Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [83]
He gave her his best apologetic look. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“That was a lousy thing you did, Will Riker.”
He nodded. “Just try to see it from my point of view. At the time, you were a murder suspect.”
She looked at him questioningly. “You didn’t really think that, did you?”
Riker shook his head. “No. But I couldn’t take the chance that I was wrong. And even if you weren’t the murderer, I couldn’t just come out and tell you about the investigation. You might’ve given it away without realizing it—a nervous look at the wrong time, a slip of the tongue…” He let his voice trail off. He shrugged.
Suddenly, Cadwallader grinned. “You look pretty foolish when you’re trying to apologize—you know that?”
He feigned injury. “Thanks a lot.”
“Especially,” she added, “when there’s no need. I’ve had a little time here to think, you know. And it didn’t take me long to understand why you did what you did.” She put out her hand; he took it. “So don’t get all maudlin on me. You’re forgiven, as far as that goes.”
Riker squeezed her hand. “I’m grateful.”
“Besides,” she said, “you’ll have plenty of opportunity to make it up to me. That is, after we catch the murderer and give this subspace phenomenon the slip. And dodge whatever other perils pop up in the meantime.”
He chuckled. “You sound pretty confident.”
“I am,” Cadwallader replied. “But then, I’ve looked death in the eye and lived to tell of it.”
Riker rolled his eyes. She laughed softly—just as he intended.
“You know,” he told her, “you’re pretty remarkable, Tricia Cadwallader.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
Someone cleared her throat behind him. Even before the first officer turned around, he knew it was Selar standing there. She looked at him, one eyebrow arched meaningfully, not needing to say a word to make her message clear.
He turned back to Cadwallader. “Time to go. I’ll see you soon,” he said.
She nodded. “Soon,” she echoed—showing just the least bit of doubt, and thereby giving the lie to all her brave talk.
It was with that unsettling impression lingering in his mind that he headed for the exit.
Beverly Crusher flopped down on her bed, bone tired. Not so much from tending to Cadwallader, though seeing to the woman’s care had kept her in sickbay for quite a long time. After all, that was her job; she was prepared for it.
What had really worn her out was the wondering. The suspicion. And the knowledge that no place on the ship was really safe.
If the assassin could make the holodeck a deathtrap, why not sickbay? Or engineering? Or the bridge?
The killer had known the blackout was coming. Had been able to find Morgen at just the right time, under just the right circumstances. The attempt’s failure might have come down to the only unlooked-for element—the doctor’s presence. By being there, Crusher had given the murderer three targets instead of two. And that might have meant the difference between a timely rescue and a bloodbath.
If she hadn’t thought to go looking for the Daa’Vit, or if she hadn’t arrived before the blackout…the assassin might have succeeded. And Daa’V might have found itself without a monarch.
She couldn’t avoid the thought: it still might. They had no more idea who the murderer was now than they’d had after the first incident.
He could even get me here, she mused. Even here in my own quarters. At any moment she might turn around and see those phaser beams stabbing at her again. Or maybe something else—something equally deadly.
No. The murderer is after Morgen, she assured herself. That’s what all the evidence suggests. Alone, you’re safe.
Before she knew it, she’d taken out the box of tapes. And a moment later she was rummaging through Jack’s recorded messages again. Seeking security in the sound of his voice? Maybe. And why not? She had never felt so safe with anyone as she had with her husband.
She selected a tape at random—just as she had before. And as before, as she read the stardate, she recalled her circumstances at the time.
It was the hardest part of her stay in San