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.”
Three
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 point
ed 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 glistened in the sunlight, wet with something thick, Max assumed blood. A trail of dark red began at an angry black hole just above the boy’s eyebrows, streaked his pale skin until it dripped off his face onto the ground. Max had seen similar wounds over the years. Shot in the back of the head, Max figured. Exit wound in the forehead.
“Keep watch, especially the house,” Max said to the two deputies beside him. “Someone could have a gun on us.”
Once the deputies focused on the surrounding area, Max got down on one knee and lifted the sheet higher. He didn’t want to disturb any potential evidence, but he needed to know what it concealed. A short distance from the toddler boy, near the center of the sheet, was a young girl, maybe five or six, wearing a tan-and-pink-flowered prairie dress. Like the boy’s, the girl’s black hair glistened with something dark. He saw no signs of life.
Dead bodies had always made Max uneasy, but he’d found them harder to tolerate since his wife’s death. Bloody scenes brought up images of Miriam squeezed between the steering wheel and seat, unable to breathe. The children’s bodies, frozen by death, made it that much worse. An image of his young daughter, Brooke, unconscious and bleeding in the back seat, her body twisted like a sapling caught in a tornado, flashed before him.
Taking measured steps, his eyes shuttling all around him, Max walked to the other side of the sheet. As he approached, something emitted a sharp cawing sound above him. He looked up to see a committee of vultures, pitch-black with pale, wrinkled bald heads, hovering in a nearby oak, glaring angrily at him. Ignoring them, Max focused on the larger mound under the sheet. As Max shuffled closer, a particularly thick-bodied vulture hopped off a tree limb and landed ten feet away. Max looked into the bird’s beady black eyes and thought it jeered at him, as if daring him to approach.
“Scram! Take off!” he yelled, marching toward the bird. It shuffled back two feet, stopped, and stood its ground.
“Damn thing,” Max murmured.
Max returned his attention to the sheet. Once there, he realized the vultures had been pecking at the bodies, their beaks tearing small holes in the sheet, ones ringed in bright red blood. Again, he knelt. He held out his gun, his finger on the trigger, as he lifted the white cloth, and a gust billowed beneath it, forming a tent over the sprawled body of a woman. Her dark hair flared around her head, and she lay flat on her stomach, face down on the ground. Creeping closer, he placed two fingers on her neck. No pulse. Max stood and turned to the deputy assigned to keep watch on the house and barn. “Three vics, one woman, two kids. Looks like all three have been shot. Radio headquarters and notify them,” Max said. “And keep the birds off the bodies. We’re going in.”
A bob of the deputy’s head, and Max turned to verify that Naomi was following orders. In the car’s back seat, she had her head bowed over her lap, as if trying to comfort the baby.
Drawing a deep breath, Max marched toward the house, the remaining two deputies tracking behind him. Their heads rotated side to side, watching, waiting for someone to charge out of the shadows, for a shot to ring out from an upstairs window. Their heavy boots pounded on the cement steps as they ran up onto the porch, swung the door open, and entered the house.
Following the route Naomi had taken, they cleared the living room, then the dining room. Max stationed one deputy at the foot of the stairs to make sure no one came charging down to take them by surprise. Then he and the fourth deputy made their way toward the kitchen.
Before he entered, Max heard a strange sucking noise. He hurried into the kitchen, careful to avoid a pool of blood near the head of a tall, bulky man sprawled legs akimbo on the floor. Max hadn’t seen Jacob Johansson since high school, and he wouldn’t have recognized him even if blood didn’t cover his neck and his skin wasn’t dead pale. Jacob struggled to take in each breath, and with every attempt the wound in his neck gurgled up foaming blood. The sound reminded Max of a death rattle.
“Should I stay with him?” the deputy beside Max asked.
“No. Follow procedure. Clear the house fast and we’ll get medical in here,” Max said. “Let’s go. Hurry.”
From the kitchen, they rushed through the mudroom and pantry, then downstairs and did a once-over of the cellar, shelves filled with the typical gallon-size glass jars of canned fruit and vegetables fanning out around them. In Alber, nearly all the families stored at least a year’s worth of supplies. As he scanned the rows, Max worried about Jacob, intent on getting care to him as quickly as possible.
When they rejoined the officer at the foot of the stairs, Max and the two deputies ran upstairs and did a swift search, going room to room. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary in the nursery with the crib, or the children’s room with two single beds, a framed fairy princess picture over one and a Buzz Lightyear poster over the other. A moan caught in his throat as Max glanced at two sets of pajamas discarded on the floor, and he thought again of the small, lifeless bodies under the sheet. One set of PJs had purple flowers and the other cartoon fire engines.
The next bedroom had a king-size bed, two nightstands, a dresser, and a three-foot-high vase on a corner table that held oversized artificial pussy willows and cattails. The quilt spread across the unmade bed reminded Max of one his mother had made, a double wedding-ring pattern, light peach and yellow on a white background. No one hid behind the shower curtain in the attached bathroom, and they turned and walked out.
They quickly cleared a second bathroom, one with a basket of Fisher Price figures in the tub, two-inch-tall plastic girls in skirts and boys in trousers, along with cheerful, smiling yellow rubber ducks.
That left a single room to search, and Max wo
ndered why that particular one had the door closed. The others had all been open.
His gun raised and ready, the two deputies behind him, Max cautiously cracked the door open. The drapes were closed, and the room had only dim light coming in from the hallway. But Max could see into the closet gaping open, clothes hanging haphazardly from a wooden rod, boxes piled up on the shelf. He felt around on the wall to his left and found a switch.
The ceiling light flicked on. The room looked normal; the large dresser had a mirror, and a fluffy duvet, the blue of a pale morning sky, was pulled up to the headboard’s wooden spindles. But the more he looked at it, the more unnatural the bed appeared. It had a bulge on the far-right side. Pointing his gun at the bump, Max circled the bed and let his eyes trail down the bedside. A delicate wrist and hand peeked out from beneath the bedding.
Max held his breath, inched over to the bed, and picked up the corner of the duvet. Slowly, he pulled it back. A woman in a cotton nightgown covered with cheerful flowers lay spread-eagled on her back beneath it, her hand dangling down. Blood saturated the sheet beneath her in a pattern that resembled a Rorschach turtle. Her light brown hair encircled her head on the pillow, and her open pale eyes were unseeing. In life, he thought she must have been beautiful: finely chiseled features, an alabaster complexion.
Yet his attention kept being drawn to her mouth, where someone had taken lipstick and pushed hard to paint a thick red oval around her lips, one as dark as the smears of drying blood that marked the deep slash across her throat.
“That’s Laurel Johansson,” the deputy at his side whispered. Max wondered why that name sounded familiar, then felt his heart lodge in his throat when the guy said, “You know, one of Mullins’ kids.”
Her Final Prayer: A totally gripping and heart-stopping crime thriller (Detective Clara Jefferies Book 2) Page 2