1. Chapter 1

_**The Halloween Story.**_

_A Mission: Impossible fiction._

* * *

He lived in Los Angeles California and loved it. It was October 31st and warm enough to leave his balcony doors open. A comfortable breeze blew in, rustling the Halloween decorations but not interrupting the jazzy but slightly eerie music coming from his high fidelity stereo.

Every year Jim Phelps held a Halloween Party in his lush high-rise apartment. Invited were both friends and workmates. His friends did not really know what he did for a living, something to do with the government was all they knew, and the people Jim worked with did not know where Phelps had met his friends, those he usually socialized with outside of work. Neither group asked uncomfortable questions, possibly feeling they should not, and Phelps was thankful.

So far, fifteen minutes before midnight, all was well.

He watched as Barney Collier served a cute redhead, Carla Stone, from a cauldron of red bumbling brew, which was actually warm rum. The young woman had come in with Rollin, giddy and obviously a would-be starlet of some kind. Phelps did not think she was his type and it grew obvious the longer they stayed. The girl wandered off to talk to a man and woman closer to her own age and Rollin, always a performer, was engaging a small crowd with some magic tricks.

Willy, lighter on his feet than one might think, was dancing with a couple of fetching young women, possibly the daughters of Alex Curron, a friend from Jim's sports club.

Phelps visually search for the female member of their IMF team and was not surprised to see her backed into a corner of the room, a glass of white wine in her hand, talking with a group of men, some unmarried and others not, who were more than intrigued by the sophisticated blond beauty. Jim thought of rescuing her but then got a better idea. He decided to use his own form of distraction. "Attention!" he called, lifting his hands. "We're getting close to midnight and that means … it is story time."

There was a gentle applause.

"A ghost story, Jim?" A jolly man called from near his terrace's glass door.

"Yes, but instead of _me_ telling a tale of fright this year - how about one of you?" He looked at Cinnamon, "Maybe a female perspective?"

She briefly made eye contact with him and nodded, both her approval and thanks. "I have one." She said, extricating herself from the men's ineffectual clutches. She handed her drink to one of them and pushed forward.

Rollin lifted his head, hearing and seeing what was happening, and smiled his apology. "Excuse me, I want to hear this." He said to his disappointed audience. Like others, he sat on the long sofa in the middle of the room as the partygoers gathered around. He saw Carla move off onto the balcony with the couple she had been speaking with. He was glad she found someone who could withstand her constant yammering. He would not have invited her to the party but her mother was a friend of his landlady's and he did it as a favor.

Cinnamon was escorted by Phelps and stood near the fireplace, taking center stage.

Some people at the party wore costumes, Rollin himself came in with a cape, but Cinnamon wore a simple but attractive green gown, which matched her beautiful eyes. Rollin watched her hesitate as the story began, making eye contact with him, almost as if she was remembering something and asking approval. Curious, he mimed his consent.

"This is about a young woman. We will call her Cynthia. She came to New York as a fledgling model and, for a time, lived in an old apartment in a dilapidated building, which she shared with another girl a little older than myself. I mean _herself._"

Cinnamon smiled gently at the murmur of snickers from her audience.

* * *

She was still taking college courses while modeling to pay for her schooling. Both Cinnamon and her roommate, Patricia Crandall, were on a very tight budget. Cinnamon took the bus or subway everywhere to get to her assignments and classes. Often, while modeling, she reported into a photography studio on Forty Third Street – and sometimes it was very late by the time she finished a shoot.

One night, after a long session where she wore little more than a black leotard and held a can of baked beans, Cinnamon was excused. Before she parted, the laconic photographer – Rudy - bluntly told her very few of the photos taken in the three-hour shoot were usable. She should not expect to receive a large commission from this shoot. Still, whatever came in bought groceries. Cinnamon noticed very little money, other than rent, appearing from Patricia's position as a background dancer in a nearby nightclub.

It was dark in the building by the time Cinnamon removed her makeup and changed into a blouse and skirt. Rudy had packed up his gear and probably thought she had already left. Cinnamon, purse strap over a shoulder, walked into the dimly lit hall and was suddenly startled still by the screech of something on the tiled floor.

"Is someone there?" she called. There was no answer so the young model continued down the hall until she once again heard the noise, followed by an odd slurping sound.

Nervous, Cinnamon rounded a corner and immediate felt relieved. It was the janitor, his back to her, mopping the hall floor.

* * *

"Oh, that is so unfair!" a nervous woman in her late thirties cried. She sat to Rollin's right and chuckled along with everyone else, "I thought you were going to have your young model attacked by some kind of a swamp creature."

Cinnamon's tone was light. "No, not quite."

"Please continue." Willy urged, his two companions by his side, as enraptured as the others.

Again, Cinnamon glanced at Rollin who, once again, nodded.

Phelps saw the motion and it occurred to him Rollin must already know the story.

* * *

"Are you going home now, Miss?" The janitor turned and looked at her. He was a smiling but somewhat grizzled old man. "It's nice night for a walk home."

"Yes," she said, a hand on the staircase rail, pausing on the top step. Cinnamon smiled sweetly at the janitor. Strange that she had never seen him before. "You have a good night …"

"Alfred. My friends call me Al."

"Alright, Al … I'll be back on Thursday."

"Oh Miss," He approached her, "There is an old fashion bar – a tavern really – right across the street from this building. You should try it out some night after you're done. It's a nice little place … and relaxing. A lot of fun people are inside. I go there myself occasionally."

Cinnamon looked at him oddly for a moment. It seemed an innocent enough suggestion but Cinnamon could not help feeling slightly unnerved by Alfred and his peculiar gap-toothed grin. "Well, thank you. I might do that some night."

"Why not _tonight_?" he asked.

"I am afraid I need to get home. I have class early tomorrow morning and I still have homework to do."

"A student, eh? What are you studying?"

Cinnamon felt a little more relaxed and lifted the book in her hand. She had hoped to crack it open between film loadings but never really got a chance to turn a page, "Tonight it's economics." She said.

"I was always fond of anatomy and biology when I was a youngster. Well, there is always tomorrow." He said with a wink and turned back to his mop and bucket.

Cinnamon nodded, wondering if his comment was innuendo, and continued her walk down the stairs. When she got outside she looked to where the tavern was located and frowned ever so slightly. In the light of the street lamp she saw it was a shorter brick building between two larger sky scrapers. It looked dark, the windows painted over and she heard nothing, no music or conversation, coming from inside. It seemed abandoned. Surely, Al was mistaken.

Suddenly, Cinnamon felt an unnatural rush of air to the back of her neck. A coldness and sense of dread overcame her. Frightened, she nearly ran to the bus stop. She was lucky enough to catch the bus just before it left. With a deep exhale, Cinnamon clutched her book and purse. She was grateful to be in a vehicle with other people. There weren't many; an older lady with a straw hat, a man looking out of his window, puffing on a pipe, and there was another gentleman behind her. She saw him briefly, dressed in black, but he really had no discernible features. Still, she was with a _group_ and her mother would be happy about that. She had always told young Cinnamon to never go anywhere in the big city without friends and acquaintances around.

"You never know what fiend is out there." Cinnamon murmured quietly to herself.

Once back in her apartment, Cinnamon was pleased to see long limbed Patricia, pajamaed and eating a bowl of ice cream, watching television.

"Hey roomie, how'd the shoot go?"

The apartment was small. There was a tiny living room and kitchen connected together, with their two bedroom doors in close proximity to their fine common area.

"Good." Cinnamon placed her book on the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator door to get a glass of milk. She felt a little foolish now, allowing her imagination to get the better of her. "My check will be ready by tomorrow but I'll pick it up on Thursday." Despondent, Cinnamon looked at the milk bottle. If she hoped to have a bowl of cereal tomorrow morning she better not drink any milk tonight. She closed the door.

"Uhm …" Patricia turned from her position of the ratty sofa and held the bowl tautly between her hands. "Do you think you could pick it up after class tomorrow?"

"Why?"

"I came up a little short on rent last month and Mrs. Proctor, kind soul that she is, gave me a couple of weeks to make it good … but I owed someone some cash and he sort of insisted I give it to him right away."

"Pat …" Cinnamon rolled her eyes, "You did _not_ gamble your part of the rent money away, did you?"

"It was a sure thing."

"Obviously it was _not_."

"He took advantage of me."

"A card shark?"

"No. Dice up against a wall."

"What?!"

"He was charming and sweet and he made me want to join in. Before I knew it all my money was gone."

Frustrated, Cinnamon bit the inside of her lip and calmed herself. There was no point in getting upset. It would serve no purpose. Patricia was not usually so delinquent but she did have eyes for handsome men and they, in the process, usually walked all over her. Besides, if it wasn't for Pat's kind heart Cinnamon might not have a place to live. She practically picked her up off of a bus bench when Cinnamon could find an apartment, within her budget, to live. And, over the last three months, Pat usually kept their fridge well stocked with nutritious food – although lately Cinnamon noticed a sorry lack of fruits and vegetables.

"Okay, I'll get it tomorrow. But afterwards I'm going to your club and meet this rogue who robbed you of your hard-earned cash."

"Oh good, we can go home together!" Patricia piped, seeming unaware of her friend's ire.

"Who is he? A waiter?"

Pat nearly laughed. Sometimes Cinnamon, although younger, reminded her of Mother. "Yes and you'd like him!" She watched as Cinnamon turned and placed her hand on the knob to her bedroom door, "He also MC's a lot of the on stage talent. He's going to be famous himself one day. His name is Rollin Hand!"

* * *

"What was that name?" Barney asked, lighting a cigarette as he listened in near the beverage cart.

"Robert Clark." Cinnamon repeated.

"Is he the ghoul that's going to attack her?" an excitable girl to Willy's left asked.

"Patience." Rollin said, calmly. He said nothing else but eyed their story-teller with a knowing gaze. To anyone else he simply looked like a man who wanted her story to continue without interruption. However, both Cinnamon and Phelps watched him curiously, one with a mild smile and the other somewhat suspiciously.

"Go on, Cinnamon." Barney urged.

* * *

It was a Tuesday evening and Cinnamon was pleased because the vendor on the corner of their street always sold cheap but fragrant loafs of Italian bread in the mornings on Wednesdays. She would go down first thing tomorrow and bring a crusty loaf up for she and Pat's supper that evening. If nothing else, they had bread, butter and coffee. Pat might also bring home a leftover cake or pie from the club if they were lucky. Usually, when one or the other received a check or cash, they would celebrate with a big-time meal but, seeing as how this check was going to rent, they would not be as blessed this month.

Cinnamon tried to study in her room but was having a hard time concentrating. She needed to ace this next quiz because she had done so poorly on the one this morning. Cinnamon never really studied for her Economics course the evening before. She was tired and irritated at Pat - and also a little frightened.

Just after she changed into a nightgown, prepared to open her book, Cinnamon looked down into the street outside her apartment window. She and Patricia were on the fourth floor, always an arduous walk up with heavy books, but it gave Cinnamon a clear look out onto the sidewalk.

There she saw a man. He was dressed in black with a dark hat and gloves. It was a warm October night but he seemed comfortable as he hovered outside, pacing back and forth. At first Cinnamon did not think too much about it. Although their street was usually quiet she was still in the middle of the city and people wandering about at all hours was not truly unusual. But, as she started to read her book, pacing much like the man outside beside her bed, Cinnamon recalled the dark man who sat behind her on the bus. No, that could not be him, could it? She never recalled him getting off the bus with her.

Cinnamon stopped her movement and looked up from her book, struck by the thought. Again she looked out of the window.

No one was there.

Relieved but also a little puzzled, Cinnamon slept fitfully that night.

* * *

_Continue ... (soon)._


	2. Chapter 2

(2)

She did as she promised, going directly to the studio after class the following day. There she met pert Monica, the studio's accounts payable secretary and sometime modeling agent. She also owned the studio and was all smiles when seeing Cinnamon walk through the entrance.

"You must have got word." Monica called as she approached. "I didn't think they got up early enough to call you so soon."

Cinnamon nearly laughed. Monica had a rather raspy voice and wore far too much makeup and jewelry but she was a funny and fair lady. "I'm just here to pick up my check. I haven't received word about anything yet, Monica." Cinnamon smiled back, her tone airy despite the two heavy books in her faux leather book-bag.

"Ah ..." Monica pulled an envelope from a file and quickly handed it over, "Take a look, Sweetie."

Curious, Cinnamon ripped open the packet and saw there was a letter along with her check. She looked at the check first and if she had been told she was related to the Queen of England she could not have looked more surprised. "A thousand dollars?" she gasped, "For three hours of work?" She looked over at Monica, unbelieving.

"Rudy overnighted the photos after they were developed and we got word this morning. The soup and baked bean company _loved_ your photos. They said you have the nice, fresh look they are looking for, coupled with sophistication. Apparently you're good for the kids and great for their parents as well." Monica chuckled, "If you're getting a thousand you can just imagine what the advertising company is receiving."

Cinnamon was dazed. She had never been paid so much for a single shoot and she had been modeling for nearly a year. She then opened the sheet of paper that was with her check. "Fran Williams? I've heard of her."

"Of course you have. She runs one of the biggest modeling agencies in New York. She's been watching you and loves your stuff. She wants you to work for her. Normally I'd tell her to take a hike, you're ours, but when an opportunity like this comes a calling I can't be greedy. You deserve it, kid."

"I'm so busy. I don't know if I could …"

"Honey, she can get you on covers of magazines like Vogue, Elite and Lady Beautiful. I'd consider it if I were you."

With a stunned and grateful gulp Cinnamon slid the letter and check into her purse, "Thank you, Monica. I'll think about it."

"Oh!" she called before Cinnamon walked away, "Don't forget, you have a shoot first thing Monday morning with Ardan."

"Monica, I go to school Monday in the morning. You know that. I told Ardan I would model for him after 3pm."

"Okay, I'll remind him."

Bemused, Cinnamon walked from the studio and when she was outside she once again looked over to the tavern. It did not seem as foreboding during the day as it had last evening but also did not look as if it was occupied. What was it about that place that made her feel it was waiting for her?

"Hey, girl."

Cinnamon jumped at his greeting. It was Alfred, wearing a slightly tattered green overcoat, and he appeared to be going into work. "How are you?" she asked.

"Arthritis is causing problems but otherwise I'm fine." He looked to where she was gazing. "Thinking about going in?" he asked.

"Alfred, it really does not look like its open." She said, frankly.

"Just the way the owner likes it. Why don't you go take a peak?"

Cinnamon sighed and shook her head, "I'd love to but unfortunately I have to get to the bank _then_ I'm off to the La Joya Nightclub to pick up a friend." She looked at her watch, "And I'm running late. I'll be back on Monday. Take care!" she called as she saw her bus and ran to catch it.

She did not see the annoyed frown on Alfred's face as they parted.

* * *

Sitting on the bus, Cinnamon felt good. She read the letter again and could not help feeling flattered. She wondered what her parents would say if she decided to put her education on the back burner for a bit while she modeled full time. They might argue but Cinnamon reasoned that she could earn good money and help them with her college tuition then, when she returned to classes, that hardship would be taken away.

And the very idea of modeling for Elite was amazing!

With a start, Cinnamon realized she was at her stop and she quickly stood, making her way down the stairs. She glanced up once and was taken aback when she realized a man, dressed entirely in black, had been sitting directly behind her during the whole drive. She had never seen him when she sat down.

* * *

"Oh, that's creepy." Carla had come in and sat alongside Rollin on the sofa. She and her friends had rejoined the group when it started to get cooler on the balcony. Now, they too wanted to listen to the scary story being told in the living room. She entwined her arm with Rollin's and leaned against him. "So, is this man in black a ghost of some kind?" she asked.

Cinnamon had to smile. Rollin looked wholly uncomfortable at this moment and the next part of her story was for his benefit.

* * *

With an effort, Cinnamon attempted to forget the man on the bus. She was certain her imagination was playing tricks again. So there were more than two men, in the middle of New York, who enjoyed wearing back. Who was to say it wasn't a fashion statement of some kind? Perhaps wearing head to toe black, along with a hat and gloves, was a new fashion trend? She would have to ask Monica about it.

She quickly went to the bank and deposited her check then walked a few blocks east to get to the nightclub. Cinnamon walked in, waved hello to Gordon behind the counter, and looked at Pat and the other girls as they did an odd sort of can-can dance that turned into some kind of modern piece. They were doing rehearsals during the afternoon. Pat called Selma, their troop maven, a slave-driver. Cinnamon had to admit that the girls really did look tired.

With purpose, Cinnamon wandered over to the bar and spoke with Gordon, "I'm looking for someone. His name is Rollin Hand."

"Ah, the actor."

"I heard he's a waiter."

"Most actors are, you know."

She nodded with a cool smile and gently batted her eyelashes. Cinnamon knew the effect she had on men. If she tried hard enough she could get them to do nearly anything she wanted. However, she was not brought up that way and could not even think of using her charms on a man in such a sordid manner ... unless it was important. And this, she felt, was very important. Cinnamon took it upon herself to save Patricia's reputation, even if her friend - not often the brightest woman in the world - did not see the need.

"He's here. There was a matinée for a lady's club so he came in to work it. Rollin should be leaving soon."

"Good. Where is he?"

"Probably near the kitchen."

"Thanks." Cinnamon began to move away.

"Umh, you really shouldn't." Gordon said, slightly nervous. "The boss doesn't like people who don't work here wandering around."

"Don't worry." Cinnamon wiggled her hips ever so slightly, "If he asks, I'll just tell him I got lost."

Gordon laughed. She was pretty enough to get away with it. He would love to ask her out but Cinnamon Carter was way out of his league.

With purpose, Cinnamon crossed the room and caught Patricia's eye. She winked at her friend then entered into a long hallway. Cinnamon knew the kitchen was to the left while the dressing rooms were on the right. She nearly passed by an open door when she heard an Italian accent call: "Rollin, they say they need more. Oh, my Matilda! What am I going to do?"

"Mickey, I wish I could give you more money but I'm entirely tapped out. Have you tried going to the bank and taking out a loan?"

"I have no …" He struggled to remember, "They say I have nothing to put up for collateral. If I had something I would sell it." He said, exasperated.

Cinnamon stood in the doorway, listening and looking at the two men. They were standing by lockers and were a vast contrast. One man was short, heavy, and had seen his best years at least a decade ago. The other was younger; tall, lean and darkly handsome. Both were changing out of their waiters shirts into day wear.

"Can I help you?" A man came up behind her and Cinnamon jumped. He appeared to work in the kitchen. His head was covered with a white cap.

"I'm waiting for a friend."

"You best wait out in the dining area." He said, with a bland expression.

Cinnamon suddenly realized both Rollin and Mickey were looking at her and she felt a little embarrassed. The Italian gentleman seemed merely curious but Hand was grinning, obviously interested. Cinnamon nodded and left them to go back where she started from.

She watched Pat on stage for a while then, slightly distracted and confused, Cinnamon walked out of the front door and decided to have a smoke as she paced the sidewalk. She wasn't certain what to think now. It seemed like Mr. Hand's friend was in dire straits and Rollin was giving his money to him. She did not know who Matilda was but she seemed to be gravely ill.

Taking a drag on her cigarette, Cinnamon looked across the street and was startled. There stood the man in black. He was looking directly at her, his skin pale and his eyes looked … _red_. Cinnamon gasped and she was overcome with a sense of dread. She shivered.

"You should be wearing a sweater." he said.

Cinnamon looked up and there stood Rollin Hand. He was wearing a coat and, she noticed, was also smoking as he smiled charmingly at her. "I'm not cold." She said then looked from him to the sidewalk across the street again, "There's this man …" But he was gone. "He's been following me." She faltered a little.

"That makes sense." Rollin's smile faded a little when he realized that she seemed genuinely frightened. "Where is he?" he asked, looking with her.

"He's gone now." She murmured.

"Who's your friend?"

"What?"

"You told Tony you were waiting for a friend." He reminded.

"Oh, Pat … I mean Patricia." Cinnamon floundered a bit and was angry with her clumsiness. Certainly the man in black was frightening but she suspected it was Hand himself that was making her heart flutter and the skin under her turtleneck turn pink. She had almost forgotten that she was here to read him the riot act. "Pat said that you cheated her out of some cash the other evening." she blurted.

"I've never cheated anyone out of money."

Cinnamon stood a bit taller and her expression grew firm, "She works hard for a living and just because she finds you attractive and fun to be with is no excuse to engage her in games of chance, just so you can liberate her from her cash. She has bills and rent to pay, you know."

"You're talking about the pretty dancer with the long legs, right?"

Cinnamon nodded.

"Pat's a nice girl but I warned her that the games we play aren't for amateurs. If she can't afford it she should never play. I told her that up front."

"She was trying to impress you." Vexed, Cinnamon tossed her cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it out with the heel of her shoe, "And you took advantage of her." Then Cinnamon sighed ever so slightly, "But it was to help your friend, wasn't it?"

"Yes." He admitted and looked at Cinnamon with a wry smile.

"Is Matilda very ill?" she asked, her tone softening.

"Yes and she needs a special medication to get well again. It's expensive."

"Is she his wife or daughter?"

"No, but she's like a member of his family." Rollin suddenly chuckled, "She's a horse."

"Horse?!" Cinnamon was dumbfounded.

"A race horse Mickey sunk all his bills into. His wife is furious and if Matilda doesn't get better before the next big race he will have lost everything – including his wife. She threatened to go back to her mother in Italy."

"Is that the truth?" Cinnamon asked, suspiciously.

"Could I make something like that up?"

Now, both of them chuckled.

"How much does he need?"

"About two hundred dollars."

Cinnamon looked at Rollin, eyes wide, "Why so much?"

"I told you. It's a special medication." He shrugged, "I'm only going by what Mickey said."

Cinnamon thought about it a moment. She could now see why Pat was so taken in by this man. He had a way of making a woman feel at ease and his eyes were amazing, an incredible blue. "Are you going home?" she asked.

"I don't have to." He said. Rollin was not a man to bypass opportunity and this young woman was not just pretty, with her blond hair and sweet figure, but she was smart. He had known too many chorus girls and actresses who were nice to look at but were hardly brainy. "Have something in mind?" he asked.

"How would you like to take out two lovely young women tonight?"

"Two?"

"Patricia and myself."

He looked at her oddly for a moment, "As wonderful a proposition as that is, I'm afraid I can't even afford to buy myself dinner tonight."

"Oh, that's right. The _horse_." Cinnamon lifted a brow and gave him a cool gaze for a moment, "My treat then. I think I can afford three blue-plate specials at Sophie's."

He knew the diner and had eaten there before. "You come into some money?" he asked.

"A little. And I want to see Pat's face when you give _her_ back her money."

His mouth opened to say something but he stopped. She was a good friend and he agreed.

Cinnamon knew a thousand dollars, although a lofty sum, did not go too far in the big city of New York but it went far enough to elevate her friend's self-esteem, pay the rent, get groceries and, if she was real careful, it might also aid an old sick horse.

The couple walked once again into the La Joya. Patricia would be ready to leave soon.

Red eyes followed their every move.

* * *

_**Continue ...**_


	3. Chapter 3

(3)

Cinnamon was very pleased with the way things progressed over supper. The diner was busy but not so loud they could not hear one another speak. At their table, Rollin sat across from both women and eloquently told Patricia he felt awful about her losing money during the dice game and wanted to make it right. He then whipped out his wallet and gave her what she lost. Cinnamon looked from the wallet and cash to Rollin. He truly was a good thespian and she admired what she considered part acting ability and part warm sincerity.

Earlier, Cinnamon had used her charm with Gordon, the bartender, and wrote a check for him to place in the cash register. Meanwhile, she gave the cash Gordon produced to Rollin and he, in turn, gave it to the delighted Patricia.

"See, I told you it would work out!" She elbowed her roommate and watched, slightly disappointed, as Cinnamon took the money from her hand.

"I'll pay Mrs. Proctor when I get home tonight." Cinnamon said, tucking it into her purse.

Rollin chuckled silently, watching the young woman work. As well as being beautiful she really was a pleasantly crafty girl. He liked her and was confident enough in himself to imagine she might have similar feelings for him. "I'm springing for dessert if any of you ladies are keen on something sweet."

Patricia said, "Better not. Selma said she's noticed I put on a few pounds – and I have to get back to the nightclub." She saw how Rollin looked at Cinnamon and decided she should give the couple some time alone. "I still have a show to do tonight. But you two kids stay here and have fun." Pat shimmied out of her seat and stood. "I'll be home late." She winked at Cinnamon and gave a little wave to both before she left.

Cinnamon looked at Rollin and smiled, shaking her head back and forth in charming bemusement. A small shock wave was sent through her shoulder length hair and, in habit, Cinnamon twisted a blond tuft around a finger then let it go. It was obvious Patricia was playing match-maker and she appreciated the effort, although right now Cinnamon already had enough on her plate. Starting a new relationship with a man, as charismatic and handsome as he was, would only add more anxiety to an already stressful existence. "I'm really not in the mood for desert but I'll have another cup of coffee." She said, quietly.

Rollin motioned for the waitress and she filled their cups.

"But I do have something for you, Rollin." Cinnamon spoke with a low, throaty voice, sounding provocative. She did not know it yet but in the future the tone she used this chilly night in October would be utilized to seduce anyone from an illegal arms dealer to an East European country's "absolute" ruler.

"Do you now?" He reached over to take her hand but was side-tracked when Cinnamon brought her clutch purse up on the table and pulled out a piece of paper. She placed it in his hand. "What's this?"

"I wrote it while we were waiting for Pat at the nightclub. It's a two hundred-dollar check for Matilda. Get the medication so your friend's wife won't leave him." Cinnamon settled back in her seat, satisfied, waiting for his reaction.

Rollin blinked, the smile fading rom his face. "Cinnamon, you can't do this."

"Yes, I can. It's like you said, I came into a little money and I want to help." When she did not see his face brighten with gratitude Cinnamon asked, "You were telling me the truth, right? Matilda is a sick horse?"

"Yes, but …"

"Then that's the end of it." Cinnamon sipped her warm coffee.

Rollin looked at the check a little longer, tempted, but then squared his shoulders. "Look, Mickey had fifty and I just gave him fifty. We'll come up with the rest." He folded the check in half and scooted it on the slick table top over near her purse.

Perturbed, Cinnamon reached for her checkbook, "Fine. I'll write a check for one hundred dollars then …"

Almost forcibly, he put a hand on the purse, stopping her rummaging, "No."

There was a taut silence between them for a count of ten as they looked at one another. Cinnamon said, "I'm not doing this to be thanked or to hold something over your head, Rollin. O_r_ because I enjoy throwing myself into lost causes. I really just want to help." She watched as his lips pressed tightly together in agitation. "Why don't you want my help?" she finally asked. When he said nothing, merely continued to look at her."Isn't my money good enough for Matilda, Mickey or … _you_?"

He tried to make her understand, "You are a beautiful young woman, with little money, and a lot of kindness – to a fault." He slid his hand away and allowed it to rest near his coffee cup. "Mickey got himself into this trouble and needs to get himself out of it. You don't even know him. He would never allow a woman …"

"Oh, a _woman_?" Cinnamon thought about it for a moment, and eyed Rollin steadily. "Some men are like that, I guess." She smiled in a confidential manner and leaned over the table, "Tell him _you_ came up with the money. I don't mind, Rollin. Really, I don't." When he looked away from her, still hesitating, Cinnamon began to suspect there were other reasons Rollin Hand was making this simple situation so complicated. "It's not _him, _is it? It's you. Rollin, you really can't see yourself taking money from a female, can you; at least not one that's willingly handing it over? If you can't get cash or other favors by using your charm and cunning you don't want it. Why? Does it make you feel cheap?"

Rollin looked sharply at her.

Cinnamon's voice was still low but it took on an accusing timbre, "Perhaps you feel prostituted by my contribution? I'll tell you what, Mr. Hand, in a couple of days I'll return to the nightclub and you can pay me back for this sumptuous meal we've just eaten." Her hand lifted, indicating the dirty plates not yet picked up by the waitress. "Will that make you feel better?"

"Cinnamon …"

"By then you'll be paid – then _I_ can present the check directly to Mickey." Annoyed, Cinnamon laid cash down for their meals then began to scoot out of her seat, "I'm sure he won't have the hang-up you seem to have. As a matter of fact, I'm sure Mickey will be over-joyed that someone really cares about his future!"

"It's not that. I …" Rollin followed her out of the diner, "Cinnamon, listen to me."

"Why should I?" She walked quickly in the direction of her apartment building, feeling hurt and under-valued. A half-moon was high in the night sky and the street lights were lit. It was unusually busy for a Wednesday night. Cinnamon did not know why Rollin's opinion of her meant so much. She did not even know him that well. Then her mind added, 'But I guess I know him well enough now.'

"Okay, I'm sorry." Rollin tagged along by her side, "I have pride. I don't like to take money from women who are just scratching by – the same as me. I admit I'm stubborn but you, my dear, have a temper!"

Cinnamon slowed slightly, "I also have prospects." She said and exhaled, calming herself.

"I admire your generosity." Rollin said, "But if it falls apart I don't want you see you hurt. If you're anything like Patricia …"

"I'm not." Cinnamon slowed even further and looked up at him, "She's the type that would give her last dime to a drunk that asked for it. I, however, would want to know what he intended to do with that dime – buy food or wine. I'm much more practical than you might think, Mr. Hand. I'm giving you and Mickey the cash for Matilda because I trust you _and_ I know where to find you if that trust is taken advantage of."

Softly and with a bit more awe, Rollin said: "I believe you."

A layer was lifted and a wall broken down between them. Cinnamon spoke her next words in a gentle manner, "Your chivalry is out-of-place. But, it is …" A smile trace her rose-colored lips as she again looked up at him rom under her blond bangs, "… kind of nice in its own misplaced sort of way. Maybe I misjudged you but you did some misjudging too."

They stopped at a street corner, waiting for the light to change so they could cross. Rollin said, "If it means that much to you then I'll take the check for Mickey and tell him an anonymous donor is lending it to him. You will get your money back when the horse wins – okay?"

"I guess that's a fair compromise." She beamed.

'She has a beautiful smile.' Rollin thought. He took her arm and squeezed it gently. He was glad she seemed to understand him better. Still, there was something about Cinnamon Carter that did not make it easy for Rollin to accept her financial backing. Perhaps, more than any other woman he'd met in a long time, he wanted her respect. But also, Rollin thought distractedly, he would not mind covering that pretty smile with his own lips.

The light changed and they started to walk when Rollin felt Cinnamon's arm stiffen under his hand. "Wha …" he started but then saw what had alarmed her. She had mentioned a man in black who was stalking her and there he was, standing on the corner, waiting. "Come on, I'll talk to him." Rollin said.

"But I …" Cinnamon dropped her purse and bent down to pick it up. The light suddenly and inexplicably changed and she could hear the squeal of tires and feel Rollin pulling her hand. She quickly scooped up the purse and they were to the other side of the street in seconds, just safe from on-coming traffic. _'Did he do that?' _She suddenly wondered and did not push away when Rollin put his arms around her, in alarm and protection.

Both looked around but did not see the man in black.

* * *

"Elusive, isn't he?" Jim Phelps quipped, taking a short drink from his glass. His words broke the tension in the air around them. He still stood beside Cinnamon and appreciated the nervous nods and laughter from his guests.

"What exactly does that dark man want from her?" asked Carla, "Or am I foolish to ask?"

Rollin could not help looking from his date to Cinnamon, who met his eyes.

Cinnamon took a breath, "Let me tell you."

* * *

Rollin accompanied her all the way home then walked up with Cinnamon, making certain her and Patricia's apartment was safe. "You need to call the police." He said.

"I will go to the police department tomorrow." Then, awkwardly added - "I'd call but the phone was turned off last week. Pat forgot to pay the bill." She cleared her throat, "I'll do that tomorrow too."

"Pat gets off at midnight tonight, doesn't she?" Rollin asked.

"Yes, she walks home …" Cinnamon took a breath, "Rollin, I hate to ask you but could you take her home? I really don't want her walking by herself. If some crazy guy is out there …"

"I can do that." He said, "But I don't like the idea of leaving you home alone."

"I'll lock the door."

"Do you heave a weapon?"

She walked over to a space behind the apartment door and lifted a baseball bat inscribed with the Yankees logo on its hilt.

He nodded, "That will do. What time is it?"

"About eight." Then, almost shyly she said, "Would you like to stay here a while and watch television with me? We can view the _Lucy_ show. They've moved to the country, you know." Then, "I made you go without dessert. We have ice cream. It's really good. It's Carmel. Pat swears by it."

Fifteen minutes ago Cinnamon Carter was furious with him, wanted nothing more than to escape his presence, and now she was not just anxious for his company but was displaying a sweet shyness that Rollin found compelling and adorable. "You don't have to ask twice. And I like ice cream – and I love _Lucy_."

* * *

_**To be continued ...**_

_(Nothing like illness and laying in bed for two days to get the fingers typing on a fiction. I hope you are enjoying this tale and thanks to you who have commented. I sincerely appreciate it. If all goes well, The Halloween Story should conclude soon. At least before Halloween. :) All My Best, AFL.)_


	4. Chapter 4

(4)

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity for Miss Carter. She resigned from Monica's agency but said she would finish her last assignment the following Monday, as promised. Meanwhile, she saw chic Fran Williams who welcomed her aboard and told Cinnamon, with great enthusiasm, the plans she had in mind for the young blond beauty, all of which was going to keep her very busy. "You will start next Wednesday. Prepare to be made up and fitted with a Dior suit."

Cinnamon dropped all of her classes. She had to. Phoning her parents with the news had been a trial but they were surprisingly supportive when Cinnamon explained her reasoning; signing on with _Williams and Associates_ was phenomenal and opened up a whole new world of opportunities. Even if she modeled for only a year, depending on demand, Cinnamon could make enough to pay off her college debts. However, she did promise her father she would save her money and go back to college once the modeling "gig" petered out. Cinnamon's mother, also pragmatic, reminded her that her slightly older cousin, Rachel, was now pregnant with her second child. She hoped Cinnamon was keeping her eyes open for a young man who might make potential husband – and father - material.

With the internal sigh of an ambitious girl who saw more in her future than that of wife and mother Cinnamon said, "Of course, Mom. I have to go now. Love to you and Dad." in a strained but chipper voice.

When Cinnamon wasn't paying bills, visiting modeling agencies, and having her phone service reinstate, she got to know Rollin Hand better. Ever since he had seen her stalker and rescued Cinnamon from on-coming traffic, she had not seen the man in black. She told Rollin, in a moment of romantic fun, that he was her good luck charm. Life appeared to be going her way and Cinnamon felt a combination of excitement and harmony filling her very being.

Matters were also going well for the new man in her life. The following day Rollin learned he was cast in an off-Broadway play, a comedy set in wartime England. It did not pay much and he was being billed fourth but it was a part that got an actor noticed and Rollin told Cinnamon big things could come from it. On Friday he brought Cinnamon to one of his rehearsals and she sat in the auditorium seats watching as the actors, scripts in hand, performed their way across the stage. It gratified Rollin to hear her sweet laughter and when a break was called he asked Cinnamon to go with him to the Brooklyn Museum that evening. They were having a special exhibit on the career of Lon Chaney Senior. "He was known as _The Man of a Thousand Faces_." Rollin told her.

"And that interests you?" she asked, sitting beside him on a bench outside of the theater. Cinnamon sipped warm coffee while Rollin smoked the last cigarette in his pack.

"When you're an actor learning how to change your face and voice is an asset. I want to learn it all, Cinnamon."

She gazed at him as he looked thoughtfully off into the distance. Rollin was more than an actor, she thought, he had talents that went beyond matinée performances and the card games she had seen him play (and very well) at the nightclub. One day, she thought, he would discover his true potential. "Rollin, how old are you?" Cinnamon suddenly asked.

"Twenty Four." He said, a little startled by the question. "Why?"

"Sometimes when I look at you – I don't know – you're such an enigma. You seem so much older than your years."

"I might say the same thing about a certain twenty-one year old model I know."

She chuckled, "If you're talking about me, I'm nineteen." Cinnamon said. "I'm going to be twenty next month though." She quickly added.

"Nineteen? Pat said you're twenty-one." He thought about it for a moment. It might have had something to do with getting Cinnamon into the La Joya and drinking spirits after ten pm. "You're so young to be so far from home." Rollin said fondly, "You have a lot of life to live, Cinnamon Carter."

"Maybe." She whispered, looking steadily at him. "But I've always been an over-achiever." As she spoke Cinnamon leaned in close and cocked her head in just a way to make it easy for him to kiss her - if he wanted to take advantage of the moment. She was pleased when he closed the distance between them. Unfortunately, the on-set of romance was dashed when Dave opened the theater door and told Rollin that break-time was over he was needed inside again. Cinnamon sighed as Rollin gave her a hurt look coupled with a shrug.

"Come on." He said, taking her hand. "It's getting cold anyway."

And they had time.

* * *

The couple went to a movie on Saturday, a cheap matinée, and Rollin sprang for popcorn as they watched some over-sized lizard eat Tokyo. Afterwards they walked the city, looking into boutique windows for items Rollin told Cinnamon he would never be able to afford. They then took the subway home. Rollin lived a few blocks away from Cinnamon and Patricia's apartment building but only a few streets from the La Joya nightclub.

Cinnamon asked him if he'd like to come up to her place for an hour or two but Rollin, although tempted, said he needed to go home. He still had to iron-out a few character problems with his part in the play and he was working the nightclub that evening. She nodded. Pat was working that evening as well. Now that she was no longer required to study for college classes Cinnamon told Rollin she would stay at home with a good book, maybe a classic, and a glass of white wine.

"The legal age for alcohol in New York is twenty-one." He reminded.

"I won't tell if you don't." she replied and waved goodbye to him before running up the brick steps into her apartment building.

Watching her, Rollin wished he had taken Cinnamon up on her offer. Alone in her apartment, who knows what might have transpired. Still, he had only known her for a few days, three really wonderful days, and all things considered this young lady needed time to simmer. He suspected when the moment was right, when simple intimacy and sweet nothings turned into passion, they would both find it not just rewarding but pretty incredible.

* * *

Cinnamon, with her hardback book and a glass of wine, reclined on the sofa, her head pillowed against a cushion. The soft buzz of a radio played in the background, the station set to smooth jazz. Cinnamon found it soothing. It was only 7pm but she had changed into a nightdress and robe early and liked the feel of its simple cotton fabric. Cinnamon found it humorously ironic that she was on her way to becoming a glamorous high fashion model yet, here on a Saturday night, she had nowhere to go. That wasn't entirely true. Cinnamon knew she could go to any number of places. This was New York City, after all, but she liked the idea of lounging by herself. The solitude was not something she often enjoyed and even the old building itself was free of the usual creaks and pings of bad plumbing and the enthusiastic shouts of neighbors, only slightly muffled by paper-thin walls.

When a knock came to her door, Cinnamon was a bit annoyed but also surprised. She had paid the grateful landlady their rent and she was not expecting any callers. "Who is it?" she asked from the sofa. There was no answer. Cinnamon placed her glass on a side stand and sat up. Cautiously, she stood and looked through the peephole but no one was there. Cinnamon then looked down and saw an envelope had been slid underneath her door. Carefully, she picked it up and opened it.

A hastily written note from Monica greeted her. She congratulated Cinnamon once again but also reminded her of the shoot on Monday afternoon, something to do with hats, and she needed to be there at 3pm sharp.

Cinnamon had no classes on Monday and she wished she had remembered to tell Monica she was free in the morning if the photographer wanted to see her then. It was too late now to call the studio. Monica had sent the telegram to her hours ago and, it being a busy Saturday night, it was just getting to the apartment now. On Sunday the photography studio would be empty. "Too bad." Cinnamon murmured to herself.

Rollin had Monday night free and it would be a great opportunity for them to get together again. Sunday he would be at the theater all day. Their play opened in a couple of weeks and they were taking full advantage of an unlocked theater and all the rehearsal time they could schedule.

Depositing the telegram on the side table next to her wine glass, Cinnamon was about to go to the kitchen and fix a snack when another knock came to her door. She looked up, curious. Not wanting to miss him if a currier was arriving with another message, Cinnamon tightened her robe and trotted over to the door.

She opened it without looking into the peephole.

Her worse nightmare, dressed in black from head to toe, stood directly in front of her. He was tall and menacing, his face pale but deeply shadowed, and his eyes were a strange, nearly a luminescent red. The man stared at her and was breathing irregularly.

Cinnamon was so shocked she grew mute and could not move, merely returning his stare.

Then, he said: "Why have you not gone to the tavern?" in a hoarse voice that was ominous, demanding and did not seem like it was of this world. "Go there _sooooon_."

Finally, Cinnamon cried out and slammed the door shut.

* * *

The two girls, standing next to Willy, leaned in closer to him and a strained quiet, more from fright than respect, pervaded Jim Phelps living room.

The IMF leader had to admit, Cinnamon Carter knew how to tell a story. It was vivid and frightening. His eyes met Barney's across the room. They had always known her to be a great agent, proficient in languages, memorization, distraction and her beauty, of course, spoke for itself. But who knew she could captivate an audience with a simple ghost story?

It almost seemed real – too real.

* * *

"Cinnamon honey, are you sure it's not the pressure? Maybe you're over-stressed." Patricia offered, holding her hands as they sat on their sofa. "I mean, I've never even seen the guy."

"Pat he's _real_." Cinnamon said, flatly.

Rollin nodded and stood by the door, leaning into it as he listened in on their conversation.

Frantic, Cinnamon first called the police who had left the apartment a few minutes ago, and then she called Rollin at the nightclub. Somewhere along the line he was able to grab Patricia and the two raced to the apartment building just as the NYPD arrived. They questioned Cinnamon carefully and, after a while, she began to get irritated when they made a carefully crafted suggestion that she might have 'led him on'. However, the two policemen promised to keep an eye on the neighborhood and if anything else unusual happened she was to give them an immediate call.

Now, an hour later, her nerves were settled and Cinnamon felt badly about tearing her friends from their jobs.

"As long as we're back before the ten o'clock show we'll be fine." Rollin assured, glancing at his watch.

"He's never threatened you?" Pat asked, recalling what Cinnamon said when the officer asked her that same question.

"Not really. It was the seeing him up close and so suddenly that scared me most." She admitted. "He wants me to go to that ridiculous tavern across from the photography studio, just like Alfred has been pressing me to do."

"Who's Alfred?" Pat asked.

"He's the janitor. Although …" she considered it a moment, "… I never saw him before last week."

"It must be him." Pat summed up.

"Not possible." Cinnamon leaned back on the sofa cushions, exasperated. "Al is a small, thin man with arthritis. The man I saw was big and … ghastly."

"She's right about that." Rollin offered, "I saw him outside the nightclub and he's a brute."

"I hate that he knows where we live." Cinnamon shook slightly. "I'm beginning to think …"

"What?" Rollin asked.

"Maybe I _should_ just do what he wants. I have that shoot on Monday. Maybe afterward I should just walk over and go inside."

"Oh Cinnamon, I don't think that is a good idea at all." Patricia said, her voice slightly tremulous. "There is only one thing a freak like that wants with a girl like you … He could be a maniac or _worse_!"

"I agree." Rollin said, folding his arms. His expression was firm and no-nonsense. "Best not to tempt fate." he added.

"I have to do _something_. The police are practically calling me a liar and I know this guy will not let up until he has a reason to stop." Cinnamon insisted.

Some might call it a simple solution to a complicated problem and others might call it foolish but Rollin saw her resolve for the bravery it was. Cinnamon Carter did not want to be a victim. She wanted to get out there and stop the madness before any harm came to herself or someone she cared about. Making his own decision, Rollin stood tall and nodded. "I'm going with you to that shoot. While you're working I'm going to talk with Alfred and, when the time comes, we will go to the bar_ together_."

Cinnamon looked hesitant but his words were wise. She really did not want to go alone on Monday night. She nearly asked Pat to accompany her but remembered her roommate was going upstate to see her hometown boyfriend. And, to be honest, she really did not want to put her friend in harm's way. Rollin, she knew, could handle himself in a time of crisis or the unknown. "Okay." Cinnamon said and gave Rollin a thankful smile.

* * *

_Stay tune for the exciting conclusion of THE HALLOWEEN STORY._


	5. Chapter 5

(5)

They stood outside the apartment building.

"Just to leave you behind like this. It seems so wrong!" With much pushing and prodding a reluctant Patricia was urged to go on her road trip, a meeting with her neglected boyfriend, late Sunday afternoon. She had managed to wrangle a three-day holiday from the nightclub but she felt she was abandoning her roommate and friend, to go upstate, when Cinnamon needed her most. "Really, I _can_ stay if …"

"Don't you dare." Cinnamon pressed with a pleasant and practical grin. She placed an arm around Pat's shoulders and squeezed gently. "You have been looking forward to this trip for weeks, my girl."

"I know but with that crazy thug out there watching you …" Pat faded, lost and worried.

"I'll be here, watching over her." Rollin assured. "Don't you fret, Pat. Nothing will happen to Cinnamon." He had just come from the theater, after their rehearsal, appearing weary but up to a challenge. Both women looked up at him, a beautiful blond smiling pleasantly if timidly at his confidence and a leggy brunette still not looking altogether certain. Rollin could just picture poor Cinnamon having to entertain her roommate for the next few days while Patricia wallowed in disappointment. He would not wish that on anyone. Besides, Rollin rather liked the idea of having some time alone with Cinnamon - despite the circumstances.

"Okay … I guess." Patricia gave Cinnamon a quick peck on the cheek and waved at Rollin as she rounded the convertible she had rented, "But I want to hear _everything_ when I get back on Tuesday and, for God sake, be careful."

When Patricia sped off Rollin looked down at Cinnamon, puzzled. "I thought you two were living a hand to mouth existence. _Where_ did she get the cash to rent a car?"

Cinnamon exhaled, "From her Father. Pat's going to stop in and see him for a few hours before she drives off to be with Adam. Her Daddy was more than willing to wire the money to his baby girl." Cinnamon rolled her eyes slightly but it was more in humor than envy. "Let her have some fun. She's been working hard."

"As have we all." Rollin chuckled. Then, expression growing a little more serious, he said: "I have to work tonight but I'm not leaving you alone."

"You want me to come to the nightclub?"

"They just need me there for a few hours to MC the first program, some new acts I recommended. After that, we can leave." Before she could speak Rollin added, "I have an idea. You can earn a little extra money waiting tables. With Patricia gone, Nelly will be taking her place in the dance line-up and that leaves them short on waitresses. The perfect solution has fallen right into our hands."

Again, a tad of superiority was showing from the artist inside of Mr. Hand and Cinnamon could have reminded Rollin that she was going to be modeling full-time very soon. Money really would not be a problem for she and Pat after next week. However, still uncertain of herself, Cinnamon agreed. After all, he just wanted to see her safe and it really would not hurt to have some extra bills to stick into their emergency cookie jar. A small part of Cinnamon's mind wondered if Fran Williams, once seeing her in action, would suddenly realize what an incredible mistake she had made. Cinnamon could just see herself being dismissed after a couple of weeks and having to explain to her Mother what a mess she made of her big break.

* * *

They left the La Joya at 10:30pm and both were exhausted.

Cinnamon was pleased to learn from Mickey that his horse, Matilda, was much better and would be running in a race next week. He appeared very optimistic. He also told her that he was well aware that it was she who lent him the two hundred dollars and he was very grateful. Cinnamon glanced over at Rollin who was speaking to someone near the stage. It was as she suspected. Mickey was not the problem. It was Rollin who had issues with female generosity.

Bruce, the night manager, tried to get Cinnamon to work until closing but she explained to him she was starting a new modeling assignment the following day and she had to get some sleep. When he insisted, she reminded him she was there as a favor and had dodged the hands of flirtatious and greedy customers all evening. She was tired of trying to be nice to drunken buffoons.

Bruce then asked Rollin if he'd be willing to work Monday night. He was thwarted once again when Rollin told him he had other plans. "You will never amount to anything, Hand!" Bruce shouted at his back as he and Cinnamon exited. Furious, he then bellowed something derogatory about actors and models, but the couple did not look back.

* * *

"You're not in trouble, are you?" Cinnamon asked as she handed the key to Rollin and he opened her apartment door.

"Nah. Bruce has a big mouth and bad temper but he doesn't mean half of what he says."

Neither had eaten that evening so, once inside of the apartment, Cinnamon made them both sandwiches and Rollin asked if he could turn on her TV to see a recap of a football game. He had money on it. Rollin ignored her somewhat disparaging brow arch and accepted Cinnamon's go-ahead nod.

Cinnamon watched him from the kitchen counter as she cut the bread. Rollin was a rather lanky figure and full of energy despite his fatigue. He was also a handsome young man with that tousled dark hair and ice-blue eyes, she thought. And he was slightly arrogant. She had rather meager experience with them but most actors, from what she had heard and could see, possessed a self-importance gene. It was part of their make-up. 'He's a charming lout.' she decided with good humor and, arranging their plates, Cinnamon knew she did like him very much. If she wasn't careful Rollin Hand could easily break her heart.

"Come on, woman. I don't have all day." He teased from the sofa and turned to grin in her direction.

"Yes Master, I'm coming." She placed the plates on the coffee table before them and watched television with Rollin as they ate. He seemed pleased so she gathered he must have won his bet. Cinnamon almost made a quip about the vice of gambling and eternal damnation when she felt Rollin stiffen slightly by her side. He was staring at something on the television screen and his expression had grown grave. "What is it?" she asked, looking at the screen with him.

"Nothing." he said.

But she had seen it.

When the newscast had deviated from sports to local news there was a report about a traffic accident on the corner of Tolton and sixteenth. Even on a black and white screen the picture was clear. There were people there, probably a group of eight, fidgeting around the accident. Right in the middle of the crowd was the man in black … and he was not looking at the accident but directly at the camera. His glowing eyes blazed as if he knew the couple – or Cinnamon at least – was watching him.

Rollin jumped forward, his arms extending beyond the coffee table, and he switched off the set. He felt her shaking violently in fear beside him, a small cry parting her lips, and Rollin embraced her. If he hadn't seen it for himself he might not have believed it. _What_ was this creäture and why was it haunting her? "I will not let it in, Cinnamon." He breathed and held her all the tighter, "You are safe with me. I promise."

"I know." She murmured in return and pulled back ever so slightly to look up into his sensitive eyes. "I don't want to be afraid." She said in a choked but determined voice. "I will be brave. I _will_ …" but the tears fell and she was in his arms again. It was not long before his caresses turned into kisses on her temple and forehead and finally on her neck and mouth. Cinnamon, wanting to feel something other than fear, met his lips with a hunger to match his own. Rollin's distinctive form of protection and affection was intoxicating but, before it was too late, both saw the passionate physicality for what it was.

They both pulled back. Cinnamon and Rollin still held one another, their foreheads pressed together, and they controlled themselves. Not saying a word for a moment, they took breaths and gulped air.

"Rollin, I care about you and I trust you. You know that." she murmured.

"I do." He nodded slightly, anticipating what was to come.

"But I don't really _know_ you. We met each other for the first time last Wednesday. That's not even a week ago!"

"You're right." Rollin also knew that despite her courage and sensibleness, Cinnamon Carter was still a nineteen year old girl – and she was terrified of the unknown. Rollin might have had a few years on her, had more life experience, but he was also young and perhaps not as world-wise as she thought. Nevertheless, he was mature enough to understand if they took the next step too soon, without learning bout and loving each other, a disaster might be imminent. Besides, Rollin also felt a tug of guilt. He did not _want_ to take advantage of Cinnamon when she was most vulnerable.

Cinnamon continued, "I hope you understand. If I led you on …" Her head rested on his shoulder.

He recalled a suggestion the cop passed to her about the man in black, how she might have led him on, and Rollin's blood ran cold. "No, you did not." he said quickly. He sniffed her hair. It smelled like flowers. "You are not someone who has a love affair with just anyone. I respect that … and you."

Somewhat ashamed, Cinnamon once again pushed back from him and could not hide a small smile as she wiped away tears with her sleeve and gulped back her emotions, "But I bet - now - you wish I _was_ a little less respectable."

He held her loosely and chuckled quietly. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want you." His tone lowered, "But everyone knows if you want something really exceptional you have to be willing to wait for it. Once we get this guy," Rollin glanced at the blank TV screen, "we will have more time to work through what we really are to one another."

Cinnamon nodded, her lips trembling ever so slightly and her expression regretful. "Thank you so much, Rollin."

They bid one another a goodnight. Cinnamon retired to her bedroom and Rollin slept on the sofa.

* * *

"Awe, they're in love." Carla commented with a chuckle and squeezed Rollin's arm. "Don't you think so?" she asked her date.

"Maybe." Rollin murmured and tried hard not to meet Cinnamon's eyes. He admired how she could remain so cool and aloof while he was feeling a little warm under his collar.

"Sounds to me like the guy's a dope." Erik James, Phelps chiropractor and friend, commented from the other side of the fireplace. He was on his third bourbon. "He has a gorgeous model practically in bed and he lets her go? Crazy."

"I think it's sweet." A mature redhead near Barney said, "You don't often find a respectful Prince Charming these days."

"I want to hear more about the creepy guy in black and what he has in store for them." A call came from the back of the room.

Phelps recognized one of the men who had trapped Cinnamon in conversation earlier during the party. His name was Neil Pratt and he ran a high end vintage automobile lot not far from Corona. Jim's nephew bought a car from him. "Go on, Cinnamon. It sounds like the end is near."

"Yes, I suppose it is." she said, mysteriously.

* * *

Cinnamon was asked to come in at two o'clock for make-up and fittings. She found it odd considering she was going to be modeling hats for her last assignment. However, she soon came to realize Monica had other ideas. She and Rollin were greeted by her boss who held a bouquet of flowers in her arms. It was a kind gesture and she told Cinnamon, after her shoot, she could pick them up at the front desk. She'd have Danielle leave them where she could find them on her way out.

Monica then looked at Rollin curiously, from head to toe. "And who's this fine-looking young man?" She eyed his slightly worn suit, "You're not a model are you?"

"Not hardly." Rollin replied.

"He's a friend." Cinnamon said, quickly, "We're going out after the shoot. You don't mind, do you Monica?"

"Guess I'll give you a break this night of all nights. But you can't go around bringing your lovers in when you work for Franny." Then, she added: "At least, not until you've done a few _Elite_ covers."

"I understand." Cinnamon smiled, nearly indulgent.

They took the elevator up to the third floor. When Cinnamon met Ardan with a cheek kiss he presented her with several beautiful gowns, an eager dresser and two make-up people. Surprised, Cinnamon said - "Ardan, I was told it would be a three-hour shoot."

"Try five hours, love." He said, "Monica is going to make the most out of this final shoot." At Cinnamon's dazed expression Ardan offered, "Don't feel too bad, Darling. That fee you received last week was peanuts. _This _pay-out will be twice that if not more. Monica wants you on the cover of _Amore_ before Fran Williams can say she discovered you." Cinnamon glanced over at Rollin as she was pulled into a make-up chair. It was going to be a long night.

The actor sat in his own chair and gazed at Cinnamon as she was fussed over. He thought it was quite unnecessary to cover all that pretty skin with cosmetics but he also found it interesting. It was as if they were creating a whole new woman with mere face-paint. He turned and looked at himself in the mirror and thought he could do that and more.

After the first hour of modeling, Cinnamon dressed in a sort of Asian inspired gown, Rollin excused himself and said he was going for a walk. He met Cinnamon's eyes and indicated he was going to find the janitor. She appeared nervous for a moment but nodded.

"Very good." Ardan said, more to his model than Rollin. "Love, go back to the dressing room and put on the business suit; it's the _Cristóbal Balenciaga_ with the white lapels."

Cinnamon did as she was told.

Meanwhile, Rollin pulled out a cigarette as he walked the corridors. It was still early and workers were just getting ready to leave for the day. He watched the well-dressed men and chic women and listened to their odd chatter. Rollin looked into the janitor's closet and saw his pale and mop. He was not on duty yet. Probably not for another half hour, he decided. Rollin finally found himself in a kind of cantina and, seeing his waitress was busy, he poured a cup of coffee. He took a seat and watched the woman approach.

"We're getting ready to close but I can get you something simple." She said.

He saw a plate covered by a clear cover. "How about a piece of pie." He said.

She smiled politely and nodded, "Warmed?"

"Yes, please."

There were two other ladies seated near Rollin. They appeared to be waiting for their rides. He did not intentionally eavesdrop but when they began to talk about someone who was near and dear to his heart he could not prevent himself from listening in as he sipped his coffee.

"Cinnamon is really leaving? She's the best freelancer we've got. And she's so sweet."

"They expect big things from her. I can't believe Monica let her go!"

"She's going to Fran Williams. She'll be worth a fortune and ripe pickings for any man lucky enough to get her." The girl looked up, "Come on, our ride is here."

On the way out the other girls said, "In my opinion, if Cinnamon wants to be successful a man is the _last_ thing she needs in her life …"

That woman's last words stayed with Rollin.

* * *

After his dessert, Rollin searched the building floor by floor but never found Alfred, the janitor. He did see Manuel from the basement mailroom and he told Rollin that with the exception of Security he was usually the last man out of the building at night. He did not know an Alfred but admitted he had no idea who did janitorial work for the building. Rollin thanked him and returned to floor three to see how far Cinnamon was coming along.

He was stunned when he walked in for her final shoot. Cinnamon was wearing a wedding gown, a _Charles James _piece she would later tell him, and she was absolutely breathtaking.

Cinnamon smiled when seeing him and Ardan told her the expression was perfect. He snapped photo after photo. Weeks from now the wedding gown pictures would be bought by _Bazaar _and featured prominently. Fran Williams would capitalize on Cinnamon's sudden popularity and make her one of the most sought-out cover models in the industry.

Rollin would remember her, years later, when the head of the IMF spoke confidentially to him, telling him they really needed a beautiful distraction, a smart girl, who wanted more out of life than being a pretty face. Cinnamon's face and voice would ring loud and clear in his mind and Rollin would urge his superiors to seek her out.

"That's it. You are done, my love!" Ardan walked over to Cinnamon and gave his model a hug and kiss on the cheek. "You were spectacular!"

"Thank you, Ardan."

Before she even made it into the dressing room the dresser had pulled the gown over her head and handed Cinnamon a robe. It gave Rollin a nice view of her bare shoulders and back. The make-up women helped Cinnamon take off most of her face paint and gave her hair a nice comb-out before she and the others left. Cinnamon then slid behind a screen and changed back into her skirt and blouse as Rollin told her what he discovered, which was not much.

"Rollin, it's so strange." She murmured, deep in thought. "I guess we have no choice now. We really need to go across the street and see what it is all about."

Rollin was having second thoughts, "Maybe we shouldn't."

"We need to stop this." Cinnamon said firmly, "I cannot go through anymore chance meetings with that man." She rounded the screen, clipping her earrings on and she reached for her purse lying on the make-up table. "Let's go." She said.

Rollin took her hand.

It was time.

* * *

_There was too much to include with this chapter so we have one more to go ... Happy Halloween week!_


	6. Chapter 6

(6)

It was a cool evening and had rained while they were inside the studio. Neither minded and the showers, while bringing gloom to the night, also managed to clean up the city streets. There were times when New York needed a nice washing from the guy upstairs.

"It's good for my flowers." Cinnamon encouraged, holding her bouquet. She smiled at the preoccupied Rollin as he stared at the darkened establishment across the street. Cinnamon looked to where his attention was focused and shivered. "I guess there is no time like the present." she prompted.

He inhaled then exhaled noticeably, reaching for an inner resolution. "Let's go."

Traffic was not busy and they were able to get across easily. Once there, the couple hesitated on the outside then Cinnamon lifted a gloved hand to the tavern's doorknob.

Rollin put his hand on hers, stilling Cinnamon for a moment. "You're sure?"

"Aren't you?" she asked. Cinnamon wished Rollin would stop asking her if she wanted to suffer what might follow. She was nervous enough as it was. Cinnamon knew he cared and was merely thinking of her emotional well-being but she was not a child. She did not want Rollin or anyone else to see her as a frail girl but a brave, competent woman. "Yes." and she pushed the door open.

It was dark, as they foresaw, and Rollin felt around for a light switch. He found it on the wall near an outdated fire extinguisher. While it did not seem to be the main toggle it did lighten the place enough for them to get around. The tavern was worn, the wallpaper peeling and stains were on the ceiling, but it was surprising clean.

Yet, there was an odd odor. _Mold_, Rollin thought, but that was not quite right.

"Chemicals?" Cinnamon asked, noting the stench as well.

"Hello?" Rollin called.

Startled, Cinnamon admonished him with her tone. "What are you doing?"

"Whoever he is he wants you here. So, here you are. Where is our host?"

True enough, there did not seem to be anyone else in the tavern.

Nervously jovial, Rollin asked, "Isn't this the part where a cat is supposed to jump out and scare us?" He walked behind the bar and looked through some cabinets.

"You've been watching too many movies." Cinnamon laid her flowers on one of the tables and examined the stain-glass around some brass fixtures. They were nice, perhaps a bit rusted, but serviceable. She looked about for a second light switch. There had to be one somewhere.

"Finally." Rollin pulled a bottle of what might be wine or champagne from a cupboard, "Liquor." He said with what seemed a relieved smile. He placed it on the counter with a loud thud. "It's looking like our dark man abandoned the place."

"Someone must be paying a bill." Cinnamon said, "The electricity is on and the front door was unlocked." She found a switch near an entry to the back of the common-room. The stain glass lanterns started to glow. "Where does this lead?" she wondered, looking at the new door.

"Careful." Rollin called when she reached for the handle.

Cinnamon stopped turning and allowed Rollin, in full champion mode, to take the doorknob and pull. Again, it was another dark room and Rollin felt around the wall until he found a switch. The odor was more powerful in here and Cinnamon raised a gloved hand to her nose. "Reminds me of a stagnant pool." she commented.

"And it looks like a storage room." Rollin said.

Cinnamon slipped in front of him and started to explore. She pulled off her gloves and noted several wooden shelves with various items in black bins. She pulled one off and looked inside, "Saw dust?" she said aloud and ran her fingers through it, perplexed, before placing it on a work table.

Rollin pulled down another container and looked inside. He brought out a bottle.

"More liquor?" Cinnamon asked, slightly amused.

"No," He looked at the label, "It's an epoxy of some kind."

Cinnamon inspected the room with a keen eye and saw what she thought was a ball of twine. It lay on a long solid table about half the size of the common-room bar. As she grew closer Cinnamon saw it was more like a thick thread. An over-sized needle was jammed within. She smelled the stench of paint or epoxy more significantly here. Cinnamon felt moisture under her hand and lifted it from the counter. She saw dark stains then looked from her hand to the table top.

_Blood._

"What is it?" Rollin asked, hearing her gasp, and made his way over to Miss Carter.

"I think someone has been hurt here …"

"Cinnamon!" Taller, Rollin was able to see over the counter to the other side. He pulled her back, "Call the police!"

"What is it?" she cried.

It was a young woman. She was naked, sitting upward, her back against the wall, light brown hair in disarray - and she was dead. Her neck was twisted strangely and her eyes were wide and horror-struck.

"Oh my God!" Cinnamon exclaimed. She was now by Rollin's side and looked directly at the body. "Do you think …?"

"Go over to the studio and have security call the cops_ \- now_!"

Alarmed, hearing the desperation in his words, Cinnamon nodded. An incongruous survival instinct took hold, demanding she not to panic, and she quickly walked from the room to do what Rollin demanded. It was simple. She would run across the street and inside the studio, find security, then come back and rejoin Rollin.

Before Cinnamon could reach the front door, she was grabbed from behind and swung about, her back pressed hard against the common area bar. She could feel its oak edge digging into her spine.

"Hey, girl!" It was Alfred, the janitor. For an elderly man he was surprisingly strong, "Glad you finally came to call. Did you see one of our other guests?"

"_Guests_?" Cinnamon gulped and looked at the man as she might a patient in an asylum. His body pressed in a little too closely against hers. Indeed, the thought might not have been far from reality. Alfred had always seemed kind and lowly, if a little pushy, but now - restraining her - Cinnamon saw a strange severity in his expression, a craziness in his eyes as he searched her own for comprehension.

"They're all pretty." He said, "He likes them pretty and he really likes _you_." One of Alfred's hands was clamped around her left wrist, "He was never as forceful with his wants and needs as he was when he said he had to have you." Alfred paused, thinking. "That girl in there - he says she is not good enough. He thought he wanted her but decided on another. He wants no part of her now."

Cinnamon's eyes were wide and searching. She tried to speak calmly and with reason, "Al, why are you serving him? He's … he's evil!"

"No, you do not understand, girl. He is brilliant, a god among man, and he chose me to help him. Do you recall me telling you that I enjoyed anatomy? He appreciates that in me. I am a service to him and always will be."

She began to grasp what he was saying and it terrified her. Rollin had left the champagne bottle on the bar and Cinnamon, taking a chance, suddenly grasped it with her right hand. She hit Alfred as hard as she could against the side of his head. She then watched him stagger and drop to the floor. Cinnamon, making her way to the front entrance, suddenly realized that all the noise she and Alfred made would have certainly brought Rollin out of the backroom - _if he was able to hear it_.

Flustered, Cinnamon now ran to the front door and swung it open. She called out to the street: "Someone! Call the police. There is a man being assaulted in here!" Then she added in the most girlish and defenseless voice she could, "Please help me!"

Two men walking together heard and saw her. They waved to get her attention. "There's a pay phone on the corner. We'll call!"

"_Please hurry!"_ She really had no time to think about it but Cinnamon knew if she had been a man or less pretty the good Samaritans might not have aided her. Alas, attractiveness and seeming innocence had its appeal. Later in life Cinnamon would learn to use this skill to not just over-throw an East European tyrant but also charm a kind bookstore owner who found her tragic virtue very alluring.

Meanwhile Cinnamon, still holding her bottle, trekked back inside of the old tavern, then to the back room.

"Rollin!"

He was laying on the floor unconscious, a cut across his forehead. She dropped the bottle and crouched down to check on him. Cinnamon then looked up when a shadow caught her attention. "Who is it?"

The dark man stood close to the bar, near the back wall, and his yellow smile against the paleness of his skin and black clothing, was ghastly. Approaching, he reminded her of the Cheshire Cat of _Alice In Wonderland_. He had removed his hat to reveal a bald head. "I knew you would come." he said, eerily. "But I did not know you were going to bring a friend." The last was said with a little disappointment as he looked at Rollin, the intruder.

Now sitting, Cinnamon held Rollin's head in her lap. She started to tremble as he approached them. "What do you want from me!?" she exclaimed. Cinnamon knew she needed to keep the dark man talking. "Why did you want me to come here?"

"You are a piece of a puzzle, my dear." He said, voice clear but strained. "I have always wanted the perfect woman."

"Oh," Cinnamon gasped slightly, "Believe me, sir. I am not at all perfect. I am flawed in so many ways."

"That is very perceptive of you. Physically and emotionally, women _are_ flawed; every one of them." He said, regretfully. "But your eyes, lips, nose and ears are very beautiful. _Perfect_."

Cinnamon felt as if he had just taken inventory. "Thank you." Was all she could think in reply. Once again, his eyes glowed red and she shivered, "Will you let my friend go?" she stroked Rollin's head.

"Oh no. He knows too much. And the job is not yet done."

"Please, he needs medical attention. I won't tell anyone if …"

"He must be a sacrificed." The man ran his hand along the wall and pressed a button hidden by a sconce. A door-sized panel pushed out – and a travesty was revealed. "This is my shrine to excellence. You will be a part of it."

A strangled scream could not quite force itself from between her lips as Rollin awakened. Cinnamon grasped him tightly, biting back on nausea, as she moved to her knees and held him close.

Cinnamon could not take her stunned eyes from the horrific display.

Rollin looked up at her, groggy. "What is it?' he asked and he followed her gaze.

It was the body of a woman but not just any female. It was something out of Mary Shelly's _Frankenstein_. The form was being built from various pieces of dead body parts. Sewn together, there was a torso, arms and a head. However, there were no legs and the figure was absent a face.

"That girl back there behind the table …" he said, "… has lovely legs. I was going to use them but your friend … Her name is Patricia? Her legs, the toned legs of an experienced dancer, are much better. I want _those_ legs …"

"No!" Cinnamon cried.

He chuckled now, "Do not feel left out, my darling, for you _are_ the beautiful face of my perfect wife!" He then came at Cinnamon and Rollin with a large, sharp knife he produced from inside his coat pocket. "Stay still." he commanded.

Rollin, catching on quickly regardless of his injury, lifted his hands and struggled to his feet to protect Cinnamon. "Get back!"

"It is time to find peace, my friends …"

And it was at that moment the police busted into the tavern and apprehended both Alfred, who had awakened and was standing near the outer door, and the man in black.

By nights end one would be dead and the other hopelessly insane.

* * *

Two days later, in New York City Hospital, Rollin was sitting in an examination chair as Dr. Buckner shone a small light into his eyes. "Mr. Hand, you are a very lucky man. You were hit hard, enough to give a regular man a concussion, but little damage was done. There won't even be a scar from that cut on your forehead. Anyone else would have required surgery."

"My Mother always said I had a hard head." Rollin remarked.

Cinnamon stood to the side, out of the way, during the inspection and was grateful for his prognosis. The night of the attack would be forever etched in her memory. Rollin was taken away by an ambulance while Cinnamon was asked to stay behind and explain all she knew to the police. She longed to go with Rollin but he assured her all was well. He was admitted that first evening and, when she later went to see him in his room, Rollin begged Cinnamon not to telephone his parents. They would only worry and would also want to know details. Rollin really was not certain he could explain all that happened to them in a manner that did not sound demented.

They learned the man in black's named: Harold Finlay. He was an odd but well-off chap who had fallen off the face of the Earth after a nervous breakdown two years ago. Apparently the woman he loved had left him for another man. Alfred Dixon found him starving in an alley, picking through trash cans, and brought him home. Dixon was a lonely man and had mental issues of his own. He and Finlay became good friends and Finlay, being the more dominant individual, became a god-figure to Dixon. Theirs became a master-servant relationship.

Before long, the men started to plot and execute the murders of young girls and, over the last year, collected what they felt were the most perfect body parts New York had to offer. The police were able to connect them with at least two homicides and were certain more would follow. The abandoned tavern the men utilized was a great hiding place. They watched the beautiful models walk in and out of the photo studio all day – and they had scrutinized Cinnamon for a long time before deciding on pursuit.

"Not just any girl can be the face of perfection." a detective dryly commented.

Finlay killed himself with the knife he attacked Cinnamon and Rollin with just moments after an officer produced handcuffs. Alfred, ranting and raving, was taken into custody. Cinnamon was assured that Mr. Dixon would not see the light of day for a very long time - if ever.

She was satisfied but Rollin noted a certain doubt in her expression.

* * *

As they walked from the hospital to the subway Cinnamon told him there simply were things that were not adding up. "Rollin, I swear that man's eyes glowed. We both saw it."

"He was working with strange chemicals. We both smelled them." Rollin shrugged, "Over the months who knows what they were doing to him. Maybe glowing eyes were just the results of a bad combination of whatever he was working with."

"I've never heard of taxidermy chemicals giving men red, glowing eyes." She murmured skeptically. Then louder: "Rollin, I swear Finlay appeared and disappeared into thin air. I would get on the bus and he was not anywhere to be seen, then suddenly he was there, looking at me. Then, that night in the tavern … Where did he come from?"

The couple stepped down into the subway tunnel and waited for their train.

Rollin said, "I've studied magic and illusion during some acting classes. It could have been a trick with mirrors although I guess we'll never really know."

"Mirrors - on the bus?"

"Cinnamon, I wish I can give you the answers you're looking for but I just do not know." Rollin then asked, looking at her perturbed expression - "Are _you_ suggesting our man in black was supernatural?"

Cinnamon sighed and shrugged her shoulders, "I don't know what I'm suggesting." she admitted. "You're right. We may never collect all of the answers. I'm just happy it's over and done with. We don't have to worry about Harold Finlay anymore."

The subway train stopped and they found seats right next to each other. It was a light Wednesday afternoon but would become far busier as evening arrived.

Rollin took one of her hands as they traveled. "How was your first day with Fran Williams?" he asked.

Cinnamon looked up and smiled. She had spent four hours this morning at the studio, an incredibly big and decadent place, and was shown what they wanted from her. The experience was all very new and exciting. Cinnamon, feeling more confident than she had in a long time, was glad she made the move. "They're going to keep me busy. Fran says she's going to make me a star."

There was quiet between them, both reflecting on the events of their present and the possibilities in their futures.

"I go back to play rehearsal tomorrow morning and I'm working in the evening. BUT I have tonight off." He said

Cinnamon inhaled and said, "Rollin, Patricia came back this morning and _she_ will be working tonight until closing. Would you like to come up to the apartment and celebrate our one week anniversary?"

He looked into her eyes, seeing the affection, wonder and suggestion in them. Rollin understood the hint but they both knew how this would end. They were a young man and woman going in different directions. Commitment was a lovely thought but, for the ambitious and self-absorbed, it was fantasy. Their timing was all wrong … Yet, should fear of the unknown prevent them from valuing one another in the here and now? It had not really stopped them so far. "Okay," Rollin said, "Let's celebrate our anniversary."

The couple got off at her stop.

They did not see the foiled red eyes following their every move.

* * *

**Conclusion**

"_The end."_ Cinnamon said and she smiled fondly at the enthusiastic applause which greeted her ears.

"Great story, Cinnamon." Willy said.

"Yes it was." The redhead looked slightly unhappy, "But I did so much want your Cynthia and Robert to live happily ever after. You never made that clear. Did they moved on together?"

"For your benefit …" Cinnamon said with a slightly indulgent purr in her voice, "That night they fell deeply in love, married, had 2.5 children, became very wealthy – and lived happily ever after."

Carla and others clapped, "Now that's the type of ending _I_ like."

Rollin met Cinnamon's eyes with a touch of apology before he looked away.

Cinnamon lifted the clutch purse she had laid on the fireplace mantel. She glanced at Phelps, "If you'll excuse me I'm going out for a smoke." She indicated the balcony.

Their host nodded, "While you're out there think-up another good story for next Halloween."

The music was turned up and the crowd began to break into their own conversational groups once again.

"Rollin," Carla touched his arm. "I hope you don't mind but Ted and Debbie are going to a new dance club tonight and they've invited me to come along. Would you feel badly if I deserted you?"

"Carla, your mother may not be happy if she knew I allowed you to run off with some strangers."

"Look, these people are in the entertainment industry and they could guide me into my big break. Ted knows a good L.A. agent. Besides, I'm twenty-four and don't need a babysitter."

"Okay, fine. But if you get into any kind of trouble be sure to call. You have my number."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight."

Rollin watched the girl leave with her new friends then he joined Cinnamon on the balcony. She was leaning a bit over the rail, backlit by the moon and stars, her green gown floating slightly in the night breeze. Cinnamon's cigarette burned red in the semi darkness, reminding him of the eyes in her story. Rollin lit his own cigarette and, making a decision, walked then stood right next to Cinnamon. "Lovely night." He said.

"They're calling for rain but I don't see it. No clouds."

Weather report out-of-the-way, Rollin spoke kindly yet bluntly, "I noticed a few revisions to that narrative, Cinnamon."

Purposely coy, she puffed as she thought then said: "It is a Halloween story, Rollin. I made it spooky."

"The reality was scary enough without the red eyes and disappearing act. Still, that was ten years ago. The fact that you could remember _any_ detail is amazing."

She said nothing for a moment, her expression growing undefined, then: "Your date is very pretty."

"She's a friend – and she's gone. Left with a couple her own age." he smiled.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Wanting to dispense with the topic of Carla, he again spoke frankly. "Cinnamon, why did you choose_ that _story?"

She turned to look directly at Rollin, "Honestly, it was the first thing that popped into my head. It was unforgettable for me because …" she hesitated and took a drag on her cigarette.

"_Because?_" he pressed.

"It was a pivotal point in my life." She was suddenly candid, "No girl ever forgets her first lover."

With a gentle, nearly somber chuckle, Rollin look briefly away from her. He took a drag on his cigarette then said, "And no man ever forgets the first girl he fell in love with."

They smiled warmly at one another. Whatever happened between the time they parted and just before they joined the IMF seemed a jumbled and, while rewarding, it was also lost in the hodgepodge of living essential if lonely lives.

Such was that of those who got everything they ever wanted – and also those who worked for the Impossible Missions Force.

Cinnamon stamped-out what was left of her cigarette in an ashtray, "I suppose we should go back in and join the party."

"We could." Rollin said, "Or we could revive some old memories."

"I was never one to allow myself to get lost in the past."

"What if that past foreshadowed your future?" Rollin reached over and deposited his cigarette in the ashtray as she had before him.

"Are you speaking about what became of us, our work for the IMF, or something else?"

"Let's just say I do not believe in accidents but I do believe in you … and me."

Cinnamon smiled very gently at Rollin, "Your conceit is showing, Mr. Hand." She said in good humor.

"Just as long as it's not met with your temper, Miss Carter, I think we're safe." Rollin reached forward and took both if her hands in his, "To the future." he said and escorted Cinnamon back into the party.

"And to happy endings." She replied.

* * *

**THE END.**

October 2014.

* * *

_Thank you so much for coming with me on this adventure. I hope you enjoyed it and please leave a note to let me know how you felt about the ending as well as the whole fiction. Your comments have been wonderful and really do go a long way in making a fan writer feel appreciated. Take care and Happy Halloween! AFL._


End file.
