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"He was taking me to see Jefferson at the hospital," I said and I described the beach road Uncle Philip had taken. Bronson nodded, his face hardening, his eyes growing small and sharp. Then he stood up and went to the telephone. I heard him call the local police.

"This is all very nasty business," he said, returning. "You've been through a terrible time, but it's all going to end now I promise you that," he said firmly. "You and Jefferson will come to live with me. If you want to, that is."

"Oh yes," I said quickly. "I always did." He nodded and then smiled.

"It might be nice having a little boy around here. The house could use the pitter-patter of young feet and the sound of a child's laughter again," he said. "And goodness knows, it needs the gentle touch of a young lady once more," he added, looking toward the portrait of his long-dead sister. "I look forward to you and your brother . . ."

"Jefferson!" I said sitting up quickly. "I'm not sure Uncle Philip was telling me the truth now. Maybe he wasn't transferred. Maybe he's still in Lynchburg!"

"I'll find out about him right away," Bronson said. "In the meantime, you go into the bathroom and wash those nasty scratches. I’ll have Mrs. Berme bring you some disinfectant. I'm sorry," he said again, "I'm sorry I wasn't more aware of how difficult things were for you and Jefferson."

"Don't blame yourself. You had your hands full with my grandmother, Bronson."

"Yes," he said, finally admitting it. "Yes, I did. But strange as it may seem, I miss her, even in her fragile state of mind. Every once in a while, she would become herself again and we 'would have some precious moments," he said, smiling at his recollections. "But now I'll have you and your brother to cheer up this big, sad house." He pushed down on his knees and stood up. "Go on," he said. "Take care of your injuries and let me call the hospital."

I went to the bathroom and peeled off my blouse slowly, my shoulders aching and my skin burning in spots. When I looked at myself in the mirror, it seemed I still had the imprint of terror on my face. My eyes remained wild, my hair disheveled. I traced the scratches on my collarbone and chest and then squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn't start to cry again. Mrs. Berme knocked on the bathroom door and then came in to give me the medicine.

"You poor dear," she said, looking at my back. I hadn't realized how scraped up I was. It must have happened when he threw me to the ground and I struggled to get out from under him, I thought. Mrs. Berme washed and dressed my wounds without asking any embarrassing questions. A little while later, Bronson came to tell us Jefferson was indeed at the hospital in Virginia Beach.

"He's doing fine, too," he added.

"Can we go see him?" I asked.

"Absolutely, my dear. If you're sure you're up to it, that is," he added.

"Oh, I'm up to it. I never thought I would miss him as much as I do."

Bronson laughed. We heard the doorbell ring and Mrs. Berme scurried off to see who it was. It was a tall, dark-haired policeman. I followed Bronson down the corridor slowly to greet him in the entryway.

"Evening, Mr. Alcoa," he said. He looked at me. "This is Dawn?"

"Dawn? No, no, this is her daughter, Christie. What made you say Dawn?" Bronson asked. I stepped closer to him and he took my hand quickly. It was eerie to hear a policeman use my mother's name like that.

"Well, we went down to the beach, to where you described, to begin our search and we found the car still there. A short while afterward, Charley Robinson, that's my partner," he explained, gazing down at me, "Charley, he hears someone on the beach. So we walked out aways and sure enough, we heard him screaming for Dawn."

"Oh no," I said, pressing my hand to my heart. "Mr. Cutler?" Bronson asked.

"Yes sir, himself . . . wandering about screaming. We practically had to carry him off the beach. He insisted Dawn was still out there."

"Where is he?" Bronson asked.

"He's in the back of the patrol car now. He's not in too good a shape, Mr. Alcott. I came up here because I was wondering . . ."

"Yes," Bronson said quickly. "Thank you, Hen-ry. I think Mr. Cutler needs a doctor more than he needs a judge right now . . . a psychiatrist."

"I see."

"You know what to do?"

"Yes sir. We'll take care of it, and you will follow up?" he added, looking at me as well as Bronson. Bronson put his arm around my shoulder.

"Yes, Henry. Thank you," Bronson said and shook the policeman's hand.

The policeman opened the door and went down the steps to the patrol car. I stepped into the doorway with Bronson and we both looked out as the patrol car started away. In the outside lights we could easily see Uncle Philip in the back seat. He turned as the patrol car began its journey down the driveway, and then he pressed his face 'against the rear window. It looked like he was screaming my mother's name, and although I couldn't really hear it, the echo rippled down my spine and made me shudder.

"It's over, Christie," Bronson whispered, embracing me more tightly. "I promise you . . . it's all over."

EPILOGUE