§ § § - February 4, 1979
Tattoo brought her back to the main house for breakfast the next morning; the day was clear and warm, just like yesterday, and Leslie was wearing her only change of clothing, after Tattoo had requested of the native maid that the rest of her belongings be laundered so that they would be fresh for her later in the day. Rorke greeted her at breakfast, asked her how she had slept, and made other small talk with her and Tattoo that felt reassuring yet forced, all at once. She was beginning to wonder a little about Roarke, and wanted to ask him questions, but felt as if she needed permission to do so. So she simply responded to the small talk and even managed to make a little of her own.
As the day wore on, Leslie began to get nervous. Roarke had told him to trust her, sure; and she thought she did. Well, she had to, anyway, and she hadn't seen anything to indicate she should rescind her trust; so inasmuch as that was true, she trusted him. But the knowledge that she needed to come through a third fire—and so soon after the last one—was giving her the creeps, and she wondered more and more what exactly she would see and feel, whether this fire would be difficult to escape.
There was one bright spot that occurred in mid-afternoon, which made Leslie laugh every time she thought about it for days thereafter. Roarke had taken her to the island's one and only public library soon after lunch and helped her get a library card—the first tangible sign of her permanent residence on Fantasy Island—and had indulgently remained with her for an additional half hour while she browsed the stacks and checked out no fewer than ten books. She was now in the midst of one of these while Roarke and Tattoo were busy taking care of paperwork and the occasional phone call; sometimes one or the other would leave the house for a while, but they always returned, and Leslie was never alone.
Roarke was preparing a stack of outgoing mail for the following day when there came a knock on the door. "Yes, come in," he called out.
Eugene Clarke, the nerd who'd come in on the plane with Leslie, had an appointment; but the guest who entered was not the one they'd been expecting. For a moment all they could see of the newcomer was her head, sleek black hair hanging straight down, her dark eyes wide with apprehension, her olive complexion unusually flushed. "Ah, Ms. Minton," Roarke said warmly, his voice quizzical. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Yes," the woman replied and cleared her throat. "I could use a towel, Mr. Roarke. The biggest one you can find."
Roarke's puzzled look lingered as he turned to Tattoo and prompted, "Would you bring Ms. Minton a towel, please, my friend?" Tattoo nodded and crossed the room toward the steps leading up to the foyer, but the woman let out a panicked squeak and shrank back behind the half-wall next to the door.
"Don't come up here!" she blurted.
Tattoo stopped in surprise. "But Ms. Minton, there's a bathroom down this hallway, and that's where all the towels are."
"Is there a problem, Ms. Minton?" Roarke finally asked.
Ms. Minton bit her lip and turned even redder. "Well, yes, there is. My Cleopatra fantasy ended, but...well, uh, since the clothes I was wearing were part of her era, they...well, they disappeared."
Leslie blinked in amazement, wondering if things like this happened all the time around here. Roarke and Tattoo caught her unspoken implication at the same time Leslie did; Roarke's eyebrows shot up, and Tattoo smiled. Smoothly he suggested, "Then why don't you come in and make yourself comfortable while I get you that towel." Leslie stared at her new friend; this was a side of him she hadn't yet seen.
Ms. Minton gaped at him, and Roarke's expression grew very stern. "Tattoo," he admonished, low-voiced.
Tattoo sighed gently. "Sorry, boss," he said with resignation, and deliberately turned away from their guest before climbing the steps and vanishing down the hall to the back of the first floor.
Roarke cleared his throat, regained what little composure he might have lost, if any, and shifted his attention. "Was your fantasy otherwise satisfactory, Ms. Minton?"
She brightened. "Oh, absolutely, Mr. Roarke! I was really afraid I was going to have to deal with that snake, but your timing was perfect. Poor Cleopatra, what a life she led." The woman chewed briefly on her lower lip again. "I just wish I had thought to take a change of clothes with me. I'm lucky nobody saw me coming in here."
Tattoo returned just then, holding the towel in front of his face to keep from peeking at their guest, and stopped a few feet away from her. "Here you are," he said and presented the towel. He began to lower it ever so slightly, until he caught Roarke's disapproving stare. Loosing another sigh, he squinched his eyes shut and turned his head aside for good measure as he offered the towel again.
"Thank you," Ms. Minton said with enormous relief and wrapped the large white towel securely around her. Only then did she step fully into view. "Thank heavens my bungalow isn't too far away. I just wanted to thank you for making my fantasy come true."
"You're quite welcome," Roarke said warmly. "Have a good evening, Ms. Minton."
The young woman exited the house, and Tattoo came down the foyer steps and into the room. "Another chance with a beautiful lady, ruined," he murmured, half to himself.
"You might have had a care for the lady's modesty, Tattoo," Roarke observed. "I'm sure she was quite embarrassed enough without you compounding the problem."
Tattoo shrugged, then overheard the giggle Leslie could no longer hold back and blinked at her, as if just remembering she was there. "Oh."
Leslie noticed Roarke's highly amused smile and looked curiously at him. "Does he do that all the time?" she asked.
Roarke's smile became a laugh. "At least once a weekend," he assured her, winking at Tattoo, and all three of them laughed together.
Leslie ate supper with Roarke and Tattoo, but didn't get much down because of her persistent nerves; and her fears were borne out when Roarke laid a hand on her shoulder as they were leaving the table. "It's time, Leslie," he said gently. "Why don't you return to your bungalow. Take a book with you if you like."
"Alone?" she asked, her voice coming out in a frightened squeak.
He nodded solemnly. "Remember, Leslie, trust me," he said, and she stared at him for a long uneasy moment before acquiescing.
Roarke watched her leave; Tattoo paused beside him. "She's so scared, boss," he said. "It doesn't seem fair that she has to go through another fire."
"But, my friend, that fire will be her deliverance," Roarke reminded him with a smile. "We have only to wait for the witch Tituba to fall for the bait. She must do it now, while Leslie is alone, or else never have another opportunity."
Full dark fell while the men completed some more paperwork and Eugene Clarke finally showed up, apologizing for his tardiness but admitting that he had wanted to postpone the end of his fantasy for as long as possible. No sooner had he departed than the door flew open and this time admitted Carrie Minton of the Cleopatra fantasy, now dressed in a tank top, shorts and sandals. "Mr. Roarke, you've got to hurry," she exclaimed frantically. "One of the bungalows is on fire, and someone's inside—I could hear screams!"
"Leslie!" Tattoo exclaimed in alarm.
Roarke stood up instantly. "Call the fire department, Tattoo, quickly," he directed. "Thank you, Ms. Minton—please excuse me." He brushed swiftly past her and departed the main house, breaking into a run on his way to the bungalows. Within minutes, he saw for himself that Carrie Minton was correct: flames were eating at one end of Leslie's bungalow. The front door was still accessible, and he burst in, shouting the girl's name.
"Mr. Roarke, help me!" he heard her scream in response. The front room was still untouched, but the bedroom was almost fully engulfed, and he could see Leslie cowering in a corner, with flames gradually advancing toward her. He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and stopped in the bedroom doorway, about to clear a path for Leslie to make her escape; but then an oddly accented woman's voice stopped him.
"You'll never save her now Roarke," it snarled, and for the first time he noticed the female figure standing triumphantly in the middle of a circle of fire. "Back off now, or you'll die right along with her."
"This child? She has never harmed you. What do you want with her?" Roarke asked.
"I want revenge! I swore I would destroy her entire family, no matter how long it took me to do it. She's the last one, and I want her gone, so that Satan will finally fulfill his promise to me!" It was then that Leslie realized who she was: Tituba, the same slave who had cursed her family so long ago. "When Mary Jane Hamilton made that false accusation about my being a witch, I made a pact with the devil. If he gave me the means of revenging myself on every descendant of hers until they were all dead, I would become his most trusted, favored servant."
"Ah, but you do remember that there were conditions to that pact, don't you?" Roarke put in. "Satan plays tricks even on his favored ones, Tituba—didn't you know that?"
"What do you mean?" the woman demanded. In her distraction she was no longer controlling the fire, which seemed content to spare Leslie in her corner for the moment.
Roarke smiled. "There is a limit to Satan's patience, Tituba. Your pact with him allows you but three chances per member of each generation to destroy them by the fire in which you were executed. Furthermore, you have only thirteen generations on which you may seek your 'revenge.' Should you fail to destroy even one member of any generation—including the thirteenth—you won't become a favored servant of Satan, merely one of his hapless victims. You will burn in Hades for all eternity."
The sound of sirens penetrated the noise of the fire at that point and Tituba let out a scream of frustration. Like Oz's Wicked Witch of the West, she screamed and shrank, seeming almost to melt, as a stream of water from a fire hose blasted through the bedroom window and began to quench the fire. Roarke nodded. "You have lost forever, Tituba, and you know it as well as I. The magic you were temporarily granted centuries ago is no longer a match for human defenses. Never again will you be able to harm this child or any of her descendants, for Leslie Hamilton is the lastremaining member of the thirteenth generation of Mary Jane's descendants—and she has just survived your final attempt to kill her."
Tituba screamed in despair even as the fire hoses drenched the room and doused the flames behind her. Roarke sprayed away a path through the flames so that Leslie could dart out of harm's way, and he ushered her into the main room while Tituba shrieked her final protest before vanishing in a loud POOM of red flame and heavy smoke. Roarke nodded, as if in satisfaction, and guided Leslie away from the ruined bedroom.
Leslie was breathing hard, as if from a long run, and had her arms wrapped around her stomach. "Are you all right, child?" Roarke asked, over the shushing roar of the water from the fire hoses as they sprayed the bedroom for the last of the flames.
She nodded, then blinked and peered up at him, as if just coming out of a dream. "Is it over now? Forever?" she ventured hopefully.
"Yes, Leslie, it's over. You've broken the curse, and you need never worry about it again. You're free." He smiled at her.
She cast a cautious glance behind them, shuddered and turned away. "It was awful," she mumbled. "I was just reading, and then she just...popped in and started the fire. She was calling me the nastiest names." She peered up at him. "It's hard to believe it's really over."
Roarke smiled in understanding. "I assure you, you are out of danger once and for all."
She nodded, then swallowed. "So...what happens to me now?"
