Midnight Whispers (Cutler 4)

"Pardon me?"

"The faces on the people in the audience . . ." He looked at me. "You couldn't see them like I could, not with the lights in your eyes. I know. I've been on a stage, too."

"Stage? What are you talking about, Uncle Philip?" My heart began to pound.

"You've got the prettiest voice I've ever heard. And I'm not just saying that," he said quickly.

"What?"

"I'm so proud of you, proud you're my girl-friend," he said and suddenly he slowed down and turned the car onto a beach road.

"Uncle Philip!" I sat up. "Where are you going?"

"To the top of the world, remember? I promised I would show it to you. Well, here it is," he said, coming to a stop. He sat back and looked out the window at the pitch-dark night. "Ever see so many lights?"

"What lights? What are you talking about? Uncle Philip, we're on our way to the hospital . . . to Jefferson."

"I told you," he said, not hearing me. "I told you I would teach you things; I would show you things." He slid over to my side and put his arm around my shoulders.

"Stop!" I cried. "Uncle Philip."

He clutched my shoulder firmly and started to bring me toward him, his lips moving toward mine. "Dawn . . . oh Dawn," he said.

I screamed and pushed my hand into his face, digging my nails into his cheeks to push him back. Then I spun around and grabbed hold of the door handle. He seized the collar of my jacket, but I opened the door and pulled myself forward. My jacket came off in his hands. I felt his fingernails tear down the back of my neck in the process, but I wasn't concerned with the pain; I was only thinking of escape.

As soon as I was out of the car, I ran down the beach.

"DAWN!"

I heard him coming after me. The ocean roared to my right and there seemed to be miles of sand to my left. I charged forward, tripping and falling on the beach and then pulling myself up and running again. Just when I thought I was away from him, however, I felt his arms wrap around my waist and we both went down on the sand.

"I want . . . to show . . . to teach you . . . things," he gasped. His hands were over my breasts and his fingers began to fumble with the buttons on my blouse. I kicked up and twisted myself wildly to get out from under him, but he was too heavy and too strong. His fingernails tore down the side of my neck and onto my chest. I screamed and

screamed and then

I clutched a handful of sand and turned to him.

Even in the pitch darkness, I could see his eyes gleaming, his skin moist with perspiration. "Dawn . . ."

"I'm not Dawn! I'm not!" I screamed and tossed the sand into his face.

He cried out and when he brought his hands to his eyes, I spun over, slipped out from under him and scampered to my feet. Then I charged away again, this time running to my left. I ran and ran until I heard the sound of a car and realized I had reached the highway. I broke out onto the road, into the headlights of the oncoming vehicle. I heard the brakes squeal and saw the car veer to the left, but the driver never stopped. He kept going, his tail lights becoming smaller and smaller in the darkness, like the eyes of a retreating wolf.

I walked on and on, afraid now that one of the oncoming cars might be Uncle Philip. Finally, I saw the outskirts of Cutler's Cove. But I didn't go into the village. I turned up the road that led to Bronson Alcott's house instead. It took me nearly an hour more to reach his home on the hill. My clothes torn, my legs aching, dirty and sweaty, I rapped on the door and waited. He opened it himself.

"Christie!" he said in shock, and I fell forward into his arms.

Still in a daze, I lay on the sofa in the living room. Bronson had Mrs. Berme bring a wet cloth to put on my forehead and then went himself to fetch me a glass of water. He returned with it quickly and then he helped me sit up so I could drink.

"Now begin slowly," he said when I lay back against the pillow on the sofa, "and tell me everything. I didn't even know you had returned. I'm surprised and very upset that no one told me. Your uncle and aunt knew how concerned I've been."

"It doesn't surprise me that he never called you," I said and took a deep breath before starting. Even now, even after this frightening and horrible episode with Uncle Philip, it was difficult for me to seek Bronson's help. It embarrassed me, and even though I was sure everyone would tell me I had no reason to feel guilty and ashamed, I couldn't help but have those feelings.

Bronson listened attentively, his eyebrows lifting when I began to describe my reason for first running away. He gazed at Mrs. Berme and she left the room, assuming he wanted us to be alone to discuss such personal matters.

Afterward, Bronson sat back, stunned. Then he looked at me sympathetically.

"Betty Ann told me you ran away because you were very upset over her household rules. After you and I had had that earlier discussion, I just assumed that was the reason," he said apologetically. "I should have paid more attention to some of the things you were telling me. I'm sorry. I would have never permitted him to fetch you and Jefferson and put you through such a horrible experience. Where did this latest episode occur?" he asked.