Hi all,
Thank you all so much for the sweet reviews! You're such a wonderful bunch of people. ((HUGS)) I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Warning: This is a DARK story. Some bad words and things will be happening. If you are sensitive, please do not read this.

Chapter 3

Early evening, Pointer Peak

Starsky looked at his watch for about the twentieth time in two hours. It was now six p.m. "Well, I got here on time Hutch, so where the hell are you?" he wondered aloud as he stared out at the desert and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "If you don't show up soon, I might not tell you that that chick was just using me to make her boyfriend jealous. Hmm, maybe I won't tell that part anyway."

He had opened all the LTD's doors in a vain attempt to keep cool while he waited. After the sun went down, he lay down across the front seat trying to get a little rest as he waited for his partner to arrive.

The next morning, Starsky flung off Hutch's colorful poncho and opened the door of the car. Only to reach back and grab the poncho and wrap it around himself again, 'damn, it sure gets cold in the desert at night' Starsky thought. He took a walk around the area, making sure to keep the car in sight the whole time as he called Hutch's name. With each holler, his worry increased. Hutch should have made it back by now. He dashed back to the car, wrote a quick note and stuck it to one of the parking lot signs, just in case his partner arrived while he was going for help.

Starsky drove off. Hoping all the while that when he returned with help, Hutch would be waiting for him with a smirk on his face, ready to rib him mercilessly about being like a mother hen with one chick. But deep down, something told the curly-haired cop that he had every right to be worried.

XXXX

Bench's gold mine

It was nearing noon and the inside of the mine was hotter than outside, or so it seemed to Hutch as he hammered away at the rock surface of the mine. His respect for all miners rose dramatically as he pounded the morning hours away with a star drill and hammer. This was mining at its most basic, there were no power tools to be had this far from civilization, there were no electric sockets to plug them into, nor did Peter Bench have a generator. The work was all manual and grueling. The sound was deafening as each hammer blow echoed within the tight confines of the mineshaft.

The tall blond stopped his hammering, determining –via repeated stomach grumbles- that this was enough work for now, he would start back at it after lunch. He dropped his tools and shouldered the leather bag full of rocks he had chipped out of the walls and exited the shaft.

Peter was busy breaking down the rocks the Hutch had brought out earlier, his sharp eyes scanning for traces of gold. His head lifted as Hutch approached him; the blond emptied the rock filled bag and picked up the canteen that Peter always kept next to him.

Hutch sat wearily down on a boulder and opened the container, taking a long, deep drink. Metallic tasting and warm, the water still went smoothly down his parched throat. He sighed as he lowered the canteen, swiping beads of water off his upper lip with his tongue, he could taste the salt from his skin as well. He lifted the canteen to drink some more.

"Don't hog it all." Peter's words were clipped.

The detective lifted his head and shot a questioning look at the miner. "Don't worry, I'm not. That's hot, thirsty work in there." He hitched a thumb towards the mine.

"It ain't any easier out here, you know. I have to check every rock you bring out for traces of gold, to make sure we're still on the right track. I'd hate to do a lot of extra work for no reason." Peter went back to chipping away at the stones.

Hutch shook his head as he thought to himself, 'yeah, and I'm doin' the majority of the 'extra' work around here.' He recapped the container; 'The sun must be gettin' to old Pete the prospector, making him a tad touchy today.' Only day and a half left of this and he'd be getting a jeep ride back to civilization. The blond wandered over to the shelter and noticed one dirty plate and no food in the pan. "Where's mine?" He called over to the prospector.

"I ain't your wife, you want something to eat, make it yourself. And don't be all day about it, we've got a lot of work to do if we're gonna strike that vein in the next day or so." Peter bent back to his task.

Hutch rolled his eyes and set about fixing himself a quick meal.

XXXX

Starsky slapped his hand down on the desk of the local sheriff's office. "Well?"

"Well what?" The sheriff said as he looked up from the form he was filling out. "You just told me that your friend is 'almost' twenty-four hours late meeting you. The rule is-"

"I know what the rule is. I'm a detective with the Bay City Police Department." The brunet slapped his ID and badge on the desk. "I also know my partner. He's never this late unless there's a problem. He's out in the desert, alone, anything could've happened to him. We need to start looking for him right now. If you don't make the call to Search and Rescue, I will." Dark blue eyes blazed holes into the other officer's retinas.

The sheriff held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, just hold on there, I'll make the call. I just wanted to see if you were serious. Sorry about that, now please just give me some details, you know – height, weight, etcetera, okay?"

Starsky rapidly rattled off Hutch's specs and handed the sheriff a map, "He gave me this map, and he marked the route he planned on takin' and where he planned on campin'. He knows a lot about camping and wilderness survival, Hutch is a regular boy scout. He wouldn't have strayed from his marked path." Starsky paced before the sheriff's desk.

The sheriff, Robert Fishborne, quickly jotted the information down "Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself. Has he done any desert camping before? It's quite different from camping in the woods, you know. People are always underestimating the desert and what they'll need to survive out there. For instance, you need to take along a lot more water. And you should never camp alone, it's always best to use the buddy system." The sheriff tilted back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the agitated man.

The brunet stopped pacing, "Yeah, the buddy system…" he gave a heavy sigh before continuing. "And no, he hasn't done any desert campin' before, not that I'm aware of anyway. Dammit! I should've gone with him-"

A familiar figure with a familiar backpack walked by the large plate glass window, caught the detective's eye. "Hutch!" Starsky burst out the station door and caught his friend by the elbow, only to be confronted by a tall blond stranger who had Hutch's backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Hey man, what's your beef?" The stranger tugged his elbow out of Starsky's grasp. "Hands off-"

Starsky latched back on to the man's arm. "Where'd you get that backpack?"

"I bought it, now let go of my arm, man." The tall man tried to break the brunet's hold and failed.

"Didn't ya hear me? Where did you get this backpack?" Starsky repeated as he dug his fingers in more deeply into the man's muscles, not giving one good damn if he left bruises or not.

"Ow! Christ man, leggo! Hey cop, get this lunatic away from me!" The tall man looked to the uniformed officer for assistance. He tugged at his imprisoned arm, still trying to free it. "I'm being assaulted!"

Sheriff Robert Fishborne stepped closer, in full cop mode, backing up a fellow police officer –even if he didn't personally know the detective. "I think you'd better answer the man, where'd you get that pack?" He pointed to the object in question.

The man squirmed under the ever-tightening grip a seeming mad man and the direct stare of a hard-nosed sheriff. "Ow! Ease off! This guy sold it to me."

"What's this guy's name?" The Bay City detective hissed angrily.

"I didn't get his name, alls I know is that him and this other guy was just sellin' some stuff out of his truck, in the grocery store parking lot," The tall man pointed in the direction of the store. "I just bought this stuff off him."

"Cuff 'im" Starsky turned the man around and pushed him roughly up against the wall "You're under arrest." He yanked the pack off the man's shoulder. A quick glace assured him it was Hutch's, though he would have known it anywhere. The initials K.H. were sewn on the top flap; the backpack was a gift from Hutch's mother, from a few Christmases ago.

"Arrest?" The man squeaked.

Sheriff Fishborne nodded, agreeing with the Bay City detective's assessment, "Assume the position." He quickly secured the man's wrists.

The tall man gasped, then sputtered. "What! What's the charge?"

"Receiving stolen goods, for starters." Starsky snapped. "That backpack belongs to a missing man. I suggest you cough up any information you know about those two men. And do it fast."

The man paled and spilled his guts. "Oh man! I didn't know, okay? O-One guy's name is Kurt; he's kinda fat, ya know? He's got a beer gut. I don't know the other guy's name, but I did notice that he has a crooked goatee. Oh, and the truck was a gray 68 Chevy, lotsa rust on the doors. That's all I know, honest! How much trouble am I in?" The man looked close to tears.

"You just keep cooperating and we'll see, won't we detective? Detective?" When Fishborne didn't get an answer, he looked about for the Bay City cop and saw the man sprinting in the direction of the store parking lot. "Oh hell!" He hustled the tall prisoner into the single cell and ran back outside and hopped into the only squad car in town, calling the next town over for backup as he spun the steering wheel and sent smoke rolling off his tires as he hurried after the detective.

XXXX

Starsky didn't think of anything beyond catching those two men and finding out what they had done to Hutch. He pelted down the sidewalk to the only grocery store in this small town. He slowed down as he neared the lot, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He controlled his breathing and walked casually towards the men, he had to play this just right, he had no gun, no backup and no plan to speak of.

"Hey!" Starsky called and waved at the two men who were sitting on the tailgate of the gray Chevy pickup. He continued to approach them.

"What'dya want?" The man with the crooked goatee responded as he flicked his cigarette away.

"My pal said that he got a backpack from you, cheap." Starsky motioned over his shoulder as he moved closer and leaned against the truck bed. He casually looked in the bed for any clues or signs of Hutch or any of his things. The bed contained about a dozen empty beer cans, a couple of old cardboard boxes and a battery. "I'm lookin' for some camping gear, can ya hook me up?"

"Nope. Now beat it." The pot-bellied man slid off the tailgate and took a step in Starsky's direction.

"Hey it's-" The detective's words were cut off by the sound of squealing tires and a police siren wail. The two men exchanged a look and started for the truck's doors; apparently assuming –correctly- the sirens were for them.

"Shit!" Starsky realized that in his excitement to speak to these two, he'd forgotten all about Fishborne, who apparently was coming to back him up. "Hold it right there!" He grabbed for the nearest man -who was surprisingly agile- and managed to kick Starsky in the back of the knee, which forced him to lose his balance. Another quick kick -this one to the stomach- had him gasping and struggling to get to his feet.

The two men dashed to the pickup's door and piled in. Starsky gained his feet and shoved himself halfway through the open driver's side window; he grabbed for the keys and pulled them out. He sustained several blows from the two men, but he was successful in getting the keys.

Triumphant, he pushed himself back out the window and dangled the keys tauntingly at the men as he skipped backwards way from the vehicle. He was surprised when the potbellied man smiled, flipped him the finger and fired up the engine.

"CRAP!" Starsky realized his mistake as he watched the truck roar away, smoke rolling up from the squalling tires. In older vehicles, once the ignition was turned past a certain point, you didn't need the key to start the vehicle. The pair peeled out of the parking lot.

Fishborne wheeled into the lot and slammed to a halt next to him, Starsky dashed to the passenger side and hopped in. "Would it have been too much to ask NOT to alert the bad guys by rushing in, light flashin' and sirens blarin'. Christ almighty, it sounded like the 7th Cavalry was charging in!" The brunet glared at the sheriff.

"Sorry," Fishborne gave him a sheepish, embarrassed look as he pushed the accelerator to the floorboards. "I guess I over did it. There's just not a lot of crime around here and-" A puzzled look came over his face as he maneuvered the cruiser through the dusty streets after the pickup, "Hey… the 7th Calvary, wasn't that Custer's unit?"

"Yeah. Did ya call for backup?" Starsky grabbed the officer's rifle and released it from its holder. He quickly checked it for ammo. "See if ya can't get close to them, I'll blow the tires."

"Yep, I called for backup. And right, I'll get you close enough for you to read the words on the radials." The cruiser's engine roared as the speed of the pursuit increased. "Didn't Custer die in battle?" Fishborne kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he further increased his speed.

"Yeah, he and the most of the 7th Calvary bought it at the battle of the Little Big Horn." Starsky replied distractedly as he focused on the truck ahead of them. "Look, I don't need to see the words on the tires, I just need a clear shot at 'em, okay? I wanna get 'em stopped. They had my partner's backpack so they must know what happened to him… where he is. Hell, I don't know if their armed or not." The rider in the gray truck leaned out the window and Starsky saw the muzzle flash and a bullet whizzed past his head. He yanked his head back inside the cruiser. "Shit! They're packin'!"

Fishborne nodded and made more calls on his radio, updating dispatch and his backup. More backup was called for by dispatch. The radio traffic increased as other units closed in on the pursuit. After a very close call with another squad unit that had joined the pursuit –and nearly the two cars- on a blind curve. "I really hope we're not the ones playing the role of the 7th Calvary today." The sheriff muttered through clenched teeth.

Starsky was unable to get a clear shot at the tires. Gamely, Fishborne kept trying to maneuver close enough without getting them shot in the process. Thankfully, there wasn't much traffic in the little town, and with more backup on the way, Starsky was fairly confidant that the chase would be over soon.

As the pursuit left the small town behind, two other units moved in, with Fishborne still in the primary position. The men in the gray Chevy blew through stop sign after stop sign, not even tapping the breaks as they fled through the intersections. Starsky's gut knotted up each time the men took that desperate gamble.

They were nearly twelve minutes into the chase when it happened.

Both Fishborne and Starsky both saw the big rig with a heavy load of fresh cut timber on the truck bed. The battered gray truck sped through the stop sign -and directly into the path of the semi truck. One instant there was a gray truck, the next it was gone, smashed to smithereens.

Fishborne slammed on the breaks when he saw what was about to happen and they skidded to a halt just shy of the intersection, one of the gray truck's tires rolled by the squad before flopping to its side. Eerily, the gray truck's horn blared loudly.

The sheriff snatched up his mic, "10-50! 10-50! Dispatch, roll out the fire department and an ambulance." Then as an afterthought, "Send a coroner's wagon too."

Starsky quickly exited the squad car and made his way to the wreckage. Little remained of the gray Chevy and the men who once occupied it. They were beyond help. He disconnected the battery, which silenced the pickup's horn. By rote, he made his way to the semi truck to check on the driver. Thankfully that man was alive, injured, but alive. He left the trucker to the helping hands of the other police officers and went back to Fishborne's squad and sat down hard on the front bumper. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

White faced, Sheriff Fishborne sat beside him. He wiped a shaky hand down his face, reaction of seeing two lives brutally snuffed out before his eyes were setting in. "Man, this is a tough break-" He dropped a conciliatory hand on the Bay City detective's shoulder.

"TOUGH BREAK?" Starsky thundered as he shook off the hand. He bounced off the bumper and into the officer's space, closing in until his nose nearly touched the sheriff's nose. "Those men are DEAD, my partner's missing and you call this-" Starsky waved a hand at the tangled mess of men and machine "'A tough break!' How the hell am I suppose to get answers from dead men? Huh? If only you hadn't-"

Starsky stopped mid sentence. It was pointless to take his anger out on Fishborne. He hadn't told the man what he was up to, Hutch would have known or figured it out, but he wasn't here. This sheriff didn't know him, but he had tried to back Starsky up anyway. The brunet couldn't fault him for that.

It wasn't Fishborne responsibility that those two men were dead. No one had made them run from the police; no one had forced them to run stop signs either. None of that mattered now. He had to find his friend. The desert was the last place he had seen Hutch. That's where they would start the search. Starsky's gut clinched at the prospect of searching the vast Mohave Desert - a desert that occupies more than 25,000 square miles and resides in four states - for his friend.

TBC