§ § § -- March 6, 1982

"Hello," Barton called out. "Anybody here?" The pond restaurant was quiet and seemed deserted; he made his way back to the kitchen area, where he spotted a lone figure stirring the contents of a pot. "I had a message someone wanted to meet me here."

The figure stepped aside and turned around, and Barton's face slackened, getting somehow longer and more rectangular. "Roarke," he breathed in shock. "Oh, no, it's impossible."

Roarke offered a friendly smile, dipping some of the contents of the pot into a bowl. "This soup is a special creation of mine, Mr. Barton. Would you care for a sample?" He offered the bowl and a spoon to Barton, who seemed unable to get past his incredulity over Roarke's failure to perish in his explosion.

"But you…you're…" he stammered.

"Dead?" supplied Roarke, looking amazed and amused all at once. "Oh, don't tell me my little game of possum fooled you, the master game hunter? No!"

"I saw you walk in that garage with my own eyes," Barton gritted.

"Yes, you did," Roarke said amiably.

Barton's already narrow gaze managed to narrow even more. "You cheated. There's no way you could have survived that explosion without using some special power."

Roarke shook his head, his expression now grim. "I don't need special powers to beat you, Mr. Barton. I simply walked out the back door of the garage—that simple."

Barton shook his head and quirked a reluctant half-smile. "You are proving to be a worthy adversary, Mr. Roarke," he complimented grudgingly.

"Does that mean you wish to try again?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"You're positive you won't try my soup?" Once more Roarke offered the bowl. "I assure you, it's quite good."

Barton eyed him, then the bowl, then barked, "Oh no. No thank you, Mr. Roarke." With that he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

"Mr. Barton," Roarke called out, halting the man just shy of the door, "enjoy your fantasy." He lifted the spoon to his mouth and tasted the soup, then smiled broadly. "Mmmmmm…" Barton just glared, then resumed walking. This time Roarke let him go, releasing a quiet breath and slowly setting the bowl onto the nearby counter. It was probably time to get back to the main house and reassure his assistant and his ward, who still thought Barton had succeeded in killing him.

They both let out cries of relieved joy when he walked in, and Leslie threw herself at Roarke and hugged him so hard he actually gasped. Tattoo grinned at her emotional display, then looked up at his boss. "How'd you get out of there alive?"

"I merely departed by the rear door," Roarke replied, "just as I told Mr. Barton. And before you ask, Leslie, he also knows I am still alive, so this isn't over yet." He caught the way her face fell and lifted her chin so that she was looking up at him. "Perhaps it's time to see how Miss Swann is doing, hmm?"

Having been assured by Suzi that the gumdrops were working fine and that she now had a date with another man for that evening, Tattoo went off to make some routine rounds, while a nervous and clingy Leslie insisted on returning to the main house with Roarke. Well aware of her mindset and willing to indulge her under the circumstances, he agreed; later he would look back and be glad he had done so, for when they entered the empty study, she stopped short at the top of the foyer steps. "How come your putting whatchamacallit is sitting under that chair? That's not where you left it."

Roarke looked past her and saw that she was right on both counts. "Stay here, Leslie," he said quietly and slowly descended the steps, approaching with care. He lifted the chair up and set it aside, then knelt and gingerly picked up the putting cup. It felt heavier to him, and he turned it over, only to find the bottom cavity packed with some claylike white substance from which a couple of wires had been attached to the lever that kicked the golf ball back out of the cup.

"What's that stuff?" Leslie asked from the foyer, where she could easily see.

"An explosive putty," said Roarke. "Quite powerful in fact, and very sensitive. Get me a set of keys, Leslie; I'm going to take this to the police station so that an expert can remove this for me. You'll have to drive, for I don't dare put it down."

This process took most of an hour, and when they got back Roarke sent one of his employees to tell Barton to come to the main house before dispatching Tattoo and Leslie on an errand to the fishing village. Since that was located almost all the way across the island, he felt secure in the knowledge that they should be well out of harm's way, for he wanted to confront Frank Barton alone with his spur-of-the-moment plan. Fortunately, Barton's twenty-four hours would be up soon after breakfast on Sunday; but Roarke had no illusions that this macabre hunting game would get any easier thereafter.

He was going through the index in an ancient book he had inherited from his parents when Barton walked in. Roarke turned around in the chair that had been standing over the putting cup when he and Leslie had found it and arose when he saw his guest. "Ah, Mr. Barton, do come in. Have a seat, won't you?" He indicated the chair he had just vacated.

"No thank you, Mr. Roarke," Barton said crisply and eyed him with his hands in his pockets, stony face as unsmiling as ever. "Why'd you ask to see me?"

"I thought it my duty to remind you that time is running out on your fantasy," Roarke said amiably, smiling.

Barton grinned that feral grin. "I'm well aware of that," he assured his host.

Roarke moved a few steps aside, remarking, "I was hoping you might reconsider and drop this strange obsession of yours." He noticed, but pretended not to see, that Barton had caught sight of the putting cup, which now sat innocently at the edge of the Persian rug on the floor; the grim, straight slash of Barton's mouth was the only indicator of his sudden tension, but to Roarke it seemed to fill the room.

The man looked up and scoffed, "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Roarke. I'm enjoying myself."

"You do remember, don't you, there will be serious consequences if you fail…"

"I remember," Barton said with a faux-relaxed chuckle.

Roarke strolled across the room and idly began tossing a golf ball in one hand. "I was hoping we might reach some sort of agreement. Frankly, Mr. Barton, I find it impossible to understand this…fascination you have with killing." Barton's gunmetal-blue eyes were fixed on the ball going up and down, even as he began to edge toward the foyer steps.

"It's not the kill, Mr. Roarke," he said tightly. "It's the excitement of the chase."

"Oh," responded Roarke in apparent understanding. "Oh, I see." He dropped a couple of balls on the floor, and Barton's axe-hewn features tightened abruptly. From the corner of his eye as he chose a golf club, Roarke saw Barton's gaze shoot back to the putting cup. Those scary eyes were wider than he had seen them since the man first arrived. So he can feel fear as well, Roarke mused.

"Frankly, it's conversation that bores me," Barton snapped suddenly, mounting the steps into the foyer.

"Mr. Barton…" The increasingly agitated hunter paused and glared impatiently at him, and Roarke smiled at him. "You should try golf. It requires skill, a bit of luck…and nobody gets hurt." With that, he prepared to make a putt.

Barton's alarm expanded tenfold and he barked, "You're wasting my time, Roarke." With that he made for the door and grabbed the knob—only to find himself locked in. He twisted and turned it insistently, to no avail, and then whipped his head around just in time to see Roarke hit the ball. It rolled neatly across the carpet and missed the cup by a mere inch.

Barton released the knob and actually let out a relieved sigh, venturing back to the steps and staring apprehensively at the gadget. Roarke looked up, and when he saw where Barton's gaze was trained, smiled and said, "I am appreciative of your concern over my lack of skill." Barton gaped at him; then, as Roarke prepared to make the next shot, he bolted for the door and frantically wrestled with the knob again.

Roarke tapped the ball across the rug and into the cup—which merely evicted the ball back in his direction, without incident. Barton, still holding the knob, took in the scene with a stunned expression. Roarke cast him a sidelong glance before casually going over and picking up the object of the other man's anxious attention. Turning to Barton, he remarked idly, "Curiously, I found an explosive device in this putting cup today. They are popping up in the most unlikely places. Who knows—anyone might even find one in…his own room." His gaze iced over, and Barton scowled. "Perhaps even your room, Mr. Barton. Oh, by the way, I believe the door will open now." He prompted Barton with a finger, and the hunter reached out and turned it easily. The two men eyed each other coldly for one long moment; then Barton slammed out.

‡ ‡ ‡

It had been a rather long evening; though Roarke's little red-herring remark to Barton should keep him busy hunting down a bomb, as it had been designed to do, there was the other fantasy to worry about. Hecker had tried to interrupt Suzi's date in order to get her to come back to work, only to have Suzi pop one of her gumdrops and let him have another dose of her temper. As it happened, Hecker's dresses for the fashion show had been stolen while he was interfering, and Roarke had had to placate the man before returning to the main house around ten-thirty or so. Tattoo met him there, having just returned from making routine checks at the hotel, restaurant and casino, and after he'd made his verbal report, Roarke sent him home for the night.

Just as Tattoo closed the door, Roarke pulled open the top drawer of the desk, setting off a loud bang that made him jump in his chair and ward off the smoke that drifted out. He waved it away, wondering idly in the back of his mind why there had been no reaction from Leslie, and blew out the small flame that had flared to life before noting a cassette tape recorder wedged inside. He pulled it out, set it on the desk and punched the play button, at the same time Tattoo barreled back in.

"Hope my little smoke screen didn't scare you," Frank Barton's voice said, lightly mocking, from the little speaker. "But I needed to get your attention. I'm raising the stakes, Roarke. I've got Leslie. I'll leave a trail for you to follow at daylight, so you can find us in the jungle. If you don't…your little girl will die."

Volcanic fury ballooned within Roarke and he jabbed the stop button, ejected the tape and slammed it onto the desktop. Tattoo crossed the room, round face filled with horror. "That…that swine! Un cochon! He's gone and kidnapped Leslie! What are we gonna do about it, boss?"

"As you heard," Roarke said tautly, "there will be a trail to follow at daybreak, but not before then. It's too dark to try to do anything now, and I don't believe Barton will take advantage of the edge he has over us at this moment. He's too enamored of the challenge I present to him."

Tattoo digested this at some length, nodding a little. "Do you think he'll hurt her?"

Roarke had to consider the concept for a moment or two; finally he shook his head in frustration. "To be perfectly honest, I don't know. But there simply isn't anything we can do about it till morning. However…" Tattoo watched Roarke's dark eyes narrow and grow black and icy with a towering rage. "As soon as we see the sun rise, I promise you and Leslie both…I'll pull out all the stops, and there will be hell to pay."

‡ ‡ ‡

Leslie had been jolted out of one nightmare into another, and she had the feeling she preferred the dream to what she was experiencing now. She was still wondering how on earth she'd ever fallen asleep in the first place; when she'd awakened from the nightmare she'd known she would have, it had been to the Halloween specter of Frank Barton standing over her with his hand across her mouth. He'd forced her to dress, then dragged her down the stairs and out to a waiting jeep, where he'd tied her wrists and ankles together and then deposited her in the front seat before driving away to who knew where. They had eventually arrived at the Enclave's access road, where Barton had turned in and driven all the way to its end, then through a crudely hacked-out jungle lane that terminated unexpectedly on a small hilltop. He switched on the high beams, illuminating a crude campsite he had set up. "There's your bed for the night, kid," he said curtly, indicating a sleeping bag on the ground some distance away.

He hadn't touched her other than to tie her up, which gave her a trace of confidence. "How am I supposed to walk with my ankles tied?" she asked, hoping she sounded reasonable.

Barton gave her a sharp look, then smiled that feral smile that rendered his mouth little more than a stark slash across his face. "Think you're as smart as Roarke, do you? You can't outwit an old hand, little girl. Wait right there." He got out and came around to lift her out of her seat, carrying her over to the sleeping bag where he dumped her, none too gently. Leslie kept her face averted from his, afraid it would haunt her dreams for months to come. As if I don't already have enough nightmares, she thought dismally.

She laboriously wriggled her way into the sleeping bag while Barton used the light of the headlights to string up wire like a low fence all the way around the campsite. Wide awake, Leslie had nothing else to do but watch him; he was oblivious till he had finished, then saw her staring. "Go to sleep, kid," was all he said before dousing the lights and leaving their camp bathed in the light of a full moon.

Despite the bright moonlight and her apprehension, Leslie eventually did doze off, only to be rudely awakened a second time the next morning when Barton grabbed her under the arms and bodily dragged her out of the sleeping bag. "Can't risk you running off," he said, almost cheerfully, and tightened the bonds she already wore before toting her across the grass and tethering her to a ninety-foot palm at the edge of the campsite. She tried to stay calm, wondering what he had planned.

To her surprise, he gathered some supplies together and vanished down the hillside. She supposed he was setting up booby traps, but didn't waste time dwelling on it, instead struggling fruitlessly to loosen the rope around her wrists. She had come down to trying to tug it loose with her teeth when Barton returned long enough to assemble a detonation device nearby, beside a rifle and a box of ammunition. He noticed her watching and leered at her. "I've got lots of surprises planned for your guardian," he announced, his grin widening when she glared back at him. She was still scared, but she was more than a little fed up with this man's repeated attempts to destroy them. "This entire area has been booby-trapped."

"Figures," she muttered, scowling. "I'd sure hate to be in your shoes. Mr. Roarke's gonna be absolutely furious."

Barton let out a mirthless one-note chuckle. "Good. Then he's more likely to make a mistake. But if he gets through…" He eyed Leslie with a look of demented anticipation. "We'll all go to hell together. I'll blow the top of this hill off."

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke had found it necessary to talk Tattoo out of accompanying him, reminding him that Barton was simply too dangerous an adversary to let him allow his friend to risk his life too. "I'll need you here to call in reinforcements," he had said, "because now that Barton has committed a crime with his kidnapping of Leslie, it's time to bring the authorities into this. But I want you to wait until you hear from me."

Tattoo had sighed deeply and finally acquiesced. "All right, boss, all right…but you better make sure you get yourself and Leslie back safe."

Now, having followed the trail Barton had spent hours setting up—unquestionably instead of, or at least after he'd finished, hunting for the nonexistent bomb Roarke had tried to distract him with the previous day—Roarke was climbing the hillside, scanning every inch of vegetation for clues. When he spotted a broken palm frond, he made a mental note of it and began to minutely watch the ground. Sure enough, he stopped just short of contacting a thin white line across the ground and knelt down to examine it. Ingenious, Mr. Barton—a tripwire for a land mine. All right, two can play that game. He pulled open the pouch he carried over one shoulder and removed a ball of string, unwinding a few inches of it. Carefully he tied the end in a loose loop around the wire, then rose and gingerly stepped over it, making sure both feet were well clear of the wire as he moved. Then he crept along the path, unspooling string as he did so.

For a good half hour Barton paced the edge of the hillside, staring out over the treetops. Leslie, having given up on trying to loosen the ropes, found herself scanning the countryside as well. It was deceptively peaceful; she could hear all the usual noises created by life in the jungle, and the sky was clear, sunlight drenching everything in a cheerful glow. So when the explosion came, it startled both of them. Leslie sat up and gasped in horror, her stomach taking a sickening dive. When Barton turned around and aimed his feral smile at her, she actually felt the nausea rise in her throat.

"So much for your Mr. Roarke," he said with malicious triumph. Leslie swallowed back the bile as tears distorted her vision; she could no longer meet the man's gaze.

Down in the trees, Roarke gave Barton time to think he had won, studying the collection of strings in his hand. Each of the eight cotton threads had been tied to a different tripwire; one now hung limp, having served its purpose. He glanced up the hillside after a few seconds, then deliberately tugged on a second string. Another explosion went off.

Barton, shocked, whipped around to gawk at the rising flames and smoke from this new detonation. Leslie lifted her head, tears still in her eyes, and blinked them away just in time to see a tree topple over with a creak and a thud. Had an animal accidentally caused that one, or could it have been…? She closed her eyes and held her breath, hoping and trying not to hope all at the same time.

A third boom sounded and then a fourth, hard on its heels. Leslie's eyes flew open and she let the hope have its way. No animal could be responsible for all that! Barton gaped incredulously over the landscape, disbelief and frustration rapidly increasing. Two more land mines blew up, and then yet two more; Leslie actually giggled even through her shakiness from her instinctive fear of loud noises, thrilled to realize her guardian must have foiled Barton once again.

Barton clearly reached this conclusion too. New fear filled Leslie when he picked up his shotgun and began firing madly into the jungle below. "Where are you?" he yelled, his voice rasping with the fury of being outmaneuvered over and over again.

Just then Leslie saw her guardian push aside a fern and step into the clearing; she lit up with joy and relief. Barton shouted, "Where are you, Roarke??"

"Here, Mr. Barton," Roarke replied deliberately. Barton cranked around and started to raise his gun; Leslie had no time for a warning. Roarke wasted no time either, lunging forward and socking the man heavily in the gut. Barton doubled over in agony and dropped his rifle, and Roarke took swift advantage and landed another hard blow between his shoulder blades, felling him. He lifted his head and glared at Roarke.

"It's all over, Mr. Barton," Roarke said quietly.

Barton's gaze shifted and he half crawled to the nearby detonator. "Look out!" was all Leslie could scream before trying to shield herself with her tied-together hands, certain they were seconds from death. She heard Barton shove the plunger down, but silence reigned; it was as if even the nearby wildlife had stopped chattering. She peered cautiously over one thumb to see Roarke gazing down at Barton with pity.

Barton crouched there, glaring back, his hair falling into his eyes and his clothing askew; finally he rasped, "You had to break the rules. You used your special powers."

Roarke shook his head a little. "No, Mr. Barton," he said, lifting one hand. "I beat you with a pair of scissors. Yes, I cut the wire to your dynamite charge under this hill."

Barton lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the hillside. "No! It's not fair!" he cried, leaping off the edge and scrambling around in a desperate search for his severed wire. "It's not fair!" He ran around a tree in his way and suddenly tripped and fell over something. Roarke could see what happened, but all Leslie got was the man's outraged yells and the sound of a rope whipping through the air before a huge net, containing a hopelessly trapped Frank Barton, drifted into sight above the hilltop, looking oddly like the sun coming up in the morning. The tree Barton had dodged slowly straightened itself, lifting his trap as it did so, so that Barton was at least ten feet off the ground.

Roarke proceeded to ignore the spectacle and Barton's enraged yells, kneeling beside Leslie and pulling out a knife with which he sawed through her bonds. "Are you all right, Leslie? Did he harm you in any way?"

"No," she said, shaking her chafed wrists as the rope fell away. "No, he just really scared me. I'm okay, Mr. Roarke."

"Good," he replied wholeheartedly, tugging the knife neatly through the bonds on her ankles and helping her stand. "It seems to me you held up very well throughout this ordeal. Didn't I once tell you?…you're stronger than you think you are, and you've proven it again."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she muttered, glancing back at Barton, still flailing ineffectually in his own snare. "Every time you set off one of his land mines, it startled the heck out of me. I really hate sudden loud noises, didn't you know that? I don't even like thunderstorms."

"Indeed!" Roarke said through a laugh. "Well, perhaps one day we can find a way to cure you of that. In the meantime, why don't we go down to the Enclave and ask one of our winter residents if we can use his telephone. We will need to get word to Tattoo that both you and I are safe and sound, and have him send the police over here to pick up our guest."

"Amen to that," Leslie said emphatically and hugged him. "Thank you for coming for me, Mr. Roarke."

"You need hardly thank me for that," he told her. "It's all a part of keeping you safe and happy and well. I brought a rover here, so why don't you drive the jeep Mr. Barton brought you here in, and we'll make the call to Tattoo and bring the vehicles home." Willingly Leslie loaded the sleeping bag into the back of the jeep and climbed into the driver's seat with Roarke settling in beside her, and as she started the engine, Frank Barton's enraged roars rose over the noise of the motor. Leslie stuck her hand out the window and impishly waved at him, making Roarke burst out laughing as she pulled out of the clearing.