Author's note: "When the Curtain Falls" is a sequel to my first Starsky & Hutch story, "A Sister's Love." Although it may be read independently, several characters in this sequel were introduced in the opening story. It is a long story, but I hope that you enjoy it and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated and encouraged.
Warning: This story contains scenes of adult sexual assault. If this bothers you, please don't read the story.
Disclaimer: I do own a 1975 Torino but I don't own Starsky or Hutch--I do like to play with all three though.
Acknowledgement: To my beta reader, britwizz. Thank you again, for the fine wax job you put on all my stories.
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When the Curtain Falls
Chapter One
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"I've got the back!"
Dammit Starsky! Hutch barely caught sight of his partner scrambling out of the Torino on his way down the alley to the rear of the jewelry store. Still a little shaky from their wild ride through midday traffic, Hutch stumbled from the passenger seat and started running towards the front of the building. Just before he got to the sidewalk, he stopped and peeked around the corner, scanning the area around the front entrance. He glanced across the street, looking for any potential lookouts or getaway vehicles parked nearby. This had been the second holdup alarm from the store in as many weeks, and Hutch wanted to catch the robber just as much as his fiery partner did.
But there were two obstacles in the way. The first involved a lunatic who was trying to ambush police officers responding to holdup calls. So far, the individual had only succeeded in taking potshots at cops who were more accustomed to searching for perps at ground level than scanning rooftops for snipers. The second problem was that Starsky had transformed into an invulnerable super cop since returning back to full duty, and Hutch feared the indestructible drive was only propelling his partner into a head on collision with a lethal brick wall.
If this recent behavior wasn't bad enough, the previous six months had encompassed everything from seeing Starsky almost die in an assassination attempt to prying a loaded automatic from his grasp. Both times gun barrels were pointed directly at the brunet's chest. And from the way things seemed to be going, there wasn't an end in sight to Hutch's nightmare.
His gloomy reminiscing was sharply interrupted by a hooded gunman exiting the front door of the jewelry store.
"Police! Hold it right there!" Hutch yelled, aiming his Colt Python at the masked man.
The robber, momentarily caught off guard, ignored the warning and quickly turned around, running back inside the store.
"Shit!" Hutch said, as he ran from his cover. He stopped just at the edge of a large window set into the building's façade and peered inside. A store employee was standing behind a display counter, looking terrified with his arms raised in the air, and eyes staring straight ahead. Hutch ducked as he ran past the window and entered the store with arms straight out and both hands clasped around the revolver.
As he paused by the entrance, Hutch scanned around the interior before locking eyes with the scared clerk. "Police officer—which way did he go?" he said tersely. The man, his hands still raised, motioned towards the rear of the store.
Hutch ran past the clerk, ordering him to get down, and headed down the hallway just off to his left. He quickly checked inside a small office and then began making his way towards the exit. Halfway there, he heard two gunshots coming from the alley. Starsky!
Hutch sprinted down the hall and collided with the metal door. Slamming against the push bar, he opened the door and lunged into the alley. Just a few feet away, Hutch saw his partner hunched over the robber, the Beretta jammed against the goon's head as he lay on his side, holding his bloody thigh in a death grip.
"When I say 'freeze' that's what I mean!" Starsky growled into the man's ear, as he holstered his gun and reached into his back pocket for his cuffs.
"Fuck! I wasn't gonna shoot! Ya didn't have to blow my leg off," the wounded felon cried as he squeezed the leg even tighter.
"Oh, quit crying, you big baby. Do I look like your mother?" Starsky said, over the ratcheting sound of the handcuffs. "C'mon, give me that other hand!"
"Shit! You're hurting me!"
Hutch snapped out of his trance and holstered his revolver. The distant echo of approaching sirens began filtering into the alley as he went over to his partner. Starsky had secured the second bracelet and now stood up, gazing at his prisoner with a satisfied grin. He then raised his head and locked eyes with Hutch.
"What took ya so long?" he asked cheerily.
Without missing a beat, Hutch said, "Starsk, we gotta talk."
The smiling face turned serious. "Talk? Talk about what?"
The first black and white pulled into the alley right behind the Torino. Two uniformed officers got out and hustled over to the detectives. Hutch, much to his relief, recognized one of them.
"Hey, Bernie," he began. "See if you can get an ambulance rolling for this guy." Hutch then leaned closer and softly said, "And do me a favor? There's an employee inside. Get his statement and leave it on my desk, okay? Starsk and I gotta run."
"Sure, no problem, Hutch," Bernie replied.
Hutch gave the officer a quick pat on the back then turned to his partner. Starsky's hand was resting on his hip, his mouth opened in a look of surprise. Hutch brushed past him and muttered, "Let's go."
Not wanting to cause a scene in front of an audience, Starsky lifted both hands slightly as if in surrender and strutted after his partner. He had an idea why the blond was upset, but hardly felt he had done anything to warrant the reaction he'd just witnessed. After Hutch got in the Torino, Starsky climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. He fired up the engine, then briskly maneuvered the car out of the alley and back onto the main road.
Bernie's partner turned and said, "Wonder what's up with those two?"
The older cop let go of a loud sigh. "I don't know, but I've seen lover's quarrels tamer than that."
The two detectives rode in silence until Starsky pulled the Ford into a vacant parking lot. Stopping the car, he slammed it into park and bolted out the door. He stopped by the hood, glaring at his partner as Hutch climbed out to join him.
"What the hell was that all about back there?" Starsky demanded, unable to hold his temper any longer. "You just gave our collar away to Bernie and a rookie!"
"Our collar?" Hutch shot out. "You mean your collar, right?"
Starsky gave him a smirk. "Oh, so you're callin' me a selfish bastard now? Gee, thanks partner. I'll have to write that in my diary tonight."
"Starsk, what's wrong with you lately?"
"Me!? I should ask you the same thing. I'm doing my job," he said, pointing to his chest, "the same way I've always done my job."
"Oh, really? Seems to me we've always worked together. And what I saw back there in the alley, Starsk, was all you."
"Yeah? Just what did you see, buddy? You saying I shot him for the hell of it?"
Hutch took a deep breath. "You took off as soon as we drove up. You didn't check to see where I was or even where I was going. If that sniper had been around…would you have even known?"
Starsky pulled back, unnerved at the accusation. "Since when do we need a game plan, Hutch? That's how we've always handled a call like that. Are you mad at me because I didn't hold your hand…"
Starsky stopped in mid sentence, looking suddenly appalled. Both hands rested on his hips as he bowed his head. A sad smile appeared on his face.
"Obviously, I'm the one here who needs his hand held. Is that right?" Not waiting for a response, Starsky continued, "You of all people—I got released, Hutch. I thought I was done having to prove myself, but I guess not everyone's convinced yet."
Starsky blew out a short huff and began to walk back to the driver's door. Hutch bolted around the hood and tried grabbing hold of his partner's arm as it reached for the handle. Starsky whipped it out of Hutch's grasp and stood stiffly facing him, a look of hurt burning in his eyes.
"Starsk, that's not true. I never gave up hoping you'd make it back. It's just that lately, you've been…" Hutch couldn't think of a way to say what he wanted without provoking another outburst.
"Been what?" Starsky glared at him, then drew his head back. "Oh, I get it. Would it make you feel better if I wore a bullet-proof vest? Or maybe I shouldn't leave the office, where it's safe, huh? Better yet, I should just stay in bed and let someone else handle the dirty work. Is that what you want?"
Hutch wasn't surprised at Starsky's reaction. "I don't like the way you're taking chances," he began. "It's like you don't even care about getting shot—" Hutch nearly choked. Did he really just say that? He looked at Starsky with apologetic eyes, but the damage had already been done.
The brunet stared back, his anger gone, but replaced now by a look of defeat. After a long pause, he said, "You know, the first time I got shot, I remember thinking, 'God, this hurts like hell, but I'll survive.' Then you got shot—and I couldn't convince myself that you were going to make it. I was never so scared before in my life." Starsky took in a deep breath. "And then Gunther came along."
Starsky pushed past Hutch and walked over towards the front of the car. "I never told you this, but when those bullets hit, I felt every one tear right through me. After I hit the ground—I heard you—telling me to hang on. But when I couldn't breathe anymore, I was actually glad because I knew I was gonna die and the pain would stop."
He glanced at Hutch, regretting to finally have to tell his partner what he had kept locked up for all these months. "I guess I was being selfish. I wasn't thinking about how you'd feel, but nothing else mattered then."
Starsky walked over to Hutch, and stood stiffly in front of him. "I do care, about facing the fact that I might have to go through that again. What scares me even more is it could happen to you. I feel it every day, Hutch. The twinges, the pulling. Every time I look at myself in the mirror. It's hard accepting all that. But what keeps me going is that I love doing this, and I still have you to do it with."
Hutch started to open his mouth, but Starsky interrupted. "So quit tearing yourself up worrying about me, I'm just fine. And quit thinkin' you could've done something different. You were there, right by me, and it still happened, Hutch. If the car had been parked the other way around…it would have been you, not me. That's the only thing that would've been different that day."
"If all I had to worry about was someone hurting you, Starsk, that'd be one thing," Hutch started. "But you've still never told me about what you were going to do that night—" He thought back to the odd phone call he'd gotten from Starsky, and how he'd have never forgiven himself if he hadn't gone over to check on his partner.
"I thought we were done with that. You gonna keep holding it over my head?" Starsky looked off into the distance, his expression blank. "It's probably eatin' you up inside, not telling Dobey, huh?"
Hutch felt the intentional stab, but wasn't going to let Starsky play the guilt trip card. "No, but you never told me why, and that's what's eating me up. Whatever it was, Starsk, I'd just like to know."
"Don't you? You've got a psycho partner; face it, pal," Starsky said, trying not to sound serious.
Hutch frowned. It was still a taboo subject, and with every day that passed, the chances of him ever getting an honest answer from Starsky kept growing slimmer. He had tried a couple of times, when rare moments presented themselves, to get Starsky to give him some indication of why he had jabbed a 9mm automatic into his chest that night. But with each attempt, Hutch would only get some kind of dismissive answer. It had hurt to see Starsky so lost and hopeless, thinking he had nothing to live for. The fact that his friend didn't want to trust him with an explanation hurt even more.
As Hutch began to walk back over to the passenger side, Starsky could clearly read the body language.
"I can't do this, Hutch," he said. "If you don't feel I'm the same person I was before, then this isn't going to work."
The statement stopped Hutch cold. He turned around and said, "Starsky, you're not the same, but that's not the issue. I care more about you now than before, if that's even possible. The problem is, you can't admit to yourself that you've changed. You can't do this? Well, if that's how you feel, I won't stand in the way." Opening the car door, he added, "I'm going to work tomorrow. If you're there, ready to hit the street, I'll forget about the fact that less than a minute ago, you were ready to throw away an eight year partnership. If you're not, then I hope you're man enough to explain it to Dobey before I get there."
Hutch got in the Torino and slammed the door shut. Stunned, Starsky stood by the front fender, then pulled himself together and slipped in behind the wheel. He glanced at his watch while starting the engine. Their shift had ended fifteen minutes ago, but before either could go home, there was still the unwelcomed task of paperwork waiting to be done.
After each finished their reports, Starsky headed out to the parking lot with Hutch following right behind. Neither had said one word to each other at the precinct and the drive to Venice Place was long and silent. As soon as Starsky pulled over to the curb, Hutch got out and, without a word, marched into the building. Starsky stayed in the car for a few minutes, debating on whether to follow Hutch inside or not. Finally deciding against it, he slowly pulled away and headed for home.
Upstairs, Hutch watched the red and white Ford until it drove out of sight. Thoughts of anger and hurt pelted his mind, accompanied with unanswerable questions. How did everything go so wrong in six months? What had happened to make Starsky want to give up their partnership? He had never been a quitter, so why now? Hutch had watched him, every single day, fighting at first to stay alive, then fighting to accomplish everything that was asked of him. Only a handful of times did he ever falter and showed Hutch a glimpse of resignation. One of those moments had occurred fairly recently, though.
They'd been working light duty. Starsky was actually the one assigned to a desk, but Hutch had no intention of working with another partner or going on patrol by himself. For Starsky, the time working indoors had been relatively short, but it was all Hutch had done since a month after the shooting. Although tired of being at a desk, he just viewed it as a temporary detail until his partner could rejoin him out on the street. At least, that had been the plan until the morning Dobey called Starsky into his office.
Five minutes later, he had emerged looking overwhelmed and gave Hutch a defeated glance before marching out into the hallway. Hutch quickly caught up to his partner, but it wasn't until they made it out into the relative seclusion of the parking lot that Starsky shoved the letter from the review board at him.
"They say I can't go back. The doc thinks I ain't healed up enough."
Hutch stared at him in disbelief, then reluctantly read through the letter. "Starsk, it says that 'until such time as.' That's only a fancy way of saying if things change, they'll reconsider their decision. Nothing's been permanently decided yet."
"You don't think I can read English? I know what the letter says, Hutch," Starsky began. "I just don't know how much more I can squeeze out. The therapists have been telling me for weeks that I'm not improving. And from what Dobey said, the board wants me back to almost where I was before..." His gaze settled on the pavement. "What if this is the best I'll ever be?"
"You'll find a way to try harder. I've never known you to quit anything—." Hutch inadvertently stumbled on the last word. Two weeks ago he was fighting to pull a loaded automatic out of Starsky's hands. Nestling up to his partner, Hutch draped an arm over the tired shoulders and drew Starsky close to him. "I'm right here, pal. We'll get through this."
"This ain't the Wizard of Oz, Hutch. You can't click your heels together and make miracles happen."
"How did you know I had a pair of ruby slippers?"
Starsky slipped from under Hutch's arm and walked a few feet away. He stuck both hands in his pockets and then dipped his head. "Who am I tryin' to fool? Just been a big waste of a lot of people's time. Maybe I need to quit acting like everything's gonna be like it used to."
The words from Starsky's mouth hit Hutch like a sledgehammer. He'd never seen self pity or heard a defeatist syllable from his partner since he started recovering from the shooting. After searching his heart, there was only one thing Hutch could say. "Starsky, you can't quit now. If you do, then everything thing you've worked for, every bit of pain, won't have mattered. And the worst part is, we'd be admitting Gunther won."
Starsky turned and faced Hutch, the look in his face not open to interpretation. "You got it wrong. Gunther won, he won alright. Maybe not like he would've wanted to, but he did." He stayed silent for a bit, and then with a different inflection said, "Dobey said I'd get another shot in thirty days. Maybe you should dig out those slippers—just in case."
Hutch leaned his head back in the recliner, still thinking about that earlier conversation. Starsky did try, as hard as he ever had, and was reinstated by the department's review board. Hutch couldn't recall a time he'd seen Starsky happier, but his admission about Gunther having won was disturbing. Hutch never asked him to explain it, thinking it'd be better if that was one thing left undiscussed.
Today, though, hearing those words about the shooting ripped into him probably the same way those bullets had torn into Starsky's body. Unwanted and uninvited, the painful memory of that morning at the police garage seeped into his thoughts.
Before he'd even run around the hood of the Torino, Hutch knew Starsky had been hit. He'd heard his name shouted out, but only the first syllable. All he could do was hope his partner was still with him. When Hutch cleared the front end, and got his first view of Starsky, he'd never seen such a horrific sight. The bright redness drew his attention first. The glistening blood on Starsky's chest had already soaked through his shirt and was beginning to pool on the ground. Hutch rushed to his friend's side and gently cupped the curly head in his hand. The momentary relief he felt as he embraced the glimpse of recognition in his partner's eyes, just as quickly disappeared as Starsky suddenly convulsed and a stream of frothy blood poured out of his mouth. As the blue eyes rolled back and one last gasp struggled in, Hutch sensed the inevitable begin to happen and screamed at Starsky from the depths of his shattered soul to hang on. And screamed, and screamed, and…
Hutch withdrew from the past and entered the present reality of his living room. As he massaged the bridge of his nose, he found himself once again mentally debating the issue of fairness and that most perplexing subject, fate. Starsky was right. One of them had been destined to be a target that day. Heads or tails, someone was going to lose. How his partner always seemed to rationalize things like that was beyond Hutch's comprehension.
"It's always hardest on the ones left behind. Yeah? I'll believe that when I hear from someone who went first."
And always so practical. Starsky never seemed to blame anyone or anything when the world decided to turn his life upside down, even when there was no question who was responsible. When Starsky buried Terri, he didn't hate George Prudholm, only what he'd done. Back at the old zoo, Hutch didn't want Starsky to shoot that unarmed bastard, but he would have lied, and gladly, to cover his partner if he had killed him. He wondered if Starsky would have pulled the trigger if he'd known what circumstances lay ahead. Having a father murdered is hard enough, but being able to prevent losing another loved one in the same manner would've been hard to refuse.
Perhaps that's why he wanted to protect Starsky so much. That enduring spirit of his, in spite of life's nasty twists, could only go so far.
So what had happened to that bundle of optimism, Saint David Michael? Obviously, he was either putting on a good show, or didn't realize how the person who knew him best could see the changes and worried how Starsky was coping. Maybe the shooting was too much. It was one thing to mend a broken body, quite another to try and mend a lost soul. Hutch had seen Starsky's mood swing like a pendulum from pure elation to wanting to die. The frightening part was that it was still swinging out to both extremes.
Hutch got up and went over to grab the phone. He started to dial the number of someone who could have an answer, hoping she wouldn't hang up as soon as she heard his voice.
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Starsky pulled into his driveway and parked. He had driven past half a dozen fast food restaurants and at least that many pizzerias and not stopped at any of them, knowing full well there was nothing to eat in his refrigerator. His appetite was lost somewhere, probably along with his sanity. As he entered the apartment, he took off his jacket and then slipped the holster from his body. Starsky examined the hard leather holder and the metal gun grip angling out from the opening. He thought about the people who had died from that gun, and how he'd almost became its last victim.
Those who live by the sword…
Where had he heard that before? Well, if it was true, then he really should be dead.
But, I'm not. I should be—someone that's had their heart stop is usually considered dead.
He let out a frustrated sigh as he hung the holster on the coat rack then went into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he was glad to see two bottles of beer tucked away on the bottom shelf. He grabbed one and popped off the cap, then returned to the living room. As he settled on the couch, his muscles almost screamed in relief as he stretched out on the soft mattress. Over on the coffee table, he saw the plastic prescription bottle of Percocet sitting there from last night, calling to him.
Before returning to work, Starsky had begun weaning himself off of the powerful drug, convinced his body was healing enough to go without it. However, the added stress and movement from being back on the job had frequently pushed him beyond his limit and the drug was now both a blessing and a curse. On days like today, there was nothing better he could take to feel almost normal again, but on the other hand, it was a painful reminder of the type of drug he still needed. Starsky had tried a couple of times to go entirely without it, but the pain was too hard to hide at work. Since the drug made him pretty dopey, he only took it in the evening, but getting through the day was tough. He worried about what would happen when the remaining pills ran out.
His doctor had explained the soreness was coming from scar tissue that had developed underneath the incision sites and throughout the injured sections of his lungs. He could have more surgery, but the relief might only be temporary as new adhesions would likely form.
He reached over and snatched the bottle, dumping one of the off-white pills into his hand and guzzling it down with a mouthful of beer. He unbuttoned his shirt and lay back down on the sofa, waiting for the first signs of wavy euphoria to begin coursing through his body. Starsky thought about his conversation with Hutch out in the parking lot. His partner knew him well, almost too well, but what he hadn't picked up on was the way Starsky had lied about Gunther's assault.
Starsky was proud he had told Hutch as much as he had. He didn't blame the blond for coming out of the shooting physically unscarred. If he knew anything about his partner, it was that the man could hold himself responsible for Starsky stubbing his toe in his own bathroom. Sure, he had borne the attack's bodily injuries, but Hutch had weathered its mental ones, which were for him probably more painful than physical wounds. Still, there was one thing Starsky couldn't come to terms with, and that was the simple act of fate.
Why was the Torino parked that way? Why had he been shot at the restaurant? Why did Bellamy get to him first?
I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Hutch has had his share of close calls, but...
For the first time, Starsky was starting to wish he could shoulder more of the emotional, rather than physical scars. Up until a year ago, he had been proud of his body. Strutting shirtless on the beach was practically a ritual on his days off, as close to achieving a drug fix as the cop could get. But after the incident with Rothman, where he'd been shot point blank in his side and nearly gutted by a switchblade, the t-shirts had stayed on while enjoying the ocean. Now, Starsky couldn't even bear to go shirtless in the locker room at the precinct. He peered down the front of his chest, and ran a finger along one of the surgical incisions. It was the longest scar, stretching from the top of his breastbone halfway down to his belly button. The slightly puckered, pinkish line still showed the healed marks from staples dotting both sides. He briefly inspected a bullet wound, then shifted his gaze away, wishing the impossible dream that one day he could see his body whole again. As the comforting wave of the drug finally kicked in, Starsky took one more gulp of beer, then closed his eyes to begin the descent into another sleepy oblivion.