§ § § -- January 19, 1992

Leslie's sleep was so badly disturbed by dreams that night that she got in little more than two hours of it in aggregate. When Roarke expressed concern over breakfast on Sunday morning, she remarked with weary incredulity, "I'm surprised one of those dreams wasn't another of Michael Hamilton's so-called 'messages' to me."

Roarke smiled. "Now that he can speak directly to you, there is no need for him to try to communicate with you through your dreams." The smile faded and he regarded her with an expression she couldn't read; it seemed to encompass every emotion and none all at once in some unexplainable paradox. "I have been given to understand that you must make your decision tonight, Leslie. Have you come any closer to reaching it?"

She threw him one tormented look before letting her head fall forward and shaking it miserably. "No, Mr. Roarke, I haven't…" She shuddered in her chair and finally scrambled out of it. "I'm not very hungry. I can't think. Please excuse me." She rushed off the veranda, leaving her troubled father behind her, unsure just what she was looking for but wishing she could free herself from the load she now bore.

She had been stumbling forlornly along a path for awhile when she heard a familiar voice hailing her, and looked up to see Camille Omamara, walking the family dog. "What're you doing running around the jungle on a Sunday morning? Thought you were supposed to be in the middle of a busy weekend."

Leslie stopped and watched her approach, too exhausted both emotionally and physically to do more than give her a wan smile in reply. Camille caught up with her and hooked the dog's leash to a nearby tree branch before taking a closer look at Leslie. "Hey…what happened to you? You okay?"

"No," Leslie admitted, beaten. "Oh God, Camille, I have to tell someone. I just can't stand it. We're all too involved to look at this objectively—me most of all." She drew in a deep breath and stared at Camille with tortured eyes. "Do you remember my telling you how I wound up on Fantasy Island in the first place?" Camille nodded questioningly, and Leslie said, "Well…I…we're dealing with the ghost of Michael Hamilton."

"Your fa…I mean, your birth father?" Camille caught herself, taking care to use the phrase Leslie herself usually employed in reference to Hamilton. At Leslie's nod, she asked in amazement, "Why now, after all this time?"

Leslie wilted against a tree trunk and told Camille the entire story thus far, without looking up. When she finished, for a few minutes all that was audible was the piercing summons of some tropical bird in the near distance and the snuffling of the dog.

Then Camille cursed. "You want to know something, Leslie Hamilton? I don't care how emotionally involved you are. The whole thing sounds perfectly obvious to me. You tell Hamilton you forgive him and let Satan cart him off to the fiery pits, and that's the end of the whole issue." Leslie looked up and started to protest, but Camille cut her off. "I don't care! The way you're talking, you hate your birth father more than you love the father who raised you. Do you really think that's right? If that's how it is, then frankly, you deserve whatever you get out of this. There won't be a soul on this island who doesn't hate you and hold you totally and solely responsible for condemning Mr. Roarke like that. And if you think you were alone in the world when Mike Hamilton orphaned you, just wait till the devil takes Mr. Roarke. You'll really learn the meaning of 'alone' then, Leslie Hamilton, I can promise you that. No one on earth will ever want anything to do with you. Cryin' out loud, if you can't see the obvious solution to all this, then you must be pretty stupid. I thought you were a decent person, but geez…you're turning out to be really petty and obtuse." She scowled at Leslie and reclaimed the dog's leash. "Happy decision-making." So saying, she marched away down the path, the dog trotting alongside her, leaving a dumbfounded Leslie staring after her.

She doesn't understand… Leslie thought frantically. She doesn't get it! Would she be so quick to forgive if she were in my shoes? But there was a little voice in her head arguing against her stubborn emotions, telling her Camille was right.

I'm no better than he is, she thought in anguish. Mephistopheles was right: I'm not like Mom at all, and I think I inherited some of Michael's sadistic streak. I must have, if I find this decision so hard. And Camille's probably right…I'd be a pariah on this island if I let anything happen to Mr. Roarke. I couldn't even go to Tattoo for refuge—he'd hate me for dooming the best friend he ever had. She stood there agonizing, tears streaming down her cheeks unnoticed, and slowly came to a conclusion toward which she suspected she'd been drifting all morning. There's really only one thing to do. I should go back and tell Mr. Roarke, and maybe it'll make up for everything I haven't said or done.

Fear snaked its way through her with every step she took back to the main house. The sun beat down on her head and the island looked as fresh and beautiful as ever, exploding with tropical splendor; as she took in the sights around her, she thought it incongruous that everything should be so bright and cheerful, so peculiarly normal, in light of her circumstances. By the time she let herself into Roarke's office, she was a wreck; her face was streaked with the tracks of tears, her posture drooping, her demeanor that of utter defeat. Roarke watched her come in and arose from his desk.

"Leslie, where have you been all morning?" he asked.

She shuffled to a stop in the middle of the floor and seemed to shrink into herself. "I finally came to a conclusion," she murmured, barely audible to Roarke.

When she didn't elaborate, he approached her and lifted her chin. "Tell me."

Her eyes looked dull and lifeless, and every word she spoke alarmed him, until her final pronouncement galvanized him. "I can't forgive Michael Hamilton, no matter how much I try to convince myself I should. I just can't find it in my heart to do it. But…I won't let Mephistopheles take your soul, either. You never did anything to get involved in this godawful mess, and it's just plain wrong for you to take the consequences." She drew in a slow, ragged breath. "But Mephistopheles is going to insist on payment of some sort, so the only possible thing to do is let him take my soul. And that's what I'll do when we meet him tonight. It's the only way out."

Roarke stared at her, absolute horror in his eyes; she had never seen such emotional vulnerability in him. It took him at least a minute or so to regroup; then determination supplanted the shock and he hugged her hard. "No," he said fiercely. "No, Leslie, that's completely unacceptable."

She clung to him, shaking. "It's the only way, Mr. Roarke," she insisted.

"No!" Roarke drew back long enough to cradle her head in his hands, gazing intently at her. "Don't give up so readily, Leslie. Don't lose heart: we are not yet beaten. I believe there is still a way. I may be able to contact someone who can help you." He released her and brought her to a chair, where he insisted she sit before he took the one opposite her and leaned forward. "Give me your hands, Leslie, and lean forward so that your head touches mine." Puzzled, she followed his instructions, staring bewilderedly at him; he smiled briefly in reassurance. "Now close your eyes and think back as far as you can remember. Call back your happiest memories and concentrate on them."

With heads touching and hands intertwined, they sat in silence; and Leslie groped back to the dimmest recesses of her memory, reaching for elusive snippets like blurry snap-shots, grasping for them and trying to examine them. Her first clear memory came at the age of about three and a half; she and her mother had been playing their game of saying goodbye to the old year on New Year's Eve, a tradition that Shannon and Leslie had shared with no one else and which Leslie continued even now in her adulthood. She could still hear her mother's voice, being thankful for friends, and happy times, and still having Kristy around after the child's recent bout with the flu, and having a nice house to live in and her grandmother to spoil her and her sisters and give them little presents. As if in a dream, she felt Roarke loose one of her hands and smooth back her hair. "Perfect, my daughter," he said softly, his voice carrying to her as on the wind. "Now…concentrate on your mother as she looked on the very last night of her life, when you were saying goodbye to her."

The memory came back with little provocation, quite clear and sharp in Leslie's mind. Shannon had been forty-six years old, she realized, but had never seemed old to Leslie. But now she could see the strain in Shannon's eyes, the gradual loss of hope and happiness, as if perhaps she had known that something was going to happen.

In the silent, sunlit room, Leslie's voice drifted out on a pleading moan. "Mom…"

She was unaware of Roarke rising, pulling her to her feet at the same time and gathering her close, without ever opening his eyes. Once more Leslie relived the fire and its aftermath, sounding like the thirteen-year-old she had been as she called for her mother in a tiny, bereft voice. Roarke's handsome features began to show signs of strain as he tilted his head back slightly, appealing silently to other forces.

The entire room darkened and the sun seemed to disappear; only a soft light bathed Roarke and Leslie in its glow. A breeze eddied around the room and wrapped the pair in its warm flow, carrying with it a sweet delicate scent like some flower unknown on earth. Roarke opened his eyes and searched the darkness to his left; within seconds another light gradually brightened, and then a figure stepped into it. Roarke recognized it immediately and smiled, then turned to his daughter.

"Leslie," he said softly. Her eyes popped open and she looked blankly up at him; he smiled at her, then said, "Look to your right, child."

Unsure of what to expect, she slowly trained her gaze in that direction and then went absolutely still in his arms, not quite able at first to believe what she was seeing. Her grip on Roarke tightened almost painfully and she turned to him for confirmation. "Is…is it real?"

"Oh, it's very real," he assured her and set her back a step from him. "Go."

Leslie hesitated, taking in this amazing man with a look of incredible wonder on her face, and then turned and ran. "Mom," she cried, disbelieving, frantic and hopeful all at once. "Mom, is that really you?"

Shannon Hamilton caught her firstborn child and returned her emphatic embrace, both of them laughing and crying simultaneously. "It's really me," Shannon said, just as shaky as Leslie. "Mr. Roarke called me. I wasn't sure what to expect, but oh, Leslie, look at you. I knew you'd be in good hands under his care." She turned, and Leslie followed suit, both gazing at Roarke, who stood in the near distance watching. In accord they each stretched a hand toward him, and he came to join them. Leslie's eyes were alight; to her it felt rather like a family reunion, with her mother and the man she considered father here with her at the same time.

They looked back at her and both chuckled at the same time. "You did an incredible job with her, Mr. Roarke," Shannon said finally. "I knew I made the right choice."

Roarke smiled dismissively. "She has been quite an asset to me," he said. "But I must advise you that time is of the essence here. Leslie desperately needs help—help that I believe only you can provide her, at a time and in a situation that calls for nothing less. You must work this out between yourselves; I have no say in this matter. I am told that you will have as much time as you need to resolve the problem—but you must use it wisely. There can never be another opportunity for you, do you understand?"

Mother and daughter nodded solemnly. "I'll do what I can for her, Mr. Roarke. I just want to thank you for all you've given her—and for the stunning favor you did me. It would be impossible for me to express the proper gratitude for your generosity." Shannon grasped his hand and smiled. "The world needs more like you."

"I'll second that," agreed Leslie emphatically.

Roarke laughed softly. "I appreciate the sentiments," he said, already backing away. "Now I'll leave you to yourselves. As I said, use the time wisely." They watched him retreat, then turned their attention to each other.

"I guess you must know what's going on," Leslie said.

Shannon nodded. "You've suffered more than enough at Michael's hands, Leslie. I hear you were planning to sacrifice yourself, after Mephistopheles backed you into a corner, because you can't forgive Michael."

"I tried, Mom," Leslie protested helplessly. "But what he did to you and Kristy and Kelly was just too horrible. He murdered the three of you and he'd gladly have murdered me too, if I hadn't been lucky enough to be outside." Her eyes misted over and lost focus. "Did you know I waited for you to come out after the fire? I kept waiting for a miracle to happen. I couldn't accept that it wasn't going to, until I saw the remains of the house in daylight the next morning…"

"Leslie, I'm sure Mr. Roarke has told you on any number of occasions that the past can't be changed. Once something's done, it stays done, and no amount of wishing or begging or plea-bargaining can ever undo it. I can see that you've been carrying that lump of anger with you ever since the fire. I know your feelings, Leslie, believe me. Did Mr. Roarke ever tell you about my own fantasy, just before you were born?" Shannon waited till Leslie had focused on her, then went on: "Everything you remember from the night of the fire, I saw too, and so did he. That was what I saw in the third vision Mr. Roarke showed me that weekend in 1965. For us, it was like watching a movie. I saw you hide in the bushes when Michael's car came down the street, I saw him start splashing the house with gasoline, and I saw you start to cross the yard and then hide in the tree. We didn't understand what was happening at the time. Even Mr. Roarke didn't have any answers for it. We saw it all—the house going up, you falling from the tree and calling for me, and Michael's death."

Jarred, Leslie clutched her mother for support. "I don't remember that part…"

"You saw that he was too close to the house, and I think gas had been splashing onto him from the can, maybe dripping onto him from the walls too. But when the air-conditioning unit set off that rogue spark, he went up in flames just the way the house did. He died a truly horrible death, Leslie. Didn't you see that?"

Revulsion tinged Leslie's expression. "No…maybe it's just as well. Oh, God." She shuddered and gave her mother a plaintive look. "I was too busy watching for you and the twins to come out the door."

"Oh, honey, we were trapped," Shannon said softly, hugging her. "The twins were upstairs and didn't make it any farther than the hallway outside their room. And I was caught in the kitchen. The front door was blocked by a wall of fire and we had no way out. The house was a tinderbox—you know that."

"But I couldn't help wishing," Leslie whispered.

Shannon nodded. "I know. But as I said, Michael died a very gruesome death. I know that only because Mr. Roarke and I saw it in that vision."

"Then that's why he had burn scars all over him," Leslie realized. "He carries a gasoline can around all the time, too; he can't put it down. Now he wants my forgiveness. Mom, how can you ever forgive something like that? He doesn't even show any remorse!"

Shannon considered this. "Well, you might think it's not possible, Leslie…but here's a thought you might consider. When you keep that appointment with Mephistopheles tonight, take Mr. Roarke along, and vent at Michael. Clear up all your pain, bare your soul, put all the blame on him, whatever you feel you have to do; it's all part of the burden the devil will make him bear in hell. But listen to me, Leslie: if for no other reason, forgive him so you can free yourself of him. If you allow him to wander in limbo, he'll return periodically, whether through your dreams or as the ghostly form he's been taking on lately—and he'll never leave you alone. Forgive him, Leslie, and set yourself free. Michael may never rest, but believe me, you will."

Slack-mouthed with amazement at this new angle, Leslie mulled it over, let it sink in, then lifted her gaze to her mother's. "I never would have thought of that," she admitted at length. "I don't know how you got so wise, but…thank you for that, Mom."

Shannon smiled. "Do you think you can do that, Leslie?"

Leslie shrugged a little. "Well, when I look at it from that point of view, it suddenly seems possible. I'm so glad Mr. Roarke was able to call you back."

"Me too," Shannon said, glancing past Leslie and biting her lip. "My time's almost up, honey. I'm afraid we're going to have to cut this short. Just let me say this: let Mr. Roarke help you, and for heaven's sake, trust him, Leslie. You're his daughter, you know, and he loves you as if you'd been born to him. Because of the way Michael treated you and the twins, you've held back from him, ever so slightly. Don't do that to him. It's little enough repayment for all he's done for you. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Leslie nodded, her eyes beginning to gleam with tears. "You're coming through loud and clear, Mom." She caught her breath. "Will I ever see you again?"

Shannon's gaze turned regretful. "Not like this, honey, I'm afraid not. This was a special case, and we'll never have this chance again. But don't ever forget, I love you, and I always will."

"I love you too, Mom," Leslie murmured, her voice dying as Shannon's form rapidly faded to mist and then altogether out of sight. She reached out, as though she could grasp some essence of her mother's spirit; and when she did, all the lights went out. A second later, normal lighting returned and she found herself standing in Roarke's study, near the steps across the room from the desk where Roarke stood waiting and watching her. He smiled faintly and held out his arms; without hesitation, Leslie walked straight into his embrace and hugged him with everything in her.