§ § § - March 21, 1981
Leslie soon discovered that, at least in the eyes of Dr. Lucas Bergman, time was of the essence; he was in no mood for pleasantries or small talk, and insisted on getting started on his fantasy then and there, as if any delay would mean a drastic change in the outcome of what he hoped to achieve. A couple of natives loaded up a rover with a large metal case; then she, Tattoo and Roarke drove Dr. Bergman and his daughter Lisa to a small, isolated village located toward the western end of the island, near the jungle interior. The settlement could be reached only by a rutted, one-lane dirt road, and Roarke drove slowly, taking care with the pits and ridges caused by weather, as well as the occasional petrified tracks of tires that had passed through here long before. Though everyone on the island knew Roarke to some degree, that didn't keep the residents of the pitiful collection of thatched-roof grass huts from scrutinizing the rover with open suspicion as Roarke let the car coast along the lane before pulling to a stop at what appeared to be a dead end.
They all got out of the car, and Lisa Bergman and Leslie rounded it from the other side to join the men as Dr. Bergman gazed at the lone two-story structure in the place. It had a rudimentary thatch-roofed porch, and had been whitewashed so that it stood out in stark contrast to the khaki-colored shacks surrounding it. Dr. Bergman apparently recognized it. "Oh," he said, looking impressed, "this was home to Henry Vanderwick...the father of regenerative transplant surgery." Leslie noticed that Lisa's hopeful, curious expression slid away, replaced by disappointment and disillusionment.
"Yes," Roarke confirmed. "The building has been vacant since his death, looked after by..." His glance slid to Bergman before he said somewhat evasively, "...a caretaker." His smile, to Leslie's knowing eye, seemed to hint at a secret joke. "Tattoo will show you around."
"This way, Dr. Bergman," Tattoo said, gesturing toward the building.
Dr. Bergman turned to Lisa. "You coming?"
"In a minute, Father," Lisa said, and he eyed her for a second or two before the lure of the house proved too much for him and he followed Tattoo to the door.
Lisa waited till they were well out of earshot and the baaing of goats somewhere nearby was the only sound; then she turned to Roarke. "Mr. Roarke, I want to thank you for my fantasy," she said. Her face shone with hope. "This chance to spend some time with my father...this is the first time I've been able to drag him away from his work since my mother died."
"I understand she was lovely," said Roarke with a faint smile of his own.
Leslie tuned in as Lisa nodded and said, "Oh, yes, she was—would you like to see? You too, Leslie." Lisa's smile was friendly and inviting, and Leslie couldn't resist, leaning over to get a look when Lisa opened the large gold locket around her neck and displayed the photo within. It was a black-and-white shot, fifties-vintage, of a beaming young brunette whose hair was being blown back in the breeze. She seemed to be wearing an off-the-shoulder gown, perhaps a wedding dress, Leslie surmised.
"Oh...very lovely indeed," Roarke concurred with appreciation. As Lisa gazed at the picture, he then said deliberately, "She died in surgery, and the surgeon was your father."
Lisa's head came up sharply, and she demanded, "How did you know that?"
"It's my business to know such things, Miss Bergman," said Roarke briskly, his voice disapproving. "Forgive me, but is it not a fact that practicing surgery on a member of one's own family is contrary to medical ethics?"
Lisa's voice chilled. "Well, under ordinary circumstances, yes. But we were sailing in the Caribbean, and we were hours from any hospital. My mother became terribly ill, and my father had to operate." Now her tone grew urgent, as if she were trying to make Roarke understand. "It was a simple appendectomy, but complications arose, and she, uh..." She trailed off with remembered sadness, and Leslie's heart went out to her as she registered the growing sorrow on Lisa's face. Roarke nodded with sympathetic comprehension and glanced at Leslie, sparing a few seconds to give her a pat or two on the shoulder. Lisa turned to stare at the building where her father and Tattoo had gone. "My father's never been the same since."
"Yes," Roarke mused, almost turning inward while Leslie watched her guardian with that sense of wonder at the way he seemed to know so much he hadn't been told. "He has immersed himself in his work—become totally absorbed in his research project."
"That's why I brought him here, Mr. Roarke—to get him away from all that darkness and guilt, and to have my fantasy. To get back to a normal father-and-daughter relationship."
Leslie squinted at Lisa, wondering what such a thing might entail, and whether she might have a chance to chat a little with Lisa. There had been no time for any small talk, even during the drive to the settlement; for Dr. Bergman had been too impatient to tolerate chatter, and nobody else seemed willing to challenge that—certainly not Leslie.
Then the door opened and Dr. Bergman leaned halfway out. "Mr. Roarke? May I see you for a moment?"
Leslie thought his voice sounded sharp, and she looked to her guardian, who nodded once, then repeated the gesture to Lisa. Lisa promptly went to join her father, and Roarke turned to the half-dozen or so young native men who had clustered around the back of the rover, giving them a silent signal. They stepped forward and began to unload the equipment in the back of the vehicle, and Roarke guided Leslie along to the house in Lisa's wake.
Inside, Tattoo stood waiting. Roarke turned to him and requested, "Will you show Miss Bergman to her room? She must be tired after her long journey."
"Of course. This way, Miss Bergman." Lisa cast a grateful smile back at Roarke and followed Tattoo out of the room and toward a narrow, steep staircase.
"Mr. Roarke, I have to talk to you," Dr. Bergman said then, his voice sharp and urgent.
"Certainly, Dr. Bergman," replied Roarke, with his usual effortless courtesy. "About the nature of the experiments you intend to conduct here, to try to bring the dead back to life?"
"Exactly," said the doctor, meeting Roarke's penetrating gaze with an intense stare of his own.
Roarke nodded slowly once or twice; then he gave one final, brisker nod and said firmly, "I suggest you and your daughter rest for a short while, perhaps sit together and talk a bit or have a look around the grounds here. I have another client to see to."
Dr. Bergman looked affronted, as if he'd thought he should have been the sole focus of Roarke's attention for as long as he pleased. "I happen to be in a great hurry here, Mr. Roarke—"
Roarke overrode him firmly. "My time is also valuable, Dr. Bergman, and you are not my only guest this weekend. You have my word that I will return within two hours to answer any questions you may have and to satisfy whatever curiosity may arise for you while I am gone. But I do have another client awaiting me, and I believe you and your daughter could benefit from a short rest before I return." He paused to let this sink in, and seemed to be waiting for Dr. Bergman's response. However, the doctor said nothing, looking a little startled, as if he had never before come up against someone who stood up to him with such easy finesse. When the silence stretched, Roarke nodded and even smiled slightly. "Very well, if you have no further questions at this time...then please, excuse us. Leslie?" He turned toward the stairs and raised his voice. "Tattoo, we're leaving now."
In a few seconds Tattoo emerged from the stairwell and joined Roarke and Leslie. On the way back to the main house, Tattoo queried, "Boss, do you think Dr. Bergman sees himself as some kind of...you know, Frankenstein sort?"
Roarke contemplated the question for about twenty seconds; then he said, "No, Tattoo, I don't believe so. It seems to me that Dr. Bergman either is unaware of, or refuses to make, the comparisons between himself and Mary Shelley's character." He paused, then sighed softly. "No, Dr. Bergman may not see himself as a latter-day Frankenstein...but the villagers around him certainly will."
That gave both Tattoo and Leslie food for thought, and they were silent for most of the remaining drive back, before Tattoo's mind shifted to something else altogether. Roarke and Leslie could see the change in expression that indicated he had another issue on his mind, but neither of them had a chance to comment when Roarke parked the rover in front of the main house and Tattoo jumped right out, heading for the porch steps. About to follow, Roarke was hailed by a couple of natives in the lane who had a question or two for him. Leslie hesitated, divided on whether to stay put or chase down Tattoo in an attempt to prevent something embarrassing; but before she could decide, the natives thanked Roarke and continued on their way.
They had just entered the inner-foyer door when they heard Tattoo's voice from inside the study: "I've got a few dollars to invest." They could see just over the half-wall right beside the door, and noticed that Tattoo had perched in the chair behind Roarke's desk with an air of overdone self-importance, facing Frank Miller, who sat with his back to them in one of the club chairs. "What do you think about, um...pork bellies?" Leslie stifled a snicker with one hand.
Miller leaned forward just slightly and repeated, "Pork bellies?" He sounded as incredulous as Roarke looked, and went on, "No, stay out, Tattoo—that market is strictly for the professionals."
Roarke, too, killed a smile before stepping forward. "Tattoo..." The Frenchman looked up, startled, and jumped out of the chair, scrambling around the desk and joining Roarke as he took a seat in the other club chair. Leslie followed him in, hanging just behind the chair near the steps to the second floor, while Roarke inquired, "How much money are you prepared to invest through Mr. Miller?"
"Before or after I get paid?" countered Tattoo.
Roarke shot his assistant a look that finally squelched the Frenchman once and for all on the subject. Leslie grinned, watching Roarke chuckle dryly and then turn back to their guest. "Mr. Miller, have you ever met Mr. Avery Williams?"
Tattoo added mostly for Leslie's benefit, "The world's number-one financier?"
Miller looked a touch surprised, but spoke calmly. "No, no...I never get to meet the firm's clients, only their money." Roarke nodded understanding. "But thanks to the reams of material that you sent me, I feel I know Avery Williams like a, like a book. His family, his likes and dislikes, his personal mannerisms...even the way he plays golf. He has a wife...I mean, we may..." He let the sentence go unfinished, making Leslie wonder what he was implying.
Roarke responded as if he knew what Miller had left unsaid. "There is that possibility."
"Now does he still want to trade places?" Miller asked.
"Oh, desperately. Mr. Williams hasn't had a day off in several years, and is eagerly looking forward to a weekend vacation, now that we have found a suitable substitute for him. But, uh, Mr. Miller, I must warn you: men of great wealth and power inevitably acquire enemies." Miller looked thoughtful at this, but continued to listen as Roarke went on, "When you take Mr. Williams' place, you could be placing your own life in mortal danger."
Miller pondered it for all of two seconds before musing, "Well, my life has been pretty dull anyway, Mr. Roarke; I think I could, uh...I could use a little excitement." He was calm and even wore a slight smile, but it was clear to them all that he fully intended to go through with his fantasy.
Roarke chuckled again, briefly. "I see. Well, in that case...Tattoo?"
Tattoo pulled himself straight. "This way, Mr. Miller," he said, gesturing at the foyer, and Miller and Roarke both arose, going to the steps leading there. Leslie let them slip past, earning a quick nod and smile from Miller which she returned.
Tattoo opened the door but paused there, eyeing Miller, who stopped and regarded him quizzically. "What do you think about soybeans?" Tattoo asked.
Miller just loosed a small, dismissive chuckle and let himself out; Roarke followed and closed the door after him, shooting Tattoo a look of mild exasperation as he did so. Tattoo turned away from the door and snapped his fingers in disappointment, and Leslie let her laughter break forth.
"Seriously!" she blurted, giggling. "What the heck have you got to invest?"
Tattoo looked affronted. "I've sold some of my paintings to some guests," he informed her haughtily, striding back to Roarke's desk. "I have a little money in the bank. I know you and the boss don't take me seriously, but I could get really rich from some prudent investments, you know."
"Well, Mr. Miller didn't take you very seriously either," Leslie reminded him, and he rolled his eyes. "The stock market's only for rich people, and I know you're not one of them, because you're always complaining about money, and your favorite fantasy is to be rich. If you really were rich, you wouldn't have either the complaints or the fantasy. I mean, I bet even Mr. Miller himself doesn't invest his own money in the markets."
Tattoo eyed her with suspicion. "You sure seem to know a lot for somebody who's not even sixteen yet. Where do you get all your information?"
"I read more than you think I do. Besides, I know Mr. Roarke's done a little investing here and there, but he's always careful about it, and he doesn't make a career of it."
"Hmph," Tattoo scoffed. "Well, he's not as rich as Avery Williams." He noticed Leslie gearing up to argue. "You know how I know? Because even if the boss owns this whole island, and even if Mr. Williams has a mansion in the Enclave, you oughta know something—that mansion is Mr. Williams' winter cottage." He took in Leslie's dropped-jaw gape, nodded and smirked in self-satisfaction. "That's right, winter cottage. He has estates in California and New York that are both twice the size of the one he has here." Tattoo's expression grew dreamy. "Boy, what a lifestyle that must be. All the money you could ever want, and more even."
"And all the enemies you could ever want," Leslie added, recalling Roarke's caveat to Miller. "So that's something else for you to think about. I gotta go to the bathroom." She made her escape upstairs, privately more than a little surprised that Tattoo hadn't begged Roarke to find some way to let him horn in on Frank Miller's fantasy.
About forty-five minutes later Roarke came back long enough to pick up Leslie and return to the isolated village where the Bergmans were staying. Lisa was nowhere to be seen; but Dr. Bergman was waiting for them, and he glared expectantly at Roarke as he and Leslie alighted from the rover and approached the porch where Bergman waited, leaning on his cane. "Good, you're back."
Roarke simply nodded to him before they all ventured inside. Leslie kept quiet, cowed by Bergman's abrupt attitude and glad it was Roarke who was the focus of the doctor's attention. Bergman asked a couple of questions; then he seemed to have a thought and focused sharply on Roarke. "It just occurred to me that this laboratory was built years ago. I should've shipped out some up-to-date equipment."
Roarke caught up with Bergman as the doctor crossed the room, and said with a gesture, "Doctor, have a look in there."
Leslie followed Roarke's move and noticed a pair of closed doors with shutter slats in them; she and her guardian looked on as Dr. Bergman passed the various white-sheet-covered items scattered around the exam room and pushed open the doors. Beyond them lay what appeared to be a large operating room, the size of which had been thoroughly belied by the cramped appearance of the house from outside. There were an operating table, IV poles and bags, surgical equipment of every stripe, and even a computer unit on the right-hand wall, already awaiting input and blinking with lights. For a minute Bergman was speechless with astonishment; then he exclaimed, "This is magnificent! That unit—" he went to the computer bank— "looks like mine." He squinted more closely at it. "It is mine. These units are from my own laboratory." Roarke had followed him in and was nodding, with a little smile that looked to Leslie to be self-satisfied and less than modest. Bergman stopped in front of Roarke and asked in wonder, "Is it possible?"
All Roarke said was, "This is Fantasy Island, doctor. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"There is one thing. My daughter doesn't know about my fantasy, the experiments I've planned."
"Oh," murmured Roarke with a nod of comprehension. "Perhaps that is just as well."
"This trip wouldn't be necessary if I had the freedom to do my research back home. But the medical authorities...reporters..." Bergman's voice began to rise with remembered outrage and anger. "They made that impossible!"
"You will find no such interference here on Fantasy Island, doctor," Roarke assured him. "But I should warn you...some of the natives in this area tend to be somewhat, um...superstitious."
Bergman didn't appear concerned. "No problem. I'll keep out of their way."
Roarke regarded him for a few seconds, smiled as if he knew better, then grew brisk. "Well, I trust now that you have everything you need."
"Everything," Bergman began, "except—"
"Except the final element," Roarke finished for him, "the human form." There was something ominous in his tone, quiet though it was. "Don't worry: it will arrive later today."
Bergman nodded. "I will await delivery. Anxiously."
Roarke nodded, then gestured at Leslie, uncharacteristically failing to excuse himself. She followed him out the door and pulled it shut after them while Roarke paused on the porch and regarded the huddled grouping of ramshackle hovels on both sides of the dirt lane. "Mr. Roarke, can I ask you something?" she began, pausing beside him and peering at him with trepidation.
"Of course," said Roarke, turning to her.
She cleared her throat. "Um...where are you going to get the body? I mean...is it going to be his wife, maybe?"
For a protracted moment Roarke studied her, then smiled with a touch of sympathetic understanding. "I am afraid that wasn't possible, Leslie. That would have required exhumation, and like anywhere else, Massachusetts has laws regarding that, which even I can't circumvent. The red tape would have dragged out the preparations for this fantasy to the point of impossibility." He let his gaze drift out across the lane again. "No, I had to make other arrangements, I'm afraid."
Something in his voice convinced Leslie she didn't want to know any more, and she merely nodded, hunching her shoulders. "I never really got to talk to Lisa."
Again Roarke turned to her, smiled, and slipped his arm around her shoulders. "I know why you hoped to speak to her, but sometimes things simply work out differently. The Bergmans are both very focused people." He leaned toward her slightly, as if in confidence. "Do you feel the need to talk?"
She peered sideways up at him. "Hm, maybe. I guess it's the fantasy. I mean...Dr. Bergman wants to bring life back to the dead. If he manages to do it, I wonder if...if he could, well, find a way to, um..." She noticed the gentle amusement creeping into his expression, and shook her head. "Oh, never mind that. I guess it's really stupid anyway. Maybe we better go."
Roarke let her half-run to the car, but decided he might try to draw her out further later on. For now he had to handle one more errand, and called Leslie from the car where she had just slid into the front passenger seat. Startled, she fell in at his side. "Now what?"
"I need to speak to someone who can help Dr. Bergman," Roarke told her. "I believe I know just the person who will be suitable—" He paused then as a portly older native man approached him from a hut a little way up the lane. "What can I do for you?"
"Someone was swimming in the lagoon," the man informed Roarke, sounding to Leslie as if he were reciting business figures for the last financial quarter. "She was all by herself down there. I don't know if they were able to get her out alive, but they're bringing her back up here." He paused, gave Leslie a dismissive look, then said, "By the way, I've got issues to bring up at the next island council meeting. I've had some complaints about you bringing that doctor out here, conducting his...voodoo in that cursed old house. You know this is my district, Mr. Roarke, and if you don't do something about that doctor in there, you can bet we will—and I'll be leading the charge."
Roarke had folded his arms over his chest by this time and was eyeing the man—a longtime council member who had turned out to be the most disagreeable voice in the group—with carefully leashed impatience. "Is that all?" he asked coldly.
The council member seemed to be brought up short by Roarke's attitude, and glared at him, unable to come up with a reply. Finally he muttered, "For now."
"Good," said Roarke crisply. "Then please bring Makalo to me, if you will."
His expectant mien and his unmoved attitude drove the man to grumble something in conciliation and pivot around on one foot, stalking away from them with his dissatisfaction and anger swirling through the air like a smoky miasma. Leslie made a quiet gagging noise. "Ugh, him again. I wish he'd mind his own business and stay off the council. You said all he ever does is complain."
Roarke glanced at her and grinned. "He's an annoyance, yes, but not enough of one to go to the trouble of holding an off-year election. Besides, I can't dismiss him just for being a thorn in my side, as much as I can see you wish I could." He chuckled at her sigh. "Makalo should be here shortly, at any rate, and we will see that Dr. Bergman's delivery is made in full."
Within five minutes a tall, thin, bald man with a scarred throat, with kind dark eyes in his milk-chocolate-hued face, arrived, greeting Roarke with a smile and a slight bow but no comment. Roarke smiled back, shook hands and introduced Leslie, then explained to Makalo in a few words why he was needed. Makalo simply nodded and accompanied them back to the laboratory, where they found Dr. Bergman working alone in the operating room. Roarke motioned to Makalo to remain outside the room for the moment, and took Leslie in with him, pausing beside Bergman's chair. The doctor was so engrossed in the notes he was making that he didn't hear their approach; but he must have sensed something, for he turned around in his chair and blinked at sight of Roarke and Leslie.
Startled, he dropped his pen and stared up at Roarke, who smiled. "Dr. Bergman, I have brought you an assistant. He has been looking after the place and will work with you during your stay here. Allow me to present Makalo." As he spoke the last sentence, Makalo entered, his features solemn.
Bergman arose, taken aback, and glanced at Roarke, then offered a hand. "Hello, Makalo."
Makalo shook, then silently mouthed, Hello, doctor. Bergman eyed Roarke as if he thought the latter man's judgment was off. "He can't speak?"
Roarke hesitated slightly, then explained, "Well, as you can see, he suffered an injury, and, uh..." He made a quick gesture across his throat, letting the sentence lie unfinished. "But he can hear perfectly well, and I can assure you, after many years working with Dr. Vandervick, he's very competent. In fact, in preparation for your arrival, Makalo studied transcripts of every experiment you have conducted in recent months."
"Well, I'm impressed with your thoroughness and your thoughtfulness, Mr. Roarke," Bergman allowed, though his voice was less than warm. Leslie tried not to shudder; the chill of this man's overly businesslike demeanor seemed to roll off him and permeate the entire room.
Roarke nodded to him, then said, "Thank you, Makalo, that will be all for now." In reply Makalo mouthed, You're welcome, then turned and left the room, so silent that even his shoes on the floor made no sound.
Bergman, Roarke and Leslie watched him go; then the doctor, his voice lowered, ventured the questions Leslie had been thinking but dared not put voice to. "What happened to him?"
Roarke's expression grew rueful. "The natives looked upon Dr. Vandervick as some sort of..." He put a hand to his head for a second as though searching for the word, then gave a little headshake and turned away to pace the room at leisure. "...evil magician, working with dead bodies...turning them into zombies." He paused at the end of the operating table and turned to meet Bergman's gaze again; Leslie had edged over near the window, unwilling to stand too close to this cold, closed stranger, but also not wanting to constantly follow her guardian like a puppy trailing its master on a leash.
Roarke continued: "One night, seventeen—no, eighteen years ago, they stormed this building, murdered the doctor, and, uh..." He resumed his slow pacing. "...well, poor Makalo was lucky to escape with his life." Leslie frowned at that; as Roarke so often did, he'd answered without answering. She could only suppose that said natives had attempted to slit Makalo's throat and damaged, or perhaps even destroyed, the man's larynx in so doing. This time she couldn't control the shudder.
"The world is full of superstitious primitives," Bergman grunted, "many of whom have a college degree." He joined Roarke on the other side of the room. "I've never let them disturb or discourage me, Mr. Roarke."
Roarke nodded, and Bergman eyed him. "Have you brought what I've been waiting for?"
"Yes, Dr. Bergman...if," Roarke said, his voice carrying hints of warning, "you are still absolutely certain you want to go through with it."
"Of course I'm certain," Bergman snapped.
Before Roarke could reply, they heard the distant beat of drums, and Leslie turned to peer out the window. That jerk, was her first thought, he wasn't kidding about leading the charge, and Dr. Bergman hasn't even done anything yet! Outside she could see some of the natives, standing in the lane and peering past the huts into the trees as though watching someone approaching. While Roarke and Bergman regarded each other, Leslie saw several young men round the corner of a nearby hut, bearing a stretcher with someone lying on it. Swallowing thickly, she turned to Roarke and advised, "Somebody's coming, and I think they have...um, what Dr. Bergman needs."
Bergman shot Roarke one last look, then came to the window himself and peered out just as the native men came into full view with their stretcher. Now they could clearly see the person on it, and as the young men stopped, Bergman recognized her. "Lisa!" he cried in horror. "Oh my god! Lisa!" He hustled past Leslie and Roarke and made for the door; she ran to her guardian's side, sticking close by him as he followed Bergman out to the lane where the young men had just put the stretcher on the ground. The man beside Makalo stopped Roarke and poured out a hurried torrent of words too low for Leslie to hear, but Roarke listened intently, then nodded, closing his eyes for a second or two.
Bergman dashed past several other natives, kneeling beside the stretcher. "Lisa! Lisa!" Roarke and Leslie came up behind him while he felt for a pulse and exclaimed in growing panic, "My god, she can't...no, she can't be dead! How?" He turned pleadingly to Roarke, Leslie and Makalo, who stood in stoic silence beside the enigmatic owner of the island. "Why?"
"I have just learned that she was swimming alone in the lagoon, when for some reason she went under," Roarke told him, his voice thick with regret and shared sorrow. "One of the men swam out and found her lying on the bottom; he brought her to shore, but by then...it was too late." Roarke's voice rose. "Fate can work in cruel ways, doctor. You demanded a body—and now that demand has been met." Leslie stared at him in disbelief, her fists against her mouth.
Bergman was showing more emotion than any of them had seen since his arrival on the island; he was almost in tears. "As God is my witness, I never—I never wanted this!"
"Perhaps all is not lost," suggested Roarke, and Bergman turned to gape at him. "Not irretrievably. You came here to raise the dead; what better test of your powers could there be than this, doctor? The resurrection of your own flesh and blood."
Bergman laid a hand on Lisa's forehead, gasping, "Yes...yes, I'll bring her back. I'll do it—I'll bring my daughter back!" He turned to them, then signaled frantically at Makalo. "Help me, help me—hurry!" Makalo sprang to the other end of the stretcher and assisted Bergman and two other natives with lifting it, toting it into the laboratory while Roarke and a shocked Leslie watched them go by.
"He can't possibly..." Leslie muttered, her words muffled by her fists. "I mean, it isn't..."
Roarke glanced around them and noticed most of the natives muttering, though they turned away and huddled in grumbling knots when they saw him make eye contact with them. "We'd better leave here and let the doctor make his attempts," he murmured to his ward, leading her to the rover. Within a minute they were on their way back to the main house.
It took Leslie some time to regain her equilibrium enough to speak. "Are you sure he can do what he keeps talking about?" she asked. "You mentioned experiments. I guess what I want to know is, have any of them actually succeeded?"
Roarke glanced at her before turning his grim gaze back onto the road. After a minute he said quietly, "Not one of them so far."
She slumped in her seat. "Oh no," she mumbled. "And you can't do anything!" Again Roarke glanced at her, but this time said nothing, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach, wondering how high a price Dr. Bergman would ultimately pay for his fantasy.
