"That's him," she said, reaching across Wesley Wyndam-Pryce's desk with the photograph. It was a snapshot of a freckle-faced little boy with red hair and a beaming smile. He wore a playsuit with Tiger written across the front. "He was two then. That's my son, Timmy."

"Yes," Wesley replied. "I can see the resemblance."

So could Angel, when Wesley surrendered the picture to him. He glanced at it, then at the woman perched on the edge of the office guest chair. The resemblance was remarkable.

Rachel Gibson was attractive. Her hair was a rich auburn that Timmy's might become with age, and her eyes were the same gray as her son's. The expression she wore was quite different from his, however. In the snapshot, Timmy smiled eagerly for the unknown photographer. In Wesley's office, Rachel's look was one of terrible loss, a look that stirred unpleasant memories within Angel.

Angel had seen women look like that before. Angel had caused women to look like that before. Guilt, never very far away, ran cold fingers along his soul.

"How can we help?" he asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Gibson," Wesley said. "How can Angel Investigations be of service in this matter?" His annoyed glance at Angel was a pointed reminder of just who ran the agency these days, and when he spoke, it was with a precision born of testiness. If guilt were Angel's close companion, a vague impatience sometimes seemed to follow Wesley like an attendant.

"I want you to find him," she said to them both. "You're supposed to help the helpless, and I want you to help me."

"So you explained to Ms. Chase on the telephone," said Wesley. His tone softened as he spoke to her. "I would have preferred to meet with you earlier, but we've quite a heavy caseload just now. It's the holidays, you see. We're here to help, of course, but there may be others who--"

"What happened to him?" Angel interrupted. "To your son?"

"His father took him," she said. "Five years ago."

"Why?" Angel asked. As she turned to look at him, anguished, he continued. "We have to know."

" -- are better suited to your needs," Wesley continued doggedly, but his tone was gentle. "A larger, more conventional agency may have resources we don't, and--"

Angel ignored him. "What happened?" he asked, leaning closer to Rachel. "Divorce? Another woman?"

"No," she said. "No divorce. Luther and I love--loved one another very much, and he was the perfect father, really. I just came home one day and they were gone. Both of them."

"The majority of children who vanish each year are taken by a parent," Wesley murmured. "And, I'm sorry to say, the other parent often fails to see it coming. If Mr. Gibson had another life--"

She shook her head. "No. No, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, he didn't have 'another life.' In fact, he was -- he was dying."

Neither Angel nor Wesley said anything.

"Luther was dying," she continued, her voice thick with emotion. "And he was terrified of Timmy growing up without a father. He was a good man, but he had a fixation on that. His own father died before Luther was even born, and he grew up with only his mother. It scarred him terribly. He always said that it was the worst thing that could happen to a boy, to grow up without a father."

Angel could think of worse things, but he knew better than to mention them. Mrs. Gibson's pain was obviously still fresh and raw, not dulled by the passing years, and there was no need to make it greater. Instead, he limited himself to asking gently, "Worse than growing up without a mother? Without you?"

She made no reply, but her gray eyes became suddenly brighter. "And Luther wanted to see him grow up," she finally said.

"But you say he was dying?" Wesley asked her.

"Dead by now," Rachel Gibson said. Her voice sounded dead, too.

"There was no chance of a misdiagnosis?"

She shook her head again. "Brain cancer," she said. "Inoperable. When Luther took Timmy, he had six months left." She paused. "Except for the headaches and fatigue, he was still functional. Even with aggressive treatment, though, he had six months. Less than that before it would compromise him to the point of... nonfunctioning."

"But surely such things aren't absolutely certain," Wesley said. "He may have access to better doctors, other resources--"

Angel felt the first hint of a new kind of concern. He could think of many "other resources" that a desperate dying man might call upon, and none of them were pleasant.

"Luther had the best doctors and treatment the world had to offer," she replied. "We were both quite successful in our chosen careers, and Luther was a prominent attorney."

Wesley shifted in his chair. "But Mrs. Gibson...," he started.

She interrupted with a correction. "Dr. Gibson."

"Oh." Wesley paused. As if a circuit had closed in his brain, comprehension lit his face. "Oh!" He looked again in Angel's direction. "Dr. Gibson is quite a famous surgeon," he said. He looked back at the visitor. "I hadn't realized you were that Rachel Gibson," he said. "I apologize."

"And that's why Cordelia insisted on our seeing you," Angel said. "Even this late in the day." Outside the hotel, only the final rays of the setting sun grayed the night sky.

Since coming to Los Angeles, Cordelia Chase had demonstrated new reserves of compassion, but pragmatism endured. Doctors made impressive amounts of money and could afford generous fees.

"I wasn't Luther's doctor," Rachel continued. "But I reviewed the diagnosis and charted his progress. Please believe me, there was no miracle of science that could save him. Luther died four years ago, at the very least. He's dead. He has to be dead. But he has our son."

Angel didn't like the sudden intensity in her gaze. He didn't much like the fact that she had spoken in the present tense, either.

"How can we help you?" he repeated.

"Find Timmy for me," she said.

"Five years is a long time," Wesley said. "If the authorities--"

"The authorities have done all they can, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce," Rachel Gibson said crisply. "And so have the best conventional private investigators money can buy. Or do you think I turned to you simply because of your hand-bills?"

"Well," Wesley said. "We've been getting an excellent response on those, actually..."

"I know the kinds of cases you people take," she continued.

Wesley raised one hand for attention. "All I'm saying is that five years is a long time," he said. His voice was serious. "I'm afraid your son may not be out there to find."

"He is," Rachel Gibson said. "He calls me every year about this time. He calls me and he speaks to me." She paused. "And he says his father is with him."

Wesley's private office, just off the hotel's main reception area, was ordinarily cozy and warm. Now, suddenly, it seemed cold, even to Angel.

"I can look into it," he said.

Wesley shot him another glance, pointed and direct. "We'll work on it, Dr. Gibson," he said. "And if I think we can help, I'll assign an operative. Perhaps even Mr. Angel, here, if his schedule allows."

"You're in charge? But -- the name of the agency--"

"Is just that. A name," Wesley concluded crisply.

"Now, if you would be so good as to provide us with any additional information you have, we can begin."

Copyright © 2002 by Twentieth Century Fox Inc.