Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [114]
And while the officer tried to decipher her last statement, Crusher walked by her and entered her apartment. It felt good not to be afraid anymore.
As she stepped inside, she saw a tiny red light shining at her from her bedroom. It was on the tape player—a reminder that the thing was on “pause.” And a reminder as well that she’d made a promise to herself about listening to the end of the tape.
She let the light draw her on. Hell—if she was going to be space dust before long, she was at least going to hear the end of Jack’s story first.
Without even ordering the lights to activate, she sat down on her bed and touched the display marked “play.” Immediately, the tape picked up where it had left off.
“—there’s Greyhorse and Pug Joseph and Simenon, who you’ve heard about also, and—hell, I’d better stop before I read off the whole roster. As I said, though, they’re a good bunch.”
Crusher sat back against her cushions. Maybe that was what had given her this spurt of resolve—the cumulative effect of hearing Jack’s voice these last few days. Exposure to the courage that had spurred him to life—and ultimately death—among the stars. It was as good an explanation as any.
“And while we’re on the subject of Greyhorse,” Jack went on, “it seems there’s more to him than meets the eye. He comes off pretty quiet, pretty studious. But the other day, I think I caught him in a compromising position…with Gerda Asmund, of all people. You see, Vigo and I were—”
Crusher’s finger darted out and stopped the tape. In the dark of her bedroom, she could hear the thumping of her heart against her ribs—the sudden urgency of her breathing. Touching the mechanism’s control display again, she rewound for a few seconds. Then she played it back again.
“—more to him than meets the eye. He comes off pretty quiet, pretty studious. But the other day, I think I caught him in a compromising position…with Gerda Asmund, of all people. You see, Vigo and I were repairing to the lounge for a game of sharash’di. We didn’t know there was anyone in there. And as we came in, we saw Greyhorse and Gerda sort of—well, sort of moving apart, as if they’d just been embracing one another. Anyway, I didn’t want to embarrass them, so I just ignored it, and so did Vigo. We went straight to the—”
The doctor shut off the machine. She had heard enough. Oh my god, she thought. Oh my god.
Heart hammering in her chest, she punched her communicator.
In the dim light he’d come to prefer, Carter Greyhorse sat in his quarters and considered the Klingon ceremonial knife. It was sheathed almost to the hilt in a black crust of dried blood—Ben Zoma’s blood.
But not enough of it, apparently; the captain of the Lexington was still alive. The murderer cursed softly. He knew now that he should have inflicted a few more wounds before he fled. But if he’d stayed a little longer to do that, some crewman might have stumbled onto the scene.
And he couldn’t afford to be found out. Not then—and not now. There was still so very much to do.
Turning the knife in his hand, he admired its cruel, cold lines, its sturdiness. It was a good tool; it had been made well. As well as the knives that Gerda had owned—but then, that was no surprise, considering Gerda and Idun had gotten them from the same source.
Idun…it was strange to see her again, after all these years. She was even more beautiful than he remembered—just as Gerda would have been, if she’d lived. It made him ache to think about that. If she’d lived…
Straightening, he put the thought from his mind. There was no time for sentimentality. He had to think—to prepare.
What was that line from Robert Frost? “Miles to go before I sleep…” He smiled grimly. Rising, he crossed the room and slipped the blood-blackened blade beneath his mattress—pushing it in just enough so that it couldn’t be seen.
Eventually, he knew, someone would suspect him and search his room. And the knife would be found. But by then, it would be too late for those who had wronged Gerda Asmund.
And he would no longer care what they did to him.