§ § § -- March 6, 1982
"Oh, I know what people say about me, Mr. Roarke. 'Good old Suzi, everybody's doormat.' " The trio were in Suzi Swann's bungalow listening to their guest, an attractive woman somewhere in her thirties. "It's just that I really like people. I like helping them."
"People like you are often misunderstood, Miss Swann. But your feelings for Mr. Hecker are much stronger than mere liking, or you wouldn't be here," Roarke observed.
Suzi shook her head. "Oh, I love Jack. It's as simple as that. But he has no time for love or me," she grumbled, pacing away from them again. Roarke, Tattoo and Leslie glanced at one another. "Success is everything to him. You know, when he first started out, he couldn't even afford a storefront. Then his designs started catching on, and look where he is today." She held a look of pride for a moment; then she frowned and complained, "But in all that time, he's never once looked at me as a woman, or understood how I felt."
"You didn't tell him that you love him?" Tattoo asked.
"Oh, I never had the courage, Tattoo. Besides, love is a two-way street, isn't it?" Tattoo nodded in understanding, and Suzi turned to Roarke. "I'm just tired of hurting. Please make me fall out of love, Mr. Roarke. Set me free."
Roarke digested her words for a moment, then seemed to reach a decision. "All right, Miss Swann," he said, rising from his chair, "but there is only one way to do that—by concentrating your emotions on the opposite of love."
"You mean…hate?" Suzi asked.
Tattoo nodded and said solemnly, "That's exactly what my boss means."
"But I've never hated anyone in my life," Suzi protested. Roarke made an it can't be helped expression, glancing at Leslie, who shrugged a little. "But," Suzi went on, "if that's the only way…then I'm ready. Teach me to hate."
Roarke nodded once and gestured to his assistant, who held a small wooden box. "Tattoo?" The young Frenchman handed the box to Suzi, who opened it and discovered three large gumdrops inside: one green, one red and one yellow. Leslie stood on tiptoe trying to see the contents; she could just barely glimpse them, the way Suzi held them.
Suzi looked up curiously. "They look like gumdrops."
Tattoo grinned at her. "That's what they are."
"Except for one thing. The sugar content," Roarke explained, "has been extracted from a very special fruit that grows only here on Fantasy Island. It contains a certain ingredient which induces…um…" He considered it for a moment, searching for an appropriately descriptive phrase. "Shall we say, a reverse emotional response in anyone who tastes it."
"You mean, I eat one of these whenever…" Suzi began.
"Whenever you feel the need to experience emotional hate, Miss Swann, yes."
"That's hard to believe," Suzi murmured, lifting out the yellow gumdrop and licking a little of the sugar off the bottom. Roarke watched with an expectant smile; Tattoo's was that enigmatic one he sometimes wore that always made Leslie wonder if he'd been taking lessons from Roarke. For her part, she leaned over the back of the chair where Roarke had lately been sitting, wondering what would happen.
They all seemed to see and hear sound effects that evoked rage: huge intense lightning bolts with enormous thunderclaps; an exploding volcano; the mushroom cloud of an atomic-bomb blast. Leslie shot a glance at Roarke; though she stood mostly behind him, she could still see from his profile that he was smiling knowingly.
Suzi blinked, stared at them all, and then snapped, "You know something, Mr. Roarke? I just met you, and already I don't like you." Roarke's brows elevated, and Leslie drew back from the chair as though it had burned her, startled. "I don't like any one of you. You're too short, you're a nosy little girl, and you…you've got a funny accent." Leslie gasped as Suzi turned and stalked away toward the door to the bedroom, while Roarke and an affronted Tattoo exchanged glances. Even Roarke seemed a little discomfited by Suzi's remarks.
Suzi abruptly stopped, and the strange explosive effects they'd seen ghosts of a few seconds before appeared to reverse themselves while they gaped at her. Then Suzi slowly rotated to gawk at her hosts with an aghast look on her face at the memory of her last words to them.
"You see, Miss Swann?" Roarke said softly. "They do really work. So be careful…be very careful."
Suzi opened the box and regarded the innocuous-looking candies inside. "I've gotta be careful how I use these," she agreed emphatically, shaking her head.
Leaving Suzi to herself, they left the bungalow; the moment they got outside, Leslie blurted, "Do you think she was right and I'm really nosy, Mr. Roarke? I mean, 'little' is just plain stupid…I'm almost seventeen, after all. But nosy? What if she's right and I really am?"
"Leslie, may I remind you that Miss Swann was under the influence of the gumdrop," Roarke said firmly.
"Yeah, well…" She frowned doubtfully. "It reminds me of something Mom told me once when I was nine or ten. She said that when someone's angry or upset, they tend to say what they really mean, or what they're really secretly thinking. And I've seen examples of it…had them directed at me, too."
"Your mother was very wise, Leslie," Roarke said, "but all the same, you must learn to ascertain when you should take criticism to heart and when to let it pass. Now let's set this discussion aside for the moment; Mr. Barton is undoubtedly waiting for us."
In fact, he wasn't; and since he was nowhere in sight and there was some free time due to his tardiness, Roarke set up a curious little gadget in the middle of the floor after moving the club chairs aside. Tattoo watched with interest and Leslie with some confusion. "What's that thing?"
"It's a putting cup, to help me practice," Roarke told her. He stood across the room with a golf club and a few balls, tapped one of the balls toward the gadget and watched it roll neatly inside. A moment later, a little lever tripped within the device and ejected the ball, which rolled back toward Roarke.
"Oh, that's cute," Leslie said, "but since when do you have time for golf?"
Roarke laughed. "You have a point there," he conceded. "But since your honorary uncle here has repeatedly told me I should learn to relax a little more often, I thought I might take his advice to heart. And this was where I began."
Just then the door opened and Frank Barton let himself in without knocking or waiting for an invitation. He paused to watch Roarke hit another ball toward the putting cup, the perpetual scowl never leaving his features; though he leaned against the support post beside the steps in a semblance of relaxed waiting, he looked extremely tense, coiled, ready at all times to spring. Patience clearly was not a virtue he possessed. After less than a minute he said, eyes trained on the ceiling to underline his exasperation, "Mr. Roarke, I came here to discuss my fantasy."
"Oh, I've given it much thought, Mr. Barton," Roarke assured him. "Although I prefer a more relaxing sport…" He paused long enough to knock another ball into the cup. "I have gone to great pains to consider a hunt worthy of your ability. Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Barton." He gestured at a chair and went to sit in his own; Tattoo took the golf club to set it aside. "Thank you, Tattoo." Leslie, now the one nearest to Barton, had no problem giving in to her constant nervousness around the guest and promptly ducked around the desk to stand just behind her guardian's chair. Roarke went on: "Unfortunately, I am against killing animals for sport; and you've already proven your skill against such game."
"Glad you agree," Barton said coolly. "A safari is not what I had in mind."
"Oh?" said Roarke expressionlessly.
"No animal is a match for me," Barton informed him, pushing himself off the support post and approaching the desk. "Granted, trapped or wounded, they can be ferocious; but intellect, Mr. Roarke—intellect is what can make an adversary really dangerous."
"There can be only one adversary with intellect," Roarke said, motionless and calm in his chair, his dark eyes narrow. "Man himself. That's murder, Mr. Barton."
"Oh, I agree…if we were talking about a traditional hunt. Certainly nothing is safe in my gunsights. No, Mr. Roarke, what I had in mind…what I envisioned…was a game of wits, like a high-stakes poker game." He settled on the edge of the desk and leaned toward Roarke with an intensity that made Leslie inch back a little farther behind the chair. "Very high stakes."
Slowly Roarke sat up and rested both elbows on the desk, returning Barton's stare without flinching, his eyes as steely black as Barton's were icy blue. "Say what you mean."
"You're the game for the kind of hunt I've got in mind, Roarke," Barton said flatly. Tattoo glanced at Roarke with dawning worry in his eyes; Leslie's knuckles whitened with her grip on the back of the chair. Roarke's eyes narrowed again. "With the condition," Barton added, "that you can't use your so-called 'special powers'."
Roarke nodded, the definition of calm. "Of course, you know the essence of a truly great hunt holds danger for the hunter, as well as the hunted."
"Exactly why I'm here," Barton said.
"Boss, you'd be a sitting duck," Tattoo protested at last. Leslie's tongue was frozen by her mounting horror and fright.
Roarke glanced at him, then sat back and nodded slightly. "Very well, I accept your terms." Leslie and Tattoo looked at each other, stunned.
"No special powers?" Barton pressed.
"No special powers," Roarke agreed tranquilly. Barton grinned a cruel, feral grin and headed for the door, no doubt convinced his weekend was made; but then Roarke's voice followed him. "However…if you're not successful in the next twenty-four hours, there will be no holds barred on my part."
"Fair enough." Barton's gaze became glacial; he snapped, "Good day," and left.
Instantly Tattoo turned to a pensive-looking Roarke. "Boss, why are you doing it?"
Roarke sighed gently. "I have very special reasons, Tattoo," he responded.
"B-b-b-but you…" Leslie's tongue, having thawed out finally, now seemed to have a case of the delirium tremens, along with the rest of her. "Y-you could g-g-get hurt, or…or…" The last word wouldn't come out at all, and she abandoned all effort to say it.
Tattoo opened his mouth to elaborate on her words, but Roarke cut him off, speaking softly. "Now, will you go and prepare things for our other guest's fantasy, please?" Tattoo hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Thank you." Leslie watched Tattoo depart, glancing over his shoulder several times.
"Mr. Roarke…" Leslie began in a tiny voice.
"I know, child," he said and took her hand long enough to squeeze it. "Worry if you must, but I would appreciate a little faith."
She swallowed and forced herself to speak in slow, measured cadence, to keep from stammering. "But it's just that this guy's an unknown quantity. There's no telling what's gonna happen. I'm really scared, Mr. Roarke. I mean…his whole attitude says he's willing to play any trick, no matter how filthy it is, just so he can win."
"Which is why I intend to take all possible precautions," Roarke assured her, rising. "I have an appointment to keep, so if you would kindly stay here in case any calls come in, I would appreciate it." She nodded and stepped aside to let Roarke past as he headed for a coat tree where his suit jacket hung.
She was watching him, so that she saw everything that happened next. In the midst of donning the jacket, Roarke froze and yanked his hand back out of the sleeve, then spread the jacket panels so wide that she could see what had caused the commotion. Clinging to the inner lining was a titanic-sized spider, some tropical variety nearly a foot across, with wide stripes on its legs. Leslie let out a terrified shriek and recoiled back, saving Roarke the need to push her out of harm's way. He gave the jacket a sharp shake, dislodging the spider, which fell to the floor. Roarke draped the jacket on the desk and picked up a square wooden trash receptacle, overturning it and placing it atop the spider. "Call the animal-control officer in town, Leslie," he directed, voice tense but even.
As she picked up the phone, Roarke retrieved the jacket and began to put it on, but again stopped, causing Leslie's hand to hover over the phone dial. This time he withdrew an envelope from the breast pocket behind the black handkerchief he always kept there. She waited while he took out a single sheet of paper and unfolded it, reading aloud: "Lucky for you, my little friend is harmless, Roarke. If I had wanted, you'd already be dead." He looked up at her gasp.
"Why aren't you calling, Leslie?" he asked, brow raised, as if teasing her.
She refused to be cajoled into a lighter mood. "I will, Mr. Roarke—I don't want that monster in here any longer than it has to be, even if it is harmless. But I don't think you should've agreed to grant this fantasy."
"I fully understand your trepidation," he said with a gentle smile, "and I can see that Mr. Barton is going to keep me quite busy. But you know as well as I: the fantasy has begun, and it can't be stopped."
‡ ‡ ‡
As it happened, Barton had invited Roarke to lunch that noon; Leslie wanted to go as well, afraid of letting her guardian out of her sight, but he firmly declined. "I'd far rather you were as uninvolved as possible. And it will take a great deal off my mind if I knew you were here at the house in safety, with Tattoo."
She sighed, unable to refuse him when he put it that way. "I guess I understand, Mr. Roarke. But I'm going to be here waiting for you to come back." He smiled at that, ran a hand across her hair and departed.
Roarke met Barton at the pond restaurant, where the waitress placed a loaded plate in front of him as soon as he took his seat. "Mr. Roarke, I'm glad you could join me," Barton said, almost civilly. "I hope you don't mind; I took the liberty of ordering a special King Emmanuel lobster salad for you." Roarke glanced at him, then smiled.
"Excellent choice," he said. He lifted his fork and regarded the plate in silence for a moment, long enough to catch Barton's notice.
"What's the matter, Mr. Roarke? Something upset your appetite?" Barton inquired, too solicitously.
"Oh, I don't scare that easily, Mr. Barton," Roarke said with a smile.
Barton shrugged. "Well, if you're just gonna stare at your food…" He reached over and speared a lettuce leaf with his fork, popping it into his mouth. Roarke watched closely as Barton focused on him. "Delicious." Then he seemed to notice something in Roarke's unwavering gaze and demanded, "Do you think I'd be that obvious?"
Roarke smiled again. "Perhaps I underestimated you…but I seriously doubt it." He speared a chunk of lobster with his fork. "You know, I'm not really very hungry. Perhaps you'd like another bite of mine?" With that, he offered the fork to Barton, who went still; Roarke waited, eyes narrowing slightly.
Barton chuckled shortly and accepted the fork, regarding the food on it. "Very, very good, Mr. Roarke," he acknowledged. "You are catching on." Roarke nodded in response, and Barton idly rotated the fork in one hand. "Actually, it's an interesting chemical I put on your fork. It's easily activated by a person's saliva." As Roarke watched, Barton stuck the fork into his glass of water; the liquid began to bubble. "Just a short time in your stomach, and…" The water fizzed to the point of opacity, and Barton lifted out the fork, which now was only a handle, with the lobster a distant memory and the tines completely dissolved away. Roarke sat back in grim silence. "A little trick I picked up from a village elder while searching for the Abominable Snowman in Tibet. You escaped this time, Roarke." Roarke smiled slightly in acknowledgement. "But I promise you, within twenty-four hours, you'll be dead."
Roarke merely gazed at him. Barton seemed a little perturbed by his unflappability, but smiled his frigid, cruel smile all the same.
Roarke had in fact lied when he'd told Barton he wasn't hungry; he had the salad wrapped and brought it back to the main house, where Tattoo was out front setting up a record player on a table near the fountain and Leslie was lingering moodily over her lunch. She gasped and lit up when Roarke came to the table to take his usual chair. "Oh good, you survived!" she blurted.
Roarke laughed softly. "Indeed I did. For heaven's sake, Leslie, finish your lunch…or do you want the usual scolding from Mana'olana?" She made a face that brought out another laugh, and began to tuck into her meal with the gusto born of relief. He himself greatly enjoyed the salad, knowing he was eating it with implements that hadn't been tampered with.
After the meal he retreated to do some paperwork, and Leslie joined Tattoo out front, where by now he had a hula class well under way. "More hips, please, more hips," Tattoo called out as she settled on the edge of the fountain near the table holding the record player, watching avidly and then laughing when Tattoo added, "All right, watch me," and cranked his hips back and forth. His five or six students tried to emulate him, though Leslie thought they were doing just fine. "Watch your hands."
Before he could add any further instructions, the record player suddenly died and the song wound down to a halt. "What happened to that thing?" Leslie asked in surprise.
"Got me," Tattoo replied in perplexity, going to the unit and trying a few knobs without results. Leslie inspected the machine while Tattoo went back toward the porch, where Roarke was just coming down the steps. "Boss, the record player just broke down."
"Oh," said Roarke, glancing at Leslie standing beside the dead machine, "perhaps the generator has cut out again."
"But boss, I was right in the middle of my lesson," Tattoo protested.
"Don't sulk, my friend, I'll fix it," Roarke told him with a touch of impatience. Leslie glanced up and snickered. "Usually all it takes is a good swift kick." Tattoo nodded and started back for the clearing while Roarke made for the generator; Leslie watched him for a moment before a creeping feeling began to snake up the back of her neck. But Tattoo was quicker, and whipped around some distance shy of the fountain, blurting out, "The generator! Boss! It's booby-trapped!" Coincidentally, Roarke stopped just then in front of the machine, lifted his foot and delivered a quick boot to its side. "Boss, no!!" yelled Tattoo and covered his face with his hands. Leslie couldn't move even that much, galvanized by Tattoo's shouts, and simply stared, helpless.
The generator sputtered back into life and Roarke stood up, nodding in satisfaction. Tattoo looked cautiously out from behind his hands, and Leslie drooped all at once and released a huge sigh, turning back toward the record player which had started up again. "There," Roarke commented cheerfully, "that's better."
"Boss," Tattoo groaned, "I thought it was booby-trapped."
"Tattoo," Roarke scolded amiably, "after all these years, have you no faith in me?"
"Sure, boss," Tattoo said, "but I didn't want anything to happen to you."
Roarke smiled warmly. "Thank you, Tattoo, thank you. But I know what I'm doing. Now, if you'll carry on with your hula lesson and stay with Leslie for me, I'll get the rover and attend to some other important business, all right?"
"All right, boss," Tattoo agreed, beaming in great relief, and promptly headed back to the clearing to join his boss' ward. Roarke smiled, returned Leslie's wave and went to the nearby garage to get the car, entering through a side door.
Tattoo had almost reached Leslie and the record player when the garage exploded. Tattoo nearly fell over from cranking around in shocked horror. Leslie instantly screamed, both frightened by the detonation and overcome with a tsunami of grief. "No," Tattoo wailed, "oh, no!" The hula students, stunned by the whole thing, stared in disbelief. Leslie crumpled to the edge of the fountain and broke down into gut-wrenching wails, and Tattoo went to her, himself in shock but trying valiantly to comfort her.
"I'm jinxed, Tattoo," Leslie bawled as he hugged her close. "Everybody close to me dies. Now I've even caused Mr. Roarke's death. And now that that creep's got Mr. Roarke, maybe he'll go after you too…"
"No," Tattoo said, his voice actually shaking with fury. "No, you didn't do it, that madman did. I have him thrown off this island before he kills me. You not worry, Leslie, I take care of you…" His broken English failed him entirely and he continued his diatribe in French that, to her ears, sounded as though it was liberally interwoven with curses. She wondered dimly what would happen to Fantasy Island, what was going to transpire with this weekend's other guests, and most of all, what would become of her.