§ § § -- February 1, 1999

Austin Deal was still grumbling a little about the end of his fantasy, but he responded cheerily enough to Leslie's and Julie's farewells and loped aboard the plane, pinching the rear end of one of the native girls on his way and sending up a flurry of indignant squeals. Julie and Leslie could hear him cackling as he disappeared inside the cabin and rolled their eyes at each other, turning with relief to the car that bore the bounty hunters.

"You guys really did us an invaluable service by getting Oscar Worth into the hands of the authorities," Leslie said gratefully. "I'll talk to my father about having you come back for a real vacation, on us."

Mark Roquemore grinned. "Don't worry about it, Leslie," he assured her. "For us, this was a vacation. But thanks for the offer, and heck, one day we might take you up on it." He and his companions shook hands with Leslie and Julie and traded goodbyes, then strode up the ramp and boarded the seaplane.

"Well, we pulled it off somehow," Julie remarked, watching the plane taxi through the lagoon towards the ocean. "We got really lucky, thanks to Rogan."

"Yeah, Rogan," Leslie murmured, frowning slightly. The car came around to pick them up, and they were returned to their respective homes, each lost in her own thoughts. Julie had a big smile on her face at the prospect of seeing Rogan again; but Leslie, deeming the budding romance as secondary, was determined to pin Rogan down once and for all and get the answers she wanted. How did this guy know so much about what was going on around here?

At the main house she detoured upstairs for another check on Roarke, and her eyes popped with sudden hope when she saw that he was awake. "Hi, Father!" she exclaimed, though she kept her voice low in the quiet room.

Roarke smiled at her. "Come in, Leslie," he invited. His voice was not strong, but it was clear, and still the same warm baritone Leslie had grown to depend on so many years before. She slipped in and stepped hesitantly across the room, indulging her curiosity for the first time. Roarke's bedroom was somewhat larger than her own and contained a minimum of furniture—but those furnishings were massive pieces that looked to Leslie's inexperienced eye like valuable antiques. There was the bed, a large elegant chest of drawers, a rolltop desk and chair, and a nightstand. In addition to the large dormer that faced the side of the house, there was a second small window at the back of the room, to the left of the door and beside the chest of drawers. Both windows were outfitted with small-slatted white shutters.

Roarke's quiet chuckle brought her attention back to him, and he teased, "Have you satisfied your curiosity now?"

Leslie felt her face heat with embarrassment but grinned back, stopping to stand beside the bed. "Well, you can't exactly blame me," she said, and he nodded slightly, dark eyes twinkling. "So how are you feeling?"

"Somewhat groggy," Roarke admitted. "I've missed an entire weekend, have I not? I don't believe I have slept that much in a great many years." He noticed her shifting her weight. "Sit down, child, sit down."

Gingerly Leslie settled onto the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. "You did miss a lot," she said. "But the bounty hunters who came this weekend managed to ferret out Oscar Worth. He's going up for international trial on a neutral piece of land, so he had to be deported."

"Excellent," said Roarke. "That is extremely gratifying to hear—thank you, Leslie. Overall, how did you manage this weekend?"

"Better than I thought," said Leslie candidly. "Julie helped out, and for a while I really thought we were going to blow it. And then serendipity stepped in."

Roarke's gaze sharpened and seemed to pin her to the spot. "Rogan Callaghan," he said, stunning her into speechlessness. "I wish to see him."

Leslie's mouth worked for a moment; she could barely spit any words out. "H-how…"

Roarke's hand on the covers tightened almost painfully around hers; she hadn't even realized he had grasped it. "Bring him here, Leslie," he insisted, his voice beginning to fade. "It's imperative."

She heard the weakening and sat up in alarm, all questions forgotten. "I'll get him, I promise," she said fervently. "Just rest, don't wear yourself out." She waited for his slight nod of confirmation before rising and rushing out of the room.

Following a hunch, she ran over to Julie's bed and breakfast; and sure enough, there was Rogan, sunbathing beside the pool. He opened his eyes when her shadow fell on him, blocking the sun's warmth. "Ah…greetings, Leslie."

"I hope Julie knows you're here," Leslie said.

"Aye, that she does. She's given me a room here for as long as I want it. She's out at the moment though—what can I do for you?"

"You can come back to the main house with me," Leslie said. "Father's awake and wants to see you."

"Ah," said Rogan without surprise, "so he does know I'm here. Well now, perhaps later. I'm to take Julie out this evening and I'm just waiting for her."

Leslie glared at him. "You have the entire day in front of you. I think you can spare some of it to fill Father's request." Her eyes grew hard. "Or are you hoping the disease will kill him?"

Rogan sat up. "You're a hard one, lass."

"I want to save my father's life. Is that such a terrible thing?" Leslie demanded.

Rogan raked a hand through his black hair. "I'm not saying—"

"I don't care what you did or didn't say. You have too many secrets and you know far too much for someone who's never set foot on the island before," Leslie broke in, her voice rising. "I'm fed up with your beating around the bush and uttering all these cryptic statements. I've had it with your refusal to explain yourself, and I'm not letting up on you till you start talking!"

Rogan stared at her in astonishment. "You've a very low opinion of me, haven't you?"

"There's still time to change it," Leslie said. "Coming?"

Shrugging, Rogan got to his feet and pulled on a T-shirt, then followed Leslie back to the main house. Neither of them spoke till Leslie tapped on Roarke's bedroom door and eased it open. Roarke opened his eyes and gave a faint nod, and she entered with Rogan trailing her.

"Welcome, Rogan," Roarke said, almost inaudibly.

Rogan nodded once in deference, looking humble for the first time Leslie had seen since his arrival. "Hello, sir."

"There is a tonic," Roarke began in a labored whisper. "There should be a little left in the cellar. You'll know the label, Rogan—take Leslie with you so that she'll learn to recognize it as well. Please bring it here, and quickly."

"Immediately," Rogan said without hesitation. "Come, Leslie." She shot Roarke a bewildered look; his weak smile gave her only enough reassurance to rush out after the departing Rogan.

In the usually-forbidden cellar, Rogan began a systematic search of one of the shelves, while Leslie stood by feeling inadequate and absurdly left out. Seeing her discomfort, Rogan paused and smiled. "Forgive me," he said. "Here's what we're looking for." He found a pencil and scratch pad and hastily sketched a bottle and label, then made several deliberate marks on the label that to Leslie looked like doodles. "Here. I know those symbols mean nothing to you, but take a careful look at them. You must find a bottle whose label bears markings that exactly match these."

Dubiously she accepted the drawing, examined the loops and spirals that constituted the message on the label, and crossed the room to start her search there. Naturally, Rogan was faster than she, but somehow she was the one who found the lone bottle bearing a precise match for Rogan's drawing. "This is it!"

Rogan half-ran across the room and compared the label and the drawing, then eyed Leslie with new respect. "Very nice work," he said.

She shrugged self-deprecatingly and tilted the bottle. Its contents sloshed around and she bit her lip. "I don't think there's much in here," she said uneasily.

"A little's better than none," Rogan replied. "Let's go, quick now."

They delivered the tonic to Roarke, who directed Rogan to pour exactly five milliliters of it into the glass on the bedside table, then asked Leslie to help him ingest it. She realized he could barely muster the strength to lift his arm, and held the glass to his lips, tears filling her eyes. Roarke noticed and winked solemnly at her; her attempt at a return smile was a dismal failure.

When Roarke closed his eyes, Rogan gently nudged Leslie and she preceded him out, wiping at her eyes. In the hallway Rogan sighed deeply and mumbled, "If we could just get the cure out of—"

Leslie shot up straight and seized his shoulders. "There's a cure?" she shrieked. "How do you know? Why didn't you say anything? Dammit, Rogan Callaghan, who the hell are you?"

Rogan raised his hands, as if he sensed she'd hit her limit and would tolerate no more stalling. "All right, Leslie, all right—let's just go to the study, and I'll explain everything."

They retreated downstairs and each took a chair in front of the desk; then Leslie glared expectantly at Rogan, who cleared his throat. "To begin with, I'm a blood relative of your father. My father is his first cousin, though I grant you'd hardly know it. My father and yours look nothing alike, and they were raised in different parts of the world: your father in several different Latin countries, and mine in the British Isles. His name is also Roarke. Da was briefly involved with an Irish lady who eventually bore me—they were never married, which is why my surname is Callaghan. I was raised in Ireland, and I didn't meet Da till I was about 14. Something about him put me off; he has a hard edge. But I do remember a time ages back when the family all got along famously, despite the assorted branches that were scattered across the planet. Later Da had some manner of falling-out with your father, and they lost touch. Generally I stay away from Da, since I don't like this idea he has that there's some sort of rivalry going between him and your father. I think it's all in Da's head. Lately Da's been running a lovely little island in the South Atlantic, and I was given to understand that he's dabbled in fantasy-granting, though I daresay he handles it quite differently to your father."

"Okay," said Leslie, avidly absorbing his narrative. "How do you know there's a cure?"

"Let me back up a bit," Rogan said. "How did your father contract the bone-eating disease, do you know? Was he in contact with anyone who might have had it?"

Leslie's hand flew to her mouth. "Paola," she gasped. "Paola was here not three weeks ago…and she almost destroyed both of us."

Rogan's face grew alarmed and he sat forward. "Paola was on this island? Ach, Leslie! If she gave it to him, then we haven't much time. I was on Da's island when she arrived there on the 15th. She was ranting and carrying on about who knows what…she spoke Italian, so I don't know what she was saying. She died just two days later, Leslie—she was in the final stages of the disease when she was here."

"Oh God," moaned Leslie. "She did it on purpose."

"Apparently. Da had known her for years, it turned out, and he always thought she was daft and quite power-mad. Leslie, listen to me: your father is as ill as he is because when the disease is transmitted sexually, the stage the carrier is in determines the strength of the infection in the receptor. Paola was so close to death, it gave your father a limited lifespan as well." He caught himself. "I see your face. Leslie, it must have been transmitted sexually. The only other way to contract it is by being born to an infected mother. Paola must have truly seduced your father to have succeeded in infecting him."

"She tricked him," Leslie said angrily. "She gained control over his mind for a few days, and if she hadn't eventually gotten too certain of herself and started concentrating on trying to eliminate me, neither he nor I might be alive now. Afterward, Father told me she was one of his people."

"Unfortunately, she was that," concurred Rogan, shaking his head.

"Then what's the cure?" Leslie asked.

Rogan winced and admitted, "I don't know. Only one person on earth knows—and it's my father. Seems he did a great deal of chemical experimenting in past decades and, somewhere down the line, managed to cook up a cure. But he refuses to divulge it."

"Well, we have to get it out of him," Leslie said stonily. "I don't care what rivalry he thinks he has with Father. He has an obligation to give out the cure if he knows it."

Rogan thought about it. "I don't know what sort of success we might have if we try this, but I think we can at least pique his curiosity. I know you don't have enough knowledge or experience to run the island, at least not the fantasy-granting end of the business. Let the vacationers continue to come, but make an announcement on the island website that fantasies are being put off till further notice. After that, we'll just have to wait."