by Various
“Great,” Angel said. “What are you supposed
to be? The hell-demon equivalent of
Frosty the Snowman?”
The quip sounded funny in his head, but coming out of his mouth it was all wrong, so thick and palpable with cold that the words seemed to have actual weight on the air.
From where Angel stood a few feet away from the hotel’s industrial-sized water heater, he could see that the winter demon filled the corner across from the furnace. There wasn’t anything pristine or pretty about it, either; instead it was kind of fuzzy and uneven, with a fur covering that was mottled white and gray like the folds of skin on a dirty polar bear…that had mutated to gargantuan size.
Everything moved in an unpleasant rolling motion as the creature hauled itself forward. Somewhere in that mass was a face but it, too, had that unsettling, constantly shifting thing going; first it seemed to be on the left side, then the right, then somewhere a little south of what might be the beast’s head. The only reason Angel was convinced he was actually seeing a face at all was the two predatory, pinprick eyes, bloody red above the circular dark shadow of nose.
And, of course, the creature had a mouth.
Don’t they always?
ANGEL™
the longest night
vol. 1
Angel™
City of
Not Forgotten
Redemption
Close to the Ground
Shakedown
Hollywood Noir
Avatar
Soul Trade
Bruja
The Summoned
Haunted
Image
Stranger to the Sun
Vengeance
Endangered Species
The Longest Night, vol. 1
Angel: The Casefiles, Volume 1—The Official Companion
Available from Simon Pulse
The Essential Angel Posterbook
Available from Pocket Books
Historian’s Note: These stories take place during the third season of Angel.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Simon Pulse edition December 2002
Text copyright © 2002 by Twentieth Century Fox Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster
Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
The text of this book was set in New Caledonia.
Library of Congress Control Number 2002110489
ISBN 0-7434-7546-1
Visit us on the World Wide Web
http://www.SimonSays.com
Special thanks to Paul Ruditis for the idea
TIMELINE*
Sunset
6 P.M.
The House Where Death Stood Still
Pierce Askegren
7 P. M.
A Joyful Noise
Jeff Mariotte
8 P. M.
I Still Believe
Christopher Golden
9 P. M.
It Can Happen to You
Scott and Denise Ciencin
10 P. M.
Model Behavior
Emily Oz
11 P. M.
Have Gunn, Will Travel
Nancy Holder
12 A. M.
Generous Presence
Yvonne Navarro
1 A. M.
The Anchoress
Nancy Holder
2 A. M.
Bummed Out
Doranna Durgin
3 A. M.
Icicle Memories
Yvonne Navarro
4 A. M.
Yoke of the Soul
Doranna Durgin
5 A. M.
The Sun Child
Christie Golden
Sunrise
About the Contributors
*All times are P.S.T. approximate.
ANGEL™
the longest night
vol. 1
6 P.M.
The House Where Death
Stood Still
by Pierce Askegren
“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.”
Daddy came back in through the front door, which Timmy wasn’t allowed to use, although he had spent some time studying it. Big and heavy and thick, it had a deadbolt and a knob almost as big as Timmy’s head. It opened just long enough to admit Daddy and some fresh air, and then it slammed shut again.
Daddy’s hands were full, his arms pinned to his sides by the weight of the bags he carried with hooked fingers. Timmy watched as he headed for the kitchen and pantry. Daddy was skinny like a twig and he stumbled once or twice. Despite that, he moved swiftly from the foyer to the front gallery, past the framed images that hung there.
Timmy had to lean out of the picture where he had waited in order to watch. He tried to be sneaky, but his father saw him anyway.
“Stay away from the door, Timmy,” Daddy said over his shoulder. At the counter in the kitchen, he had set down his burdens. His words came in short gasps and his fair skin glistened with sweat. “I don’t want you going anywhere.”
“I won’t, Daddy,” Timmy said. The jig was up, so he stepped down and out of the picture, lowering himself from the low-hung frame’s edge until his feet found the carpeted floor.
“Were you a good boy while I was gone?” Daddy’s voice was stronger now and he didn’t look sick anymore. Coming into the house did that for him, Timmy had noticed.
Timmy nodded. “I read, like you told me to. I was in the library.”
Daddy glanced back at the picture Timmy had exited. It was a large image, so big that it hung low on the wall, and Daddy had told Timmy once that the picture was older than he was. From within the picture’s frame crowded bookshelves beckoned, rendered in precise detail. The lower shelves held brightly colored spines that bore famous titles—Robinson Crusoe, Robin Hood, King Arthur. Two books lay open on the red oval rug that was Timmy’s preferred reading station.
“Find anything you liked?” Daddy asked. He was unpacking the bags now, one by one, and placing their contents in the paneled cabinets of the pantry. Timmy’s eyes grew wide as he saw one package.
“Doodles!” he said. He loved the sugary pastries and the way each treat came in its own little package. It had been a very long time since Doodles had last graced his home, so long that he could barely remember. “Fruit Doodles! Can I have one?”
“No,” Daddy said. “These are for later. You’d just spoil your appetite for dinner.” He smiled but he looked sad, too. “And these have to last a while.”
He put away another seven boxes of Doodles. Timmy watched them vanish into the cabinets’ recesses, but he did not argue the point.
“Find any books you liked, Tiger?” Daddy asked again.
Timmy nodded again. He liked it when Daddy called him that. “Pecos Bill,” he said. “It’s about a cowboy.”
“That was one of my favorites when I was your age,” Daddy said. He paused. “No, actually, when I was a bit older.” He looked at Timmy. “You’re sticking to your own shelves, aren’t you, Tiger?”
Timmy had the run of the library when Daddy was busy, or on the rare occasions when he wasn’t home, but there were rules he had to obey. He could not use the front door. He could not go to Daddy’s basement workshop. And he could not read books from any shelves but his own.
“Yes, sir,” Timmy said. He nodded. “You asked me to read a page out loud and then you put the book there, remember?”
Daddy sighed and nodded. “You read better than I did when I was your age,” he said. “I forget that sometimes. And I forgot about giving you the book, too. It all runs together.”
Most of the sacks he had lugged inside were empty now, but not all. Brown paper crackled as Daddy opened a smaller bag and Timmy watched as he set a dozen plastic pill bottles on the countertop.
“Does your head hurt again?” Timmy asked.
Daddy had headaches a lot, especially after going outside.
“I feel better now,” Daddy said. He opened one of the bottles and took out two yellow tablets. He gulped them without water. “These will help,” he said, and then put the rest of the pill bottles in the high cabinet, where Timmy couldn’t reach. Timmy knew that he kept things there that Timmy wasn’t to touch. Seeing Daddy lock and unlock the hiding place reminded Timmy of something.
“You didn’t lock the front door, Daddy,” he said. “Should I do it?”
“No!” Daddy said. “Keep away from that door, do you hear me?” Moving with new energy, he loped the distance from the kitchen to the living room. By the time Timmy caught up with him, Daddy had slammed the deadbolt home. “You’re never supposed to use that door!”
“I—I’m sorry,” Timmy said. He knew that he had done something wrong, but wasn’t sure what. Now Daddy looked suddenly, terribly angry.
Or frightened, perhaps.
Daddy knelt down beside him and spoke gently now. “It’s okay,” he said. He ran his fingers through Timmy’s hair, and Timmy could feel his hands tremble. “Everything’s going to be okay, if you just keep away from the door.” Then his skinny arms were around Timmy, hugging, and Timmy hugged his father back. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise.” He hesitated a second, then asked, “Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“It’s almost Christmas,” Timmy said. He had something he needed to ask, but he knew that it wouldn’t make his father happy.
Daddy’s arms around him tensed, then relaxed. “I know, son,” he said. “And I know what you want. We’ll call your mother later.”
Mother.
Timmy had almost forgotten her.
No, not forgotten her—forgotten about her. Mother was all smiles and laughter, kisses and hugs that were like the ones Daddy gave him, but different. Mother was gray eyes and red smiling lips. But Mother was also a very long time ago, and the memories had faded.
“Really?” he said tentatively. “Mother?”
Daddy nodded, and looked sad again. “I’m sorry it has to be like this, son. But you’re happy here with me, aren’t you?”