Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [89]
By then, however, he was too cold and numb to know if his blow did any damage. The last thing he saw was the knife descending yet again. The last thing he felt was it plunging into his chest.
Worf estimated that four minutes had gone by. Four minutes from the time he heard the request for help until he reached the turbolift on Deck Thirty-three. It would have been faster for him to override the last occupant command and bring the damned thing up to the bridge—but for some reason the lift doors wouldn’t shut.
Half a corridor away, he’d seen why. There was an arm stretched out across the threshold—to prevent just the sort of quick attention the Klingon had had in mind. Cursing out loud, he’d noted the blood on the bare hand.
And now, as he knelt beside the body, he cursed again. It was Ben Zoma.
The man had been stabbed a half-dozen times—at least twice in the chest. Nor could Worf ignore the fact, even in his eagerness to do his job and preserve Ben Zoma’s life, that he had seen this kind of wound before.
Very definitely, he had seen it before.
Removing his honor sash and stripping off the top of his uniform, Worf wrapped Ben Zoma tightly in the fabric of the shirt. It would help to keep the man warm—an important measure, since he’d already gone into shock. Also, it might slow down the loss of blood—which had already been excessive, judging by the pool of gore on the floor of the turbolift.
Placing his forefinger against Ben Zoma’s neck, the Klingon felt for a pulse. There was movement there—terribly weak, but discernible nonetheless.
“My God!” said a voice.
Worf looked back over his shoulder and saw the two women in civilian garb, grimacing at the sight of Ben Zoma. He couldn’t recall their names, but he knew they were in one of the science sections. A moment later two other civilians approached from the other direction, immediately as stricken by horror as the first two.
“What’s happened?” cried a man.
“Keep back,” the Klingon growled. “The situation is under control.”
It was only another moment before Dr. Crusher arrived with a medical team in tow. Making their way through the swelling throng of onlookers, they lifted Ben Zoma onto a gurney and moved him into the turbolift.
“Sickbay,” Crusher said. At the same time, she was taking readings with her tricorder. “Give him twenty cc’s of cordrizene. That ought to keep him going until we can stabilize his condition.” Her voice betrayed none of the emotion she must have been feeling.
But when she looked up at Worf, her anger was hard not to miss. “How long,” she asked in a subdued tone, “is this going to go on?”
“It is finished,” he rumbled.
Her brows came together. “What do you mean? Did you get a look at the killer?”
He shook his head. “No. But I know who it is.”
Thirteen
As Riker followed Picard out of the turbolift, the younger man had to hustle to catch up. He had never seen the captain so intense—so driven.
It had to be hard on him, the first officer thought. He could only imagine how hard.
If it were anyone else, he would have suggested that they stay on the sidelines, commanding officer or not. In cases like this one, personal involvement usually led to trouble.
But Picard wasn’t just anyone. Riker had never once seen him lose his composure, not in the four years and more that he’d served under the man. He could only trust that the captain would not make this instance the exception.
Down the corridor, the trio of armed security personnel was doing exactly what they’d been told—remaining silent and well back from the door monitor, so that they wouldn’t alert anyone inside to their presence. They’d been instructed not to make any move on their own unless the killer tried to leave.
As Riker and Picard approached from one direction, Worf approached from the other. Momentarily, the first officer wondered why the Klingon was naked from the waist up—and then he remembered Worf’s account of his discovery of Ben Zoma. He swallowed as he recalled the bloody details.
Quickly, wasting