Here is Where You Are
Hutch had been worried. Diana had wanted too much too soon, and he hadn't wanted that. He hadn't been looking for more than a casual fling, a night of hot meaningless sex to get him through another dark, cold, lonely night until the next sun rise. And when he had met Diana, he'd had entirely been in the mood for that either. Sure, she was a sweet, pretty little thing, with wide eyes and good hands, and an intimate knowledge of the human body. When they made love, she had gotten caught up in passion and fire, until he was sure her brains would melt and seep out onto her living room rug. It was surprising to him that she could get so carried away in pleasure, when the encounter had felt so empty for him. He felt like he was "biting the bullet," to use his partner's phrase, and bit down on his lower lip until he almost drew blood, so that he could feel something, anything, while fooling around with Diana.
Mindless fun – that was all he wanted. He thought she understood, thought she too had been looking for nothing more serious than letting off some steam after a long day at work. He wasn't looking for a relationship or love – he certainly didn't want to marry the girl – but she had thrown around both the "l" and "m" words within forty-eight hours of their first meeting.
"It's that derriere of yours," Starsky joked. "Women find it irresistible. You should have known better than to bring it out before even asking a girl out to dinner." He slapped his partner's denim-clad thigh. "Maybe ya gotta stop wearing your jeans so tight."
Hutch shoved him away, as Starsky chuckled, and decided to say no more about Diana for the time being. They had to concentrate on this bust. But thoughts of Diana nibbled at the back of his mind, making him uneasy. The more he thought about her, the more anxious and bothered he became, though he couldn't exactly pinpoint why. Starsky had a point – not that he believed his body to be irresistible to women or any nonsense like that – but Diana had seen a very personal and private part of him almost immediately upon meeting him. Then, not by any choice of his own, she had jabbed him in the ass with a needle (god, how he hated needles, the sharp steel piercing his flesh and injecting his veins with whatever it held; he had to take it in trust that needle contained what she claimed it did), as he stood, his back to her, vulnerable, naked from the waist up and with his pants around his shins. He wondered now if she had really needed to inject him in that exact spot, considering the injury had been to his hand, and while he was sure he was being paranoid, he couldn't squash the sudden and intense sense of violation the thought gave him.
A violation deepened by the fact she had let herself into his apartment the afternoon following their night together, had been waiting there for him for who knows how long, had learned the apartment's layout enough to make dinner and get him a beer, had conned the landlord into letting her in without the slightest suspicion (Hutch would have to talk to him about that later. Really, he shouldn't be so trusting, especially when it came to a cop's apartment). And, he was remembering now, she had flatly admitted to having lied and followed him all the way from the hospital to the bar where he was hanging out with Starsky.
That should have been his first warning sign. Instead, he had found it quirky and flattering, had never considered the threat that could be latent within the action. She was just a girl with a crush. Surely a woman could pose no danger to him – especially one he didn't have any romantic feelings for. The only women who could hurt you were the ones you let yourself love. The idea that a woman could be a physical threat was so absurd, it had never occurred to him. Sure he knew plenty of female criminals: junkies and drug runners, prostitutes and thieves, but they all seemed like damaged and distressed damsels, just needing someone to care enough to swoop in and save them.
Foolish.
Hutch remembered a rape victim from a few weeks back. A college student, art major, a mere nineteen years of age. Her attacker was a classmate, and had approached her that day in first the library then outside her dorm, and that night when he followed her to a party, her friends had gushed over the effort a "cutie" like him had taken to find her, as though his stalking and attentions could be found endearing, instead of just creepy and totally unwanted. So they let him drive their overly intoxicated friend home, later that night; she didn't have the strength or presence of mind to fight him off, and had been safely driven only a couple of blocks from campus when he forced himself on her.
Not that he was comparing that girl's horrible ordeal to his own situation, but he was beginning to understand unwanted attention, stalker tendencies, and an apparent inability to refuse. If the genders were reversed, and his own sister called him up one night, to tell him a man had followed her out with her friends, in hopes of getting her to bed, and then had showed up at her apartment the next day when she had clearly not showed any interest, he would have sent her a can of mace, ordered her to have her locks changed, and made her promise to stay away from the guy, or else he'd be buying a plane ticket and he'd take care of the guy himself.
Why should he see his own situation in such a drastically different light?
Hutch was beginning to understand that Diana wasn't playing with a full deck. Not only that, she was playing a game with higher stakes, changing rules, and different pieces from anything he had ever played before. He couldn't even be sure what game she was playing, whether checkers or Monopoly, hearts or poker, or Russian Roulette. Whatever it was, he was losing.
He'd ignored his first instincts when he'd found her in his apartment, and was now seemingly paying the price. His best hope now was to do some damage control, keep Diana happy, before things really got out of hand.
Hutch voiced to Starsky the apparent idiosyncrasies he noted in Diana's behaviour. His partner breezily dismissed his concerns. One woman could hardly cause any real trouble; Hutch had nothing to worry about. (The names Elizabeth Bathory, Lizzie Borden, Queen Mary I, Cleopatra, and Bonnie Parker – just as a beginning – might have been enough to change the detectives' views on the matter, if some third party had been able to shed a little light on their conversation.) As Starsky saw it, Hutch's problem was that he was too irresistible (his favorite word) to the ladies. Hutch smiled at his good-natured ribbing and decidedly changed the subject.
Hutch trusted his partner's judgement. Starsky was, in fact, the only person on earth he had that kind of faith in. If Starsky wasn't worried about Diana, then he wouldn't worry about her either. Starsky had been right that the injury to his hand hadn't been as serious as he first thought – besides, he'd lived through much, much worse, hadn't he? He had survived police work this long, the bullets and blades, because he'd always had someone to cover him, look out for him. If anything happened, Starsky would be there to have his back, right? Besides, why was he worrying so much about one girl for? No, if Starsky wasn't worried, he wouldn't be either. They had much bigger things to worry about.
Still, a small voice in the back of his mind nagged.
Hutch made a dinner date with Diana (not that she had given him any choice in the matter), and was determined to keep it. He wasn't particularly attracted to Diana, and she wasn't particularly interesting or titillating – their few attempts at conversation had nearly bored him to tears, and the sex had been satisfactory at best. There was nothing to set her apart from any other chick. Yet Hutch had this bizarre feeling he owed her something, though he wasn't sure what. Maybe it was the way she spoke to him, the tangible hunger he could hear in her voice, for something he would never be able to provide.
He had had every intention to keep their date, but work got in the way. Work always got in the way. Then the ticking time-bomb that was Diana exploded all over his life. She appeared at the police station, feigning concern and nagging – god, how much she sounded like his mother in that moment – berating him in front of his co-workers, a naughty child she needed to punish. She hurled accusations and spite, cutting him like razors. All he could do was stand and stare gently, speaking softly, as helpless to stop her tirade as he would be to stop a tornado from destroying everything in its path.
She was every bit a storm at that moment. She threw a small metal object at his feet. It was an expensive-looking watch. The glass face smashed on the cement floor. The hands stopped. He had run out of time. Engraved on the back, the word "Forever" was a bad omen.
He should have known. He should have known.
Diana wasn't content to simply tear him down in front of his peers. She broke into Hutch's home. She destroyed whatever she touched, desecrating his one safe haven. She uprooted his innocent little plants, tore apart and overturned anything she could lay her hands on, snapped the neck of his guitar, ripped the curtains and upholstery, smashed and scattered and stabbed. She slashed the mattress in his bedroom, and he sickeningly wondered if she had imagined his naked, prostrate form laying on it while she did.
Now was the time for worry.
Hutch felt certain Starsky would listen now to his fears over Diana's steadily slipping sanity. Starsky would have to listen to him now. With the combination of her outburst in the station and her complete meltdown in his apartment, he'd have to admit there was something seriously wrong. Yet, incredibly, Starsky felt no anxiety about Diana, chalking her actions up to the temporary aggressive impulses of a woman scorned. Nonsense about having gotten the need to maim and destroy out of her system.
If Starsky thought Diana was alright, Hutch was inclined to believe him.
Starsky sincerely believed the reassurances he gave Hutch about Diana's rightness of mind, or he never would have said them. He would have rather died than knowingly endangered Hutch. Therefore, when word arrived that Linda had been attacked, it never occurred to him that Diana could be behind it, despite the violent tendencies she had already exhibited.
By the time night rolled around, Hutch had a headache the size of Texas. In the last forty-eight hours he had slept a total of five hours, and hadn't eaten anything more substantial than stale coffee and left-over bagels. He was confused and exhausted.
Starsky noticed how worn his friend looked. His face drawn and tired, his eyes pinched. He could practically see Hutch's pulse throbbing under the smooth skin of his temple. It was this haggard appearance that, finally, aroused Starsky's worry, and he sent Hutch home. He could handle Linda's case himself. Hutch needed rest. Hutch smiled at him gratefully, and headed home to the comfort of a hot shower.
Their interrogation of Frost having led nowhere, Starsky was sifting through Linda's old case files, trying to draw a list of possible suspects. Captain Dobey entered, a folder clutched in his meaty hand. "Where's your partner, Starsky?" People usually asked him about Hutch in this manner – with a possessive pronoun; he and Hutch were defined in terms of each other.
"I sent him home."
"You did what?"
"I sent him home. He didn't get much sleep last night."
"I put an ABP out on his girlfriend, that nurse."
"What?"
Linda's landlord had arrived home, and told police she had let a girl, claiming to be Linda's sister from Boston, into her apartment. It was exactly the same trick Diana had used to gain access to Hutch's apartment. (What was it with this girl and Boston?)
"Oh my god. Why would she do something like that?" Even with what Dobey had just told him, it still didn't click in Starsky's brain that something was clearly wrong with this girl. He was still expecting her to adhere to his expectations of female behaviour. He couldn't align the image of her with Linda's attacker. It was just too absurd.
What he considered – or didn't – about Diana was no longer the issue. One thought screamed loudly in his mind, drowning out everything else: she was going after Hutch next. If she had gone after Linda, Diana was sure to target Hutch, and he had sent him home, as though nothing had happened. She had already broken into Hutch's apartment on two separate occasions, why shouldn't she easily be able to do it again? Why hadn't Starsky considered that possibility? Why hadn't he considered that the next time she did, she might do more than just ransack Hutch's place? How could he have been so ignorant and stupid? She had taken a knife to Hutch's belongings, for christ's sakes. What kind of sane person goes around wielding a blade?
What if Diana used that knife on Hutch?
Starsky grabbed the phone and dialed Hutch's apartment from memory. The pattern was so familiar to his fingers, his mind didn't even need to recall the numbers anymore. He had to warn Hutch, had to make sure he got out of there. Every nanosecond the call took to connect was time wasted, was another moment bringing Hutch closer and closer to death.
Someone picked up almost immediately. There was a pause, then a long breath out. "It's too late." Starsky could hear the sinister smile in that cold female voice. His warning died in his throat. Seven little words formed the most terrifying sentence he had ever heard: "He'll be dead before you get here."
Diana was already in Hutch's apartment! Starsky knew he'd never make it, might already be too late. He told Dobey to send any cruisers in the area to Hutch's apartment, grabbed his jacket, and jumped into his fiery red Ford Gran Torino. He pushed the petal to the floor, flashing lights and sirens.
He'll be dead before you get here.
The other black-and-whites had been closer, but Starsky still reached Hutch's apartment first. He threw the Torino into park, bolted out of the car, and raced up the stairs. He could see Diana at the top of the landing, pummeling Hutch with her fists, shrieking about love and demanding Hutch's love in return.
"Diana!" Starsky grabbed her and pulled her off Hutch, tossing her into the arms of the uniformed officers who had come up behind him. Let them take care of psycho girl. He had more important things to deal with.
Hutch was pale as a sheet, his face pinched in pain. Despite the robe he had thrown around himself, he was wet and slick with blood, shivering in the cool night air. His eyes were unfocused, and he slipped down the wall. Starsky grabbed his arms, trying to support him. "You okay?" he begged. Hutch fell further down the wall. Near unconscious with the pain. "Where ya going?"
"I gotta sit down."
"Oh, yeah." Starsky wrapped his arms around Hutch, and pulled him up. "Come on." He carried as much as led him into the apartment and sat him on the couch. Hutch's head lolled to one side. Starsky patted his cheek. "Hey, come on now, don't go nowhere. Just hold on."
"Bite the bullet?" Hutch laughed, and winced from the effort. His words were slurring together. "It's just a scratch, right?"
Starsky couldn't return the joke. A couple of paramedics arrived, just as Hutch finally passed out. They loaded Hutch onto a gurney and into the meat wagon. Starsky hovered nearby, watching as they worked. He followed the ambulance to the hospital, and was forced to wait in a room that smelled of tears and disinfectant, the lights too bright and the magazines old, as the nurses and doctors took care of Hutch.
Starsky slumped into a chair and held his head in his hands. He'll be dead before you get here. Relatively speaking, the injury was minor. The gash was pretty deep, requiring numerous stitches, but it clotted well on its own – which pleased the doctors. By wrapping the towel around his arm, keeping pressure on the wound, Hutch had saved himself from further blood loss. His quick thinking had saved his own life.
He'll be dead before you get here.
If Starsky had been looking out for him, like he always did, Hutch wouldn't have needed to save himself, and he wouldn't be lying in a hospital bed, doped up on pain medications and antibiotics fighting the possibility of infection. They nurses wouldn't be jabbing him with IV needles, the stronger nurses restraining him in his foggy state, as he tried to fight them off. Needles reminded him of heroin.
"You can see him now."
Hutch was asleep in bed, his chest rising and falling softly. He still looked horribly pale. His arm was thickly bandaged. A small pool of red stained the white, a small heart, accusing Starsky. Hutch's damp hair was plastered to his forehead. Starsky brushed it tenderly away from his face, and sat down in the chair next to the bed. He watched Hutch's face for a long time, the parted lips that drew each breath, the restless eyelids caught in some dream. Starsky reached out and took Hutch's hand. The moment he did, Hutch released a contented sigh and stilled into peaceful slumber.
"I'm here, buddy." Starsky stroked his thumb along Hutch's knuckles, and gingerly traced the red line of his stitches. So much trouble from such a small injury.
The "What if's" were there, like they always were, extra loud and mean in the dark, surrounded by beeps and groans, the blank walls. What if he had reached the alley first? What if he had taken Hutch to the hospital immediately, like he had asked? Would Diana had been busy and Hutch assigned a different nurse? What if, instead of trying to have a little fun at Hutch's expense, he had found a way to have gotten Hutch away from Diana, instead of inviting her to join the three of them on their night out? What if he had physically removed Diana from the station, when she had made a production of harassing Hutch? What if he had put out an arrest warrant for B&E when she trashed Hutch's apartment, instead of dismissing her delinquency as a symptom of heartbreak? What if, when Hutch came to him, he had completely stopped what he was doing to listen?
What if, what if, what if.
What if Diana's knife had lodged itself under Hutch's arm, instead of in it, piercing bone and tissue to hit his heart? What if Linda's landlord had returned an hour, half an hour, fifteen minutes later? Would Starsky have arrived too late and found Hutch's butchered corpse?
He'll be dead before you get here.
What if Diana had been right?
A lot of "what if's," all of them convicting Starsky of his guilt. He had failed to be a good partner. Worse, he had failed to be a good best friend, and it had almost cost Hutch his life.
He'll be dead before you get here.
Those words would haunt him the rest of his life.
Starsky stayed awake all night, keeping guard over Hutch. Against his will, he was starting to doze near dawn, when a pretty young brunette nurse entered the room, clipboard in hand. She leaned over Hutch. Starsky's eyes snapped open. He jumped up from his seat. "Don't touch him," he growled, low and threatening, his mind still clouded with nightmarish visions of Diana and blood.
He'll be dead before you get here.
The nurse stepped back reflexively, her eyes wide, but then she smiled softly. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper, "I just need to check his vitals."
"Right, right, of course." Starsky ran a hand down his face, pulled himself completely awake, sighed and resumed his seat. He watched as she checked monitors and Hutch's pulse, listened to his heart and changed the bandage on his arm. Her movements were careful and delicate. She tried not to wake Hutch, but he was already beginning to stir. "Hey," Starsky said finally, as she was finishing up. "I'm sorry about that."
"It's alright," she smiled. "Your friend is very lucky to have someone who loves him so much."
"Yeah."
"Call me when he wakes up, and I'll bring him some breakfast."
"Alright. Thanks."
As the nurse closed the door behind her, Hutch opened his eyes. He smacked his dry lips. Starsky fetched him a cup of water, and held it to his lips. After he had taken a long, slow drink, Starsky said, "Morning."
"Morning."
"How'd you sleep?"
"Better than you, by the looks of it."
"This is my morning-after look."
"Very funny." Hutch started to prop himself up, and Starsky rushed forward to help him.
"Easy now. How's your arm feeling?"
"It's fine. Where's Diana?"
"Locked away in some jail cell. Hopefully for a very, very long time."
"How is she?" Starsky tried to hide the look of disgust from his face, but his nose still wrinkled at the sound of her name.
"Who cares?"
"I do." Hutch leaned back against his pillows. "I feel sorry for her."
"I don't."
"Starsk. She was a sick girl. She was just looking for someone to love her. I wish I could have been that person, but I couldn't. I couldn't give her what she needed."
"She was a psycho. Hutch, it's not up to you to save everyone. She doesn't need Prince Charming. She needs professional help – and a straitjacket." Hutch may have been able to find it within himself to feel sorry for Diana, but Starsky couldn't. How could he pity her her need for love, when she had tried to kill the person he loved more than anyone on the planet? She didn't deserve to be loved by Ken Hutchinson; she didn't deserve his pity. But Hutch would give it to her, would shoulder a certain amount of guilt for the rest of his life, because that was who he was. He cared about people. Even people who had stabbed him.
But not Starsky. He would hate her as long as he lived.
He'll be dead before you get here.
And he'd go on hating himself.
"Hey, let's not talk about her right now. Do you want some breakfast?"
"Sure."
Starsky called in the same nurse from before. She returned with a breakfast tray, laden with lukewarm coffee and apple juice, a few orange slices, soggy toast heavy with too much butter, and scrambled eggs with the consistency of snot. Hutch poked at the eggs dubiously with his plastic fork. "After I get out of here, how about the first thing we do is get some real food?"
Starsky smiled and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'd say I'm rubbing off on you. When can I get my buddy out of here?"
"The doctor will want to look at him first, but I'd say he'll be able to leave anytime after that. All his vitals are good, there aren't any signs of infection, and the wound has clotted nicely – very clean. I'll have to run through the usual spiel about changing your bandages and keeping the wound clean -"
"Nothing I haven't heard before."
"and then you'll be good to go."
"Good."
"Is there anything else you need?"
"No. Thanks."
"Just call if there is."
Starsky coaxed Hutch into eating, and in the end was able to convince him to eat the oranges and drink the apple juice, with promises of solid foods and meat. Starsky was silent for a long time, even after the doctor had arrived, checked over Hutch, found his health satisfactory, and left. "What's the matter?" Hutch asked, as Starsky helped him into a shirt he had packed.
"What?"
"You're quiet."
"I'm just thinking."
"Don't hurt yourself."
Hutch's fingers were stiff, so Starsky helped him button the shirt. They were standing eye-to-eye. "Listen, I've been thinking-"
"So you said."
"Why don't you stay at my place for a few days?"
"Why?"
""I just thought you might need a change of space, that's all. Maybe it would do you some good to be out of your apartment – at least until you can get the locks changed. You need to start hiding that spare key better."
"Thanks, Mom."
"I'm serious. How about it? Unless, that is, you don't want to."
The truth was Hutch hated the thought of going home. After this, he didn't know if he'd ever feel truly safe there again, let alone ever want to invite another woman over. Starsky's offer touched him. He wanted to stay with his friend, wanted to know that his partner was just down the hall if anything happened. When he woke up in the dead-of-night, disoriented and plagued by the nightmares that were sure to come, he wanted to know he wasn't alone in the darkness. He could see something in Starsky's eyes, and knew he wanted that too. His partner needed this as much as he did. Needed to know Hutch was where he could keep an eye on him, at least for the next few days or weeks, or however long it took, until the trauma of their latest encounter finally began to subside.
"Sure, that sounds good."
"Good!" Starsky's face lit up with one of his characteristic grins. "A few days' vacation at casa de Starsky. Beer and good times included!" Starsky put a hand on Hutch's shoulder and guided him out of the room.
"How about we stop in and visit Linda?"
"Sure." Whatever Hutch wanted to do, Starsky would be there.
He'll be dead before you get here.
Starsky didn't care if it was impractical or impossible, if he could have his way, Hutch would never be away from him again. There would never be an opportunity for those words – before you get here – to be spoken again. Whenever "here" was for Hutch, would be "here" for Starsky too.
END