Last Look

13

“So, what do you say we stop at the Widow Taylor’s and see if she has any thoughts on where we might find that file?” Andrew made a U-turn and headed back toward Hatton.

“Good idea. We have a few hours before we meet with the sisters. Bowden said Aubrey’s house was about a half hour from Hatton, so there’s time.”

“The more answers we get, the more questions we find,” Andrew said thoughtfully. “It almost seems Chief Taylor deliberately steered the investigation toward Eric Beale, but why would he do that?”

“Would it be a stretch to think it might have something to do with whatever was going on between Eric and Jeff Feeney?”

“Not to my mind.” Andrew slowed to round a bend in the road. “But I don’t expect Feeney to admit to anything.”

“It would have to be something really big for Taylor to have knowingly framed Eric, and let an innocent man be executed.”

“You’d think, but who knows what goes on in these little towns.”

“And who’s going to tell, all these years later?” Dorsey wondered aloud.

“So far, maybe only Jeremy Brinkley and Chief Bowden. Unfortunately, neither of them seem to know. And I think Brinkley was really rattled by this.”

“I think so, too. I think he was a good cop, and I think he liked to think Taylor was, too.” She gazed thoughtfully out the window. “But I also think that if he believed his chief pulled something back then, he’d be shocked, but he’d do what he could to make it right.”

“Well, I gave him my card. I hope he uses it.”

The drive back to Hatton proper took less than ten minutes. They drove along the main street where the renovated houses stood like newly polished jewels.

“Oh. Taylor.” Dorsey turned in her seat to look back at the mailbox they’d just driven past. “Slow down. Back two houses.”

Andrew checked his rearview mirror, then pulled to the side of the road.

“Shall we make a cold call?” he asked.

“Why not?”

They walked up the neatly trimmed sidewalks to the house where the pale blue mailbox announced the Taylor home.

“What a place.” Dorsey stood at the end of the driveway. “It looks like something out of a magazine.”

“Is there a magazine called Antebellum?” Andrew observed the house and the grounds. “It’s not all that big compared to some of the plantation houses you see in this area, but it’s clearly the same era and the same style. Interesting, don’t you think, this whole row of mini-mansions, all renovated?”

“It takes a lot of money to do this kind of restoration,” Dorsey told him as they walked the length of the drive.

“Brinkley said she’d inherited a lot of money from her father,” Andrew reminded her. “Her money. Her nephew…”

“So maybe Miz Taylor might have been holding a lot of the cards back then.” Dorsey stepped onto the flagstone walk that led to the front door and Andrew followed.

“Hold onto that thought.” He reached past her and rang the doorbell.

Moments later, a woman who looked to be in her mid-seventies appeared and opened only the inner door.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Special Agent Andrew Shields, FBI.” Andrew held his badge to the door. “Are you Mrs. Taylor?”

“I am.” She remained motionless on the other side of the screen.

“We’d like to talk with you for a moment, if that’s all right.”

“About?”

“We’re trying to track down some old files of your husband’s. Chief Bowden said files had been stored here at one time.”

“They were all sent to the new police department.”

“Mrs. Taylor, if we could just have a minute of your time.” Dorsey put on her best manners. “We’d like to ask you about an old case that your husband handled.”

“I never involved myself in my husband’s work. I’m sure I’d be of no help at all.”

“Mrs. Taylor, if you don’t mind-” Andrew started to plead with her, but he didn’t get far.

“Oh, but I do. You all have a nice day, now.”

The inner door closed.

“Well, was it something we said?” Dorsey asked.

“Apparently. I’d say we’ve been dismissed.”

They turned to walk back to the car.

“I’m feeling overwhelmed by all this hospitality,” Andrew told her.

“Me, too. That was so strange.”

“Do you think she’s just an inhospitable, cold, ornery bitch, or do you think she knew why we were here and wasn’t having any of it?”

“Both. I think she’s a cold and ornery bitch and I think she knew why we were here and doesn’t want to talk about the Randall case.”

They reached the car and got in.

“Word has to be starting to get around town. No doubt it’s reached the chief’s widow that the FBI is questioning the old investigation,” Andrew said.

“She could just be protecting her husband’s name,” Dorsey suggested, “or she could be protecting something-or someone-else.”

“You think her nephew?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

“Me, too. Let’s see what Chief Bowden knows about Jeff Feeney.” Andrew took out his phone and dialed the chief’s private line. After several minutes of conversation, he snapped the phone closed and slid it into his pocket.

“So, what did you find out?” Dorsey asked.

“Jeff Feeney was three years older than Eric Beale, and had the reputation of being a bully.”

“Three years older, that makes him about the same age as Eric’s brother Tim, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Andrew appeared thoughtful as he started the car and pulled onto the roadway. “He said there was definitely bad blood there, but he didn’t know why.”

“That’s all he said?”

“That, and the fact that Jeff Feeney was one of the witnesses in the assault case that sent Tim Beale to prison.”

“We need to talk to Jeff Feeney.”

“And in about another minute, we will.”

Andrew made a left onto the street that led to the town’s center, then parked in front of the hardware store. He pointed to the sign above the door. FEENEY’S HARDWARE EST. 1886.

“Let’s go see if the proprietor is here.” Andrew got out of the car and dropped a quarter in the meter.

They walked from the oppressive heat of the afternoon into the air-conditioned cool of the old building.

“Nice.” Dorsey observed as they looked around. The store had wide-planked oak floors and old-fashioned displays and fixtures, but the lighting and the cooling system had obviously been updated.

“Something I can help you find?” a young clerk asked them.

“We’re looking for Jeff Feeney,” Andrew responded.

“Jeff’s right back there near the office.” The boy pointed toward the rear of the store. “Blue shirt.”

“I see him, thanks.” Andrew motioned to Dorsey to follow him.

Jeff Feeney looked up from his conversation and watched the pair approach. He was a tall, burly man of around forty, and his arms, chest, and neck broadcast that he still worked out on a frequent basis.

“Mr. Feeney?” Andrew had his badge out of his pocket, and Feeney’s eyes were on it.

“That’s me.” Jeff Feeney’s smile was clearly disingenuous. “Help you with something?”

Even as Andrew held up his badge, he had the distinct feeling that Feeney knew exactly who he was. Feeney took the badge and pretended to look it over. He gave Dorsey a long look, top to bottom.

“And you, pretty lady? You have something to show me?”

“It’s Agent Collins.” Dorsey passed her credentials to him. He took a long time studying them before handing them back.

“We can step into my office.” He turned and walked through an open door to his left.

He closed the door after the agents and folded his arms across his chest.

“What can I do for you?”

“We’re in town-”

“I know why you’re in town. I suspect by now, everyone else does, too.” He waved off Andrew’s explanation.

“Word travels fast,” Dorsey remarked dryly.

“Not really, pretty lady, it’s taken-”

“Agent Collins,” she repeated coldly. “My name is Agent Collins.”

“Ahhh, right, of course. My apologies,” he drawled without sincerity. “I was going to say, word has actually traveled a bit slowly, by Hatton’s standards. You’ve been here, what, three days now, and people are just starting to talk? Why, that’s near unheard of.”

“What exactly have you heard?” Andrew asked.

“Well, they’re saying you’re looking into the Shannon Randall case because somehow she’s been alive all this time, but turned up dead for real a few weeks back down in Georgia.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. Alive all these years, and no one knowing. And that kid being executed and her not even being dead.”

“Eric Beale,” Dorsey said pointedly.

“What?” Feeney frowned.

“Eric Beale. The boy who was executed was Eric Beale.”

“Oh, right. Beale.” He nodded.

“We understand you had a run-in with him not too long before he was arrested for Shannon ’s murder.”

“Did I?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I may have. It was a long time ago. I don’t really remember.”

“You remember having been involved somehow in a bar fight with his brother sometime before that?” Andrew asked.

“Agent Shields, that was a long time ago. I’m afraid when I was younger, I did more than my share of hell-raising and got into more than one barroom brawl. It may be one of them involved this kid’s brother-Tim, was it?-but like I said, it was a long time ago.”

“You were a witness in the case against him. He went to prison for assault. Served time.”

“Oh, that fight.” Feeney nodded as if a light had just gone on in his head. “That was out at the Past Times. I do remember that. Tim Beale got into it with a buddy of mine.”

“Do you remember what the fight was about?”

“’Fraid not.” Feeney perched casually on the edge of his desk.

“Where’s this buddy now?” Dorsey asked.

“In the churchyard, First Baptist of Hatton,” he said smugly. “Motorcycle accident. Knoxville, nine, ten years ago.”

He stared at Andrew. “Anything else I can help you with, Agent Shields?”

“I think we’re good for now.”

“Well, then, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Feeney reached out one long arm and opened the door.

They left without thanking him for his time.

“I swear I feel his eyes burning a hole right through the back of my head,” Dorsey mumbled as they stepped back into the sunshine.

“I don’t think it was the back of your head he was staring at.” Andrew unlocked the car with the remote.

“What an asshole,” Dorsey said when they were in the car. “Creepy and arrogant.”

“Yeah, but that just makes the picture more clear.” Andrew checked the time. “We have time to get a quick bite before we head out to Aubrey’s. Let’s grab something at that diner across from the post office.”

“Fine. What do you mean, the picture’s more clear?”

“We have two cases to solve here. The first one being what happened twenty-four years ago, the second being who killed Shannon. Let’s just look at the first one for now.”

He drove to the municipal parking lot and took a spot.

“Let’s assume that whatever happened to put Tim Beale behind bars had something to do with Jeff Feeney.”

“That feels right.” She nodded. “So Tim’s behind bars, then something’s going on between Feeney and Tim Beale’s little brother.”

“Okay, hold that thought.” Andrew turned off the car but didn’t move to get out. “Not too long after whatever confrontation there was between Feeney and Eric Beale, Shannon Randall runs away from home. Kimmie White tells Chief Taylor that she saw Shannon in Eric’s car. Eric’s picked up and questioned, and when the bloody shirt is found in his car, Taylor concludes that Eric killed Shannon.”

“To get back at Eric somehow for having gotten into something with his nephew?” Dorsey frowned.

“With his wife’s nephew.” Andrew let that sink in. “Is there any doubt in your mind that Taylor ’s wife held the reins in that house? The house bought and restored with money she inherited?”

“So, you’re thinking that after Eric appeared to be a suspect, his wife leaned on Taylor to turn it on full blast, to get Eric out of the way for some reason?”

“Think about it. Both Beale boys get into seriously hot water with the law, after each of them had a run-in with Jeff Feeney.”

“Maybe Tim and Eric had something on Jeff, or maybe knew something that Jeff-and his aunt-didn’t want anyone else to know.” Dorsey thought for a moment. “Or it could have been the other way around.”

“Could be either. Having Eric arrested for Shannon’s murder was the way Taylor shut him up.”

“But why wouldn’t Eric have spoken up back then?” Dorsey frowned. “Why didn’t he say something at the trial? It doesn’t make sense that he’d keep quiet and let them execute him if he knew why he was being railroaded.”

“I agree. It doesn’t make sense at all.”

“And how would Shannon ’s disappearance be connected to that?”

“I don’t think it is. I think her disappearance was just a convenient way for Taylor to get rid of Eric the same way he got rid of Tim.”

“I find it hard to believe that Taylor would have let them execute Eric, knowing he was innocent.”

“Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe once the story was concocted, he believed it. Maybe it all made perfect sense to him, once all the little bits of evidence starting falling into place. You know you can talk yourself into just about anything, if the stakes are high enough.”

“Let’s suppose you’re right,” Dorsey said. “Let’s suppose that’s how it happened. Eric gets onto Taylor ’s radar somehow, he believes Eric is guilty, Eric is convicted and he’s executed. Now fast forward to 2007. Shannon Randall’s murdered. You’re saying you don’t think the two events are connected?”

“I think there’s a thread of a connection, but I don’t think that thread has anything to do with Eric Beale. I think he was an unfortunate victim of something else, something to do with Taylor ’s nephew. I think Shannon ’s disappearance was merely an unfortunate coincidence as far as Eric was concerned. A convenient means of getting rid of him.”

“Do you see a connection between Shannon ’s disappearance in 1983 and her murder in 2007?” Dorsey turned to face him. “I feel there has to be something that ties one to the other. I just don’t know what that something is.”

“Neither do I, but I agree there’s something there, and there are a whole lot of pieces to this puzzle.” He opened his car door and started to get out. Over his shoulder, he added, “I’m hoping sooner or later we’ll be able to put them all together and see the whole picture.”

“Wow, those white columns really stand out against those redbrick walls, don’t they.” Dorsey rolled down the window to get a better look at the home of Aubrey Randall, the self-styled Southern version of Martha Stewart.

It wasn’t a question.

“She certainly does seem to like that antebellum look.” Andrew parked in front of a tidy boxwood hedge. “I could swear I heard the theme from Gone With the Wind while we were driving up that long drive from the road.”

“You too? I thought it was just me. Eleanor Taylor’s got nothing on Aubrey.”

“Except of course, Eleanor’s got the real thing. Aubrey’s is all new construction. A mere copy of the real thing.”

“Well, copy or no, I’m impressed.”

Andrew turned off the engine and stared at the house.

“It looks like she’s home. Assuming that’s her Mercedes over there.”

“The license plate is AGR. Aubrey some-middle-name-that-begins-with-G Randall.” Dorsey opened her door. “I don’t see another car, though, so maybe the senator hasn’t arrived yet. Which would be good, because I’d rather we have some time with Aubrey alone.”

“If they’ve concocted a story, for whatever reason, it’s already done. They know what they’re going to say.” Andrew got out of the car and took a good look around. “Nice gardens. Nice horses out back. Very nice.”

“I’d say Miz Aubrey does quite well for herself.”

“She’s a local star on her way to the big time, right?”

Dorsey looked around at the lush grounds and the beautiful house that stood before them.

“I’ll bet it would hurt like hell to give up all this. I’ll bet someone who had all this would fight tooth and nail if they thought they were in danger of losing it.”

“Your point?”

“Just that if this were mine, I’d feel really anxious if something threatened to take it from me, that’s all.”

“Something like a sister who’s supposed to be dead turning up with a record of numerous arrests for prostitution.”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“How do you think those network folks would feel about giving Aubrey a shot at the big time with a scandal like that just beginning to break?” Dorsey said.

“I’d say it would be pretty unfortunate timing.”

“Unfortunate enough that you’d do something really desperate?”

“You know what they say.” Andrew glanced around as they walked. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

The path they walked along was red brick to match the house, laid out in a herringbone pattern that led right to the front door. Breezy daylilies grew around the steps in clumps and vied with huge puffs of hydrangea for attention.

“Nice,” Dorsey said again. “Very nice. Tasteful, even, and-”

“Agents Shields and Collins?”

The woman who opened the door was tall and willowy, her features as finely chisled and delicate as her younger sister’s were sharp. Her blond hair curled around her face in a short and charming cut. She wore a pale pink T-shirt tucked into the waist of a slim denim skirt, lots of silver jewelry, and a welcoming smile.

“I’m Andrew Shields, this is Dorsey Collins.” Andrew smiled back as warmly. “Miss Randall?”

The woman barely glanced at Dorsey. Andrew had her total attention.

“Aubrey.”

“Aubrey,” he repeated with a smile meant to charm. “This is quite a place you have here.”

“Well, thank you.” Aubrey Randall beamed as she stepped out onto the small square that served as the front porch. “Would you like a quick tour while we wait for my sister?”

“We’d love it. Thanks.”

“Where would you like to start?” She folded her arms over her chest, her eyes never leaving Andrew’s face. “We have the stables, the pond, the gardens…”

“I noticed some horses out in the pasture there,” he said. “How about we start there?”

“Sure thing,” she drawled and stepped between Andrew and Dorsey. “Are you a horseman, Agent Shields?”

Aubrey sidled up to Andrew and touched his arm in a follow-me gesture. The two of them walked side by side down the walk, leaving Dorsey to roll her eyes and tag along, Aubrey chatting incessantly, Andrew occasionally nodding agreeably. Aubrey was playing the Southern belle, and Andrew was playing along.

“You, there, Sugar Plum. You come on over here and be sweet,” Aubrey called to the chestnut mare that pranced inside the fence. “Come say hello to our new friend, Andrew.”

The horse leaned over the fence just as a car sped up the drive. State Senator Natalie Randall-Scott parked her sedan next to Andrew’s and jumped out. She wasted no time in hurrying over to the fence.

“Natalie, honey, you’re just in time. This is Agent Shields-” Aubrey began the introductions and her sister cut her off.

“I know who he is. Agent Collins, Agent Shields.” Natalie offered her hand first to Dorsey, then to Andrew. “Natalie Scott.”

Before either of them could respond, she turned to her sister and said, “So much for keeping this whole mess under wraps.”

She pointed toward the end of the drive. “I’ve had two news vans following me since I left my office. I had to call the state police to send a few troopers over to block off the drive here and to limit access to my home.”

“So the story’s out,” Dorsey said.

“Apparently,” the senator responded dryly. “Out with a vengeance.”

“Then I suggest we warn Mother and Paula Rose,” Aubrey said.

“I’ve already called everyone. Chief Bowden is on his way over to Sylvan Road. He’ll do the best he can to keep things under control there. I’m wondering if we should move Mother and Father here until this blows over. I think we need to…” Natalie stopped herself, then turned to the agents and said, “I’m sure you can appreciate how difficult this has been for our family. I don’t want our parents unduly harassed by the media. This entire thing has been simply…” She sought the right word.

“A mess,” Aubrey said. “It’s just a damned mess.”

“Aubrey,” Natalie chided her.

“Well, it is. There’s just no other way to describe it. It’s a damn mess and it’s got Momma and Daddy just beside themselves.” Gone was the Southern lady who’d been trying to sweet-talk the hunky FBI agent into forgetting why he was there. “If she was alive, she never should have gone away, and she never should have stayed away all this time. She should have come home.”

“Aubrey, you and I both know Shannon wouldn’t have taken off on her own,” Natalie interjected. “You know she had to have been forced. Kidnapped, maybe by someone involved in white slavery. You hear about that all the time now, but it’s nothing new. Whoever it was who took her forced her onto a path she never would have followed willingly.”

Spoken like a true politician, Dorsey thought.

“Well, of course she was forced, Natalie. Of course she wouldn’t have done those terrible things if she’d had a choice. But she could have come home before this. She could have escaped and come home long before now.” Aubrey crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t blame her for leaving. I know she didn’t have a choice being abducted back then. But I do blame her for staying away as long as she did, making us all suffer all these years…making Momma so sad and Daddy so bitter.” Aubrey’s eyes welled with tears.

And coming back from the dead at a most inconvenient time, Dorsey was tempted to add. Instead she said, “I’m sure this has been incredibly distressing for all of you.”

“You have no idea, Agent Collins,” Aubrey addressed Dorsey directly for the first time.

“Do either of you remember if Shannon had been upset or depressed in the days before she disappeared?” Andrew signaled Dorsey that the time for his interrogation had come.

“Not that I noticed, no.” Aubrey continued to dab at her eyes with the tissue she’d pulled from a pocket in her skirt. “If she was, she hid it well. And she was sort of private about things, you know? She wouldn’t have said anything. She was big on writing in her diary, but she wasn’t much for talking about things.”

“Any idea where that diary is now?” he asked.

“No. I don’t remember ever seeing it after…well, after Shannon was no longer with us,” Aubrey told them.

“Natalie, had Shannon confided in you about any problems she might have had?” Andrew turned his attention to the senator.

“I was away at college that year and didn’t get home much. I’m afraid I wasn’t there for her, if she needed me,” Natalie said solemnly. She turned to Andrew and asked, “There’s obviously something going on here that we’re not being told. You’ve been here what, three days, and yet you’re still here asking questions. Why?”

Before Andrew could answer, Aubrey asked, “What do you think happened back then, Agent Shields?”

“Our investigation has concluded that Shannon had not been kidnapped but ran away on her own accord.”

“What?” Aubrey gasped.

“That’s preposterous.” Natalie’s face went stony, much as her mother’s and grandmother’s had. “Why, even your own FBI man back then believed Eric had killed her.”

“For the past six years or so, Shannon was living with a roommate in Deptford,” Andrew told them. “She told the roommate she’d been traveling around the South on her own for years. There’s no question she hadn’t been kidnapped, she’d told her roommate she was a runaway. The question is, what was she running from?”

“Were either of you aware that your sister was a cutter?” Dorsey asked.

“A what?” Aubrey frowned.

Dorsey explained.

“No, of course not.” Aubrey shook her head. “That’s the sickest thing I ever heard. Shannon was not crazy. She never would have done something like that.”

“Girls who cut aren’t crazy,” Dorsey said. “They’re in pain, and they’re trying to find a way to make the pain go away.”

“So they inflict more pain on themselves?” Aubrey snorted. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“It does to those who cut,” Dorsey said softly.

“The point,” Andrew said, breaking in, “is that girls who exhibit this behavior are suffering, most likely from some sort of abuse or trauma.”

“You’re suggesting that Shannon was being abused.” Aubrey’s emotion was gone in a snap, replaced with a cool composure. “That she ran away because she was being abused.”

“I’m suggesting that something happened to her that made her run away. That same something may have been the reason she turned to self-mutilation,” Andrew told her.

“How do you know that my sister engaged in this…cutting herself thing.” There was no trace of Aubrey’s earlier warmth.

“We saw the scars on her arms. And her shoulders, and her legs,” he told her. “They couldn’t have been caused by anything else. We’ve established the behavior. We’re trying to find out what trauma caused it.”

“The trauma of being kidnapped and forced into prostitution would have done it,” Aubrey snapped.

“Aubrey, I think Agent Shields has established that was not the case,” Natalie said calmly. “ Shannon ran away-and stayed away-for a reason.”

The sisters exchanged a look that was difficult to read.

“Aubrey, Natalie, I have to ask,” Andrew addressed both sisters, causing them to look at him instead of each other. “What are the chances your father was abusing Shannon?”

“Ridiculous,” Aubrey snapped. “How dare you!”

“Most often the abuser is someone close to the victim,” Andrew explained. “Usually a family member, or a trusted family friend.”

“Daddy never would have laid a hand on any of us that way,” Natalie told them.

“Can you think of anyone close to the family who could have?”

“No,” Aubrey said curtly. “No.”

“I guess we’ll have to ask your father if he has any thoughts on that,” Andrew added.

“Please, don’t.” Natalie touched his arm. “He’s been through so much these past few years. I’m sure my mother told you that he’s never forgiven himself for what happened with Shannon, that he wasn’t able to find her, to save her. If you accuse him of something like this”-Natalie’s eyes filled-“if he thought for one minute that anyone would suspect him of doing such a thing, it would just about kill him.”

“But surely if he understands that someone was hurting her, he’ll want to help us to figure out who it was, don’t you think?” Andrew glanced from one sister to the other. He could not gauge what either of them was thinking.

“Of course he would,” Natalie said crisply. “We all would.”

“By the way, we believe that at some point over the years, Shannon might have tried to get in touch with someone in the family. Did either of you notice a lot of hang-ups coming to your parents’ home, for example? More than what might be considered normal.”

“Everyone gets hang-up calls,” Natalie replied. “I don’t think we had more than our share.”

“No,” Aubrey agreed. “No more than most people have, I suppose.”

“About the funeral services for your sister,” Dorsey said as if it had just occurred to her. “When will they be held?”

The sisters looked as if they each expected the other to answer.

Finally, Natalie said, “I believe Paula Rose is in charge of the funeral arrangements.”

Andrew gave them each a business card. “Call me if you remember anything you think might be important. We’ll be around for a few more days.”

“Ladies, thanks for your time.” Dorsey made brief eye contact with the women, then she and Andrew walked back across the drive to the car, leaving the two sisters standing still as statues next to the pasture fence.

“They know,” Dorsey said when they got back into the car. “They know who abused Shannon back then.”

“You still think it’s Dad?”

“I think he’s the most logical suspect. But neither hesitated for a second to deny it.”

“Let’s stop off at the Randalls’ on our way back to the motel. Let’s see how he reacts when we start giving him our version of what happened that night back in 1983.”

“I think this time, you should call. I don’t think Mrs. Randall is going to be happy to see us show up twice uninvited.”

“Good point.” Andrew slipped the phone from his pocket. “Do you have the number?”

She took the phone from his hand and reached into her purse for the small notebook she’d been keeping phone numbers in. “You drive, I’ll dial.”

She entered the number on the keypad and hit send, listened for the phone to ring, then passed it over to Andrew. His conversation with Mrs. Randall was short and not so sweet.

“Reverend Randall is resting under doctor’s orders right now and is not to be disturbed,” Andrew said once he hung up. “Mrs. Randall will be sure to let him know I called as soon as he awakens.”

“I say we go over anyway.”

“I say you’re right.”

“Know what I thought was odd?” Dorsey said after a moment. “That neither Natalie nor Aubrey expressed any concern that Eric Beale was executed.”

“What’s that tell you?”

“Maybe they’re more worried about something else right now.”

Andrew drove slowly down the long winding allee.

“Shit,” he said when they reached the first bend.

Dorsey craned her neck to look ahead. At the end of the drive, a state police car blocked access to the house. News vans and cars lined both sides of the road beyond the barricade. A trooper walked up the drive toward them, and Andrew stopped and rolled down his window.

“Identification, sir?” he asked.

“Special Agent Andrew Shields, Special Agent Dorsey Collins,” he said as he pulled out his badge and Dorsey handed over hers. The trooper looked them over and returned them promptly.

“I’ll clear the way for you,” he told Andrew. “You’re going to have to be careful. We haven’t allowed anyone out of their cars-they’d be trespassing, and we’ve already made it clear we’d arrest anyone caught trespassing-but I don’t know how they’re gonna react when they see someone leaving. You’re likely to be followed, sir.”

“I can deal with that.”

“In that case, sir, have a good night.” The trooper walked away, and motioned for the car blocking the entrance to move.

Andrew slipped past the patrol car and onto the road. Several cars that had been parked began to follow him. He removed his phone from his pocket and used the speed-dial.

“John, I’m afraid we’re beginning to draw a crowd…”