Last Look (10 page)

The main street in Hatton, South Carolina, was decidedly Southern. The houses lining either side were brick or clapboard, and most dated from the 1880s or earlier, the town fathers having surrendered to their Northern occupiers rather than see their homes burned to the ground. In some families, this was still whispered about, as it implied a level of cooperation much of the South had disdained. But in retrospect, it had been a damned good idea, Dorsey thought, since most of the town had survived the invasion of their Northern aggressors and now qualified as a historic site.

Live oaks lined the wide boulevard on either side and their moss-covered branches met in the middle to form a canopy over the street. Large, gracious homes with porticos and porte cocheres sat well back on generous, lush green lawns, their drives long and winding. Andrew slowed the car to a near crawl. Somehow he felt speeding on this street would have been tantamount to running through a church yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Quite the place,” Andrew remarked, watching for the Randalls’ street.

“It’s beautiful,” Dorsey agreed. “It looks almost as if time’s stood still here. The houses, the grounds, the gardens—look, there are even swans on that pond over there on the right.”

“That’s our turn. Swan Pond Road.”

“Seriously, that’s the name?” She turned in her seat to read the sign. “Damn if it isn’t. How do you suppose they’ve managed to keep swans here since that road was put through?”

“They clip their wings, most likely, so they can’t leave. Or they bring in new ones when the old ones fly away.”

He turned right and continued the slow drive past the pond.

“They’re pretty,” she said, watching the swans float across the water. “Majestic. They go with the town.”

“This part of it anyway. Let’s see what the rest of it looks like. I’m betting it isn’t all white columns and restored grandeur.”

“What street are we looking for?”

“Sylvan Road. Three streets down.” Andrew took a right and continued driving slowly, taking in the town.

The houses on the side streets were increasingly modest in size. By the time they turned onto Sylvan, the architecture had gone from antibellum to sturdy American foursquares. The lots were still generous, but not stately, and the driveways made of crushed stone led to one-or two-car garages rather than handsome carriage houses.

“That’s it there, number 717.” Andrew slowed, then stopped on the opposite side of the street from the Randall home.

“Nice, tidy looking house,” Dorsey noted.

“Doesn’t look like there’s a lot going on,” Andrew observed as he got out and slammed the car door. In the quiet of Sylvan Road, the sound almost seemed to echo.

Dorsey got out as well and stood on the sidewalk, taking in the neighborhood. All the homes were well-kept, the lawns and flower beds well-tended.

“All very respectable, wouldn’t you say?” Andrew asked when he joined her on the walk.

“Looks very solid. Late-model car back there near the garage, flower pots on the front steps, even a porch swing. Think there’s an apple pie in the oven?”

“Let’s go find out.”

They followed the walk to the front door, where Dorsey stood back while Andrew rang the bell. Somewhere in the house a dog barked and seconds later footsteps could be heard crossing a hardwood floor. The inside door opened, and a women in her fifties holding a small white dog asked, “Yes?”

“Mrs. Judith Randall?” Andrew asked. “Special Agent Andrew Shields, FBI.” He held up his credentials, and she leaned close to the screen door to study them.

“Well. I suppose this is about Shannon,” she drawled flatly. “You could have called first.”

“Yes, ma’am, I should have. I apologize for not having done so.”

“I suppose I should let you in,” she said, as if thinking aloud. She unlocked the screen door and ushered them in. The dog began to wiggle in her arms, its nose sniffing furiously.

“Bebe, you behave yourself, now.” Mrs. Randall placed the dog on the floor and it immediately jumped around Andrew as if begging to be picked it. “You can come on in—you just ignore her and she’ll stop.” She paused a moment. “Eventually…”

She led them into the living room, which appeared to be one of those rooms used only on holidays and at times like this. The furniture was mostly antique and highly polished, and the mantel was adorned with a tall vase of flowers. She gestured to the sofa and said, “Please have a seat.”

Andrew moved to the far end of the sofa to allow Dorsey to sit to his left. “Mrs. Randall, I know how difficult a time this must be.”

“Well, we just do not know what to make of all this,” Mrs. Randall said as she sat on a high-back wood chair opposite the sofa. “I simply do not know how such a thing could happen. All these years, we believed Shannon was dead—killed by that boy—and now they tell us she’s been living down in Georgia, working as a…”

She shook her head, unable to say the word.

“I cannot imagine what ever could have possessed that child to do such a thing. Clearly, she’d been forced to leave, someone took her and did God only knows what to her, and made her do these terrible things. Imagine, her being kidnapped and held against her will all these years.” Mrs. Randall’s voice was shaky. “I knew my daughter, Agent Shields. She was a good girl. An honor student. Played on the high school softball team from the time she was in seventh grade, she was that good, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t,” Andrew replied. Dorsey had yet to open her mouth.

“Oh, she was quite the star. She had so much here, so much to live for here. Everyone loved her. Why would she have stayed away?” The woman’s eyes now filled with tears. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why would she have stayed away all this time? Her father and I just can’t understand that. So you see, she must have been held against her will. Forced into slavery, like you read about nowadays.”

“Mrs. Randall, did Shannon ever try to run away from home, or give you any indication that she’d thought of doing something like that?”

“Good heavens, no.” She appeared slightly indignant. “Shannon came from a very good home, Agent Shields. She was loved. She was happy. She had everything. What on earth would she have been running away from?”

“Is your husband home?” Dorsey broke her silence.

“He’s in the back room. He was in an accident a few years back, Miss…?” She tilted her head slightly to the right, looking at Dorsey as if she hadn’t noticed her before.

“Agent Collins,” Dorsey told her.

“My husband had a terrible accident about three years ago, run off the road one night coming back from a home visit—he took over his daddy’s church when Father Randall passed on—and was just left for dead. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since. It’s made him…a bit bitter.” She lowered her voice. “This thing with Shannon has just about killed that man now. He’s been sitting in the back room staring out the windows ever since Chief Bowden came down here and told us about that girl’s body being found on that island and it turnin’ out to be Shannon.”

She swallowed hard and stood, her arms across her chest, staring at Andrew.

“Now, you just tell me how that could be.”

“Mrs. Randall, I promise you we’re doing everything we can to find out,” he replied.

“Can you find out how my baby girl could have been alive all these years, and I didn’t know?” Her voice grew husky. “Can you tell me how it could be that her mother’s heart didn’t know she was still on this earth?”

“No, ma’am, I can’t.” He shook his head. “I am very sorry—I cannot imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

“Right now, I’m mostly feeling numb,” she told him, “so if you have any questions you want to ask me, better ask them now, before the numbness goes away. I’m afraid that once they bring her back here, once I see her, I’m not going to be of much use to y’all.”

“I understand that.” He nodded.

“So you haven’t seen your daughter yet, is that correct?” Dorsey had waited an appropriate moment before asking.

“Yes, that’s true.” She fussed with the rings on her left hand. “Only our oldest girl, Natalie, has seen her. When Chief Bowden came here and told us they’d found Shannon—I still find it hard to speak of it, you’re going to have to forgive me—why, we just all thought he was crazy, that those folks down there in Georgia were all just crazy, too. He wanted to know if we had anything that might still have her fingerprints on it, and of course, I did. I had everything of hers up there in the attic.”

She looked from Dorsey to Andrew and back again, as if needing to explain. “You just don’t throw everything away, you understand. You need to keep the things that meant the most.”

They both nodded.

“So I gave him her things—her Bible, her hairbrush—things she’d mostly touched, and he put them in plastic bags and took them down to Georgia himself. Came back the next day and told us the fingerprints matched. Well, you just can’t imagine…” Nervous fingers scratched the back of her neck.

“But we wanted to make sure there wasn’t somehow some mistake, so Doctor Ellis, he’s been our dentist forever, he sent her dental records down.” She sighed heavily. “They matched, too. They said they’d try to get DNA from the hairbrush, but it would be weeks before those results would be back. Doesn’t matter, though. We know it was her, Natalie saw her. Natalie saw the birthmark on her shoulder. She knew it was Shannon.”

She patted her lap, and the dog jumped onto her from his spot on the floor. She petted him with shaking hands.

“When we first heard, we were thinking, well, mistakes are made every day, but there was that birthmark on the back of her left shoulder the police officer down there described, so one of us had to go to Georgia to look. My husband…well, that was out of the question, and I just couldn’t…even if it wasn’t her, it was somebody’s baby girl, do you see? So Natalie said, don’t worry, Momma, I’ll go. And she did, bless her heart.”

“Were Natalie and Shannon particularly close?” Dorsey asked.

“Not so much as Shannon and Aubrey, due to the age difference. Natalie was in college, and Shannon was just a high school freshman when all this happened.”

“And your youngest?”

“She was just everyone’s baby, you know how that is with the baby sister. She was too young to be too close to any of the others, I’m afraid.” She wiped tears from her face. “I’m sorry, it’s just so hard to understand. So hard to accept…”

“I’m sure it is. We respect what you’re going through, Mrs. Randall,” Dorsey said sympathetically, “and we’re sorry we’re going to have to ask you to relive that all over again. I’m sure looking back is going to be very painful.”

“It isn’t that”—Judith Randall shook her head—“as much as realizing that all these years we’ve spent grieving for her, we should have been searching for her instead….”

8

“Judith, who you talking to out there?” a man’s voice called from the back of the house.

“Some FBI folks, come to talk about Shannon,” Mrs. Randall replied.

The sound of rapidly approaching wheels on the wooden floor preceded Franklin Randall’s appearance in the doorway, where he sat for a very long moment, his dark angry eyes boring holes through the agents he found sitting in his living room.

“Well, of course the FBI would show up,” he said without emotion. “Gotta cover your tracks from last time, right? I’m surprised they didn’t send that fool who told us all back then Shannon was dead. Lost no time arresting that Beale boy. Gettin’ him convicted. Gettin’ him the death sentence.”

His stony glare focused on Dorsey, and she held her breath, as if expecting him to
know.

“Sir, I respect what you’ve gone through, and I’m really sorry for everything,” Andrew told him.

“Sorry isn’t going to make up for all those years—twenty-four goddamn years—when we thought our daughter was dead. And instead of being here, with her family, where she belonged, she’s out doing the devil’s work for someone.” He shook his head. “You sorry about that, too?”

“Yes, sir, we are. We don’t know what happened back then. We’re trying to find out what went wrong with the investigation, and get to the truth,” Andrew said solemnly, adding, “and yes, we are sorry, but we do have to ask some questions of you and your family.”

“You got questions, why don’t you just ask Agent Hot Shot Ranieri? Or is he too busy with his TV appearances to talk to the FBI these days?” Randall spit the words out, and Dorsey felt a deep flush creep up from under her collar and spread clear up to her scalp. “He had all the answers back then, didn’t he? Bet he doesn’t have a lot to say now. Bet we won’t see him on TV admitting he’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, left my baby to be forced into a life of sin all these years, sent that Beale boy to his grave. Much as he did come from the wrong side, he still didn’t need to die back then.”

Randall looked as if he was about to jump from the chair and attack them both.

“I understand how terrible this must be—” Andrew began.

“You don’t understand jack-shit, boy.” Franklin Randall turned in his chair and wheeled from the room as quickly as he’d entered it, leaving his wife and the two agents locked in an embarrassed silence in his wake.

“He’s terribly overwrought,” Judith finally said. “He’s feeling the guilt of not having found her before this happened to her. The past few years, since the accident, his focus has been on himself, on his…condition. Having to step down as minister at his daddy’s church was just one more blow. He just didn’t have the stamina anymore. It’s more than he can stand.”

Andrew nodded. “We’re not here to add to your pain, Mrs. Randall, but if we’re going to find out what really happened to Shannon, we’re going to have to speak with everyone in the family. Including your husband.”

“Of course. Maybe leave him till last, if you could? Maybe by the time you get to him, you’ll have learned something to share with him that might help.” She was fiddling with her rings again. “Maybe you should start with me.”

“We appreciate that, Mrs. Randall,” Andrew told her. “Maybe we can start with you telling us a little about Shannon.”

“I don’t know what more I can tell you. A top student. Top athlete. Popular,” Mrs. Randall began, her bottom lip quivering.

“Could we have the names of her friends, the ones she spent the most time with?” Andrew asked.

“Heather Whalen, Carrie Harrison, Kimmie White. The four of them were always together.”

“Do you have any idea where those girls might be now?”

“They’re all still around,” Mrs. Randall replied. “I can get their addresses and phone numbers for you before you leave.”

“Thank you,” Andrew said. “What about boyfriends?”

“No, no, Shannon didn’t have a boyfriend.” The girl’s mother shook her head vehemently. “She was only fourteen years old, for heaven’s sake. Much too young for boys.”

“Mrs. Randall, very often, girls have friends who are boys, not boyfriend, girlfriend. Just…friends.” Dorsey told her. “Were there any boys she was just friends with?”

“Not that I know of. Shannon mostly hung around with her girlfriends. She just didn’t pay any attention to boys at all.” She fell silent, as if recalling how her daughter had been making a living for these past years—how many, they still didn’t know for sure. “She just had no interest at all in boys, Agent…I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Collins.”

“Agent Collins, right.” Judith Randall wet her lips. “Shannon loved school, she loved teaching Bible at her granddaddy’s church. She loved playing softball. She liked to read. That was all, pretty much. She was just a very good girl. I don’t know what else I can tell you about her that you don’t already know.”

“Let’s go back to that last morning, if we could,” Andrew suggested gently. “How did the day start? Was there anything bothering her? Did she seem to be preoccupied with anything?”

“No, no more than usual.” Judith Randall tried to smile but failed. “You know how teenagers are, Agent Shields. Upbeat and happy one minute, moody and sulking the next.”

“Was Shannon moody that morning?” he continued.

“I don’t remember she was,” Mrs. Randall said thoughtfully. “I remember her being late leaving for school because she had to run upstairs to get something for some project she was working on—whatever project that was due at the end of the week, she and her friends were all working together on it. That’s why she was at Kimmie’s after school instead of coming right home.”

“Did she usually come right home from school?”

“Not always. Shannon was a busy girl, Agent Shields, like most girls at that age. If she didn’t have softball, she’d have Bible class or choir at the church. She was real active in her granddaddy’s church. All our girls were.”

“The reports in the Bureau’s file indicate that Shannon left her friend’s house and went to the church around 4:30,” Andrew recalled.

“That would be about right.” She nodded. “We know she was there, her grandmother saw her. Shannon had stopped there to put the programs together for choir practice later that night. I don’t remember what time my mother-in-law saw her, though, you’d have to ask her. I can give you directions to Mother Randall’s home. I expect you’re going to want to talk to her, as well.”

“We will, yes,” Andrew told her. “When did you realize that Shannon hadn’t come home?”

“Unfortunately, not until the next morning.” Mrs. Randall’s eyes filled again. “I’d gone down to Charleston with my sister, Andrea, to see a movie and have dinner. We didn’t get back until close to 11:30, and I just assumed that everyone else was in already. All the lights were off except the front hall so I locked up the house. Shannon was never later than nine getting back from church, and if she used her study halls, she often finished her homework early. I assumed she’d gone to bed sometime before I got home.”

She bit her bottom lip and added, “I didn’t check on her that night. I was tired from the trip, and just figured she was sleeping.” She looked at Andrew, then Dorsey, with haunted eyes. “I was just too tired to walk up to the third floor to check in on her and Aubrey. If I had, I would have known, I could have called the police sooner, they could have started looking for her, found whoever took her before it was too late….”

“Mrs. Randall, it’s not your fault,” Dorsey told her gently. “Whatever happened was beyond your control. If Shannon had been abducted after she left the church, she would have been long gone. Please don’t blame yourself.”

“It’s hard not to. We all blame ourselves. My husband also blames himself for not checking, but he thought she was up in her room studying when he arrived home from church that night. He’d gone straight into his study, so he wasn’t aware she wasn’t home. And Aubrey figured Shannon was still at choir practice when she went to bed a little before ten. She turned in early that night because she had to get up early in the morning. So you see, we all were neglectful, and Shannon slipped out of our lives because of it.”

“Mrs. Randall, take us through the next day. When did you realize Shannon was gone?” Andrew resumed his lead in the questioning.

“When she didn’t come down for breakfast. I told Paula Rose to run upstairs and tell Shannon to get a move on. She came back down a few minutes later and said Shannon wasn’t there.” Mrs. Randall rose and began to pace, in an effort, Andrew thought, to relieve her anxiety. “Well, I said, that’s just crazy—she’s not down here and she’s not up there—I sent Paula Rose back up to look in Aubrey’s room and the bathroom they shared. Aubrey had a class trip that day, so she left the house very early, close to six, I think.”

“Aubrey’s room was on the third floor as well?” he asked.

“Yes. She and Shannon were both in high school that year, and Natalie was away at college, so we put the two older girls who were still at home upstairs together.”

“Aubrey must have been shocked when she came back from her trip and found out that Shannon was missing,” Dorsey spoke up.

“Yes, she was. And she’s been devastated by this latest news. I swear, she just has not been the same since.”

“Where would I find her now?” Andrew asked.

“She’d be back at her little house in Stephens. About halfway between here and Charleston. She has her own television show down there, you know. Does all sorts of things—cooking and baking and gardening. Just like Martha Stewart.” Judith’s expression softened.

“I’m sure you’re very proud of her,” Dorsey said.

“I am very proud of all my daughters.” She leveled her chin. “All of them. I don’t know who or what led my God-fearing child to a life of sin, but I know she did not go willingly. And I know she would have come home if she could have.”

She turned to Andrew.

“Twenty-four years ago, the FBI sent a man down here to investigate my daughter’s disappearance. We all believed him when he said that Eric Beale killed her and hid the body someplace where we couldn’t find it. A jury believed that as well, and Eric Beale was sentenced to death for killing my girl.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Now we find out that none of it was true. She had not died. That Beale boy did not kill her. He went to his death knowing he was innocent when everyone else believed he was guilty. I cannot imagine the pain that family went through.”

She looked from Andrew to Dorsey, then back again.

“You find out the truth this time, hear? Whatever the truth might be, you find it. We’ve all been living with a lie all this time. It’s about time we all knew what really happened to my girl, and why that poor boy had to die for a murder he did not commit.”

“We’ll do our best,” Andrew said, and rose from the sofa. “I promise you we will do all that we can.”

“You do that, Agent Shields, then you come back here and tell me what really happened. No mistakes this time. No jumping to conclusions. You bring me facts.”

“Mrs. Randall, do you know where I can find the Beale family?” Andrew asked.

“I surely do not. I don’t know if they’re dead or alive. They moved right after their boy was executed. People in town…well, let’s just say people in town here were less than charitable to them after their son was arrested.” She covered her face with her hands. “God forgive me, I said such harsh and terrible things to Jeanette Beale….”

“Under the circumstances, I’m sure—” Andrew began, but she cut him off.

“No.” She held up one hand as if to ward off his words. “Don’t say it was understandable. The things I said about her boy were unforgivable. It’s all I can think about, him dying for no cause at all.”

She stared at the floor for what seemed like a long time, then looked up at Andrew and said in a steady voice, “Now then, you wait right here and I’ll get you those addresses I promised you.”

She disappeared into the back of the house, leaving both agents in the front hall with the dog, who circled around Dorsey and pawed at her until she knelt to pet him. Andrew stared out the front door, all the while pretending he didn’t hear the muffled conversation—and occasional raised voice—between Judith Randall and her husband. When Judith returned several minutes later, she handed a sheet of notebook paper to Andrew.

“I’ve written it all down for you, names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone you’ll want to speak with. My daughters, Shannon’s friends, Mother Randall—everyone I could think of. I imagine as you speak with them, the list may grow. Chief Bowden can help you there, as well.” She bit her bottom lip. “He might even know where the Beales are living. Maybe even contacted them, I don’t know. Someone should do that.”

“It’s being taken care of.” Andrew extended his hand and she took it and squeezed it. “We thank you for your time, and for the list of contacts.”

“You just find out what happened to my girl, Agent Shields. We’ll be burying her probably by the end of the week. We’d like to know why before we put her in the ground.”

“We’ll do our best,” he promised, then opened the front door and followed Dorsey out after she’d said her good-byes to Mrs. Randall.

Andrew stood on the porch, holding the screen door open, when he turned to Mrs. Randall and said, “There is one more thing I need to ask. At any time over the past twenty-four years, did you receive any contact that could have been from Shannon? Can you think of anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might have seemed at the time, that could have made you think, even for a second, she might be alive?”

The warmth she’d offered in her handshake disappeared before their eyes. Judith Randall leveled a stony gaze, and in the coldest voice imaginable, told him, “If I’d had any cause to think my girl was still alive—if there’d been anything, anything at all that would have had me thinking she was out there someplace—by God, I’d have found her, and I’d have brought her back home where she belonged, and this evil thing never would have happened.”

With one last hostile glance in his direction, Judith Randall slammed the door in his face.