This is not intended to infringe upon any trademark rights or copyrights held by Spelling/Goldberg Productions, 20th Century Fox, Columbia Pictures Television, the American Broadcasting Company, Sony Television, or others in connection with the names and likenesses of characters depicted in the 1975-1979 television series Starsky & Hutch
Starsky & Hutch: Together Again
Opened Minds
Copyright 1995, Bardicvoice
Act Four
The students pouring out of the lecture hall into the night filled the air with a cacophony of animated debate. Screened from view in the dark by bushes and trees, Hutch sighed heavily and leaned back against the brick wall of the building. He didn't startle or even open his eyes when Starsky's voice sounded almost at his shoulder.
"Hell of a show you put on in there."
"Yeah."
"If it's any consolation, it didn't go to waste. Jenkins and Cahill were both in the back; between her tape recorder and his cameras, they had a ball. They were workin' the crowd for reaction interviews soon as the class got dismissed."
"Wonderful." His tone was as sour as his mouth tasted. "Damn. I never expected Wolfe to even show up for tonight, much less chime in and agree with me. Cahill must've called him and primed the pump."
"Complicates things some more," Starsky agreed. "You both make real juicy targets." He looked narrowly at his partner. Even in the meager lighting, Hutch's face seemed tired and worn. "You gonna be okay?"
"Eventually. I guess. It's just ‒ God, I hated doing that."
Starsky put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Hey. It'll come out right. Wanna go home?"
"Just wish I could."
Starsky gave his shoulder another squeeze, then lifted his portable radio and thumbed the switch.
"Papa Bear to Nuthouse, come in Nuthouse," he said breezily. Hutch grimaced.
"Nuthouse here, Papa Bear." Harris' voice was soft. "Stupid names and all."
"What's your situation?"
"Mr. Peanut's still working the crowd with Cashew. Looks like they'll be a while. Alpha Male left with the Wolfpack on his heels, heading home, I think."
"Good enough. I'm leaving now with Goldilocks. We'll settle into the Hotel Majestic for tonight, and set up the dorm stuff first thing tomorrow. Keep me advised on Mr. Peanut's movements."
"Roger. Nuthouse out."
"Goldilocks?" Hutch protested, and Starsky blithely ignored him.
"Papa Bear to Wolfpack."
"We read you, Papa Bear. Alpha Male's stopped at a cocktail lounge on his way home ‒ seems real pleased with himself."
"Figures," Hutch muttered darkly.
"Stay on him, Wolfpack. Advise when he settles into his den."
"Will do. Wolfpack out."
Starsky stuffed the radio back in his jacket pocket, and gestured in the general direction of the faculty parking lot.
"Shall we go?"
Hutch shrugged and started to walk, then stopped.
"Goldilocks?" he complained again, and Starsky reached over and playfully riffled his thinning hair.
"Hey ‒ I could'a called ya 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy.' Count your blessings."
Hutch cast despairing eyes at heaven and shook his head.
"Such as they are," he said, and started walking again.
During the next four days, Hutch carefully established a routine that ran from the isolated relative splendor of his own four-bedroom suite-in-exile in the graduate students' dormitory to his borrowed office, to one quiet reading section in the library, and then back to the dorm. He took his meals alone, mostly in the Student Union or in the too-hip-for-words breakfast, deli, and sandwich shop just over the invisible line between the city and the campus, across the street from the library building. He made himself an apparent creature of habit, carrying the routine almost unchanged through the weekend. He tried to spot the cops who were covering him without actually looking for them, running his peripheral vision for all it was worth. Some were easy, like the two guys who moved into the dorm suite next to his, ostensibly for one of the short continuing education courses. He debated with himself about the black girl who hung out in the library; she seemed likely, a little too watchful for just a student, but with a lot of women being more concerned about self-defense, he couldn't really be sure, and he made it a matter of principle not to ask Starsky.
Even with all of his senses tuned to their peak, though, he never caught a glimpse of Jenkins. At the same time, he couldn't be certain that the man wasn't there. Forced to be circumspect and avoid discovery at all costs, Harris and Hidalgo routinely lost Jenkins for as much as an hour up to four times a day, despite their best efforts to stay on him, and no one could absolutely confirm where he had been or what he had done while he was unobserved.
Starsky was another matter. He made himself scarce during most of the day, when the bustle of the campus made any assault unlikely, but Hutch seemed unerringly to sense him as soon as he was near, whether he was visible or not. From whatever vantage point he'd found, Starsky would see his partner's head come up, just a fraction, like a dog catching an elusive scent on the breeze; then Hutch would return to whatever he was doing and pay no more attention to his hidden shadow. An hour or so after Hutch returned to the dorm at night, Starsky would knock softly for admittance, and he stayed each night in the suite despite Hutch's attempts to tease him into going home to spend the night with his wife.
The pathway near the dorm seemed to offer the best potential as an ambush zone. Isolated and lined with trees and bushes, it served only the dorm, which was more than half-empty during the summer term. It ran in a meandering series of loops and curves through the campus's largest parklike green space, having been laid out for maximum esthetics rather than maximum utility. Starsky fretted at the length and twists of the stretch, all too aware of the many hiding places along the path where a quick and powerful man could lie in wait to snatch a victim and return to cover without being spotted, unless the tail on the victim stayed so close as to be obvious enough to discourage the snatch attempt in the first place. Hutch's next-door-neighbor undercover cops jogged that path at least twice a day, close to the time he walked it, in the hopes of being able to spot any clue to a set-up.
The only break in the otherwise unremitting tension came at night, when Hutch, finally free from any fear of outside observation, used the telephone as his lifeline to Denise. Starsky did his best not to listen to one-sided conversations that often appeared to make no logical sense, and that sometimes included long silences and occasional quiet snatches of song. He felt vaguely guilty about being able to go home and kiss Cheryl in the morning, when Hutch and Denise were limited to the phone. They didn't meet again in person until Monday afternoon.
At two o'clock, Hutch paused outside the faculty meeting room and took a deep breath, then opened the door and walked in without hesitation. Six pairs of eyes locked on him like targeting radar, and only one set failed to launch missiles.
"Benedict Arnold, I presume?" Tony DeFiore drawled.
"Tony!" Denise's voice snapped like cracking ice, brittle and cold. "We will keep this discussion on a professional level, and we are all entitled to our own opinions."
Holly Sanderson looked disappointed more than anything else.
"I didn't think you'd be coming."
"I signed a contract," Hutch said mildly. "And while I may have raised criticisms of the path that the course has chosen, I still feel a duty to help it on its way, and give these kids the fullest possible picture they can get."
"As do I." The gruff voice from the doorway behind him belonged to Raymond Wolfe. He looked Hutch up and down. "I misjudged you. You do have honor."
"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Tony muttered, but quelled at a swift look from Denise. The others in the room shifted uncomfortably, but held their peace. Holly looked at the two men still standing near the doorway, and then at Denise. In silence, virtually expressionless, Denise cocked her head and gestured with one hand at the circle of six chairs already gathered on one side of the room. Hutch limped forward, dropped his briefcase into an additional chair, and used his free hand to wrestle it awkwardly into place. No one volunteered to help, but Jeff and Chandri shifted their chairs apart to make room for him. Wolfe waited an additional beat, but when it became obvious that no one was going to set a place for him, he harrumphed and followed Hutch's lead, dragging a chair to settle in between Denise and Holly.
"Okay," Holly said. "Tomorrow night is the history session. Raymond, you'll take center stage. Are you planning any more departures from the script?"
"I see no reason to tamper with my scheduled lecture. It covers the points I intended to raise, in any case."
"I think we should change one piece of casting, though," Denise said, her voice slightly barbed. "If Ken is going to be an agent provocateur anyway, we may as well put him in the role right from the start. Unless you object, Tina?"
"No way," the woman demurred, sarcasm uppermost in her tone. "He's welcome to it. After his performance last Thursday, it's clear he's more provocative than I could ever be."
"Provocation and challenge aren't necessarily bad things," Chandri said calmly, and most of the others looked at him in surprise. He spread his hands. "If they force both our students and ourselves to really think about our positions, and to go beyond positions to confront issues, then they serve to bolster understanding and truly educate. Is that not why we designed the agent provocateur concept into the course in the first place ‒ to force conflict and incite challenge in order to make students truly assess the ideas we raise? It cannot hurt that concept ‒ however much it surprises us ‒ to find that the devil's advocate actually believes in his argument."
For the briefest instant, while virtually everyone else stared at Chandri, Hutch closed his eyes, feeling the reprieve from guilt like a lover's caress on his soul. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Denise watching him with the faintest of smiles on her lips, and he knew beyond doubt that Shan had not devised that delicate save entirely on his own. Then her expression blanked and she shifted her attention to Chandri, and Hutch locked his sudden relief into the mental safe that held the rest of his secrets, and kept his voice dispassionate.
"I appreciate your view of things, Shan. And if my approach to our ‒ philosophical debate ‒ was overly aggressive, I apologize. I did intend to make a point, but I may have been more abrasive than I meant to be."
"Devil, rather than just advocate?" Jeff asked, venturing to tease in an effort to lighten the atmosphere, and Hutch found a tentative little smile of his own.
"Maybe. Accept an olive branch?"
Hutch saw nearly everyone in the room flash a covert glance from him to Denise, as they all wondered on how many levels that apology was offered, and he stole a look of his own. Her face was calm and composed, giving nothing away, but she chose not to answer and did not look directly at him. Holly, shifting her attention quickly between the two of them, sighed almost imperceptibly.
"On behalf of the team, I'll accept your apology ‒ provisionally." Holly raised one cautioning hand. "But next time you're going to take off sideways, warn us first? It will minimize disruption of the class if the rest of us at least know that you intend to play ‒ or be, or whatever ‒ devil's advocate before you go and do it."
"I promise." Hutch pitched the rest of his answer directly toward Denise, figuring that everyone would expect him to at least try. "Believe me, however it may have looked, I don't want to torpedo this course. I've put too much into it ‒ just like the rest of you."
Denise met his eyes, and he didn't think that anyone else could read what really ran beneath the acid edge on her voice.
"Then the agent provocateur role should suit you just fine. Make the most of it."
There was a moment of silence, and then Holly cleared her throat.
"Okay ‒ let's run through the scenario, shall we? We need to adjust for the role shift; Tina, would you be comfortable handling the intro?"
A little ripple ran across the circle as people shifted in their chairs and changed mental gears, gathering up copies of the course materials and finding their places in the mass of pages. Concentration worked its usual magic, gradually draining away animosity and replacing it with anticipation for the Tuesday night class. By the end of the three hour working session, the comfort level in the room had risen noticeably, and the people who tucked edited papers back in their briefcases and stood up to leave were far less tense and far more amiable than their arriving selves had been. Even Raymond Wolfe condescended to smile when Tina complimented him on the structure of his presentation.
Under the cover of the general banter, Hutch paused beside and just slightly behind Denise, and pitched his voice for her ears only.
"Thanks. For finding a way to let me do this without ruining everything."
She slipped him one sideways glance and almost smiled, keeping her voice as low as his.
"It should have occurred to me before; I just wasn't thinking straight. Then I couldn't tell you until I was sure Shan would buy into it. Sorry."
"Hey ‒ I could have thought of it too." His lips twitched. "Too wrapped up in the forest to pay attention to the trees, huh?"
"Details, details," she murmured airily back. She glanced up to see Holly watching them thoughtfully, although no one else seemed to be paying attention. "Better split before someone thinks we're gonna kiss and make up."
"Yeah. Love you, Neese." He let himself look at her openly, and saw her watching him under lowered lids from the corners of her eyes, although she didn't turn her head to acknowledge him.
"You too," she said, through lips that barely moved.
He hesitated, as if to reach out or say more, then shrugged and turned away. Jeff and Tony were animatedly setting up the bets on their next tennis match; he followed the two of them out the door.
Holly drifted over in his wake to pause beside Denise as the psychologist stuffed papers in her bag.
"Do I detect a thaw in the winter?"
Denise threw her a rueful smile.
"Maybe. Too early to say whether it's spring yet, though."
"Well, if you make up as thoroughly as you break up, better make sure there aren't any cops around, or you might get arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior. Then again, if you give me some warning, maybe I could sell tickets?"
Denise laughed; she couldn't help it.
"Holly, you are good for the soul. Give it a little time, okay?"
"I just hate to see a good team split. He may have gone a little overboard there, but ‒ the two of you are right as right, I know it."
"I guess ‒ I do too, deep down somewhere. Just let it work its way up to the top."
"Don't take too long, honey." Holly winked. "Somebody else might make a play for him in the meantime."
That's what I'm afraid of, though not the way you mean. Denise bit back the instant response and just raised an eyebrow instead.
"I'll bear that in mind. Anyone in particular I should watch out for?"
"Looking at me? I know better than to get between the irresistible force and the immovable object." Holly hefted her briefcase and let the banter drop. "Going my way?"
"You know," Denise said, smiling, "I think I am."
The Tuesday morning sunlight pouring through the kitchen window made Starsky blink in protest as he dropped into a chair and yawned hugely. Cheryl shook her head knowingly as she poured coffee in his cup.
"Did the two of you get any sleep last night, or just spend the whole time talking?"
"Hey! We got sense. 'Course we got sleep."
"Starting when ‒ three a.m.?" Cheryl settled into her own chair and laced her fingers around her steaming cup. Her smile faded. "How's Hutch?"
"Wired. You remember how he used ta get, when we got stuck on a case and just hadda wait for it? Like that. All wound up and no place to go."
"Sounds like somebody else I know," she said pointedly, and he grinned.
"Yeah, well, I can blow it off easier." He sobered up fast. "I never realized how much runnin' used to calm him down, make him relax. Now he can't even wear down the carpet pacin', so he plays guitar instead. Played five hours nonstop, last night. He's gotta have callouses on his callouses, not to slice up his hands that way."
"Denise plays piano," Cheryl said. She smiled slightly when he looked up, surprised. "Hey, I figured turnabout's fair play, and I thought she could use the company. We had a pretty long chat of our own, last night."
"No fair, comparin' notes!"
"Why not? I'm sure you boys do."
"That's different!"
"Oh, really?"
He opened his mouth, but no snappy words came to mind, and he closed his mouth before she would make some smart comment about catching flies. He covered by gulping coffee instead, and very nearly burned his tongue.
"Aahhh! You tryin' to get even with me, or somethin'?"
"Or something. Slow down a little." The teasing gave way to a ghost of concern. "Evening will be here before you know it." She paused for an instant, then went on. "Neese invited me over for an early dinner tonight, before class. I told her I'd stay, keep her company."
"Good idea." Without warning, he captured the hand she had rested on the table, and leaned across the corner to give her a kiss. "You are a kind and thoughtful lady, Mrs. Starsky; it's no wonder I'm in love with you."
"I'm a cop's wife," she said practically. "I understand what it's like to wait and worry."
"How's Neese handling this?"
"Now you ask? Think about it: she didn't even have the chance to get used to the idea that Hutch had been a cop once upon a time before he dove right back into the line of fire. At least I knew what you did for a living before I fell in love with you! All in all, though, she's doing a better job of dealing with this than I would, in her shoes."
"Comes of being a shrink, maybe," he mused.
"Maybe." She gave herself a little shake. "I'll just be glad when all this is over. Am I just getting old, or is this really scarier than all those times years ago when you and Hutch hung it over the edge?"
"We're just outa practice for it, schweetheart." He kissed her again, then glanced at his watch and gulped down his coffee in earnest, ignoring the burn in exchange for the buzz, setting the cup down as he stood up. "Gotta run."
"Not so fast." She grabbed his hand both to pull him to a halt and to surge to her feet. She snagged up a paper bag from the kitchen counter and held it out to him. "Breakfast. I knew you'd never actually sit down for it."
He caught her by both shoulders and kissed her thoroughly before taking the bag from her hand.
"You are an angel." He turned to go, but then turned back again. "Look, carry the cellular with you tonight, okay? So we can reach Neese anytime?" He saw her eyes darken, and hastily reached back to chuck her lightly under the chin. "To tell her she can stop worrying and everything's okay," he amended.
She exhaled tension and smiled just a bit.
"All right. But that had better be what you say. Now, get going before you start griping about being late, okay?"
He gave her a Cheshire grin on his way out the door. She shook her head after him, and then turned to collect the dirty cups.
The syncopated knock was identification enough, but Hutch still paused.
"Who is it?"
"Who d'ya think, dummy?" Starsky's cheery voice carried through the hollow door of the dorm suite as if it wasn't even there, and Hutch shook his head in resignation as he slipped the chain and unlocked the door. Starsky breezed past him, uncharacteristically carrying a small briefcase in one hand. Hutch automatically checked to be certain that the corridor was empty before he closed and relocked the door. When he turned, he found that Starsky had already deposited the briefcase on the nearest flat surface and flipped up the catches to reveal a nest of electronics and a roll of medical tape.
"Remember how to wear a wire? You start by taking off the jacket and shirt," Starsky said helpfully.
"How did I know it was going to come to this?" Hutch asked rhetorically as he shrugged off his sportcoat, stripped off his tie, and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Where those things don't tickle, they itch."
"Ahh, but we use better tape, now ‒ hospital stuff." He held up the roll dramatically. "Hy-po-all-er-gen-ic ‒ not supposed to itch." He raised an eyebrow. "'Course, you couldn't prove it by me; I haven't had to wear one of these in a long time, thank God ‒ always hated having to shave patches or get my hair ripped out. Least you never had to worry about that," he concluded, surveying Hutch's smooth, hairless back and chest. Hutch snapped his shirt at him, and Starsky danced aside. "Hey ‒ just because you're jealous ..."
"That I'm not a furry ape like you? Not hardly," Hutch said archly. "Come on ‒ may as well get this over with."
"Transmitter's lighter than it used to be," Starsky offered, as he started taping the unit's flat box to the small of Hutch's back. Hutch flinched away from the first contact.
"Where've you been keeping that thing ‒ the freezer?" he complained.
"Right next to the stethoscope," Starsky agreed. "Stop squirming, will you? It's got longer range and better sound, too. We'll be able to stay well out of sight and still hear everything you say." He finished positioning the box, then draped the slender fiber optic microphone cord along Hutch's ribs, taping it down every few inches, and finally ran the cord midway up his chest, leaving the end hanging loose. "Shirt."
Hutch put his shirt back on, slapping once at Starsky's hand when his partner snuck a finger between the buttons to flip the end of the cord out from underneath the shirt. Starsky gave him an innocent look.
"Hey, it plugs into this nifty tie clip. Can't let it get lost in there, you know."
"Yeah." Hutch finished tucking in the shirt and started working on the tie. "What's the drill with Wolfe? Didn't go too well, did it?"
If his determinedly cheerful manner hadn't already given it away, Starsky's sour expression would have told the tale.
"Yeah, well, we couldn't very well run him as bait without tellin' him we thought he could be the next target. He didn't think much of your theory, by the way; 'stuff and nonsense,' I think he called it. He doesn't believe in the slightest that any killer would have the ‒ I don't know what he thinks, class? temerity? whatever ‒ to try to take him down. Thinks he's immortal."
"Figures. But will he play ball?"
"Under protest, just to be able to say 'I told you so' when it's all over. He's promised to cooperate with Wolfpack."
"So long as things work out right, he can say anything he pleases afterwards. And I hope he does; we want this turkey to come after me, anyway, and leave him alone." Hutch collected the tiebar from Starsky's hand, plugged the fine cord into its tiny hole, and adjusted the clip. Starsky pulled a unit that looked like a portable tape player out of the case, slid on its headset, and gave him a nod. "Testing, testing, K-K-E-N cop radio live and on the air."
"Loud and clear, in stereo yet. Just don't forget to keep broadcasting."
"Wonderful. Now I'll have to walk around talking to myself. That'll be great for the image."
"Hey, everybody knows you egghead types are a little strange. Nobody'll even notice."
"Just be sure to pay attention to the lecture tonight, there'll be a test later."
"Fat chance ‒ that's my one guaranteed naptime, since you'll be surrounded by a hundred twenty-some witnesses." Starsky sobered. "Hey, you'll be out of sight, but I promise, you won't be out of mind."
"I know." Hutch smiled, holding his eyes; then he turned, picked up his jacket, and put it on. He collected his briefcase and cane, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Showtime."
Starsky smiled crookedly.
"Break a leg?"
"Not again!"
Hutch repeated his carefully established routine with the most convincing air of nonchalance he could muster, walking from dorm to office to library and back to office again with assorted stops for study and meetings and meals. It was a curiously schizophrenic experience, because he was simultaneously aware both of eyes on his back and of the relative summer-term scarcity of people along the routes he walked. Despite the jacket and tie, he felt oddly naked, but that sense was too unfocused and diffused to call fear. By the time he was preparing to head over to the lecture hall for class that evening, however, the nerves that kept him humming absentmindedly under his breath had also robbed him of any detailed memory of what he'd done during the day, and an unexpected knock on his office door twitched old fighter's reflexes to bring him half out of his chair into a defensive crouch.
"Yes?"
The door opened and Starsky poked his head around it. Hutch exhaled in exasperated relief and stood up fully.
"Can't you do any other songs?" Starsky asked plaintively as he stepped in and closed the door. The surveillance headset lay loosely around his neck, with its cord trailing down to the ersatz tape player carried casually in his right hand.
"Hmm?"
Starsky tapped the headset.
"You been hummin' 'Desperado' all afternoon. I used to like that song."
"Sorry," Hutch said, with manifest insincerity. "You did tell me to keep broadcasting."
"Yeah, well, most radio stations change the record occasionally."
"I'll try to remember that." Hutch snapped his briefcase closed, but rested it vertically on his desk instead of lifting it. "Somehow I get the feeling this isn't just a social call on the request line."
The skin around Starsky's eyes tightened, and Hutch felt his own hand clench on the briefcase handle in response as he realized what the message was even before Starsky could speak it.
"Harris and Hidalgo lost Jenkins about twenty minutes ago, and nobody's been able to pick him up. Harris says he made the tail and deliberately shook it; said he turned around and looked right at 'em and grinned, and then he just disappeared, usin' a whole bunch of students gettin' outa class to cover himself. He's laughin' at us."
"So it's out in the open now." Strangely enough, the idea helped to settle Hutch down, giving the floating anxiety that had plagued him all day a focus and a target.
"Yeah ‒ if we had any doubts, we don't any more."
"And he knows we're onto him, and he doesn't care." The words sparked a thought, but its flash faded away even as Hutch reached for it. Frustrated, he slammed a fist down onto the briefcase. "We're still missing something, Starsk ‒ we still don't know why he's doing this, and until we do, we won't really know who or what he's after."
"But we do know somethin' we didn't know twenty minutes ago. You said it: he knows we been watchin' him, and now he's runnin' a game on us. Makes me wonder what else he knows, and how long he's been stringin' us on."
"He may be nuts, but he's not stupid," Hutch mused. "Suppose he figures we've got his targets staked out ‒ will he go ahead anyway, or pick somebody else, or just sit tight and have himself a good time watching us make fools of ourselves? Is he crazy crazy, or crazy like a fox?"
"He's makin' me crazy. And if you don't get movin', he's gonna be makin' you late. To class, that is."
"That'll never do," Hutch said drily. Leaving the briefcase and cane on the desk, he reached over with both hands, snagged the headset from around Starsky's neck, and set it into place on Starsky's head. He addressed his comments ostentatiously toward his tieclip. "Just make sure that you're not so wrapped up listening to this that you let him sneak up on you. Cops can get as single-minded as any professor ‒ he might decide you fit his bill tonight, if Wolfe and I are too well covered."
"You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that? Get goin'."
They traded a look, and Hutch nodded. He picked up his briefcase and cane and headed for the door.
"See you," he said, and then the door closed behind him. Starsky considered for a moment, then tugged off the headset and pulled the handheld police radio out of his pocket.
"Papa Bear to all Egghead units ‒ listen up. Watch yourselves, not just your sheep ‒ Mr. Peanut may decide to switch targets and bag himself a shepherd instead. I wouldn't like that. Acknowledge."
"This is Nuthouse, Papa Bear," Hidalgo's voice came back. "Gotcha."
"Wolfpack, Papa Bear. That's a roger."
"Nuthouse, what's your twenty?"
"Nuthouse is at the lecture hall, Papa Bear, trees outside the rear door. No sign of Mr. Peanut. Cashew arrived five minutes ago, though."
"Wolfpack?"
"Alpha Male is heading in the door now, Papa Bear. We're at the west side entrance, going in."
"Good. Keep your eyes peeled. Goldilocks is on his way. Papa Bear out." Starsky slid the police radio back into his pocket. He heard faint music coming from the earphones lying around his neck and sighed as he picked them up, but his expression changed as he settled them into place and the noise became clear. Hutch wasn't humming "Desperado" any more ‒ he was singing instead, very quietly, but every word was distinct enough to turn the headset into a time machine.
"'All I want is black bean soup and you to bring it to me/Be my love while love will stay, and wear your ribbons for me ...'"
Starsky grinned and shook his head, and joined in softly on the chorus as he headed out the door in Hutch's wake.
Hutch hadn't really expected an attack on the way to class, so he wasn't surprised to make the walk uneventfully. All through the evening, one corner of his mind ran his role in the show while the rest chewed over the missing piece of the puzzle; he couldn't get the question "why?" out of his head, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on Wolfe's history lecture. The tiny voice of his conscience nagged him with the obligation to be more fiery, more provocative, but his heart wasn't in it. He thought that he caught concerned looks from Denise from time to time, and puzzled ones from Holly Sanderson, but the course had definitely taken backstage place to the irritation of knowing that something was missing from the murder investigation, from the hunt that was using him as bait. The lecture was over almost before he knew it, and the students spilled out into the night followed by most of the instructors to leave him the chance to snatch a minute with Denise.
"Are you sure you want to do this, dearheart?" she asked, and reached up to touch his cheek without even glancing around to see whether they were unobserved. "Swear, you're vibrating like a guitar string."
"I'm fine." He managed a brief smile. "The music may be a little strange, but ..." He shrugged, and was pleased to coax an answering smile from her.
"Promise me ‒ if he doesn't try for you on the way back to the dorm, you'll come home tonight?" She glanced past him, and even without turning he could tell that Cheryl was not far behind him, just distant enough to give them privacy. "I've hit my limit on being alone, even alone with friends."
"I promise. If he doesn't make a play, it'll mean we read him wrong anyway, so there won't be any reason to keep up the act." Her fingers flexed on his arms with enough force to leave bruises behind, and he caught her wrists in a reassuring grip. "Hey ‒ whatever goes down, I'll be fine. Starsky's playing mother hen, for crying out loud, and bitching about the music selection." He won another smile from her and felt her relax, and impulsively drew up her hands and kissed her fingertips before letting her go. "One way or another, I'll see you later tonight."
"See that you do."
Neither of them said goodbye, but she gave him a long look before turning away to collect the course materials and start packing her briefcase, gradually beginning to chat with Cheryl as she worked. Hutch shifted over to the side of the lecture hall where Starsky waited in the cover of a doorway, listening to the soft grumble of the radio traffic.
"Roger, Wolfpack," Starsky said quietly, and then lowered the portable receiver as he met Hutch's questioning eyes. "Wolfe made it to his car without a hitch, he's on his way off campus. If our boy's stayin' true to form, Wolfe's off his huntin' grounds."
"So. My turn."
"Yeah." A smile twitched at one corner of Starsky's mouth. "Now we get to see if your hunches are worth anything more than they used to be."
"Hey ‒ I always was the brains of this outfit, remember?" The old jokes could still steady them both, and Hutch flashed a tight smile. "Just don't get too laid back, or far back, hmm?"
"Go take a hike."
The two of them held a look; then Hutch nodded and headed through the door without hesitation, cane in one hand and briefcase in the other.
"Goldilocks is on the prowl, Eggheads," Starsky said into the radio. "Stay sharp, now." He slid on the headset, leaning up against the door, counting under his breath to give Hutch a healthy head start. He took one last glance at Cheryl and Denise, to meet his wife's eyes past Neese's ramrod-straight back, and then gave her an encouraging nod before he opened the door and slipped out into the dark.
Hutch had forgotten the seductive exhilaration of terror, the way imminent danger sharpened every sense and made every breath deeper. That was a secret he'd never shared with Starsky or even admitted to himself, because of what it implied ‒ that he could be an adrenaline junkie, a danger addict. He'd convinced himself that he hadn't really missed it, taking chances, but as he walked through a night suddenly alive with subtle scents and tiny sounds, he realized that he'd blinded himself, blocking the memories of the vivid hues and crisp images that incipient mortality could paint even on the darkest night.
His shoes scuffed in halting but steady rhythm on the asphalt path, with the cane adding syncopation. He could smell the faintest scent of tar, its warm and biting spice rising from a pathway so soaked in daytime sun that it still hadn't fully cooled in the evening air. His nose picked out honeysuckle among the bushes, and the sharp greenness of morning-cut grass. He heard his breathing, closer and more intimate than the music of the unseen insects in the shrubbery, the crickets and locusts and things he couldn't name. His eyes were at a disadvantage, since the waning moon was low and shrouded in clouds, but the path and the bushes beside it still seemed oddly distinct. He felt the fast but even beat of the pulse in his chest and throat as a bass throb below hearing range that carried through the bones rather than the ears, and his mouth, though suddenly dry, tasted of copper and anticipation.
He had forgotten that he could feel so completely alive.
The aloneness pressed in on him as he got further away from the lecture hall and the heart of the campus. There were no human sounds in the night other than his own; everyone ‒ students, teachers, cops, the whole rest of the city ‒ could all have vanished. The trees around the path even cut off the traffic noise from beyond the campus, leaving the darkness only to nature and to him.
And, just maybe, to a murderer.
It was the nonhuman quality of that quiet emptiness that woke him up to realize that Starsky, too, had nothing human to listen to. Hutch had a fleeting but powerfully clear image of Starsky cursing at him for his continued silence, railing at him to 'say something, dammit, start whistling "Desperado" for cryin' out loud, anything, come on' ‒ and he couldn't repress the grin as he cleared his throat.
"Sorry about that dead air, sportsfans," he muttered, sotto voce. "Just some ‒ umm ‒ technical difficulties." He wished that the wire ran two ways; he'd have given a lot to hear Starsky's exasperated snort, instead of just imagining it. "We now return you to our regularly scheduled program." He started humming the first melody that came to mind, without thinking about it; all of his concentration was extended into the night around him, tasting the air, waiting for the dark to become solid and grab him by the neck.
His moving zone of silence caught him instead. Very gradually, he became aware that the crickets stilled as he approached, and then took up singing again after he passed; he walked in a little totally human circle of quick breaths and faster pulse, overlaid by a veneer of hummed music. He didn't feel any other such circles anywhere near him; wouldn't there be a similar silence around someone lying in wait for him, the distrust of nature for a human predator? The farther he walked, the closer he got to the bulk of the dorm building with its scattered lit windows, the stronger grew the sense that he really was alone, that the predator lying in wait was only wishful thinking, and that the real answer lay somewhere else in the puzzle.
Snatches of past conversations played again in his head. He's an obsessive personality, Neese's voice said, someone who locks focus on things and won't be sidetracked. Her voice shifted to Hidalgo's lightly accented chicano: He goes on binges with different interests, kind of like an obsession of the month club. And Harris, then, always more terse than his partner: Dean's List and then some; probably close to a genius I.Q. Fantasy gaming, Hidalgo added, and Starsky said he knows we been watchin' him, and now he's runnin' a game on us. The replayed dialogue began to speed up, with the lines almost running over each other: Hidalgo's he's been into just about everything hitting Harris's third year pre-med, majoring in biochem with minors in psych and biology, butting up against Starsky's as nuthouses go, the Glen's a resort, sliding into Denise saying we see everything in the colors and shapes our training taught us to expect, and we figure that other people see things the same way and Starsky's sour got psycho written all over it. His own voice chimed in with too wrapped up in the forest to pay attention to the trees, and Starsky's added makes me wonder how long he's been stringin' us on. He heard Hidalgo say guess he figures there's nothing he can't do, followed by Starsky noting you're not the only target out there, and he himself asking is he crazy crazy, or crazy like a fox?
He didn't realize that his stride was slowing or that he'd stopped humming to listen to the ghost voices of his memory. He was oblivious to the light just ahead of him where the path emerged from the trees into the broad clearing around the dorm building. He shut out everything else ‒ even the tiny voice that shrieked at him to keep his guard up ‒ to strain to hear the answer.
He's runnin' a game on us ... he's been stringin' us on, Starsky said; He may be crazy but he's definitely not stupid, Denise added; Obsession of the month, Hidalgo offered, guess he figures there's nothing he can't do; You're not the only target out there, Starsky warned; How many interviews was Jenkins in on? he heard himself ask; I deliberately went off into some pretty esoteric corners during my little interview, Denise began, and Hutch himself abruptly cut her off with You're about to have company ...
"And one of them's our killer," he muttered out loud, finishing the thought, and the picture abruptly came into unbearable focus. He came to a dead stop next to the dorm building without even seeing it, and the words poured out loud and as fast as he could make them.
"Starsky, damn it, he's after Neese! He's not stupid, he's not even crazy ‒ he's playing a game and she's inside the rules! Get to our place, I'm on my way!"
Automatically, without thinking, he tried to run, heading for his car in the parking lot beyond the dorm building. He stumbled badly on the first stride but caught himself, dropping his briefcase to save his balance. He pushed the pace as much as he could; it was more of a lurching stagger than a run, but it covered ground fast, and it brought him to the car with Oregon plates in the blessedly convenient handicapped parking spot right at the front of the lot. He nearly fell against the car in his haste, supporting himself with one hand while the other fumbled in his pocket for the keys, and he barely remembered to throw his cane in before he dropped into the driver's seat, gunned the engine, and tried to outrun his headlights to the borrowed apartment on the opposite side of the campus.
" ... I'm on my way!" The voice in his earphones dissolved into static and rapid breathing, and Starsky wanted to curse.
"Hutch!" he shouted, knowing it was useless, knowing that his partner was too far away to hear, but unable to stop himself. Then, "Shit!" he said, and swept off the headset as he grabbed the police radio from his jacket pocket. He wanted to run, but couldn't possibly run and talk at the same time; he settled for a fast trot back toward the lecture hall and his car as he hit the transmit key. "Papa Bear to all Egghead units, we've been had! Mr. Peanut is after the lady shrink at 1031 Hilltop, repeat 1031 Hilltop. Goldilocks is enroute. Back him up, make it fast, keep it silent! Go!" Without waiting for acknowledgments, he twisted the tuner dial to change frequencies on the radio, and the unit crackled with the tail end of a dispatch announcement.
" ... Ten-four, Zebra Twelve."
Starsky pushed the transmit button.
"Chief Starsky to Central."
"Central. Go ahead, Chief."
"This is an emergency. Get me a patch through to cellular phone number 555-7768."
"Ten-four, Chief, stand by."
He knew it didn't really take as long as it seemed before he heard the odd chirp of a telephone ringing on the open radio line. One ring, two, the start of a third ...
"Hello?" The connection was less than perfect, but Cheryl's voice was unmistakable; he hadn't known he could feel so worried and so relieved, all at the same time.
"Honey, where are you, is Neese with you, over?"
"We're ‒ at the student union." He heard the slight hesitation of her surprise at his urgent tone starting to shade into fear. "We thought we'd stop for a cappuccino, not stare at four walls and worry ‒ David, what's wrong?"
He closed his eyes and released the breath he hadn't known he was holding as new avenues opened for his mind to race down.
"Maybe nothing. Look: we think Jenkins may be waiting at Neese's place. Hutch is on his way there. We might still be able to pull this off, if Hutch does what I think he will. Steer clear for a while yet, okay? Over."
"My God," she was saying as he released the transmit button, and he could hear the sharp questioning tone of Denise's voice in the background, although he couldn't make out the words, but he heard Cheryl's answer. "No, he's okay ‒ they think he's after you. David? Can you still hear me? Um ‒ over?"
"Yeah ‒ go ahead. Over."
"Take care of him." The voice on the other end was suddenly Denise's, not Cheryl's. "We're on our way home. Save the lecture; we won't come within two blocks until we see lights and sirens. Promise. Get going. Over and out."
"Neese ‒" He barely got the protest started before he heard the line go dead, and the dispatch operator came back on.
"They've disconnected, Chief. Should I try to get them back?"
"No ‒ wouldn't matter. Alert units in the vicinity to stand by for possible backup at 1031 Hilltop, but not to move in until my signal; I don't want a marked unit anywhere in sight unless I yell for one, got that?"
"Ten-four, Chief.'
"Starsky out." He flipped the frequency selector back to the tactical channel the campus stakeout teams were using. "Papa Bear to Egghead units, Goldilocks will try to spring the trap at the Hilltop address. Do nothing to interfere unless it goes sour. Stay low, no lights, no sirens. I'm on my way."
Then, finally, he could run.
Two blocks from his borrowed home, Hutch killed the headlights and swung the car in to the curb. The neighborhood was quiet, with nothing obviously disturbed or out of place. The line of two and three-level garden apartments sat across the street from a park-like area of the campus, without the bustle that clustered around the lecture halls and parking lots and offices. Through the open window of his car he could faintly hear a television set and maybe somebody's stereo, but the noises were muted, not blaring; quite a few professors lived in the vicinity, and they were notably quieter than their student proteges.
He sat where he was for a few minutes, trying to feel with senses that went beyond the five he could describe. Even from two blocks away, he could pick out his building: the front portico was a dark blot, in sharp contrast to the well-lit entryways of its identical neighbors, and he heard Starsky's voice saying you oughta get that porch light fixed; almost couldn't find the doorbell.
"No shit, buddy," he muttered. "And hemlocks on both sides, just to make it really easy." The tall bushes would provide perfect cover, particularly in the dark. His eyes tracked up the front of the building to the second floor, but the only light in their apartment was the garden timer on the porch.
He chewed over the possibilities. Either Jenkins was waiting in the hemlocks, or he wasn't; either he'd already struck with his usual silence at Neese, or he was still waiting, or he wasn't there at all and Hutch was simply blowing smoke. Hutch was inclined to doubt his greatest fear, that Jenkins had struck at Neese and scored; he trusted that Starsky would have called out the cavalry if he thought she was in danger, and the absence of sirens and flashing lights argued that Starsky knew Neese was somewhere else, and safe.
Which put things squarely back with him, and he had no way of knowing what was going on.
"Next time we do this, partner, you wear the wire and I get the two-way," he grumbled. "I just hope to hell I've got backup out there somewhere, 'cause if I don't, well, you're the one gets to explain it all to Neese." He scanned the anonymous cars parked along the street, but they told him no more and no less than he expected; if he'd been able to spot one of them as a cop car, so could Jenkins, and the trap had to be invisible in order to work. The only problem was, that it was as invisible to the bait as it was to the target ‒ assuming that the trap was there at all. "I almost wish you were still driving that stupid striped tomato of yours, just so I'd know for certain that you were around."
He gauged the spaces between his current position and the house, and decided that it would look reasonable if he left the car here. Maybe a compact could have gotten closer, but if Jenkins was watching for Neese or for him, he wouldn't be suspicious at their parking some distance away. Then again, if he stayed in the car much longer, anyone with a grain of brains would start to wonder. It was time to get the show on the road.
"Here goes nothing," he said, and he collected the cane, opened the car door, and stepped out.
The sudden sense of deja vu was dizzying; he could have been back on the path to the dorm, because even if the view was different, the feeling was the same. He kept his eyes forward, and all his world narrowed steadily down to the darkened doorway, the sound of his footsteps, the beat of his pulse, and the wind of his breath. Ten steps along the way he remembered to add music; ten steps later he was briefly amused to realize what he was quietly singing ‒ "Don't give up on us, baby/Don't make this wrong seem right ..." Hell no, he thought, and kept limping up the sidewalk. "The future isn't just one night ..." Unless it's this one.
He made the turn from the front sidewalk toward the door, looking down to manage the step up to the porch as he deliberately didn't glance to the side and reached with his free hand into his pocket for the keys ...
The hands that seized his throat from behind were a shocking surprise even though he'd been expecting them; the music choked off in mid-note, and for a moment he scrabbled instinctively with both hands at the rubber-gloved, steel-fingered vise, trying in vain to drag it open. There wasn't time to shout, and precious little even to fight; the pressure was unbelievable, crushing his windpipe and pinching off the artery in his neck, and his vision started to go in red-edged swirls of black and grey. The guy was behind and to his right, not close enough to strike; he was staying back, using his prodigious strength at the full length of his arms to keep his distance from panicked kicks and swinging fists. Hutch struggled to step back and turn in toward the guy, to put torque on those wrists to break their grip, but his martial arts-trained attacker just stepped back and turned with him, anticipating his moves and giving him no leverage.
"Bet you thought I'd given up, hey? When I didn't take your bait?" The voice in his ear held little strain, despite the effort Jenkins had to be exerting, and the pressure on his throat eased just the merest fraction. "Decided to stop playing at cops and come home to your girlfriend, hmm? Well, surprise, Professor ‒ you're not as smart as you thought you were." The fingers tightened again, and this time went further.
Desperate, fading, Hutch snatched at the only chance he had. He hadn't dropped the cane. He forced his hands to abandon their doomed reflex of trying to pry the killer's fingers apart and wrapped his fists instead around the head of the cane, then blindly thrust it backwards like a stabbing sword with all the force he had left, holding nothing back. His vision blacked totally and he heard a cry that seemed very far away, and he almost thought he heard sirens, but the hands left his throat and he was gasping for air and falling and concrete hit his knees and the pain flashed red and then there was nothing at all.
Starsky took a chance and slapped on the flashing lights behind the grille as he threw the unmarked squad into gear and peeled out of the parking lot, cutting across oncoming traffic with a reckless disregard for safety and only the lights for warning. He left the siren silent, obeying his own orders that far, at least. One-handed, he fumbled the surveillance headset back on, listening for Hutch with straining ears, but he heard nothing; he prayed that it was just preoccupation, his fool of a partner forgetting to play to the house again. As he wove through the traffic, he tried to do the math in his head: how long for Hutch to reach his car, how fast he'd dare to drive, where he'd stop, how long he'd wait before he'd make his play, trusting his backup to be there. And then the other half of the equation: how long had he talked? How slowly had he moved? And why the hell hadn't he gotten multiple receivers tuned to that wire, to let the rest of Egghead listen directly to Hutch? Who cared if that wasn't the way it was usually done?
"Nuthouse to Papa Bear," the tactical radio said, and he forgot the round of recriminations as he grabbed the receiver.
"I read you, Nuthouse. Where are you?"
"In position three blocks west of 1031," Harris's voice continued calmly. "Everything seems quiet ‒ wait ‒ there's a car just pulled in five blocks east of us. I think maybe Goldilocks has arrived."
"I'm about three minutes away. Watch him! Any sign of Jenkins?"
"No ‒ but the porch light's out, and with those big bushes a horse could be hiding in there and we wouldn't see him."
"No shit, buddy," Hutch's voice said softly in his ear, and the car swerved as Starsky jerked the wheel in surprise. "And hemlocks on both sides, just to make it really easy."
Starsky grinned, despite the knot of fear that still gripped his stomach. The important things really hadn't changed; Hutch was running true to their old form, as if they both were mindlinked.
"Nuthouse, I can confirm that Goldilocks is on the scene." Hell, if he could hear the smile in his voice that clearly, he wondered what Harris and Hidalgo would make of it. "We're back in contact."
"Next time we do this, partner, you wear the wire and I get the two-way," Hutch grumbled into his ear.
"Yeah, well, I said I'd rather be the inside guy, if you'll remember," Starsky muttered back, spinning the wheel to skate around a corner.
"I just hope to hell I've got backup out there somewhere, 'cause if I don't, well, you're the one gets to explain it all to Neese."
"Fat chance," Starsky said. "Trust me."
"I almost wish you were still driving that stupid striped tomato of yours, just so I'd know for certain that you were around."
"Hah! And you said you didn't miss it!"
There was a moment of silence, and then he heard Hutch sigh.
"Here goes nothing."
Starsky strained his ears, but the faint sounds he could detect over the traffic noise and his own pounding heartbeat were indecipherable, and he hit the steering wheel in frustration..
"Come on, dammit, keep broadcasting, say something."
Almost as if Hutch could hear him, he heard the music start, a little absent humming at first, followed by words so quiet they were almost subvocal.
"Don't give up on us baby/Don't make that wrong seem right ..."
"Oh, great ‒ more moldy oldies," Starsky complained over the music, and then he heard Harris on the other receiver.
"Goldilocks is turning into the walk, looks like he's reaching for his keys ‒ damn, the bushes are in the way, can't see him ..."
At almost the same moment, the music cut out. Starsky hesitated ‒ transmission problem? another brainstorm? trouble? ‒ and tried to wish his ears beyond the limits of the receiver to understand what he heard.
"Bet you thought I'd given up, hey?"
It was almost too faint to hear, but from the first syllable he knew it wasn't Hutch and he knew what it had to mean. He didn't even wait to make sense of the words ‒ he just grabbed up the tactical radio and punched the transmit button.
"He's hit!" he shouted, "Go-go-GO!" and he dropped the receiver on the floor as he slapped on the siren and floored the accelerator, spinning around the last turn and rocketing down the street. He saw Harris and Hidalgo, guns drawn, running flat out up the walk and vanishing beyond the bushes; then he jackrabbited the car up onto the sidewalk and dove out himself, hitting the ground running while he yanked the gun from its holster, dimly aware of other units arriving behind him. His car's headlights lit a scene that his mind just recorded to sort out later: Jenkins on the ground gripping his belly and groaning while Harris landed practically on top of him with handcuffs ready; Hidalgo in a textbook perfect stance with gun held steady in both hands, covering the groaning man and backing up her partner; and Hutch, silent and unmoving, crumpled face-down on the walk.
He thought his heart would stop.
He dropped to his knees beside Hutch, automatically switching hands on his gun to free up his left to search for the pulse in his partner's neck. He sagged in relief when he felt its throb under his fingers and heard the faintest wheeze that told him Hutch was breathing. He took the time to holster his gun before he reached out to gently turn him over. Other hands were suddenly there to help, lifting Hutch's head off the pavement to cradle it in a lap, and Starsky glanced up to see Denise tenderly stroking the blond hair. She met his eyes and smiled, and it was acceptance and fear and forgiveness and sorrow and joy, all at once.
He didn't even have to look to know that the hand on his shoulder belonged to his wife. Bolstered by the support he felt from them both, Starsky patted Hutch's chalk-pale cheek as he began to stir.
"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up. Don't you know you're not allowed to lie down on the job?"
As if in answer, Hutch tried in waking reflex to draw a deeper breath, only to gasp and choke when his bruised airway couldn't expand. One flailing hand brushed Starsky's, and Starsky gripped it hard, trying to will strength through the link even as he felt his own throat closing in the same panic reaction, his own lungs starving for air they couldn't get. The pain and fear translated into anger.
"Where the hell are the paramedics?" he yelled.
"On their way, chief." Hidalgo kept her cool. "John already put in the call."
Denise stayed calm as well. She bent forward to be sure that Hutch could both hear and see her, but she kept her voice steady and soothing, and her hand continued to stroke.
"Relax, Hutch, just relax! You can breathe, it's all right. Let go. Shallow breaths, stay still, don't fight it, it's okay to pass out, you'll be fine. It's okay; let go. Your body just wants more oxygen right now than it can get; the balance will come back. Don't push, stay quiet, relax. Relax. You're all right; you're okay."
Her litany of reassurance seemed to work on Starsky as well as on Hutch. As Hutch closed his eyes and stopped trying to move, his desperate struggle to breathe eased a little bit, and Starsky finally managed to look away from him and take in their surroundings. Cheryl clung to his shoulder, her attention split between Hutch, Denise, and himself; he gave her an absent smile and patted her hand with his free one, and then glanced over at Hidalgo and her prisoner. Jenkins looked bad, and it wasn't all the uncharitable light; his face was almost gray and sheened with sweat, and although his hands were now cuffed behind his back, he was still curled up in an almost fetal position, semiconscious at best and moaning with pain. Seeing that she had Starsky's attention, Hidalgo nodded at Jenkins.
"Your partner did okay," she said. "He took this guy out himself; he was already down when we reached him. Point of the cane right into the gut, I think. Harris called for an ambulance." Her eyes tracked to Hutch, who was still wheezing with the agonized effort to breathe, and she smiled, just a little. "Pretty good, for a gimpy old retired guy."
"You should get so good, someday," Starsky said, almost able to joke as the worst of the fear slowly melted away under Denise's soft, hypnotic monologue of reassurance.
Harris came hurrying up the walk with the paramedic team, and Denise looked up long enough to add two new words to her soothing litany without changing tone or breaking rhythm.
"Attempted strangulation," she said, with a gesture at Hutch, and the younger of the two paramedics needed no further encouragement to bring up an oxygen tank and fit the mask over Hutch's face. As gently as he could, he probed Hutch's throat to feel for any obvious damage or misalignment in the larynx and esophagus. Wincing in pain, Hutch feebly squeezed Starsky's hand with fingers that felt frighteningly weak.
"Nothing feels out of place," the young man said after a minute. "The doctors will run some x-rays just to be sure, but I don't think there's any permanent damage ‒ just a lot of bruising. You're not going to do any talking for a while, and it'll take time for the swelling and the soreness to go away, but I think you'll be fine." An imp of mischief infiltrated his professional smile. "Your neck's gonna show more colors than a rainbow. We'll get you a cold pack in a bit. Hang in there." He winked, and then crossed to help his partner with Jenkins. Starsky didn't hear much of their conversation beyond a reference to "possible internal organ rupture" and their request that the guy be uncuffed since he obviously couldn't go anywhere; he looked up just long enough to give Harris a nod and then point with his chin at the gurney. Harris took the hint, and cuffed one of Jenkins' wrists to the gurney once they'd gotten him on it. Starsky mostly ignored the Jenkins drama, secure in Harris' and Hidalgo's ability to take charge, and just stayed on his knees and kept hold of Hutch's hand.
Hutch's color improved rapidly as his breathing slowly calmed and steadied on the influx of pure oxygen. After a couple of minutes, he opened his eyes again, and after a quick glance around and the barest hint of a smile at Denise, Starsky, and Cheryl, he locked eyes with Starsky and raised an eyebrow.
"You nailed him, buddy ‒ we got him," Starsky said, accurately reading the question, and saw the last ghost of anxiety fade out of the blue eyes. He grinned. "As Hidalgo would say, not bad ‒ for a gimpy old retired guy."
Hutch's eyes widened, his face an amusing study in offended outrage, and he opened his mouth to speak, reaching up to pull the mask out of his way, only to discover that no sound would come out and that the effort robbed him of what strength he'd managed to recover thus far. Starsky grinned and slipped the mask back into place.
"I'll have to thank him for one thing, though," he said smugly, and waited until the blond head cocked slightly, obediently if mutely asking 'why?' Starsky leaned forward.
"I finally get the last word!"
End of Act Four
