“Good,” the doctor said, “because if I don’t get him into surgery, he’s going to die. The hook destroyed his kidney, he’s bleeding internally and I don’t know what other damage I’ll find when I get in there. Hell, he’s probably going to die, anyway. But his best chance is in speed. He’s in agony, but he won’t take morphine because he wants to talk to you. Find out what he wants.” Footsteps moved away. Before the door closed again, the doctor spoke loudly and with irritation. “Let’s get this show on the road. I am a busy man.”

Of course that was the doctor’s real concern. He was the best, and he didn’t have time to hang around. Except if he saved Stephen Penderghast’s life, he would have fame and fortune.

Stephen opened his eyes a slit and saw the person he’d picked, when he was four years old, out of five candidates his wealthy father had purchased as possibilities for best friend. Short, thin, with black hair and swimmer’s shoulders, Zsóke hid incredible skills beneath that unassuming guise. For forty-seven years, he and Zsóke had been master and servant. Demands had been made. Jobs had been done. Companionship and, when Stephen felt the need, sex had been provided. Now Stephen needed one more thing.

Possibly one last thing. He spoke softly, so softly his friend leaned over him. “The girl found it. Elladora Varela. She found it.”

“Bad move on her part.”

“She told me I’d been mistaken in my search.”

“Stupid and asking for trouble.”

Because no one ever told Stephen Penderghast he was wrong. Not if they knew what was good for them. “She told me what she found, and where.”

A nod. “Very good. Stupid girl. She didn’t know you’d kill her to claim the credit.”

“I tried.”

Eyes widened, then narrowed. “Tried... What? Tried to kill her? You tried, and she’s still alive? I have trouble believing that.”

“This time I failed, and she did this to me. To me!” The room spun, and Stephen stopped speaking to suck oxygen through the tubes in his nose.

“She was lucky.” Zsóke sounded certain.

He remembered that silver pole in Elladora’s hand, the agony when she sank the hook into his back, his disbelief at her unexpected courage and at his own failure. “Yes. Lucky.”

“But you are alive, and she was short, thin, trusting. She didn’t know the real you. No one knows what you’re capable of. No one knows the things you’ve done.” Time and again, Zsóke had witnessed Stephen’s ruthlessness. “How is it she’s not dead?”

“She jumped overboard.”

“Ah.” Zsóke relaxed. “Then, she’s dead.”

“I want her body found. Her body—or her.”

“If she went into the sea that far offshore, there’s no way—”

“Find her.”