§ § § -- May 6, 1995

Three hours passed in this fashion, and by then dusk had fallen and he had been given a decidedly meager meal and a cup of water. His back ached, his feet hurt, and the need to use a bathroom was growing by the minute; he was pretty sure he had at least one splinter in each wrist and a few embedded in his nape as well. He had long since fallen silent, but in his head he was cursing Roarke, Leslie, Greta Gail O'Donahue, the man who had locked him in the stocks, and himself for his own stupidity in getting into this mess.

"Water, sir?" asked a soft feminine voice from his left, the first to have spoken to him since he'd gotten stuck here.

"Water, nothing," Lorimer grunted. "I need an outhouse."

"I see ye dancing in place there, sir," the voice remarked with amusement. "Fear not, I'll have ye out of this contraption in no time. Stand still, if ye please." A dark silhouette crossed his limited field of vision, and he heard the sounds of a lock being picked. After a moment the top half of the stock lifted and he slowly straightened up, clutching the small of his back with both hands and moaning aloud. "Better?"

"It will be when I get that outhouse," Lorimer hinted, squirming. The woman chuckled softly and took his hand, leading him off the platform and hastening him across the now-deserted square. "Hey, who are you and where are we going? And why the heck was I in the stocks in the first place?"

"To find that privy ye're so in need of. And ye can't mean it when ye ask me why! Ye're a hero to me, sir. Burning Fearghal O'Donahue's tobacco crop was an act of inspiration to be sure! I only wish I'd thought of it." They rounded one of the primitive log buildings and crossed a small stream before she stopped him near a small wooden structure. "The privy, sir."

"Perfect," Lorimer gasped and sprinted for it. When he emerged, the woman who had rescued him stood waiting, this time grasping a lantern that shed soft candlelight on her clothing but left her features mostly in shadow. "So, who are you?"

"A friend," came the reply.

"Oh, come on, I'd like to know the identity of my rescuer," Lorimer bantered. "Also, I'm curious as to whether you happen to know a certain Greta Gail O'Donahue."

There was a soft gasp and the lantern lifted slightly, just enough for him to make out the fact that the owner of that name stood before him. "Oh my God, how under the sun did you…?" Lorimer noticed immediately that the pleasant British lilt had vanished from her voice, and she spoke in present-day American vernacular.

"I've been looking for you," he told her, "on behalf of your family. Mr. Roarke sent me back here, telling me this was where you'd gone."

Greta Gail O'Donahue's eyes narrowed and she studied him with rising distrust. "And exactly who are you?"

Lorimer hesitated. "Well…look, before I tell you, do you think we could get some eats someplace? I haven't had anything all afternoon, and you were willing enough to offer me some water a little while ago. Please, Miss O'Donahue. I really don't mean you any harm."

She sighed loudly. "Well, we do have to get back before my meal burns. Come on, let's get out of here. And by the way, call me Greta Gail. To tell you the truth, it's nice to hear my real name after all these months of living under a different identity."

"You changed your name?" Lorimer asked, following her across an open field.

"I had to. You see, the field you're supposed to have burned belongs to my five-times-great grandfather, Fearghal O'Donahue. When I first got here, I was going to claim kinship and see if I could live there awhile, but then I noticed that Mrs. Fearghal and I look almost exactly alike. I didn't dare reveal myself to the family. They're so full of Irish superstition that they'd think I was some sort of spirit, and they'd probably have done their utmost to do me in. So I made sure to keep a low profile. I'm known around here as Patience Anne Lindley. Had to change my crusading plans too." Greta Gail's voice carried a note of disgust. "I had no idea I got my looks from Mrs. Fearghal. It's ironic—I could be her sister, but it's common family knowledge that Mrs. Fearghal was the only girl in a family of fourteen kids. Anyway, it's easier to sneak around and do my damage under an assumed name."

They had reached a tiny log hut and Greta Gail hastened inside, letting Lorimer in before dragging the door shut behind them and dropping a heavy log bar across it. "So you're living some sort of double life, then," Lorimer guessed, settling atop a thick stump near the fireplace. "Law-abiding lady by day, anti-tobacco crusader by night."

Greta Gail laughed. "Something like that, I suppose. I've been explaining about the dangers of smoking ever since I got here, but these people are thicker than glue. Do you know we can blame smoking on the Indians? They got the settlers hooked on nicotine, and ever since then, the world's been puffing away on those disgusting things. Fearghal had had a couple or three very prosperous years before I came here—long enough to prove to him there's money in the vile stuff. He's the only tobacco grower in this miniature backwater, so he's the richest guy in town; and he's so full of himself, I'm ashamed to be his descendant."

"Huh," mumbled Lorimer, fascinated, watching Greta Gail bustle around the little room dishing out stew from a large black cauldron over the fire and pouring water into the same kind of silver cups he remembered seeing Pete Gilbert drinking from earlier. She didn't look like the slender young debutante he remembered from magazine photos and the occasional television interview. She was still slim, but the long dark hair she used to have had been cropped close to her head and was mostly hidden under a little white lace-edged cap. Her face was scrubbed of makeup and she looked younger than she really was. "Uh, who was it who was supposed to have burned Great-Granddad's crop?"

"A friend of this guy I know, Andrew Morris," Greta Gail replied, handing him a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. "I think Andrew wants to marry me, actually. He's been a rabid supporter of the cause almost from the beginning, or at least that's the face he puts on. I found out early on he just wanted to try to seduce me. But I've learned to keep him in line." She tilted her head at him. "If you're here in his friend's place, then what happened to the friend? For that matter, where's Andrew himself?"

"I dunno," Lorimer said around a mouthful of stew that he had scooped up with the bread. "Mmm, this is terrific. Tastes great."

"Thanks," she said, her guard back up again, slowly sitting in the only chair and cradling her bowl of stew on her lap. "Just who are you, anyway?"

Lorimer paused and studied her; her expression said that she had told him all she intended to, and now expected him to reciprocate. He sighed, for the first time feeling reluctant to reveal his true purpose. "My name's Barry Lorimer."

"And what're you doing here?" Greta Gail pressed him.

Lorimer cleared his throat and set the stew aside, resigned. From inside his shirt he withdrew the file pages he'd taken back from Leslie. "Your family hired me to find you," he explained, offering her the papers. "They went ballistic when you disappeared, and they're offering one hell of an enormous reward to get you back."

Greta Gail examined the sheets and blinked in amazement at the long list of her relatives on the second page. "Good Lord. I guess they're really serious." She set the papers aside after a moment and shook her head. "Well, I'm sorry, but they're out of luck, Mister Barry Lorimer. I'm not going back. My family is in the business of dealing out disease, misery and lingering death, and I refuse to be a part of that anymore." A thought seemed to occur to her and she leaned forward over her stew, squinting suspiciously at him. "You don't smoke, I hope, because if you do, I'm throwing you out right here and now."

"I have a lot of vices," Lorimer admitted with a self-deprecating laugh, "but smoking isn't one of them. I tried a cigarette in ninth grade and turned out to be allergic. I was in the hospital for two weeks recovering from that little attack."

"Serves you right," Greta Gail said, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "So let me get this straight, then. You came all the way to Fantasy Island, and all the way back to this time and place, just to find me?"

"Well, not just you," Lorimer said, shrugging. "You're not the only one who's drifted off into the ether during a trip to Roarke's little paradise."

Greta Gail grinned. "I know that," she said. "As a matter of fact, the previous disappearances are what gave me the idea. I didn't know what happened to the others, which suited me just fine—it suggested to me that Mr. Roarke would keep my secret the same way he kept theirs." She peered at him with interest. "You were looking for them too? Did you find them?"

"Yeah," Lorimer said, his expression turning sour with the memory of the day's events. "I talked Roarke and his daughter into letting me go after them. It turned out to be a complete bust, and I think those two enjoyed every minute of it."

"No kidding. What happened to them?" Greta Gail asked.

Lorimer looked up and raised an eyebrow. "You ready for this? David Farley, the actor, retreated into his old TV character; he truly thinks he's Jungle Man, and he intends to remain Jungle Man as long as he lives. Pete Gilbert, the business investor, is richer than sin, but all he wants to do is drink and carouse his way through England in the eighteenth century. And Duke McCall…man, that one's the weirdest of all. I'd think I was hallucinating from drugs, except I don't do drugs. No lie, Greta Gail, he's a merman."

"A what? You mean, as in a male mermaid?" she asked, astonished.

"Yup. He showed off his tail and the whole bit. The guy truly is half fish. Roarke and Leslie must've been laughing their heads off at me. They acted like this is everyday stuff. I see now why it's called Fantasy Island."

She laughed. "No doubt, that place makes a believer out of anybody. So did you convince any of them to give up their new lives?"

"No, and I can see I'm going to have the same problem in your case." Lorimer snorted in disgust and stirred his stew with his bread. "Nobody's gonna pay me, and the rent's due when I get back home." He looked up. "Isn't there anything I can do to convince you?"

Greta Gail shook her head. "Afraid not. I mean, I hate to contribute to your failure rate, but the fact is, I have my reasons for being here and not leaving. Back in the twentieth century, when I started speaking out against tobacco use, my father tried to confine me to the family homestead. Most of my siblings and cousins were calling me traitor and I kept getting the hairy eyeball from just about everybody. Every family member over the age of about fifteen is a smoker, and it's simply sickening. They're making money hand over fist from the destruction of lives."

"Well, I notice you're not having a lot of success on this end, either," Lorimer pointed out. "I mean, it's commendable that you thought to come to the originator of the Great O'Donahue Evil and all, but so far you seem to have accomplished zip. Old Fearghal is still in business, and your enlightenment campaign looks to be a bust."

"I know," Greta Gail said softly, staring into the fire. "I know. But I have to keep trying. I can't live with myself if I don't."

Lorimer slowly ate the rest of his stew, processing her words and her pensive, dejected expression. Something about her was getting to him in spite of himself; he hated to see her wasting her energy and efforts on a fruitless mission. But what could he do?