Mariah Stewart - Last Look

“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.”