The photograph John Mallory received through the mail--of a youth in a black leather jacket, with a hard glint in his yes--had an unsettling, cinematic toughness of a pose. Mallory was forced to admit that the youth resembled him, and could be, incredibly, his son, who had disappeared completely fifteen years before. After the photo came, there were two phone calls. The voice was a woman's, brash and rough. She didn't want money--but it was clear to Mallory that the boy was in trouble, that his life might be in danger. What could he do? Only look for the boy . . . and hope. And wonder how he would handle a teen-age son he didn't know--if he found him in time to save him from unnamed peril.