Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [115]
Picard was sitting in his ready room, reviewing all his options, when Beverly reached him.
“It’s Greyhorse,” she said without preamble. “Greyhorse is the killer.”
Picard started. A chill climbed the rungs of his spine. “How do you know?” he asked.
Crusher’s voice was trembling. “One of Jack’s tapes. He and Vigo saw Greyhorse and Gerda embracing.”
The captain thought about it. Gerda…and Greyhorse? “He never told me.”
But then, he wouldn’t have. That was why people had trusted Jack Crusher. He would sooner have died than given away a confidence.
“If Gerda and Greyhorse were involved—” the doctor began.
“Hold, Doctor.” Picard didn’t wait for the rest. “Lieutenant Worf,” he called out.
“Worf here,” came the reply.
“I want Doctor Greyhorse arrested and confined to his quarters. This assignment takes priority over all others—including the hunt for Commander Asmund.”
Picard could imagine the confusion on the Klingon’s face. But to his credit, Worf’s hesitation lasted only a moment.
“Aye, sir. Worf out.”
Picard was silent a moment.
“I thought I knew him, Jean-Luc,” Crusher said. “I worked with him for a year at Starfleet Medical.”
She sounded as if she were on the verge of tears.
“I thought I knew him, too,” he said. “I thought I knew them all.”
When the doors opened on the cargo deck where Asmund was hidden, the first thing she did was check the power charge on her phaser. Not that it was at all necessary—she already knew how many shots it had left. But her instincts compelled her to make sure.
The second thing she did was move forward into a crouch. Her legs hurt in a number of places—small injuries she must have suffered when she was thrown about the brig. But she had to endure all that now—just as she had managed to endure the pain in her temple for the last hour or so.
It was disappointing that they had thought to look for her here so soon. She hadn’t had nearly enough time to consider what had gone before—to come up with even a halfway reasonable theory as to who the murderer might be.
Of course, it wasn’t necessarily a security officer who’d just entered. It could have been a crewman coming down for supplies, or to make sure the environmental controls were working. After all, there were certain containers that carried temperature-sensitive cargo.
But Asmund had to be ready for the worst. She had to assume that Worf or someone else had outguessed her.
As the doors whispered shut again, she heard voices. Two of them. Or more. Leaning forward a little more, she strove to hear what they were saying.
But they had stopped. Definitely security, then. A couple of cargo handlers wouldn’t have had any reason to become so quiet. She held the phaser a little tighter.
Then the silence was broken by the beep of a communicator. One of the security officers muttered something beneath his breath.
“Bednarik here,” she heard someone say.
“Our orders have changed,” said the voice on the intercom. Asmund recognized it immediately as Worf’s.
“Changed, sir?” Bednarik was still trying to speak softly, though it must have been obvious to him that he’d lost the element of surprise.
“That is correct,” the Klingon confirmed. “We are no longer searching for Commander Asmund. Our new objective is Doctor Carter Greyhorse.”
Greyhorse. Asmund felt her teeth grind together.
“The big fella,” Bednarik said.
“Precisely,” came Worf’s reply. “You are to report to Deck Twenty-four. Greyhorse has shown himself to be a consummate technician—he may decide to strike at the environmental support equipment.”
“Aye, sir.” A beep signaled the end of the conversation.
Bednarik’s companion spoke up for the first time since they entered the cargo deck: “What about Asmund?”
There was a pause. “We forget about her,” Bednarik said, “for now. But if we happen to run across her, I’ll tell you what—I’m going to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Asmund nodded. She wouldn’t have expected anything else.
Then the cargo deck doors opened and closed again, and she was alone. She relaxed—though not completely.
Worf and his security people had