§ § § -- March 12, 1983
No one spoke on the way back to the main house; Leslie's temper was at such a boil that Tattoo was afraid to say anything to her, while Roarke didn't even appear to notice her rage at all. When they did arrive, all he said was, "We'd better change our clothing for the first competition." Tattoo sighed loudly and detoured to his own car to make the trip to his cottage so he could do so. Leslie and Roarke walked into the house in a heavy silence, which he broke only when they were inside. "Why didn't you come out with Tattoo and me?"
Leslie only shook her head. "What right does she have to call out a vendetta on you, Mr. Roarke?" she demanded. "And what's more, why are you letting her get away with it? I have to tell you…I'm so fed up with people trying to get their little piece of you or this island. That Douglas Picard last year, with his prehistoric deed to the island, claiming it was really his. Then that sadistic madman Frank Barton a few weeks later. And last November, that TV reporter trying to prove a claim of fraudulence. Now we've got this woman who wants you dead—and you're letting her try to kill you!" Her voice rose to a nearly hysterical shout. "I'm sick and tired of these crazy people coming here and threatening you and this island and everything that means anything to you and me and Tattoo! Why can't they just accept the vagaries of life and get on with theirs…and why can't you make them do it?" With that, she raced up the stairs, ignoring his sharp calls for her to come back.
She slammed the door to her room, stripped and changed into equestrian attire, fury driving her every move. What in the world was the sudden attraction to this island for people with axes to grind, she wondered? Was it possibly Roarke's, and Fantasy Island's, fame among celebrities and other rich people? Was it the kind of challenge that those with sick minds found impossible to resist? She just couldn't understand the onslaught of attacks against Roarke and the island; she felt buffeted, unprotected, as if the foundations of her life were being shaken. "Again," she snapped aloud, hurling a shoe across the room and feeling perversely satisfied at the loud thud it made when it connected with the wall. "Once isn't enough, it's gotta happen again. That woman better watch herself." Fuming, she retrieved the shoe and finished dressing.
She returned to the study and found it empty; Tattoo came in several minutes later, but to her relief he said nothing. Neither did Roarke when he arrived; he glanced at the girl staring out a window, her back to the room, but merely crossed the room to the desk and picked up a riding crop before pausing at the shutter doors. He was aware of Tattoo's gaze on him as he relaxed against the doorjamb and considered the situation, absently fingering the crop.
"Boss, why don't you let me call the police?" Tattoo demanded when the silence became too oppressive for him.
"Because I can't, Tattoo," Roarke replied flatly.
"Then why don't you leave the island?" Tattoo persisted.
"Because Mrs. Walgren's coming here has placed her in a very vulnerable position. I can't leave her unprotected." At this Leslie's temper blew again, but she determinedly held her silence; the only sign of her effort to control was a full-body flinch.
"You're the one who needs the protection!" snapped Tattoo in disbelief.
Roarke glanced at him and at Leslie, then pushed himself off the doorsill and said, "Well, it's time for the 'friend or foe' competition; I should be getting out onto the field."
Tattoo kept trying. "Boss, let me judge the games. I know what I'm doing. If you go out there, you'll be like a sitting duck!"
Roarke's expression softened. "Don't worry, Tattoo, I'll be very careful." Tattoo released a resigned sigh and subsided at last, unable to think of any further arguments, and Roarke smiled, settling into one of the club chairs. He glanced again at Leslie, who seemed to have planted roots where she stood, and spoke in a gentle tone. "Leslie, sweetheart, come here, please."
The endearment, so rare coming from either him or Tattoo, caught her attention as nothing else would have; she slowly turned and stared at him, then shuffled to the other chair and sat, her face still filled with rage. He drew in a slow breath, then turned to Tattoo and entreated quietly, "Tattoo, please trust me. We've been friends a long time, haven't we?"
"Yes," Tattoo said, "and that's why I can't understand why you're acting this way." His gaze dropped and he added reluctantly, "It looks like you have something to hide about Mr. Walgren's death."
Leslie folded her arms over her chest, then sat up straight when Roarke confessed in that same quiet tone, "I do." He met Tattoo's stunned gaze, then Leslie's, and repeated, "I do." Yet he was smiling, and they looked at each other and back at him, more baffled than ever.
"So does that mean you're gonna just let her try to kill you, then?" Leslie demanded.
Roarke sighed and took her hand. "You and I must find time to discuss your earlier outburst, but unfortunately there's none now. We're going to be late if we don't leave this moment. But I can promise you this, Leslie: I have good reasons for doing what I am doing, and I would appreciate your trust as well as Tattoo's. Can you give me that?"
She blew out a breath of annoyed resignation and grumbled, "Just once, I wish you'd tell us your secrets up front, instead of driving us insane with suspense and enjoying the results all weekend long."
"I'm with her," Tattoo said emphatically, and Roarke laughed and ushered them along out the door.
‡ ‡ ‡
Not being an athlete, Leslie was more than willing to remain with Tattoo according to Roarke's explicit and very stern instructions; but she didn't like having her guardian out of her line of sight in view of what he faced. One idea that Tattoo had insisted upon, and refused to back down on, was to keep in touch with Roarke via walkie-talkie; and when Roarke had seen Tattoo stand his ground, he'd given in. Now, at the stables in front of yet another of last summer's additions, improvements and renovations—a barn built in the same Queen Anne style as the main house—Tattoo checked in with Roarke, his voice stern from a strong sense of urgency. "Boss, they're moving to the third position. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Tattoo," Roarke's voice crackled through the tiny speaker. "Don't worry, the competition's almost over."
Leslie snorted in a very unladylike way, and Tattoo rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, he says." He stalked away muttering in agitated French, and Leslie followed, peering over her shoulder into the trees. Her preoccupation with Roarke's whereabouts served to spare her the sight of Vanessa Walgren, decked out in army camouflage and carrying a crossbow and arrows, sauntering along the judges' tables in front of the boards that listed the contestants.
Well hidden in the trees, Roarke watched her as she cantered down the path; something snapped somewhere nearby, and she whirled and shot the crossbow without even thinking about it. The arrow landed smack on the tiny target painted on the cardboard cutout of a charging bear. She relaxed, glanced behind her and continued on. Roarke lifted the walkie-talkie and said low, "Tattoo, three more points for Mrs. Walgren."
Inside the barn, Tattoo lifted his clipboard and made the obligatory note. Leslie watched him do it, then peered out the window, half wanting to see what was happening and half afraid she would.
Roarke cantered slowly on, carefully scanning the trees; fortune seemed to be on his side, for he caught a glint of sunlight off something hidden in the foliage. Instinct drove him to rein in the horse just as he heard a twang; half a second later an arrow thunked into a tree mere inches from where beast and rider stood. Roarke whipped his head around at the sound; the horse shied, rearing in an attempt to throw him off.
This happened just within earshot of the barn, though all Tattoo and Leslie heard was the horse's panicked squealing. Leslie ran to the window anyway, and Tattoo seized his walkie-talkie. "Talk to me, boss! Are you all right?" he demanded urgently.
Roarke, too involved in trying to stay mounted and regain control over the horse, didn't reply. After a few moments he took advantage of his mount's fright-generated energy and spurred him into a panicked gallop; now he could see the person who had tried to shoot him. The man frantically reloaded at all the speed he could muster, but when he stood up and aimed, it was already too late. Roarke had managed to turn his horse in his attacker's direction, and as they flashed by, he lashed out with his riding crop and caught the man in the upper arm, knocking the crossbow out of his hand and the man himself to the ground.
The horse had finally expended enough energy for Roarke to regain the upper hand, and he reined in, wheeling around to face the felled man. "Get off my island, Mr. Powers," he snapped, pointing the riding crop at him to emphasize his anger. "Now."
Powers got up and fled, leaving the crossbow where it lay. Roarke watched him go, still too worked up to hear Tattoo's frantic yelling into the walkie-talkie. In the barn, Tattoo finally grew too frustrated to stay put any longer and, dropping the clipboard, ran from the barn, Leslie right on his heels.
In the clearing, Vanessa Walgren strolled out of the foliage, and Roarke dismounted, giving the now-quiet horse a couple of calming pats. He glanced into the trees after the vanished Powers, then turned back to her. "Give this up, Mrs. Walgren."
She stared narrowly at him, shook her head just perceptibly, then yanked her own crossbow into firing position. From the tree a few yards behind Roarke, a life-size cardboard cutout that bore his own image flashed into view, thumping into place. The sound made Roarke flinch. She pulled the trigger, and her arrow landed on the target, right through the heart. Roarke turned to stare at it, then at her, actual alarm registering in his eyes for the first time. The ghost of a smile flickered across her face at sight of it, and she said, "Next time you won't be so lucky." So saying, she strolled back into the trees.
She was no sooner gone than Leslie raced out of the woods, followed by Tattoo who was laboring to keep up on his shorter legs. Once they got past the horse and saw the target, they both came to a screeching halt. Leslie gaped; Tattoo turned from the target to Roarke and burst out, "Boss!" Roarke glanced at him, swallowed visibly and turned away. Leslie bit her lip; only once before had she ever seen her guardian's composure shattered—at the death of Helena Marsh—and it was unnerving.
Roarke judged the martial-arts competition after lunch; unusually, he was as much on edge as Leslie and Tattoo were. He had been much less ruffled by Frank Barton; the hunter's madness had driven him to overt attempts to take Roarke's life, making it easy for Roarke to outwit him. Vanessa Walgren was another matter. She was clearheaded and completely sane, driven by grief and an unshakable determination to see the end of the man she was convinced had murdered her husband. Consequently, he had to remain sharp and alert throughout. However, the competition went off without incident, with Vanessa taking the championship as she had in the dressage contest.
The recreation center in Amberville, with its large main room suitable for formal dances and large banquets, was the scene of the fencing tournament; the final match was in progress. It was now past eight o'clock and darkness had fallen. As the judge, Roarke closely followed the movements of the two opponents as they advanced on each other across the mats, blades flashing and clanking with rapid regularity. At last one blade made contact with the mask on the other fencer, and Roarke called out, "Touch…and match!" He approached the winning fencer, whose mask came off to reveal Vanessa Walgren. At the far end of the room, Leslie and Tattoo watched in a tense silence. Leslie was scowling; the room had been so quiet that she could have sworn her sharp ears had picked up a hissed "Now!" just before Vanessa Walgren made her winning touch. But she wasn't sure enough to tell Roarke.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Walgren," Roarke said, polite as ever, but his voice distinctly frosty. "You win again."
Her opponent, Henri Ducette, approached her and shook her hand. "Mrs. Walgren," he acknowledged with a British tinge to his speech. "Mr. Roarke, I should like a word with you outside. It's really most urgent." Roarke watched him leave, then turned to Vanessa and gave a chilly nod which she returned. Excusing himself, he started after Ducette.
Tattoo and Leslie met him by the board displaying the names of the remaining contestants, and Tattoo began, "Boss…" Roarke held up a hand to stop him and then placed the same hand on his shoulder for a moment, without ever breaking stride. Tattoo and Leslie watched him go; then Tattoo turned away with a resigned look and found Vanessa watching them. He must have sensed Leslie stiffen behind him, for he cast a warning glance at her over his shoulder; she met his eyes for only a second before looking away.
Roarke found Vanessa's opponent standing some distance away from the building beside a small round table on which stood a lit candelabra. Lying crossed in front of it were two sabers. "Join me, please, Mr. Roarke," the man suggested, handing Roarke a brandy snifter. Raising his own, he said, "To your health."
Without responding in kind, Roarke asked coolly, "Exactly why did you want to see me, Mr. Ducette?"
Ducette put down his glass and lifted one of the swords, bending it experimentally. "I thought that would have been obvious by now."
"Obvious?" Roarke repeated, his tone quietly ominous. "The only thing that is obvious is that Mrs. Walgren is no match for you. You're the world's fencing champion, and yet you deliberately let her win."
Ducette nodded faintly. "Two hundred years ago, it would have meant something to be the greatest fencer in the world. Today, it's meaningless. Soon, I will be too old for competition. I have hundreds of medals, but no money." Roarke's stance relaxed slightly and he nodded in apparent understanding. "Forgive me," Ducette concluded, "but I want—I need—that million-dollar bounty, and I'm willing to kill you to get it."
Roarke regarded him for only a second before putting down the snifter. "I am in no mood to play games, Mr. Ducette." He started out of the clearing.
"Roarke," Ducette called, and Roarke paused, giving the man a questioning look. Ducette tossed a saber at him, which he managed to catch by the handle, and said, "Don't walk out on me now. It would take all the fun out of this."
Resigned, his expression icy, Roarke slowly removed his tuxedo jacket and tossed it aside, then loosened his bow tie and threw it to the edge of the clearing with a sharp movement that betrayed his simmering anger. Ducette gave an odd little grin of anticipation and began to circle, preparatory to the first thrust; Roarke moved correspondingly, releasing the top two buttons of his shirt. He finally stopped and lifted the sword. "En garde," he said.
Ducette touched his blade to his forehead and replied, "À morte…to the death." And the battle was on.
Inside the building Tattoo murmured, "What's taking so long?" Leslie shrugged, her eyes on the door through which Roarke had exited, till a movement attracted her attention and she watched Vanessa Walgren leave through a side door.
Something in the way the woman walked, some odd purpose to her step, set off an alarm in Leslie and she touched Tattoo's shoulder. "Tattoo, did you see…"
"Yes, I did," Tattoo said, scowling. "Come on, we'd better go see what's happening."
They came upon a sight that halted them at the edge of the clearing; the swordfight was fast and furious, and it was fairly clear that Roarke had the upper hand at the moment, even if only because he was literally fighting for his life. Apparently too frustrated to assure a fair win for himself, Ducette reached behind his back and tugged a knife out from under his shirt. Standing at their left, at the end of another trail, was Vanessa, whose fanatical whisper of "Kill him, now!" was audible to them. Tattoo's eyes widened with horror.
"Stay here," he muttered to Leslie. "I'm going for help." He turned and fled in the direction they had come; Leslie found herself gawking at the grisly scene playing itself out before her, unable to move or look away.
Ducette brought his left hand out from behind his back and made a desperate thrust at Roarke's abdomen. Roarke caught his wrist and arrested the motion before it hit home, mustered a desperate burst of strength and somehow threw the man off. Now with his long wicked knife firmly pointed at Roarke, Ducette resumed the rhythmic thrust-and-parry of all sword matches, giving Roarke a chance to regroup slightly.
But Ducette wouldn't give up. Once more he brought Roarke to a standstill, forcing Roarke's fencing arm high in the air, and jabbed again with the knife. Roarke caught the movement as before, but Leslie could see the men's wrists shaking with their respective efforts and clutched the trunk of a nearby tree to stay on her feet.
Ducette put extra power into his push and overcame Roarke for just a split second, but that was long enough for the blade to tear a small but bloody hole in Roarke's side. Nausea overwhelmed Leslie and she was forced to battle it back with repeated, frantic gulps, which at least kept her too busy to scream and thus perhaps fatally distract her guardian.
Roarke's rage and desperation grew in tandem and he twisted in such a way that the knife escaped Ducette's hand and fell to the grass. Not ten seconds later, Roarke sent his opponent's blade flying from his other hand and instantly pressed his advantage, backing Ducette to the edge of the clearing.
Providentially, Tattoo returned exactly then with two members of the island's police force. The lawmen took over and Roarke finally was able to lower the sword and relax his stance. Tattoo said, "Boss, I'll make sure he leaves the island right away. Take him away!" The cops dragged Ducette with them down the nearest path, and Leslie bounded into the clearing, too intent on her guardian to notice Vanessa still looking on.
"Boss, are you okay?" Tattoo asked anxiously. Breathing a little heavily and holding his left arm against his side in an unnatural way, Roarke nodded and handed Tattoo his sword, then went to confront Vanessa.
"Please," he said, quietly but urgently, "stop this while you still can, before it turns on you, hurts you."
"I've already been hurt," Vanessa retorted frigidly. "I don't have any feelings left."
"Oh, I believe you have. Very deep feelings."
She glared at him, frustration putting some heat into her eyes. "Stop acting like a saint," she said disgustedly. "You're not a saint, you're just a man." She glanced down, lifted Roarke's arm away from his side and raised knowing eyes to his. "You bleed, Mr. Roarke. And if you can bleed, you can also die." She held his stare for one long moment before turning and stalking away. Slowly Roarke lifted his hand, stared at the blood that trickled down toward his wrist, and then at its source, a dazed look about him.
"Mr. Roarke?" he heard Leslie's tentative voice, and blinked once or twice to see her and Tattoo standing in front of him, anxiety making road maps of their faces. He stared back and forth between them, feeling strange and faraway somehow.
"Don't you think we should take him to the hospital?" Tattoo hinted strongly.
Leslie started, brought to sudden attention, and nodded hard. "I'll drive," she said, badly frightened at the look on Roarke's face. "I think he's in shock."
But Roarke, focusing on her, shook his head firmly, restoring some semblance of reality, reassuming his calm and gathering his dignity about him. "No, that won't be necessary. Just take Tattoo home and then we'll go back to the main house, Leslie. It's only a surface wound." At this her face cleared and she released a deep sigh of relief.
"But you're bleeding like crazy!" Tattoo protested.
"Superficial flesh wounds bleed a lot, Tattoo," Leslie said, surprising both him and Roarke with her knowledge. "My sister Kelly was constantly getting scraped up, and she used to bleed all over the place, but when Mom got it cleaned up it always turned out to be something minor. Does it hurt a lot, Mr. Roarke?"
"Oh, I expect I'll be sore in that spot for some time to come," Roarke admitted, pressing his hand gingerly against the area and wincing slightly. "But there's no real damage. Come, now, we're through here for tonight. Tattoo, my friend, please don't keep yourself awake the entire night fretting. All three of us will need to be alert and refreshed for tomorrow, and lack of sleep is not at all conducive to that."
"I'll try, boss, but you know how I am," Tattoo said, finally getting a faint smile from Roarke. "Okay, let's go home, and Leslie, you take good care of him."
She grinned suddenly. "Depends on what kind of patient he is," she quipped, and they shared a quiet laugh. "I could use some sleep, and I know you could, Mr. Roarke."
By the time she had helped Roarke clean and bandage the small wound, she had grown pensive again and stopped her guardian in the upstairs hallway. "I'm starting to think Vanessa Walgren is a little disturbed in the head, just like that Frank Barton," she told him. "She's so cold to you…no sympathy at all. And you know, she seems a bit like a coward to me. She's willing to pay others to do her own dirty work."
Roarke decided it might be a good time for that discussion he'd mentioned that morning. He reached out and combed back her hair in a very fatherly gesture that made her smile; then he inquired, "Tell me something, Leslie, what exactly are your feelings toward her?"
She stared at him, plainly brought up short by the question. After some consideration, she admitted, "My off-the-cuff answer was going to be hatred—sheer, overwhelming hatred and fury at her for what she's trying to do to you. But I suppose that'd be stooping to her level, wouldn't it?" Her gaze broke and she stared into space, thinking; knowing her last question had been rhetorical, Roarke waited patiently.
Finally Leslie confessed, "I told her yesterday that if she managed to kill you, I was going to put a bounty on her head so she'd see what it felt like. I guess that was pretty stupid." She waited, but he remained silent, and at last she ventured to look up. "But I don't think it affected her one bit. In fact, she probably laughed her head off when we were gone. What's a seventeen-year-old girl gonna do to her?"
"That seventeen-year-old was showing her love and loyalty, that's all," Roarke said gently. "There is still a ferocious anger in you, Leslie, and I believe that what fueled your outburst yesterday can be traced to something that lies much deeper within you, something you still aren't ready to face."
"You mean…how I feel about Michael Hamilton?" she asked.
He nodded. "I truly do understand your anger and resentment of Mrs. Walgren, and yes, your fear of her as well. She does present the façade of a cold and unfeeling woman, but it's a front; she is acting out of enormous grief and rage. Such emotions can drive us to do things we would normally never consider."
"But she's letting it get out of her control," Leslie reflected, and caught his approving nod. "I guess we're all going to have some battle scars by the time this weekend is over."
"Both inside and out," Roarke agreed wryly, glancing at his bandage, and he and Leslie both laughed softly. "Enough for now. Let's get some sleep, and perhaps tomorrow will make things seem a little better."