stench, I untied the red bandana from my neck and knotted it in the back to cover my mouth and nose, then got down on my knees and began pushing the dirt away with my hands.

The loose ground gave way easily, which I interpreted as a sign that I was right, that this patch of earth had been recently dug up. With each swipe of my hands, I removed another thin layer of dirt, getting closer to something rotting not far below the surface. My anticipation built as the foul smell grew heavier. I pulled on a pair of latex gloves from my pocket. Ready, I sat back on my heels and looked into the two-foot-wide hole I’d dug. I scooped out a couple more handfuls and threw the dirt to the side. I saw strands of hair, red and wispy, streaked with gold.

I wondered again if I should stop, but I kept going, pulling out handfuls of earth.

Adrenaline rushed through me as I worked ever faster, brushing away the earth. A few more swipes and I stared at the placid face of a fairly recently deceased Irish setter.

I had found a grave, but not a human one.

For a brief moment, I hesitated, thinking about how obsessed I’d become that I would spend my morning digging up a dog’s grave in hopes of finding a young woman’s body. Then I stood and methodically shoveled the coarse dirt back into the hole, restoring the canine to his peaceful rest. Once finished, I removed the gloves and brushed off my clothes and boots. I was filthy. I looked at my watch: 8.15. I had just enough time to swing by my room at Heaven’s Mercy to clean up before I drove to the office. My friend Hannah Jessop ran the shelter, housing women and children who had nowhere to live or weren’t safe at home. Since I debated about whether or not I’d stay in Alber, she’d agreed to rent me a room while I made up my mind.

I threw the shovel in the back of the black Chevy Suburban that I’d inherited from the prior chief and pushed the button to lower the liftgate. Then I pulled out my phone to check my email. The symbol in the left corner indicated a missed phone call. Somehow, I’d turned the ringer off. A message asked me to call my office ASAP.

“Chief, we have a situation at the Johansson bison farm.” Stephanie Jonas sounded wired. Until a month earlier, she’d been Alber PD’s day dispatcher. When I took over as chief, I hired a replacement, got Stef licensed, and promoted her to rookie cop. Once she finished her classes and became certified as a full-fledged forensic officer, I planned to make her the department’s crime scene officer. As a small police department in a town of a bit more than 4,000 souls, we didn’t have any. I knew Stef would be good at it. She had a knack for detail.

“What kind of situation?” I asked.

“The sheriff’s department called. Chief Deputy Max Anderson has been dispatched to the scene with backup, but the ranch is within Alber city limits, so it’s ours,” Stef said. “An unidentified woman called nine-one-one and reported multiple fatalities.”

“The Johansson ranch?” I verified.

“Yes,” Stef confirmed. I felt a chill rush through me when she said, “Chief, it sounds like a massacre.”

Max led the caravan off the main road in his Smith County Sheriff car and turned under the MRJ logo onto the Johansson ranch. Behind him trailed two squads and an ambulance. He drove deliberately, eyes scanning the pastures, the bison, and the driveway. Everything looked ordinary, until he noticed a white object on the ground up ahead. As he passed a parked van with tinted windows, a woman ran from the house clutching something wrapped in a blanket to her chest. Was she the one who called in the report? Max frowned. Why did she hang up on 911? The dispatcher had only sketchy information to give him, and that made Max nervous. All he knew was that a nameless woman claimed someone needed medical assistance and that there were dead bodies.

The woman looked frazzled. As his car approached, she ran erratically, weaving back and forth. Max worried about what she might have hidden in the blanket she carried. He watched her hands warily for signs she might drop it and expose a gun. Then he recognized her.

“Naomi Jefferies,” Max whispered. “What’s she doing here?”

Max considered bumping Stef on the radio and asking her to tell Clara that one of her mothers was on the scene. Instead, he slammed on his brakes as Naomi made a sharp turn and jumped nearly in front of the car. The car jerked to an abrupt stop, and he lowered his window. As she bent toward him, he realized she had a crying baby bundled in the blanket, one who looked small enough to be a newborn.

“Naomi, what the heck is going on here?” Max asked.

“They’re dead!” Naomi shouted over the baby’s screams. Her eyes bulged with fear, and her lips quivered. “Everyone but the baby. And Jacob, but he could be dead by now, too. Please, help him. Please, Max! Hurry!”

“How did they die?” he asked. When Naomi stared at him as if she didn’t understand, he explained, “What did you see?”

“Blood. Lots of blood.” Indicating the white object that Max now realized was a bedsheet, she screamed, “A child dead under there, and I’m pretty sure there are others. I think that Jacob’s throat has been cut.”

Max pointed at the squad’s back seat. “Get in!” he shouted. “Now!”

“Why… no… no… Drive up there. Help Jacob. He’s…” She pointed at the house again, her hair fanned wildly out around her face and her eyes bright red from crying. Max noticed what appeared to be blood on the front of her skirt.

“Quick! Get in my car, before you get us both shot.” When she didn’t move, he shouted, “Naomi, now!”

“He’s gone,” she said. “There’s no one…”

“Who’s gone?”

“Whoever did this. Max, there’s no one on this ranch alive but the baby and Jacob,” she said, sobbing. “And he could be dying while we’re out here arguing.”

“Get in.” For the third time he shouted, “Now!”

Finally, Naomi did as he instructed, scurrying into the back seat. Once she slammed the door, Max pulled forward and parked. The ambulance stayed at the gate, per protocol, while the other squads moved in behind Max in the lead car.

“Aren’t the paramedics coming to help Jacob?” Naomi asked, swiveling to look out the back window. “He’s—”

“They don’t go in until after we clear the scene. Someone could be hiding,” he said. She turned back around and stared at him as he explained, “Naomi, if you hear shots, you duck. And you don’t get out of this car, not for any reason, until I tell you it’s safe. Understand?”

Naomi’s face contorted and Max thought that perhaps she finally comprehended that they could all be in danger. Instead of answering, she gave him a quick nod. He looked out and scanned the sheet, seeing for the first time a section folded over, exposing two small legs. A fist tightening in his chest, Max bumped dispatch on his radio.

“We potentially have a live scene. Send more backup. Alert the medical examiner and the CSI unit,” he said, and then he slipped his gun from his holster and warily opened the door.

The four deputies backing him up stayed low and made their way toward him as Max clambered out of his car. Once they reached him, he jerked his head to the right then the left. “One takes the front, the other around back. Two of you stay with me,” he snapped. “I’m going to make sure that no one is hiding under that sheet, and then we’ll head inside.”

As instructed, one deputy ran to surveil the back door, while his partner positioned himself with a view of the grand house to his right and the barn off to his left. Meanwhile, Max led the other two officers over to the sheet. He bent over and pulled it back, exposing the boy’s body. The child’s dark hair glis. . .