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Beverly Crusher was a physician, and not easy to shock.

Worf knew she was being shocked not by the sight of a mutilated human form, but by the thoughts of what had mutilated that form and who could have done it.

Before them, in the cell surrounded by stone walls and with crisscrossed metal grids in front, Ross Grant’s body hung from a mattress cord tied to a light fixture. He was as still as drying meat. His head was tilted slightly to one side, his scorched hands splayed in the final muscle spasm and frozen that way.

Crusher pushed past Worf, who could no longer make himself move, though adrenaline still ran hot in him from their breaking into the jail. Fortunately, jails were arranged to keep people from breaking out, not the other way around.

Behind Worf, Riker scanned quickly for recording devices. “Nothing here,” he said. His voice cracked. “We can talk.”

The doctor was already running her medical scanner along Grant’s body, and somehow the sight of that jarred Worf into movement. He wrapped his arms around Grant and took the weight off the cord around the neck until Crusher untied the cord.

Worf lowered Grant’s body to the cool floor, then stood back to absorb what he saw before him. What could he say to Alexander? How could he tell his son that he had let this happen?

Grant had been stripped down to his undershirt and trousers. The trousers were slashed to the knees, exposing his legs. His arms had been slashed, too, as if the skin were fabric.

The slash wounds had been allowed to bleed freely until the blood caked on his body and clothing, then later cauterized. There were burns. Deep burns that still smoldered. Some of the wounds were coagulated. Others were still moist. This had gone on for hours upon hours.

Of the freshest wounds were the two that had gouged out Grant’s gentle eyes.

The pain in Crusher’s face as she examined the body was enough to smash the strongest constitution. She wasn’t telling Worf anything, but she knew.

And from her expression and the condition of the body, Worf knew, too. Grant had not died of the wounds. Not even the eyes. From the swollen smear that ringed his neck, they had finished him slowly, drawing him gradually upward instead of putting him high and kicking something out from under him. There had been no quick snap of the neck. There had been no hint of mercy.

“Time of death,” Crusher struggled, “about two hours ago. Maybe a little longer. Some of these cut wounds have been cauterized, as if they didn’t want him to bleed to death or lose consciousness too soon. Both feet are broken … his clavicle is cracked. There’s no brain damage. His groin is badly burned. So are his fingers and toes. Cause of death … asphyxiation.”

She glanced up at Worf’s narrowed eyes.

He felt her gaze, her pity. His arms and legs were suddenly double their normal weight. A thousand bitter emotions piled upon him, coupled with the burden he now put upon his shipmates, for they wanted to give him comfort, and he would have none. Of all the challenges he had ever faced and stemmed in his life of struggle for identity and cause, never before had he been so completely afraid as he was of this—facing his twelve-year-old son.

He stared at the swollen body of Ross Grant. What had the last hour been like? Had Grant waited for him to come? Had he found sustaining courage in the faith that Worf would show up in time?

“They had to kill him,” Worf ground out. His voice was rough as sandpaper. “He would not die from their torture. He made them kill him. He was more courageous than I ever … imagined.”

“Worf, I’m so very sorry,” Crusher murmured. Her medical distance suffered as she accepted that horrible punishment of not being able to do anything for her patient.

Worf shook himself to movement. His cold fingers dug into the hem of Grant’s T-shirt. In a fit of anger, he tore the hem open, fished through the fabric, and drew out a single thread with a tiny bead tied to one end. It looked like all the other threads in Grant’s clothing, except that on close examination there was a faint satin sheen.