§ § § -- April 25, 1965: Prologue
Roarke waited silently behind his desk, eyes unfocused, in another world entirely. Tattoo, compiling a list of errands to run that day, gave him the occasional sidewise glance before finally capitulating to his growing unease. "Boss, are you feeling all right?"
Roarke came to with a blink, but continued to stare at some indeterminate spot. "Yes, my friend," he said absently. "I am merely considering the Hamilton fantasy. It has developed…certain complications."
"If you need any help…" Tattoo began hesitantly.
Roarke turned to him then and smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I would appreciate it if you would remain here during Mrs. Hamilton's final session. If you would be so kind as to close the shutters and then wait here beside the desk?" Tattoo nodded and went about carrying out the request; he had just latched the shutters on the second window when Shannon Hamilton came into the office, arms wrapped firmly around her swollen midsection. He turned to study her in concern.
"You're not in labor, are you, Mrs. Hamilton?" Tattoo questioned.
Roarke frowned in his direction. "Tattoo," he said reprovingly.
"I'm only worried for the lady," Tattoo riposted, looking wounded.
"I'm already slightly overdue," Shannon put in. "Are you very sure about the date you gave me yesterday, Mr. Roarke?"
"You will give birth on May sixth, and not before," Roarke said firmly, ostensibly speaking to Shannon but aiming his words at Tattoo. The young Frenchman shrugged affably and smiled a little.
"Okay, boss, if you say so," he said. "Everything's ready."
Roarke nodded. "Very good, my friend, thank you." He indicated Shannon's chair and sat down in tandem with her. "Are you ready?"
Shannon hesitated. "I had a dream last night, Mr. Roarke," she said without preamble. "A nightmare really. All I could see was fire everywhere, nothing but fire, and I heard a little girl crying out for her mother. It was the most horrible dream I've ever had."
Roarke's gaze sharpened. So she, too, had dreamed. There was no doubt left in his mind that it had to be some sort of crude premonition. "I suggest we begin your final session now, so that we can answer your questions once and for all," he said. "I suspect we will learn all we need to know with this glimpse into Leslie's future." So saying, he again placed his hands on Shannon's temples. The room seemed to darken of its own accord; Tattoo retreated behind Roarke's desk and watched silently.
About a full minute passed before Roarke released Shannon and directed her attention to the latest tableau. This time the setting was the yard surrounding a modest two-story house that had the vague look of a Swiss chateau about it, with scalloped edging along the sloping eaves and exterior window shutters containing heart-shaped cutouts. There was a small but sturdy shade tree some distance from the house. The time seemed to be early evening, and the front door was open. Leslie, noticeably older here than in the first two visions Roarke had shown Shannon, stood on the steps, apparently waiting for something.
"That's not our house," Shannon said.
"No, you will be living in California by then," Roarke explained. "Leslie is now thirteen years old."
Shannon saw herself appear at the open front door. "Here's your bag, Leslie," she said, handing a duffel bag through the door.
"Did you get that photo album I wanted to show Cindy Lou?" Leslie asked.
"Yes, I packed it in the bag," Shannon replied. "Have fun, and don't keep the Brookses up all night, okay? Hurry now, before your father gets home."
"Oh yeah," Leslie said, looking vaguely alarmed. "See you in the morning, Mom!" Both the present and the future Shannon watched the girl trot across the yard; the perspective followed Leslie as if via a movie camera. After a moment a pair of car headlights popped into view in the near distance, and Leslie dashed to the roadside and secreted herself within a stand of tall bushes.
"What on earth…?" Shannon muttered, completely perplexed.
"She is afraid of her father," Roarke said, almost in a whisper. Shannon spared him one glance of sheer confusion and returned her intense scrutiny to the scene playing out before them.
The car pulled into the driveway of the house, and Shannon watched Michael get out, carrying something bulky in one hand. From the way he toted it, it had some weight. He passed the car and strode up the driveway, disappearing up the far side of the house, and for a long moment there was silence. The scene seemed frozen in time; Roarke didn't speak, and Shannon was afraid to.
Then Leslie appeared at the edge of the yard, moving slowly toward the front door and scanning either side of the house. No sooner had she come abreast of the tree than they spied Michael coming around from the back of the house. Instantly Leslie swung herself into the lowermost branches of the tree and climbed up enough to vanish from sight, while Michael moved with strange sideways steps along the perimeter of the house, tilting the bulky object as he did so. From time to time he stopped and heaved the object up as if to throw it, but didn't let go. He would then lower it and continue moving.
"I don't understand this," Shannon said incredulously. Her own voice sounded too loud in the unnatural silence; unnoticed behind the desk, Tattoo gave a violent start at the sound. Roarke sat perfectly still.
"Wait, Mrs. Hamilton," he cautioned quietly.
The darkness had grown almost total now, so that they could no longer see anything clearly. The only sound was that of crickets chirping; there wasn't even a moon. A light went on in an upstairs window, painting a faint square of gold on the grass, and then there came the sound of a central air-conditioning unit switching itself on.
A fraction of a second later, the entire house exploded into flames. Tattoo actually jumped a couple of inches off the floor and grabbed the edge of the desk, his dark eyes huge with horror. Shannon screamed in instant hysteria; even Roarke reared back a little in the chair, momentarily stunned. The fire silhouetted everything in front of it, allowing them all to see the small figure drop out of the tree and land flat on the grass. Over the roaring of the fire, they could hear screams of terror and intolerable pain. The figure in the grass picked herself up and edged across the yard, as near the fire as she dared get, screaming in panic. "Mom! Mommy, where are you? Mom!"
"Oh God," Shannon shrieked and burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands. Roarke stared for another moment, long enough to see a human figure totally engulfed in flame raise its arms and then collapse to the ground, never to move again. He winced and unobtrusively swept a hand through the air in the direction of the tableau, which promptly vanished. The room reverted to normal daylight, and Roarke drew in a long breath to steady himself before reaching out to Shannon to try to give some comfort. He could see Tattoo standing frozen at the desk, round face a mask of shock, muttering to himself in French.
"Tattoo…" Roarke said quietly, catching his assistant's attention, and gestured at the windows. Still looking stunned, Tattoo automatically headed for the windows, and Roarke turned to a sobbing Shannon. "Please, Mrs. Hamilton, calm yourself. Please, so that we can discuss this."
Shannon lifted an agonized face to his and made a heroic effort to get her emotions under control. In spite of her near-hysteria, Roarke could see that along with the panic and horror in her eyes, there was resignation, almost a foreknowledge. When Shannon could speak again, she said flatly, "Michael and I and the twins will die in that fire, Mr. Roarke, won't we? It's the curse."
Roarke nodded, closing his eyes for a moment as he did so. "Yes, and Leslie will be the only survivor. That is the meaning of your dream last night, Mrs. Hamilton."
Shannon froze again with renewed shock. "Oh no…oh God…no…" She began to hyperventilate, and Roarke hastily settled her back into her chair and whipped the black handkerchief from the breast pocket of his white jacket. Holding it to her mouth, he urgently instructed her to breathe slowly and deeply.
By the time Tattoo had finished opening the shutters and had managed to regain his composure, Shannon had settled down enough for her brain to function again. "So the curse is going to get us too," she muttered, half to herself. "But there has to be a reason Leslie lives through that fire." She looked up at Roarke. "Since this is the future you showed me, and since she'll have no one left on earth after we're gone, I want you to promise that you'll bring her here to Fantasy Island after that fire and help her break the curse, and give her a home until she's grown."
Roarke stared at her in amazement, and Tattoo goggled. "Raise your daughter?" he blurted. "Is that what you're saying—you want the boss to take Leslie in?"
"My daughter will be completely alone in the world after that fire," Shannon said, her sense of urgency propelling her to her feet with a speed that belied her advanced pregnancy. "She won't have anyone to turn to. If you can't do anything to change this future, Mr. Roarke, then you can at least protect my daughter. Maybe you and Leslie will find a way to break that damned curse once and for all. But she can't do it alone, and you're the only one in the world who has the power and ability to help her. You're the last hope either she or I will have. Please, Mr. Roarke, I beg you!"
Roarke and Tattoo looked at each other for a long moment. It was true; she was right. There was no arguing her point. Roarke knew for a fact that, for whatever reason, Michael Hamilton had planned to send his family up in flames by throwing some sort of flammable accelerant—probably gasoline—on the house. When the air conditioner turned itself on, there must have been a spark that set off the fire, catching Michael in his own trap but miraculously sparing Leslie. This was the future he had shown the child's mother, and there was no changing it. Some force greater than he was at work, trying for whatever twisted reason to completely destroy this family. He could hardly refuse Shannon Hamilton in the face of what they had seen this weekend.
He sighed softly, then smiled a little and nodded. "Very well, Mrs. Hamilton, this will be the final fulfillment of your fantasy. I will give your daughter a home when the time comes. She will be in good hands—this I promise you."