"Well, maybe not. I tried acting once in school and found it tough. I was so busy trying to understand the role that it never seemed real."
Max Cormick took her arm and led her toward a table of food. "Major, as an actor you don't think about acting ever. If you do, it shows. An actor only thinks about being himself the new self he's just become in a world that's now his. New life, family, job everything!"
Cynthia nodded, apparently with polite interest. In fact, she had memorized every word.
* * *
August 18. Six days later.
The door chime in Paige's condominium sounded at 6:50 A.M. After a few seconds it sounded again.
Cynthia, still in bed, though awake, heard the first chime, then, after the second, Paige's muffled voice protesting, "Who the hell . . . at this hour . . ." followed by the sound of her adjoining bedroom door opening. Before she could reach the outer door, the chime sounded a third time.
"All right, all right! I'm coming!" Paige called out with irritation.
By now Cynthia could feel her pulse quickening, but she lay back calmly, letting what was about to happen take whatever form it would.
At the main doorway, Paige peered through a peephole and saw a police uniform. She released two locks and a chain on the door, then opened it.
"I'm Winslow McGowan, ma'am." The voice was quiet and cultured. "I've been working with Major Ernst, who I believe is staying with you."
"Yes, she is. Is something wrong?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you so early, but I need to see her."
"Come in, sir."
Paige called out, "Cyn, are you up? You have a visitor."
Taking her time, Cynthia pulled on a robe and went out. Smiling brightly, she greeted McGowan. "Hello, Winslow. What brings you here so early?"
Instead of answering, he asked Paige, "Is there somewhere Cynthia and I can talk quietly?"
"Sure.'' Paige gestured behind her. "Use the den. When you're finished, call me. I'll have coffee ready."
As she and McGowan sat down, Cynthia said, "You sound serious, Win. Is something wrong?" Behind the casual question her mind was working, replaying Max Cormick's words at Universal Studios. You don't think about acting ever. If you do, it shows . . .
"Yes," McGowan said, answering her question. "I have some bad news, very bad news. Cynthia, you've got to prepare yourself."
"I am prepared. Just tell me!" Her voice was anxious. Then, as if she had a sudden thought, "Is it my parents?"
McGowan nodded slowly. "It is your parents . . . the worst possible. .."
"Oh, no! Are they . . ." Cynthia stopped, as if unwilling to complete the sentence.
"Yes, my dear. I wish there were some other way to tell you this, but . . . I'm afraid they are both dead."
Cynthia put her hands to her face and shrieked. Then she cried out, "Paige! Paige!"
When Paige appeared, running, Cynthia screamed, "Paige, it's my mom and dad. . ." As her friend's arms enfolded her, she turned her face toward McGowan. "Is it . . . was it . . . an accident?"
He shook his head. "No accident." Then he said, "Cynthia, let's take this slowly. There's just so much a human being can handle. Right now I think you've had enough."
Paige nodded agreement, her arms tightly around Cynthia. "Sweetie, I beg you! Take it easy. Take your time."
It was another fifteen minutes before Cynthia as her new self in a new scenario absorbed the few details known so far about her parents' murders.
* * *
From that point on, she merely let things happen. Winslow McGowan and Paige were presuming Cynthia to be in a state of shock, an assumption she supported by her dazed, obedient behavior. McGowan, who had been joined by two more uniform officers who were making phone calls, told her quietly, "We're arranging to get you home. I've canceled your remaining lectures, and you're booked on a nonstop Miami flight early this afternoon. A department car will take you to the airport."
Paige chimed in, "And I'm traveling with you, Cyn. Wouldn't dream of letting you go alone. I'll go pack your bags. Is that okay?"
Cynthia nodded compliantly, murmuring, "Thank you." It would be useful to have a companion for the journey, though she wouldn't want Paige around for long in Miami, she decided.
Lying full length on a couch to which she had been steered, Cynthia closed her eyes, separating herself from the activity around her.
At last, she reflected, her parents were dead, and after long years of waiting, the objective she had planned so carefully was accomplished. So why didn't she feel the euphoria she had anticipated, but only, instead, a curious flatness? Perhaps, she thought, it was because no one other than she and Patrick Jensen would ever know the truth the reason for the murders or her ingenious planning behind it.
Still, she did not for a moment regret her decision. Such an ending was necessary, a need that had to be fulfilled to redress the wrong done to her. It was a suitable retribution for the loathsome, despicable way in which Gustav and Eleanor Ernst had treated her as a child, making Cynthia in so many ways the person she had become. A person whom she acknowledged that at times she didn't like.
Ah! There was a vital question: Would she have been different, could she have been, if it were not for the rage and hatred instilled in her by her father's perverted abuse and her mother's hypocritical inaction . . . those all-consuming hatreds that had never gone away? Of course!. . . Yes! . . . She would have been a different person . . . less strong, perhaps . . . kinder, maybe. Who knew? But in any case, the question was irrelevant half a lifetime too late! The mold that shaped Cynthia was broken long ago. She was what she was now, and would not could not change...
Her eyes were still closed when Paige's soft voice filtered through her ruminations. "Cyn, everything's taken care of. We leave for the airport in a few hours. Maybe for a while you should go back to bed and sleep."
Gratefully she did. Later, the eastward journey thanks to Paige passed uneventfully.
* * *
Before arriving in Miami, Cynthia discreetly rubbed a few grains of salt into her eyes. It was a subterfuge she had learned years ago during the same school dramatics she had spoken of to Max Cormick, and the effect was to produce tears and red-rimmed eyes. During the days that followed Cynthia shed no genuine tears, but more salt and residual red eyes helped.
Apart from that pretense of grief, from her moment of arrival onward, Cynthia let it be known that her strength and composure had returned, and set out to learn whatever was known about her parents' murders. Her own police status, providing immediate access to all units of the Police Department, made that simple.
On her second day back, Cynthia visited her parents' mansion in Bay Point, now encircled by yellow police tape. Inside a main-floor drawing room she talked with Sergeant Brewmaster, in charge of the Homicide investigation.
His first words on seeing her were, "Major, I want to say how terrible we all feel . . ." but she stopped him with a gesture.
"Hank, I appreciate that, and I'm grateful. But if I hear too much of it, especially from an old friend like you, I might break down. Please understand."
Brewmaster said, "Yes, I do, ma'am. And I promise we'll do every last thing we can to nail the bastard who . . ." His own voice, choking too, trailed off.
"I want to hear everything you know," Cynthia told him. "From what I've heard already, I gather you see my parents' deaths as some kind of serial killings."
Brewmaster nodded. "It does look that way, a definite pattern, though there are slight differences." That jackass Patrick, she thought. "First, though, have you heard about the Homicide conference two days ago just before your parents' deaths when Malcolm Ainslie linked four earlier double murders with the Bible and the book of Revelation?"