“Still, it seems odd to me. My first thought was that this was going to be a bomb of a story, a PR nightmare for the Bureau. But then…silence.”

“Has anyone from the press tried to get in touch with your father? Has anyone contacted him?”

“He had a call from Owen Berger the other day, but I told him not to return it.”

“Are you sure that’s why Berger was calling? Your dad does guest spots on his show a lot, doesn’t he?”

Dorsey nodded.

“Well, maybe he was calling about a different case. There was that model that disappeared out in Oregon last weekend. Berger could have been calling about that.”

“It’s possible,” Dorsey agreed. “You’re probably right. It doesn’t make sense that Berger could know about Shannon and no one else in the media would know. And he certainly wouldn’t miss an opportunity to break the story. As soon as I talk to my dad, I’ll ask.”

“Then let’s assume the story isn’t out because the family doesn’t want it out there.” He slowed for the exit and eased into the far right lane. “Does that tell you anything?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “It tells me that no one’s told Eric Beale’s family that Shannon ’s been alive all these years. They’re the ones who would be doing all the screaming. They still don’t know… God, what a horrible shock this will be to them.”

“John assured me that he’s handling that. Let’s just hope he finds them before the story hits the wires.”

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.