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

by Kathryn Casey

  Mullins sat back, incredible sadness deepening the substantial wrinkles across his forehead, the scar on his cheek, the deep creases webbing out from his clenched lips. My heart ached for him, and yet, he had to understand that this wasn’t his case. This time, he was the family, not the investigator.

  “Listen, Jeff,” I said, as calmly and sympathetically as I could, “we haven’t decided Myles is the killer. We haven’t taken Carl off our list of suspects. We don’t know yet. We’re still figuring this out.”

  Mullins ticked his head a notch in slight agreement. Maybe he was beginning to understand.

  “Jeff, you need to trust that Max and I have every intention of solving this case. And that we will solve this case. That we’ll figure out who murdered your daughter, Anna and her children. Who cut Jacob’s throat.”

  Mullins nodded, but not as if he truly believed what I was saying. He looked up at me, his face a mask of agony. “But you know what, Chief?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Sometimes these cases, the bad ones like this, they get all screwed up, don’t they?” he said. “We’ve all seen it. They get so convoluted, so crazy, they’re never solved.”

  “Mullins, you can’t think that way,” I said. “It’s just one day, twenty-four hours, and we’re working this. We—”

  “Sometimes, the wrong guy does end up in prison,” Mullins said, almost as if he were talking to himself and I wasn’t in the room. “And sometimes the real killers live their lives like they never did anything wrong, never killed anyone. And they’re never punished.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say, but I settled on, “Jeff, you need to go home, be with your family, your wives and children. That’s where you belong right now. And you have to believe that in the end, all will be known. You have to have trust in Max and in me that we’re going to do all we can.”

  At that, Detective Jeff Mullins stood up and towered over me. I gazed up at him and frowned. He looked every bit as single-minded as when he walked through my office door.

  “Chief, I don’t doubt that you and Max will do your best,” he said. “But I know Carl Shipley did this. And I intend to see him pay for it. One way or another.”

  Although I suspected he didn’t mean it as a threat, that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “Jeff, we’ve got this. You don’t need to do anything, understand? And you need to be careful what you say.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Mullins said. “But I’m watching. I’ve got my eyes on all of you. And I’m going to make sure this is done right.” With that he turned toward the door.

  I scowled at him. “Jeff, sit back down. Let’s talk this through.”

  Mullins didn’t respond. Instead, he slammed my office door behind him so hard that the walls shook with his anger.

  After Mullins stormed out, I sat for a few moments and collected my thoughts. I considered what he’d said, that Myles had cared for Laurel too much to murder her. But there’d been so many cases in my decade as a cop where a life was ended in violence by someone the victim loved who had loved them in return. Mullins had similar experiences, I’m sure, yet for some reason he believed that the love between his daughter and Myles Thompkins was special. I thought again about Laurel’s letters. Those, too, made their dedication to one another seem exceptional. I picked up my phone and called Max. “How’s the evidence coming?” I asked.

  “It’s all on its way to the state lab. We got everything processed on our end,” he said. “I personally talked to the lab supervisor, explained that we have multiple homicides and we need the results ASAP to find the murderer. He promised to rush it but warned that it may still take a day or two. The DNA evidence longer. They’re hoping to do ballistics on the gun this morning, though. We may have those answers soon.”

  “Okay. That’s good,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Clara, I got a call from Doc Wiley,” Max said. “He said you two discussed the timeline. He went through it with me, too. That’s odd about Laurel dying so much earlier, isn’t it?”

  “Very strange. I’m not sure what to make of it.” I told Max about my conversation with Mullins, his certainty that despite the bloody print, Myles Thompkins wouldn’t murder his daughter and the others, and how he repeated his assertions that it had to be Carl.

  “Maybe Mullins subconsciously fears that if Myles is the killer, that means Laurel is dead because she married Jacob,” Max suggested. “And if that’s true, that this tragedy happened because Mullins and his wives forced the marriage. If Myles is the killer, maybe Mullins is worried that he shares some of the blame?”

  I took a minute to consider that. “I hadn’t thought of that angle,” I said. “Could be.”

  “Mullins does have a point about Carl though. There’s a lot there with the stalking, the photos, and the history with the splinter group in Mexico.”

  “Yes, Mullins makes good points,” I said. We could have pondered the possibilities all day, but it wasn’t getting us anywhere. “Anything from your informant inside El Pueblo de Elijah?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve given up on my contact inside the cult. About half an hour ago, I put in a call to local authorities. I hope I’ll have some info for us later today.”

  “Good,” I said. “Anything from Mueller about the letters?”

  “They’re still looking, but so far no luck,” Max said.

  “I’ll head over to the ranch and help,” I said. “I can be another set of eyes.”

  “You think there’s an answer in those letters, don’t you?” Max said.

  “I think they’ll tell us a lot about Myles Thompkins,” I said. “I’m assuming we’ve had no sign of him yet?”

  “No sightings,” Max said. “The BOLO is out and every cop in the state should be looking for him. We’ve notified the forest rangers, too, in case they see a campfire in the mountains and follow up on it, happen upon Myles on a hunting trip. You think we should put out a general bulletin to the public, alert the media?”

  “Sure, let’s get everyone looking for him,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll get my office on it right away. We’ll describe Myles as a person of interest.”

  “Yes, that sounds good,” I said.

  “Okay. Well, I’m going to head over to the hospital then and check on Jacob. I’ll give you a call when I have more info on his condition,” Max said.

  “Good idea.” We were both quiet for a moment. “Max, have you thought about how…” I started, but my voice trailed off.

  Max’s voice became quiet. “Thought about what, Clara?”

  “Oh… nothing…” I gulped down a lump in my throat and tried to pull myself together. None of this was about me, and I shouldn’t make it about me, I scolded myself. None of it. “Max, I need to go. I have to find those letters.”

  Twenty-Three

  On the short drive from the sheriff’s department to the hospital, Max rehashed the end of his conversation with Clara. The word that stuck in his head was “how.” What was she going to say? he wondered.

  Could it have been: How life flips like a tossed coin? How we have so little control over our destinies? How different our lives would be today if we hadn’t been torn apart all those years ago? How our story is eerily similar to what happened to Myles and Laurel?

  If she’d asked that final question, Max would have admitted that he had thought about it, often actually, in the past day. The night before when he finally finished at the cabin and went home to sleep for a few hours, he had peeked in at Brooke, such a sweet sight sleeping peacefully in her forget-me-not lavender room. Afterward, he had tossed and turned in bed, unable to clear his thoughts. He’d wondered if brooding over having been torn away from Clara was disloyal to Miriam’s memory. To Brooke, who wouldn’t exist if his life had taken the path he’d hoped for.

  I can’t know these things, Max thought as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Maybe Clara and I would have broken apart without the prophet’s interference. Maybe we would have gone se
parate ways on our own. How can we ever know?

  Yet at moments, he still felt so close to Clara, and he suspected she did to him.

  I have to convince her that it isn’t over, that we aren’t over, that we didn’t miss our only opportunity, he decided. Life has given us a second chance. As afraid as she is, we have to grab it.

  As he walked into the intensive care unit, Max tried to table his ruminations and become all cop again. He followed the signs to Jacob’s room and found Michael and Reba Johansson seated in the hallway with Carl Shipley between them. The drapes inside pulled shut, Max couldn’t see into the room.

  “How is Jacob?” Max asked.

  “The same,” Reba said. “No change.”

  Both of Jacob’s parents had eyes marbled with bright red veins, and they looked as if they hadn’t had a nod of sleep. “I’m sorry about Anna and Laurel and the children, Jacob’s condition, all you and your family are going through,” Max said. “I want you to know that Chief Jefferies and I are working hard to—”

  “I hear you’re going to arrest Myles Thompkins, found evidence in his cabin,” Reba said, taking stock of Max as coldly as if he were an unwanted trespasser. “I told Clara Jefferies that he was the one behind it, you know.”

  Max wasn’t surprised that Reba had already heard. News traveled fast in Alber. Soon it would hit the radio and television stations and all of Alber would know why they were looking for Myles, that he was more than a person of interest, a suspect. “We want to talk to him, yes, but we haven’t made plans for an arrest warrant,” Max explained. “We have a lot to investigate before—”

  “Well, you should,” Carl griped, giving Max a sideways stare. “You ought to for sure, because he did it, I bet.”

  “Carl, we—” Max started.

  “Why the hell were you bothering me about this? It’s ridiculous,” Carl said, spitting mad. “Good thing Jacob’s mom led you and that Jefferies woman to the real killer, so you wouldn’t come after me anymore.”

  “We knew you wouldn’t hurt Jacob, Carl,” Reba said, staring defiantly at Max as she affectionately patted Carl’s hand. “Why, Carl and Jacob are as close as brothers. Carl grew up in our home. He ate dinners most nights at our table.” Reba glared at Max, not even attempting to disguise her anger. “How dare you suspect Carl?”

  Max’s frown stretched until it scrunched his upper lip and tied up his chin. He stared at Carl and said nothing. The situation bristled with tension, and Max didn’t see how it would accomplish anything to rile up Reba more than she already was. Instead of answering her, Max looked over at Michael, who had a lost expression on his face, as if he hadn’t heard a word the others had said. Max wondered what so occupied the old man and tried to get his attention: “Mr. Johansson?”

  When he got no reaction, Max said it louder: “Mr. Johansson.”

  Still no response, until Reba reached across Carl and grabbed her husband’s arm. “Michael, he’s talking to you.”

  “Yes.” Michael jerked to attention. “Oh, Max, it’s you.”

  “You looked as if you were in another world,” Max said.

  Michael’s white hair was flattened at the back from resting his head against the wall as he sat in the chair, and he had tears gathering in his eyes that he wasn’t bothering to wipe away. “I was remembering how just last Wednesday, six days ago, we went to the ranch and had dinner with all of them.” He sniffled a bit, and Reba handed him a handkerchief. “Jacob, the women, they were all content, the children playing. Reba held Jeremy while Anna and Laurel cooked. Jacob and I talked about expanding one of the feed lots, buying more bison. It was… a good time… peaceful.”

  Max thought about that. “Carl mentioned that this past Sunday, the evening before the murders, Jacob appeared upset. Carl said it appeared something wasn’t right at the ranch. Enough so that he didn’t stay for dinner.”

  “It wasn’t anything big—” Carl started to object.

  Max shot him a look to quiet him. “Mr. and Mrs. Johansson, do you have any idea what that was about?” he asked.

  Michael chewed on the inside of his mouth, apparently thinking, and then said, “Nah, nothing I know of. They were fine. A happy family. Couldn’t have been anything at all.”

  Max turned to Reba, who stared down at her hands. “Mrs. Johansson, what about you?” Max asked. “Do you know what was wrong?”

  She pursed her lips far to the right, as if deciding how to answer. “No, not really, but I bet it was about Myles.”

  “Why?” Max asked.

  “I don’t know what Jacob could be upset about. That’s the truth,” Reba admitted. “But I never trusted Myles. As much as he loved Laurel, I never thought he was going to let things be. That’s why I told Clara Jefferies about him, because he had to be the one who did it.”

  As if uncomfortable, Michael squirmed in his chair, and it made a squeaking noise. Max thought about how Reba seemed hell-bent on the idea it had to be Myles Thompkins who murdered their family, and looking at Michael, well, Max had the impression that Jacob’s father wasn’t anywhere near as convinced.

  Wondering what it all meant, Max looked over at Carl, who stared back at him, a look of contempt on his face.

  As their eyes met, Max reconsidered Mullins’ allegations and the album with the photos of Laurel. He wondered if Reba Johansson could be offering up Myles to push the blame off Carl. A son critically injured, Reba could be protecting a man she considered nearly another son. I should get Carl off by himself and see if he’ll talk more, Max thought. Maybe now that he thinks Myles is the prime suspect, he’ll open up.

  “Carl, I—” Max started.

  At that moment, a red warning light on the wall above their heads lit up and an alarm blared. The Johanssons jumped up, and Max followed them into the room. The machines beeped, the lights flashed, and Max was stunned to see Naomi Jefferies at Jacob’s bedside with the call button in her hand.

  “He’s awake,” she cried. “Praise the Almighty! Jacob’s awake.”

  Taking in the scene, Max had the strangest feeling. Jacob, eyes wide, struggling to breathe through the slit in his throat, stared up at Naomi with admiration. Something about the way he looked at her, something about the connection between the two of them, struck Max as peculiar.

  A pack of nurses and a doctor dressed in scrubs dashed in through the door. “Everyone outside,” the doctor ordered. “Everyone out, now, so we can examine our patient.”

  “I need to talk to Jacob, to find out—” Max objected.

  “Cops. Everyone. Get out!” the doctor shouted. “All of you. Now!”

  Jacob’s parents bustled out of the room followed by Carl, but before Max turned to go, he glanced back one more time at Naomi. She lingered, and when he looked down at the bed, he saw that she’d dropped the call button and held Jacob’s hand.

  Moments after the Johanssons and Max left the room, Naomi joined them in the hallway. For a few minutes the family peppered her with questions, and she smiled graciously and answered, “I was whispering a prayer to the heavens to heal Jacob, when all of a sudden I realized that his eyes had opened. I was so excited that I thought my heart might stop.” Naomi looked nearly giddy with the memory. “That very second, I cried, ‘Thank you, Lord, for answering my prayers to bring Jacob back to us!’ Then I hit the call button for the doctor.”

  Michael and Reba extolled Naomi for all she’d done, from saving their son the morning before by calling for help to bringing down the curative powers of the Almighty. As they talked, Carl wrapped his arms over Reba’s and Michael’s shoulders and gathered them to him.

  The Johanssons preoccupied, Max asked, “Naomi, let’s walk over a little ways and talk. I have a couple of questions.”

  Naomi studied him, her face glowing with excitement. Her voice filled with a grand benevolence, she said, “Of course, Max.”

  Once they’d put a little distance between them and the family, he asked: “Did Jacob say anything?”

  “No,” s
he answered.

  “Did he try to say anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did Jacob indicate anything in any way about what happened at the ranch and who was responsible?”

  “No. Nothing. As I said, as soon as I thanked the heavens, I pushed the call button. I didn’t talk to him. And he made no attempt to speak.”

  Just then, the doctor walked out of the room.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Johansson,” he said. Michael and Reba shuffled toward the man, and Max and the others followed suit. Once surrounded, the physician explained, “We’ve given Jacob a sedative, and he’s gone back to sleep. I’ve just examined him, and I don’t see any damage to his airway other than the wound, so we’re going to take him into surgery and repair his trachea.”

  “He’ll be all right?” Reba asked. “His chances are good?”

  “We believe so,” the doctor said. “He was extremely lucky in the position of the cut, that it didn’t damage his vocal cords. The odds are with him. He should make a complete recovery.”

  At that, Naomi let loose a small scream and fell to her knees. She clasped her palms in prayer. “Lord, thank you for this wonderful blessing,” she cried out. “Praise you for your kindness for saving Jacob and bringing him back to his family.”

  Reba and Michael dropped down on their knees beside her. They shouted their gratitude to God, while Max noticed Carl amble off a short distance down the hall. Max turned to the doctor. “When will Jacob be able to communicate with us?”

  “The operation will take a couple of hours,” he said. “Jacob probably won’t be able to talk for a while, a day or two, but you should be able to get some type of response from him, a nod of the head or finger signs, he can write things down for you, late this afternoon.”

  “That’s good, very good,” Max said, feeling his first sense of hope about the case’s prospects.

  “I know Jacob’s injuries look terrible, but the truth is that this isn’t a tough operation,” the doctor explained. “If Jacob swallows well enough, he may be released as soon as tomorrow or the day after.”