§ § § -- May 6, 1995
At about one that afternoon, Lorimer let himself into the study where Roarke and Leslie had returned from their lunch a few minutes earlier. He was now clad in jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a denim jacket, and carried the folder he had shown his hosts that morning. This he dropped on the desk in front of Roarke. "That's Greta Gail O'Donahue's file," he said. "I took the others' records out, seeing as their cases are essentially closed now. You two might want to refresh your memories."
"Leslie?" Roarke offered, handing her the folder.
She opened it and peered at the file inside; it ran to two pages, the second of which turned out to consist of a list of O'Donahue relatives who wanted to find the missing heiress. She read aloud from the first page, since Roarke and Lorimer both appeared to be waiting. "Greta Gail O'Donahue, birthdate June 18, 1966, of Richmond, Virginia. Heiress to the O'Donahue tobacco fortune. Last seen Fantasy Island, May 30, 1993." A little confused, she looked up at Roarke. "That was almost two years ago, so my memory's faded some. What exactly happened to her, Father?"
"Miss O'Donahue came to us initially wishing to change her identity completely," said Roarke, speaking as much to Lorimer as to Leslie. "She was disenchanted with the reason for her being an heiress, and wanted nothing whatsoever to do with it. Her intention was to shed the name, persona and life of Greta Gail O'Donahue and become someone else of her own invention. At the time, I advised her that she was simply too well-known to make such a thing feasible, due mostly to the fact that she had always been a very visible presence in the social circles frequented by celebrities, and therefore had an easily recognizable face. She would have to change not only her name, but probably her appearance as well.
"This was unacceptable to her, so I encouraged her to think of some way to use her unhappiness with her station in life to make known her position with regard to the origins of her family's wealth. Therefore, you will find her in colonial Virginia, around 1720, Mr. Lorimer. She has been there ever since the thirtieth of May, 1993, crusading against the use of tobacco products."
"And you let her stay there?" Lorimer asked incredulously. "She could just as easily have done the same thing in the present day."
"Consider this, Mr. Lorimer," Roarke said. "A number of whistle-blowers in the tobacco industry have gone public recently with their revelations; and as you may recall, their employers have taken great strides to retaliate against them. Miss O'Donahue was aware that, belonging to the clan of one of the giants in the industry, she was likely to face a great deal of persecution from her relatives. And as you know, she has a very large and extended family, all of whom are dedicated to their livelihood. In Miss O'Donahue's words, they are blind to the effects of their own product, and most of them use it themselves with what she called 'great enthusiasm'."
"Huh," mumbled Lorimer, absorbing this thoughtfully. "Well, I guess she might have a point; but a job's a job, Mr. Roarke. And mine is to go in there and get her back into the family fold. There was a publicity hurricane following her disappearance, even though the family managed to keep most of the details from comin' out." He eyed Roarke meaningfully. "One of those details was the name of the place where she vanished—and a good thing for you, since I expect your business would've fallen way off if that'd come out."
"That's beside the point, Mr. Lorimer," Leslie told him coldly.
Roarke said, "I am not without my own resources, and undoubtedly the O'Donahues are well aware of that fact. However, that isn't the issue under discussion here; I'm sure you're eager to find Miss O'Donahue. One final word before you commence: as with the others, it is highly unlikely you'll succeed in persuading her to return."
"You told me that before, and my answer's still the same. I'll take that chance. Now, where do I go to find her…and do I have to turn myself out like some prancing dandy, the way I did when I was lookin' for Gilbert?"
Leslie smiled slowly, a particular gleam in her eye. "Well, you'll have to dress appropriately for the era."
"Yes," agreed Roarke, his own smile only partially apologetic. "You certainly wouldn't fit into eighteenth-century Virginia in your current attire."
"And what did they wear in eighteenth-century Virginia?" Lorimer pressed, in a slow, dread-filled drawl, correctly reading their expressions.
"Approximately what they were wearing in eighteenth-century England," Leslie said. "But you don't have to wear the same clothes you had on then, since they're a bit worse for wear. We have new ones for you. Come this way and I'll show you." She led the way to the time-travel room; Lorimer eyed Roarke, who extended a hand indicating that he should go on ahead. The bounty hunter muttered something under his breath and fell in behind Leslie, while Roarke brought up the rear and watched his daughter handle the situation.
"Now," said Leslie, opening the door, "this is your gateway to colonial Virginia. You can change in here before you go, and just leave your clothes on the table there. They'll be waiting for you when you get back. Once you get dressed, climb onto that platform and rest your wrists in the holes in the stocks there, and wait a few minutes."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Lorimer asked her, looking incredulous.
"Every bit as serious as you are about finding Miss O'Donahue," Leslie assured him. "And don't get self-conscious about the clothes. Everyone around you will be wearing things just like them, so you're not going to stand out. Good luck." She stepped aside to let him in, then pulled the door shut.
"Nicely done, my child," Roarke said warmly. "It's late enough in the day that I think Mr. Lorimer will be fine until tomorrow. And that's as well…the Harrigan fantasy is overdue for a check. We'd better hurry."
"Good," said Leslie, "a change of pace." Roarke laughed, and they left the house.
Inside the time-travel room, Lorimer changed his clothes as instructed, and made a face at the ruffles on the shirt. "One more trip to the eighteenth century and I'll be an expert on it," he grumbled, fighting to stuff his feet into the boots. "Why couldn't these people have disappeared anywhere but on Fantasy Island?" He considered this, then thought of something else and smirked to himself. "On the other hand, Roarke knew exactly where they all were. I bet he could solve the disappearances of Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa, and that'd make me famous. Probably rich too. Yeah…I'll ask him when I get back with the O'Donahue girl. I could be set for life." His avaricious dreams bloomed in his head while he stood behind the old-fashioned wooden stock, which was open at the moment, and laid his wrists in the holes meant for them.
As soon as he did so, a thick white mist filled the room, obscuring everything; about sixty seconds passed before it dissipated, revealing a primitive town square surrounded mostly by crude log buildings. A couple of edifices boasted brick façades, and a church stood apart by itself, its whitewash gleaming in the sun. Lorimer noted all this in about three seconds before a voice said, "Put yer 'ead down, lad."
Lorimer looked around in surprise and found himself focusing on a rotund, doughy-faced little man with the entrenched sunburn of one who works outdoors for a living. "What?" he said, confused.
"Put yer 'ead down," the man repeated. "We ain't got all day, an' I got me work ta do."
Lorimer stared at him in disbelief. "What'd I do? I mean, I just got here!"
The man sighed wearily and reached up, planting a hand on the back of Lorimer's neck and pushing with surprising strength. Caught off guard, Lorimer allowed himself to be shoved down, and before he knew it he was locked in the stocks, bent over in a very uncomfortable standing position. "There, lad. A night 'ere might make ya think twice about yer fondness fer fire." The man chuckled and jumped off the platform, striding rapidly away across the square.
"But what'd I do?" Lorimer shouted after him, to no avail. "Roarke, I'll get you for this, I promise you!" His ranting produced nothing but a few startled, wary glances, and the people passing by made certain to give him a fairly wide berth, although they obviously had no problem with staring at him.