Disclaimer This story was written purely for entertainment and is not for profit. It is not meant to trespass in any way on the holders to the rights of Starsky and Hutch.

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Chapter 10

(By: Dawnwind)

The night sky was thick with fog when Starsky came to, clouds completely obscuring the moon. Sitting up, gingerly holding his head, Starsky looked around in confusion. Where the hell was he? Damp tendrils of fog made identifying landmarks difficult, and it wasn't until he'd pulled himself to a stand to lean heavily against the rough wall of a building, that he could read the street signs marking the intersection.

He was only a block away from The Pits.

With no memory of how he'd gotten there, Starsky staggered down the block, the lines on the sidewalk wavering in front of his eyes. He bumped into a blue mailbox, bounced off and slammed hard into a row of newspaper boxes. The headline of the Bay City Chronicle froze him in his tracks.

"Police Detective Killed!" was written in inch high letters with a black framed photo of Hutch just underneath. Starsky stared in horrified shock.

"No!"

Hutch had been alive when he left him in the hotel. He'd made sure of it. He'd spoken to the man before he locked the door.

This couldn't be happening. Couldn't be true. Bits and pieces of the last week taunted him, peeking past the barriers in his memory, but nothing made any kind of sense.

The murdered girl, the blood-soaked room. He remembered electrical shocks; screaming as someone flipped a switch. And repeated injections that left him weak yet full of rage afterwards.

What the hell had they done to him?

And who had done it? The lyrical brogue of an Irishman mocked him, but he couldn't decipher the words.

Pressing a fist to his forehead as if he could pound the brain right out of his skull, Starsky read over as much of the article that he could see through the plexi-glass front of the newspaper box. Hutch could not be dead. That was not possible.

Huggy would know the truth.

Forcing himself to move, Starsky purposely turned away and crossed the street. There was The Pits, so close he could almost touch the building, but he couldn't go in the front. What if he was seen?

Spikes of agony rammed through his brain, practically lancing his eyeballs.

His hands around Hutch's neck.

Holding knife to his throat! Blood slicking the fair skin.

The Irish voice directing him, compelling him to kill Hutch.

Again he felt the sharp, vicious burns of electricity frying his body. Fists pummeling his torso, bruising his flesh. He could remember hating Hutch, but couldn't remember why.

What had they done? And why?

Stealing himself against the throbbing rock-crusher in his skull, Starsky slipped around the back of The Pits and let himself in the service entrance. Up ahead, he could hear the hiss and splatter of burgers on the grill, and the cook singing off-key. Business was booming out in the main bar from the sound of the patrons' chatter and the clink of glasses. Starsky stayed very still in the shadows, his belly aching for food, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold down a burger and fries in his current condition.

"Starsky?" Huggy's voice was like sweet music. "Where have you been?"

Starsky opened his eyes, barely able to stand up-right anymore. "Hug, I think I did something . . .Hutch's dead." He couldn't fight the sob that punctuated the sentence, even though he was still certain he couldn't have killed his best friend.

"Hey, hey, The Bear is here to make things clear," Huggy whispered. "Hutch told me to look out for you. You gotta know that he's still in the land of the living. You ain't that far gone, are you?"

"I—I don't know anything anymore. My head ain't screwed on straight," Starsky confessed, and his knees buckled. "Hutch is okay? Where is he?"

"Over here as soon as I give him the call." Huggy looped a friendly arm around Starsky's shoulders and helped him up the stairs to the second floor. The accommodations were not quite the same as the room where Starsky had once helped Hutch kick horse, in fact the small suite was far nicer. Huggy used one of the rooms as an office, but the tiny kitchenette and bedroom were only occupied when some barfly needed to sleep off a drunk. Tonight, the bed was free.

"I've got a shirt and pants in the closet. Shower and change," Huggy directed. "You look like an extra from Dawn of the Dead, and that ain't any kind of a compliment."

"I need to talk to Hutch," Starsky pleaded, slumping on the bed. He couldn't shower or sleep, not when there were so many things to puzzle out.

Huggy regarded him for a moment as if debating whether to just give him a knock out pill for about eight hours or drag the phone in from his office. After about two minutes, he fetched the telephone, uncoiling a long extension cord from the jack in the other room.

Uncoil. Coyle. Starsky gasped, his belly heaving. He didn't throw-up, but it was a near thing. He could hear Matt Coyle's voice in his head and it was getting louder.

"Hug!" Starsky yelled. "Tell me something good. Something about me and Hutch!"

"Can't you see I'm dialing?"

"But I won't . . ." How did he convince Huggy that he wouldn't be able to hear Hutch if he didn't get this parasite out of his head? "Tell me something good."

"You and Hutch are tight, man. Like the closest brothers there could ever be. Now, let me be," Huggy rhymed.

"Me and Thee," Starsky finished, the echoes dimming to a low roar, and took the receiver. "Hutch?"

"Starsk, talk to me, babe."

"I don't know how to stop this," Starsky nearly wept to hear Hutch's voice, but he was far beyond crying. He'd lost so much, now he had to find a way to gain it back.

"Starsky, I have some ideas," Hutch said. "Stay there. Stay with Huggy and I'll be right there."

"Stay with Huggy," Starsky repeated wearily. He could do that. As long as he didn't kill anyone.

"Take that shower, wash out the blood," Huggy said gently, hanging up the phone. "You gotta find yourself, my man, before you're lost in the labyrinth forever."

It was déjà vu all over again. Hutch gunned the motor, cutting corners to make it to The Pits as fast as possible. He couldn't lose Starsky again. Not when he thought he had a cure for the brainwashing technique.

In his impatience, the key stuck fast in the ignition when he parked behind the bar and Hutch simply left it there, running into The Pits without a look back.

Huggy was standing on the stairs with a bowl of soup in one hand and a long necked bottle in the other. "He's upstairs and beginning to look more like the Curly you and I both recognize. Too thin, but Mother Brown's Mulligatawny soup will fix him right up."

"He shouldn't be drinking beer," Hutch said instead of breaking down with gratitude for Huggy's generosity. "We don't even know what drugs Coyle pumped into him all week."

"Ginger beer, Captain America," Huggy assured. "Non alcoholic, but straight from Jamaica. Good for what ails you."

"Then can you get me one, too?" Hutch asked, taking the food and drink. "I may have some answers."

Hutch let himself in and stood staring down at Starsky curled up on the bed. The purple shirt and striped trousers were different, but the rest was eerily the same. Another déjà vu moment—only Huggy's place was a damned sight better than that crappy hotel.

"Do I look like a stranger?" Starsky asked, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"No, just broken." Hutch gave him the truth. "You up for some food?"

"I'm not sure." Starsky sat slowly as if every part of him ached. When he looked up, Hutch could see the anguish in his dark blue eyes. And Starsky wouldn't look straight at his partner. Instead, he took the soup and began stirring it listlessly, not tasting a drop.

"Starsky, you didn't kill me. In fact, I'm not sure you could have," Hutch said, tipping his friend's chin up so they met eye to eye. "If you were a stone cold murderer, you would have twisted my neck until it snapped and left me there."

"Oh, God." Starsky shuddered, blanching.

"Instead, you saved me." Hutch pried the spoon out of his fingers and scooped up a brimming spoonful. "Eat, and I'll tell you why."

"I . . .how can you even forgive me?"

"Because there's nothing left if I don't. I need you with me," he said with love. "You weren't in your right mind." Hutch fed him two more bites until Starsky took the initiative and finished the bowl. "Coyle had you for one week. His conditioning can't go as deep in one week as the foundation of all the years of our friendship. That counts for much, much more."

"But—the girl was killed before he grabbed me . . ." Starsky shook his head.

"That was a set-up, I'm sure, to make you doubt your own senses. And to make the rest of us believe you were guilty."

"Hutch, how can we prove I'm innocent?"

"Do you remember Terry Nash?"

"He was brainwashed, too!" Starsky exclaimed. "At that freaky castle in the middle of the desert."

"Remember the doctor we spoke to afterwards? Who was able to help some of the few survivors?"

"Dr. Whit . . .?"

"Dr. Whitcomb." Hutch nodded with encouragement. "Dobey and I have been talking to him since we released the fake newspaper story. He thinks he can hypnotize you—and uncover the malignant conditioning Coyle implanted. Reverse all of it."

"But what about the drugs?" Starsky pushed back the sleeves of Huggy's purple satin shirt, revealing the needle marks that dotted his arms.

"Dr. Whitcomb suspects they may have used Procynothin, an hallucinogen that clouds the mind and makes it easy to slip in suggestions."

"I was convinced I hated you," Starsky muttered, ducking his head over the ginger beer bottle.

"Do you?" Hutch asked hesitantly.

"Never," Starsky vowed. "But I can still feel the hate, lurking inside."

"Then we have to go to Whitcomb's office, now!" Hutch urged.

To be continued . . .

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