INTRODUCTION:
He called the Tuesday before and his voice seemed a little nervous. However, as proficient an actor as Rollin Hand was, no female but Cinnamon Carter would ever notice. "How are you spending Thanksgiving?" he asked, perhaps a bit too casually.
She thought the call odd. Cinnamon hadn't really heard from Rollin on a personal basis since October 31st, during Jim Phelps annual Halloween get-together, and he expressed his opinion on her horror story, which was actually quite real and personal for both of them.
After the party, only twenty four hours later, she had gone to Paris for a fashion shoot. It was always important to keep up her cover as a high fashion cover model. When she returned there were no messages from any of her workmates, including Rollin. Later, Barney told her he had a new nightclub act in New York, a two week run. Again, they had to keep up appearances. She smiled pleasantly at the news but was a little disturbed Rollin hadn't told her himself. Perhaps it was his way, she thought at the time, of confirming they were no more than what they were. Workmates.
"Thanksgiving, hunh?" She said, taking a short drag from her cigarette as they spoke , "Oh, I don't know. Barring a call from Jim about a new mission I am thinking about a quiet sabbatical at home; just me, a glass of wine, and a good book."
"No family visiting?" he asked.
"No." She knew this was leading up to something, "You?"
"I'm taking a trip up to Redder Falls, renting a cabin, and thought to get in some fishing."
"Oh, I see. It will be chilly this time of year." Cinnamon then paused before asking, "Taking a friend?"
"Funny you should ask …" he cleared his throat ever so slightly, "I was wondering if you might like to come up with me. They tell me it's a beautiful area."
Cinnamon closed her eyes before asking in a light tone, "I take it the girl you originally asked bowed out at the last minute?"
"Not at all." He said quickly, with a little humor in his voice. "Cinnamon, I just thought it'd give us an opportunity to talk. It's been a while … Remember how it was when Dan had us work together?"
Dan Briggs, their former IMF chief exploited she and Rollin's connection for the good of their missions together. They worked well a part but when they got together, worked on assignments that involved an intimate chemistry the couple could not be equaled.
Oddly, Jim Phelps did not really see it. Rollin often found himself the odd man out, Jim preferring to play the husband or lover, when a mission called for it. Cinnamon noticed their leader's penchants too but never questioned it. He seemed to know what he was doing and most of their missions together were a resounding success.
However, at the moment, what Cinnamon was remembering was a twenty year old girl in New York, a fledgling model, and the charming young actor that swept her off her feet. She told Rollin at the party that a girl never forgets her first lover.
"I recall you wanted more from me in those days than just talk." She chuckled ever so slightly. "I don't think either Dan or Jim would approve."
Rollin spoke delicately, but again with wit. "Everyone wanted more from you … and they still do, obviously." Then, a little more seriously: "No expectations here, Cinnamon." He added, "I saw the floor plan. The cabin is cozy but has two bedrooms, a bathroom with running water and a kitchen with a full larder. Rustic but full of charm. I heard it was once owned by an affluent family."
"Are you inviting me as a guest or do you want to sell me the place?"
They both laughed lightly as Cinnamon pondered it. Rollin was one of the few men who thought of her in terms of "roughing it" in the deep, dark woods. Most men had notions of wining and dining her, spending money on expensive gifts, and taking her to dinner at sophisticated restaurants – with the hope of getting lucky. She had to admit it was part of Rollin Hand's charm that he felt her deeper than a costly meal or a string of pearls.
"When would we leave?"
"Tomorrow evening. It will take us a few hours to get to the village near the cabin. We'll check into a motel, I'll pick up the keys, and the following morning we're off to our mini lodge and some of the best salmon you've ever prepared."
"And what makes you think I know how to cook salmon?"
"I think you can do a lot of things others don't know about. I've seen you …"
"Forget it. Pick me up at 6pm. Don't be late, Mr. Hand."
"You bet." Rollin smiled warmly as he hung up the phone.
Cinnamon took another puff of her cigarette after she dropped the hand-piece into its cradle – and she also smiled.
Chapter One
It was a beautiful evening and the drive was lovely. It was November and the weather, while chilly for Southern California, was not as cold as it was going to be in December and January.
Redder Falls was about twenty miles north of Big Bear Mountain in the Inland Empire, surrounded by a small community of locals who thrived on tourist trade. Despite this, the residents seemed to dislike anyone who was not a native of their mountain population.
Cinnamon and Rollin found the motel with little error, which was good because few were willing to give them accurate directions, and they checked into their rooms. The couple tossed bags onto their beds and changed into comfortable clothes. Rollin was a little surprised when Cinnamon drove up with him, wearing a warm mink coat, but had to laugh when she told him she never goes anywhere without it. That part of her character would probably never change. But now, as she stepped out of her room, walking over to his own, he saw she had changed into a pretty dark dress and an overcoat. Somehow, she still managed to look classy and gorgeous.
Always sensible, he thought. "Ready?" he asked and took her arm.
They walked together to a simple but lively neighborhood pub. It was still early evening and both admitted to being hungry.
"Did you get the key?" she asked him.
"No, the manager was out of his office. I'll pick it up tomorrow morning."
The pub had dancing and lively music that bordered on imprudent but it was all in good fun. The locals appeared to be having a great time. Rollin steered Cinnamon to the back, to a quieter area, and they both scooted into a booth. They looked about, noting some rustic tavern basics like dark oak paneling and a stuffed moose head on the wall.
By the time the waitress arrived the couple had already been chuckling about how Ernest Hemmingway might write about the village if he had visited it during the pinnacle of his career. Rollin noticed how some of the villagers were looking at them, probably curious or predictably entranced by Cinnamon's beauty. They ordered a couple of rare steaks with coffee and, for later, a peach pie dessert.
When she left them, after a quiet pause, Rollin reached over and took Cinnamon's hand in his. In Los Angeles he would never dare to be so bold, fearful of the wrong eyes spotting them. But here, where no IMF leader, including "the secretary", would hardly care to travel, the couple felt a little safer in demonstrating their bond. "I am so glad you decided to come with me." He said, "I've missed you."
"Rollin, you always know where to find me." she murmured.
"Was never sure you wanted to be found."
She nodded her head gently, "It's confusing, isn't it?"
They had this conversation before. Back in their early years with the IMF, when Rollin had recommended Cinnamon as an agent, a young model wanting more than to be a pretty face, they talked about their careers. Both agreed, as fond as they were of one another, they needed to concentrate on "the business" and not each other. It did not seem a hard thing to do at the time. They worked well together and apart - and both led their own lives. They remained friends, even went out to dinner occasionally, and although there were moments during missions when they could not disguise longing, they understood being hands off with one another was for the best. Becoming too involved would just unravel an already potentially passionate partnership.
But now …
They smiled gently and looked into each other's eyes.
"How are you doing?" The man approached their table, his hand held out in greeting. He wore a Sheriff's uniform.
Rollin shook it and said, "Very well, thank you."
He introduced himself as Aaron Moore and told them he was also the manager of the cabin they were renting. "I knew you the moment I saw you, Mr. Hand." He said, "Saw your show, Mable's Feast at the Shubert a few years ago." He then produced a key and slid it over to him on the table. "Do you mind if I join you for just a few minutes?' he asked.
"Not at all." Cinnamon said.
He pulled a chair up to their table, "I don't mean to be an alarmist." He said, "But I thought it only fair to give you a warning."
"A warning?" Rollin asked.
"It's your cabin. It has a rather infamous history."
"Really?" Cinnamon glanced once at Rollin then to Sheriff Moore.
"It belongs to a family call McCaukey and was built over a hundred years ago. It's been updated over the last twenty years with electricity and running water but in its heyday it was a somewhat rural but still better than most residents in these parts." Moore paused and looked a little uncomfortable, "They say it's haunted."
"Haunted?" Cinnamon appeared amused.
"Don't laugh, Miss. The McCaukey ghost is legendary in this area. You see the family …"
He paused as the waitress brought Rollin and Cinnamon their meals.
"Go on." Rollin said when the girl left them.
"The McCaukeys were a very wealthy immigrant family that moved up into these hills, had the cabin built, with hopes of striking gold. Because of his wealth, Byron McCaukey pretty much usurped the individual gold-panners of the day. But, to his credit, he did hire many to work the mountain on his behalf. Lot of people liked him for that. Others did not." Moore sipped from the warm cup of coffee the waitress brought him, "He had this beautiful daughter that a local man, James Johansen, fell in love with. McCaukey did not like him and he told Johansen to stay away from his girl. Seems Madelyn loved James too and they did not listen. The pair tried to run off and elope. They were caught and because Madelyn was seventeen, McCaukey had Johansen put away for two years for corrupting a minor. A year later Madelyn married a wealthy banker and they moved away."
"I think I see where this is going." Rollin said, looking from Sheriff Moore to Cinnamon.
He nodded, "When Johansen came out of prison the first thing he did was come to Redder Falls, to the McCaukey cabin, and he attacked Byron McCaukey. Somehow, McCaukey grabbed a rifle and shot a retreating Johansen in the back. His dying breath was a curse on the McCaukey name. He said he would find them all one day and destroy them. Some say James Johansen's ghost still wanders those woods and around that cabin, searching for McCaukeys to murder."
"What happen to the family?" Rollin asked.
"One by one they died off. There was a son that moved away. He got married and he has a descendent, a Mr. Roger McCaukey. As a matter of fact, I manage the cabin for Mr. McCaukey."
Rollin could not help his disdain, "Obviously the ghost was not a man of his word if the McCaukey line still exists."
"Roger McCaukey never married. He's fifty now, not in the best of health, and is the last of the McCaukeys. Once he's gone so is the line."
"Why are you telling us this story?" Cinnamon asked, frankly curious.
"Just a warning. We've had others that rented the cabin. None of them stayed any more than two nights. They said they could hear voices outside their bedroom windows, men arguing, screams, and the last couple to have the cabin said they heard a gun-shot." He shrugged. "If you're squeamish I can see if another cabin is available."
"No, that's okay." Cinnamon smiled coolly and looked at Rollin, "You would be surprised by how UN-squeamish Mr. Hand and I can be."
Rollin returned her smile. It might be an interesting weekend in more ways than one.
TO BE CONTIUED.
