Mariah Stewart - Last Look

Andrew has shoved his hands in his pockets and started to walk away.

“You disagree,” John said. It wasn’t a question.

“For the record, yeah, I disagree. I don’t think she should be treated like a child, and that’s what you and Matt are doing. She’s a pro, John. She’s as good as anyone we have on our team. She shouldn’t be cut out of this.”

“That sounds more like an emotional reaction on your part than a professional one,” John had observed. “Not a good sign, in my opinion.”

“I’ve been working with her for the past week. At your insistence, if you need a reminder. You’re the one who sold me on her, you’re the one who wanted her here in the first place. It’s not fair to cut her out now.”

“Fair isn’t the issue,” John had reminded him stonily.

“I’m just saying.” An angry Andrew bit his tongue before he was tempted to say something to his boss he might regret later.

“Noted,” John had said as he’d watched Andrew walk away.

They both turned to look when an old, pale blue Oldsmobile pulled up and was stopped by the sheriff’s deputy who’d stationed himself nearest the action. After a few words, he waved her through. As the agents watched, a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties got out from behind the wheel. She wore white Capri pants, a purple tank top, and huge round sunglasses. Strawberry blond hair was piled atop her head and held there by a large black clip. She surveyed the area around the trailer, her gaze stopping when it reached the small cluster of FBI agents standing halfway between the cars and the trailer.

“That would be Mrs. Beale,” John told the two agents who’d accompanied him on the plane from Virginia. He started toward her as she started toward him.

“Mrs. Beale, I’m John Mancini, FBI.” He approached her with his hand out.

She met his eyes and ignored the hand.

“I figured the FBI would be here. You smell blood again, Mr. Mancini?” Her face was hard-lined and angry. “You here to take another son from me?”

“Mrs. Beale, there is nothing I or anyone else can say that can make right what happened twenty-four years ago,” John said. “Sorry doesn’t even come close to what I wish I could say. What happened was a total travesty, the most tragic-”

“Save it. Or better still, write it down for me. So that I can take it into court when I sue your sorry asses.” She started to push past him just as another car pulled over to the side of the road, twenty-five feet from where they stood.

Dorsey got out of her car and started across what passed for lawn. She was stopped by the same sheriff’s deputy who minutes before had flagged down Tim Beale’s mother. The small group gathered around him parted to make way for the latest arrival.

“Miss, I’m sorry, but I can’t permit you to-” the deputy began.

Dorsey waved her badge in his face. “FBI.”

He stopped her long enough to look over her credentials, then said, “Go on over, Agent Collins. The others are straight ahead there.”

“I see them, thank you.” She tucked her badge back into her bag.

“Agent Collins?” someone called her from behind. “Are you Dorsey Collins?”

She turned to face a short, slender man wearing glasses and a Carolina Panthers cap turned brim backward. “Who are you?”

“Robert Kerlin. I’m with Channel Seventeen out of Charleston. I was at the press conference last night.” He stepped closer. “I was wondering why Agent Shields said he was the only agent assigned to the Shannon Randall case, since Chief Bowden was pretty adamant that you were working the case as well.”

Dorsey stared at him for a moment before muttering “I don’t have time for this” as she pushed past him.

Robert Kerlin took a digital camera from his pocket and took a few shots of her back as she walked away.

“Dorsey.” Andrew was standing a few feet away from John Mancini and Jeanette Beale when he saw her.

She ignored him and continued on toward the trailer.

“Dorsey, don’t,” he called to her. When she refused to acknowledge him, he started after her. “Dorsey, you can’t go there. Beale has a gun. He’s threatened to shoot your father if anyone gets too close.”

She spun around to face him. “You knew about this. You knew he was here. You looked me straight in the face and lied through your teeth.”

“I understand how you must feel,” he said, hoping to reason with her.

“Oh, do you? You think you do?” Her anger was palpable in the thick summer air. “Is that your father in there?”

“I know what you must think…” Andrew pushed a hand through his hair. He’d been hoping to have this conversation later, away from everyone.

“Then you know I hope to God I never have to see you again after today.” Her hands were shaking with anger and she crossed her arms over her chest in the hopes of steadying them. “This is the ‘nothing’ John called you about, right?”

“I wanted to tell you.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I would not permit it,” John responded before Andrew could open his mouth. “If you’re going to blame anyone, blame me. I ordered him not to tell you, as I promised your father I would. He was afraid you’d do exactly what you’re doing now, which is putting yourself in harm’s way. I agreed with him, by the way. And since I’m Andrew’s boss, his job depends on following my orders.”

“You’re John Mancini?” Dorsey hesitated.

“Yes.” John walked toward her, Jeanette Beale momentarily forgotten. “And you’re Dorsey Collins. I’m glad to finally meet you. Andrew has had nothing but good things to say about you.”

She refused to look at Andrew, and could think of nothing to say except, “Shit.”

“Sorry?” John came closer.

“So am I. Glad to finally meet you.” Swell time and place to meet the man she’d hoped to work for. She suppressed a grimace. Not much she could do about that now.

“I was hoping you’d come in for an interview next week. Maybe we could save you a trip, take some time to talk now.”

“Please don’t treat me like I’m an idiot. Don’t try to distract me with a job interview, hang it out in front of me like a carrot. I need to talk to my father. I need to know he’s all right.”

“You’re Matt Ranieri’s kid?” A woman Dorsey had not noticed approached from somewhere behind John.

“Yes.” Dorsey nodded.

“Your father is fine,” the unsmiling woman told her. “At least he was about ten minutes ago.”

Dorsey frowned. “How do you know?”

“I’m Tim Beale’s mother. You want to go in, that’s fine with me.”

She took Dorsey by the arm. “More than fine. I’d say this just about balances things out, wouldn’t you, Mr. Mancini?”

Jeanette Beale looked straight ahead and called out, “Timothy, you open that door now, hear? Me and my new friend are coming on in-”

“No. Uh-uh. No way.” Andrew shook his head and raised his hand to pull his gun. “She’s not going in there.”

“I don’t think that’s a decision for you to make.” Jeanette Beale stared at the gun, then started toward the trailer, still holding Dorsey by the arm. She called out to her son, “Timmy, you keep that gun pointed right at Matt’s head. If there ain’t two of us coming through that door in about thirty seconds, you blow his brains out, hear?”

“I hear you, Mamma,” Tim Beale called back. “I got him right here.”

The door swung open, held there by Tim’s foot. Through the doorway, everyone could clearly see Matt Ranieri seated in a chair at a small square table, his hands tied behind his back. Tim Beale stood over him, pressing a gun against the former agent’s forehead.