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L.

*Thank You, Prolixius5! (My Wonderful BR) Your guidance and encouragement means the world to me!

The Messenger

By: SFSK8rGrrl

Chapter 11

The brief burst of energy that had carried Starsky into Metro that morning was already bottoming out. His lively, caffeine-fueled 'second wind' was definitely showing signs of having all but come and gone. After the meeting in Captain Dobey's office, he dragged himself slowly over to his desk - he felt as if he were moving through molasses - as he found himself, once again, trying to stifle a string of yawns. He dropped heavily into his chair as he blew out a long sigh. The sleep deprivation - a by-product of his Marcus "Family"-related nightmares - was starting to get to him. He yawned again, shook his head and rubbed his dry, bloodshot eyes.

After Hutch had left Dobey's office and closed the door behind him, he'd hung back a little to watch - with growing concern - his obviously exhausted partner as Starsky slowly made his way to his desk. After Starsky was in his chair, Hutch walked up behind his best friend and tousled his hair. "You gonna make it through today, there, partner?" Hutch asked in a neutral voice. Starsky only grunted in response. "Was that grunt an 'affirmative' or a 'negative'?" Hutch asked. "Huh? What? Yeah, Hutch. M'fine. Please stop hoverin', would'ya?" Starsky was still shading his eyes with one hand. Knowing it wouldn't take much today to get his partner in a sour mood, Hutch acquiesced and decided to make himself scarce for a little while, "You got it, buddy. This is me... not hovering." and with that, Hutch casually walked out of the squad room to go answer the call of nature and then make a brief stop at the R & I department.

When Starsky opened his eyes, he found himself looking down at his desk blotter. He glanced at the numerous and varied drawings that decorated the blotter's border. Each work was a one-of-a-kind, David Michael Starsky Original. The artist smiled to himself. The doodles had spontaneously appeared over time, each one was a by-product of a very bored Detective Starsky. One day, the blotter was brand-new, clean and unmarked and then, the next thing Starsky knew... a doodle had popped up on the formerly white paper. Shortly after the first one appeared, it was followed by a second. And then, another and another until... Well, until he ended up with the busiest looking blotter in the squad room. Too bad none of it was really squad-room business or case-related.

The first doodle had appeared when he and Hutch had, unfortunately, found themselves stuck indoors, behind their desks, filling out reports or doing some kind of mind-numbingly mundane, monotonous and boring bureaucratic paperwork. And, if Dobey happened to make a point to tell Starsky that he expected the reports to be typed - with correct spelling, no grammatical mistakes, nothing scratched out and then hand-written... in triplicate? The man must believe in miracles! Starsky would laugh to himself and roll his eyes...

Talk about your cruel and unusual punishment...

Starsky hated doing paperwork. And, if it was possible to be allergic to doing it, he was sure that he had that allergy. As anyone who knew him would tell you... Detective Sergeant David Michael Starsky was a man of action. He was driven to be out on the streets with Hutch... doing detective work and to be... well... driving. Fighting crime. Chasing down leads. Hunting down criminals. Happily making the bad guys of Bay City... really nervous. Make 'em just twitchy enough that they'd regularly feel compelled to look back over their shoulder... twice. Anything less than that was sheer... torture. Starsky frowned at his choice of the word. Okay, it wasn't torture, exactly. Since his kidnapping and captivity at the zoo, where Starsky had personally experienced genuine physical and mental torture, he usually was more conservative in his use of the word.

Anyway... Starsky shook his head, sharply... I'm not thinking about that right now.

He returned his attention to the doodles on the blotter. A few of the cartoon-like drawings were caricatures of some of his fellow officers, a few were of the occasional perp... and a few were select stuffed shirts out of IA (Internal Affairs) Department with whom Starsky and Hutch had the displeasure of interacting with. For inspiration, Starsky always used something associated with the subject of his drawings... it could be their acknowledged nickname, a nickname the precinct had bestowed upon them, or a personality and/or character trait that was obvious to everyone, perhaps, but the person in question. There was a drawing of Captain Dobey, as a fire-breathing dragon. Starsky usually kept that one covered up. He glanced up at Dobey's closed office door and then he quickly moved the telephone so that it hid the drawing. There was a really funny one of that turkey, Bill Burton, out of IA as Beldar Conehead, a character Dan Ackroyd plays on the Saturday Night Live TV show. Underneath was a Burton/Beldar quote: "I find you unacceptable!". There was also one of his buddy, Hutch, as "The White Knight"... Starsky yawned again. His vision was getting blurry, so he closed and gently rubbed his eyes. 'The White Knight'... Dobey... The D.A.'s Office... Marcus' Case... Huggy Bear... Starsky yawned again.

Damn it! He shook his head, in an attempt to clear out the fog that had developed. Hutch is right, of course. Starsky reminded himself. I know that I've gotta do something about the sleep-deprivation. Yeah, Starsk... sounds easy enough... just stop having those damned nightmares about being tortured; about being strung up and slaughtered; about Hutch showing up to rescue me... but, showing up too late... about Hutch being tortured... He banged the base of his closed fist on the desktop, lightly. Then, he jumped up and stalked over to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup, walked quickly back to his desk and sat down. He lifted the steaming cup to his lips and gently blew on the hot liquid. Focus, Starsk. Work... Leads... Info... Huggy Bear.

After taking a sip of coffee, Starsky put the cup down and reached for his phone. He picked up the receiver with his left hand, propped it up between his neck and shoulder and was about to start dialing the number for The Pits, Huggy Bear's dining and drinking establishment when... he simply... stopped. Starsky closed his eyes to listen to some soft snippet of conversation that was repeating - like a whisper - in his head. Now, with his attention focused on it, he was able to make out what it was saying. He realized that it was something that Captain Dobey had shared with the detectives... about the missing girl...

"... she presented ...with numerous physical injuries and emotional signs ...indicative of having been tortured. ... had also been beaten and drugged."

That was all that Starsky's tired mind and fertile imagination needed. Before he knew it, his psyche had started offering it's two-cents' worth, as to how Marcus and his people might have tortured the girl.

At first, the ideas came to him as just words. Words... that began to refer to an increasingly unpleasant variety of methods and/or means of torture. Starsky thought of the childhood rhyme about "Sticks and Stones:

"Sticks and Stones

May Break My Bones.

But, Words Will Never Hurt Me"

"Yeah, right, Starsk. Stop... Just stop it..." Starsky told himself. But, much like the detective himself, his mind didn't just submit and roll-over when told the first time. Sure, the words stopped, but it wasn't because his imagination had caved in to his demand for it to "Stop.". It simply kicked the tension of the game up several notches... by instantly replacing the black-and-white, one-dimensional words with a series of ghastly, full-color images. Even after Starsky had opened his eyes... the images were still there. And, they weren't only still images... some were like short film clips. Then, without warning, the images in his mind of the girl being tortured were suddenly replaced by images of a bruised and bleeding Starsky being tortured by Marcus' group. Am I bleeding? A brief flash of panic tore through Starsky as he drew in a raspy breath through a tightened throat that sounded choked. He glanced at his arms and wrists and was horrified to see the wounds on his wrists re-opened and blood running in trails down and off of both of his arms leaving crimson drops and small scarlet pools on the blotter. Finger-like rivulets of the red fluid extended from some of the pools and were already running off the edge of the desk and spreading on the floor.

Oh... my... God...

Starsky struggled to reverse the sudden panic building in his chest. He glanced around at his one else seemed to notice the horror that was going on in the squad room. He took a few slow, deep breaths and then reviewed what he was perceiving as rationally as he could.

I've spontaneously started hemorrhaging... while sitting at my desk in the squad room at Metro... and it's business-as-usual for everyone around me? No, this just can't be real... none of this is really happening! I'm just overtired and only imagining it.

He scrunched his eyes shut, took a few more deep, cleansing breaths and when he opened his eyes... it was all gone. The re-opened wounds, the blood that was running down his arms, all over the blotter and onto the floor... was simply gone... or, rather, it had never really been there.

Come on, Starsk. No cracking up on the job. You remember being in Cabrillo State - the mental institution. No repeat performances, thank you.

He dropped the receiver back in its cradle and drew both of his arms in front of him - elbows on the desk blotter - closed his eyes and pressed his hands over the front of his face. Although his fingertips had started out at eyebrow level, as he slowly dropped his chin, they slowly moved up until they ended up completely buried in his thick, dark curls... and then Starsky gripped his hair in two fists. At the moment, he felt like there was a sharp stone in the pit of his stomach.

"No...", Starsky said to himself, "Definitely not here... and definitely not now...". He told himself that he wasn't going to think about the stuff of his nightmares. He wasn't going to think about being held captive at the zoo. He wasn't going to think about the various ways that he'd been tortured by Marcus' fanatical followers. He wasn't going to think about how they had strung him up - by his already raw and bleeding wrists - in the aviary that last morning. He wasn't going to think about how - just moments before Hutch arrived - the freaks were pretty much drooling in frenzied anticipation of stabbing, hacking and bludgeoning him to death.

Suddenly, a vivid, yet blurry image from his ordeal flashed - lightning-fast - across his mind's eye. Starsky's conscious mind didn't catch a glimpse of the fleeting image. Although, apparently, his body remembered the experience, because the fleeting image caused an immediate reaction in the detective. His whole body jerked - as if he'd received an electrical shock - and before he could stop it, a sharp "No!" escaped from his lips. He reflexively pushed with his legs to launch himself away from the disturbing image... and his chair slammed into the file cabinet behind him. The sudden and unexpected impact startled the detective and - thankfully - pulled him out of the Hell that was his memories of his tortures at the zoo. He looked up and glanced around.

Whoa! Did I fall asleep? Or, was I awake and having a nightmare? Whichever... it could've been really embarrassing.

Starsky was thoroughly relieved to see that none of his fellow officers had been in the immediate vicinity to witness his spontaneous, emotional and loud outburst. And, if anyone else - whether they were passing by or standing in the hallway - had noticed... thankfully, they were doing a bang-up job of appearing to have missed the whole, embarrassing event. In Starsky's mind, the last thing that he needed was for any of his co-workers to start questioning his sanity or his fitness or ability to do his job. Because, regardless of the true status of his sanity... Starsky snickered... or of the lack thereof... he knew that he absolutely had to keep his job. He had to keep himself busy... he had to keep himself active... to keep solving cases... to keep working the streets... to prevent his psyche from having enough free time to start dredging up those memories of his own personal Hell. Starsky would do whatever was necessary to keep his job... if for no other reason than that it was his anchor... No, not anchor. Anchors sink, Starsk. It was his Life Preserver. And, Starsky felt that the job was the only thing that was helping him to hold on to what he desperately hoped would continue to pass for his sanity.

Starsky took a deep breath and blew it out. Then, he tilted his head to the left so that his left ear was over his left shoulder... until he heard a pop and then, a little further... until he heard a second pop. Then, he did the same on the other side. He tilted his head to the right - until he heard a pop... and then a little further, until he heard the second pop. He didn't know if popping his vertebrae like that actually accomplished anything... but he always felt better after he did it. At the very least, Starsky felt it was a good distraction. He then picked up the mug of coffee, drank half of it and then put it back down on the blotter. He grabbed the phone, picked up the receiver and dialed the number for The Pits, Huggy Bear's funky-fine dining and drinking establishment.

Work, cases, leads... focus on the job... no time for anything else.

"Hello? May I speak with Huggy? Mr. Bear. With Huggy Bear! No, I don't have the wrong number. This is The Pits, right? Well, then, you gotta know him. What... What was that? Ahh, Miss, do you kiss your Mother with that mouth? Yes, you do know him, sweetie. He's the tall, fairly good-looking, slim brother who owns the joint... Huggy... that's right... your boss. Yes, thank you. I'll hold." Starsky rolled his eyes and growled under his breath, "Patience... Breathe... She must be new.". He tapped his fingers on the blotter for a few seconds, as he waited for Huggy Bear... or anyone... to pick the phone up again on the other end. Then, Starsky had a brilliant idea...

He opened the middle drawer of his desk and grabbed a pen. He closed the drawer and glanced around the desk blotter for an undecorated space. Finding a small area of canvas underneath a clipboard, he began drawing a frame around the edges of the space... preparing it for a doodle of Huggy Bear. Then, Starsky heard the voice of the man, himself...

"Bonjour. This is Chez Huggy. Also known as The Pits. Would you be interested in delightful dining or debauched drinking?".

You can always trust Huggy Bear to make life a little more interesting... Starsky thought to himself and smiled.

"Hey Hug... It's Starsky."

"Starsky? And, how are you doing, my curly-haired, crime-fighting brother?"

"I'm doing... I guess. How 'bout you? My sleuthing skills are telling me that you're breaking in a new waitress."

"I'm only getting more fine with the passage of time. And, your skills are telling you no lies. That would be Marlene. And, I'm trying to break her in gently without getting her angry enough to try to break me."

"Marlene, huh? Pretty name. Is she a good-looking woman, Hug?"

"Starsky, my man... Have you ever known me to hire anything less? That would be bad for business. And, above all else, I am a businessman."

"That you are, Hug. And, I know for a fact you've given Hutch and me the business once or twice since we first met..." Starsky smiled, thinking fondly of these memories."

"Nah, Starsky. Not you, my friend. Not ever. We've been tight from day beginning. But - and I beseech you to keep this under your hat - I may have pulled the wool over Blondie's eyes once or twice. But, that was way back when you first introduced us. At the time, I hadn't decided if he was good enough to be your partner or not. I wouldn't do it to him now. I think of both of you guys as brothers... ya dig?"

"I dig, Huggy. Same here... you know that. Listen, Hug, I gotta few questions for you. You gotta minute? Or is Marlene gnashing her teeth?"

"Ask away... and you shall receive... if I got anything to give, that is. And don't you worry about Marlene. I made sure to have someone here as my backup, just in case."

"Wow, Huggy. Marlene must be really good-looking, for you to go through all that trouble."

"Staaarssk... Lady Marlene is a 'work of art'... with all the assets one would hope to find."

"Good ta hear, Hug..." Starsky paused, his pen poised above the mini canvas he'd staked out on the desk blotter, "Say, Huggy... speaking of 'works of art', I've got one quick non-case related question to ask you first: D'ya have any other nicknames?...".

While Starsky spoke with Huggy, Hutch - who had been about to re-enter the squad room when he observed Starsky behaving oddly... that is, oddly, even for Starsky - stepped back from the doorway, turned away from the squad room and headed for the men's room - again. Although, Starsky hadn't seen Hutch... Hutch had seen Starsky... and he was having a little difficulty understanding exactly what he had observed... what had just happened with his partner in the squad room.

What the Hell... was that? Hutch asked himself. He'd seen what he could only describe as a wave of terror suddenly come crashing down over his partner... seemingly saturating the historically fearless detective to his very core. And he was looking at his arms, his desk and the floor as if he saw something more than just his arms, his desk and the floor... and whatever it was had terrified him.

Hutch knew Starsky was sleep-deprived...

Perhaps his partner had simply unintentionally dozed off at his desk and was sleepwalking through one of his nightmares? Or, was it that Starsky had actually been awake and experienced some sort of hallucination?

Hutch momentarily flashed on a memory from a case that had the detectives working undercover at Cabrillo State - with Starsky presenting himself as a mental patient and Hutch's cover was as a nurse. The memory was an image of seeing his partner - at one of the numerous times that the staff of Cabrillo overreacted to Starsky's antics - forcibly sedated and put into restraints. No... He's not... that. He's just exhausted. Hutch told himself, trying to assuage fears that he hoped were unfounded. And, now, Hutch needed to go splash some cold water on his face. Then, he would try to figure out what he was going to do. And, then, on to how he was going to get Starsky to talk about whatever it is that was making the man act a little... well, crazy.

(*T.B.C.)