Chapter 11

Starsky walked slowly towards the pier, his senses on high alert. He'd spent so long worrying about Hutch – where he was; how he was, that he ached with tension. But now things were to change. This was the day the shipment was due in and this was what Dale wanted. The gangster had got his way and as soon as Starsky had kept his end of the bargain he'd once again be reunited with his partner and could get him whatever care he needed.

The previous day, when Dale had walked out of the door, Starsky had felt physically sick. Strike two. He couldn't get Hutch back and neither could Joe Durniak. And if the powerfully connected Mafia gangster couldn't bargain with Dalango, there was no hope for anyone else. Starsky was desperate and so he'd done the only thing he could think of doing. He'd acquiesced and decided that if Dale would give Hutch back at the end of the heist, he'd orchestrate it.

The meeting with Dobey had not been a comfortable one. The brunet had taken off almost three days earlier without a by-your-leave and no-one had seen Hutch or Starsky since. Harold Dobey was beside himself with worry and when the sable haired cop had marched through his door at 5:45 last night he'd not known whether to feel relieved, angry or a combination of the two. In the end he settled for quiet indignation and forced a full explanation from his detective.

Starsky had felt like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster's office when he stood outside Dobey's room. He'd left Durniak checking into a motel room on the outskirts of the city. Somewhere not too conspicuous. It would be a good notch on someone's belt if they happened to waste a Godfather from another area, and Joe was one of the biggest in the country. But the old gangster hadn't survived in New York for so long without being careful or knowing how to take care of himself and so once Starsky had got him checked in and they had gone over the room for defensive capabilities, he'd said goodnight and had headed out. He'd knocked on the door to Dobey's office half an hour later despite wanting nothing more than to go home, shower, shave and sleep. It had been at least 48 hours since he'd seen his bed. But he'd come straight into the Metro, knocked, which was something he almost never did and even more surprisingly, waited for the gruff invitation to come in.

As he'd walked in and stood stiffly to attention in front of the desk, Dobey had flung down his pen, sat back and started to wind up for the biggest balling out in the history of the Central. And then he'd seen the worry lines on the brunet's face, the slight slump in his stance and the occasionally twitch of pain around the eyes. It took the wind from his sails and instead of launching into an attack, he got up, walked into the squad room and returned seconds later with a coffee.

'Sit down. Ya look like shit' he'd said.

The curly haired cop had sagged into the chair by the big desk and taken a deep pull of the vicious black coffee. 'Feel like it' he mumbled, putting the drained cup on the desk top.

'Where the hell have ya been? And where's Hutchinson?'

Starsky lifted weary eyes. 'I wish I knew Cap'n. I wish I knew'.

'What's that supposed to mean. He's your partner. You're supposed to know where he is all the time!'

'Believe me, most of the time, he don't brush his teeth without I know. But……someone's taken him an' I don't know how to get him back'.

'And you've been trying on your own for three days?' Dobey flung himself back in his chair. 'Doesn't "team" mean anything to you? What the hells goin' on?'

'Cap'n there's stuff I need to tell ya an' I hope you'll understand. You'll probably want my badge at the end of it, an' to be honest I'll be glad to give it ya, right after I get my partner back'.

Dobey's face set into a look midway between confusion and concern. Kind brown eyes shone out of his worried face as for the next half hour the younger cop explained every detail of his teenage dalliances with the mob and the consequences for himself and for Hutch now.

'So ya see cap. I don't have a whole lot of choice. If I don't hold the Narcs boys off, they're gonna kill Hutch. I need to do this. What's more important huh? The drugs, or Hutch's life?'

Dobey sighed. 'Ordinarily I'd say that the department can't get let this kinda thing go. But this is different. What did ya have in mind?'

For the next five hours, Starsky, Dobey and two detectives from narcotics went through the plan that the brunet had formulated in his mind. It was dodgy, but at least only Starsky would be in any danger and if all went according to plan, he'd have his partner back at the end of it. Towards morning, as the first pale shell pink flecks of light were dusting the night sky, he made his phone call to Dalango using the number he'd been given. Dale himself answered the phone. Obviously the gangster had had a sleepless night too.

'I'll do it' Starsky snapped down the telephone line.

There was the briefest of pauses. 'Well thank God you saw sense! You know the details, what're ya gonna do?'

'I'm comin' in alone. Soon as I see the goods, I'll radio the heat to tell 'em this is the wrong pier an' you've arranged for the stuff to come in to San Pedro instead. They'll hot foot it over there and you're home scot-free. After that I want Hutch an' I want you outa my hair. Got it?'

'How do I know I can trust ya?' Dale pressed.

Starsky snorted grimly. 'Ya don't. But it's either chancin' it with me, or losing your shipment to the cops for sure. Take it or leave it. I'm your best shot'.

'Fine. Be at the pier at 9:50. Shipment's due at 10'. The phone went dead and a collective breath was released in the room. Starsky looked around the room.

'That gives us…..four hours. Can we do this?'

There was a full set of nods and the brunet got up. I'm gonna go down to the changing rooms, get a shower. I'll be back in 30 minutes to go over the final stuff ok?'

He walked out of the room, thanking his lucky stars that he worked for someone as understanding and humanitarian as Dobey. Not many police Captains would trust their men so implicitly and not once had the big black man commented on Mafia connections, criminal past or what Starsky was doing mixed up with them in the first place.

30 minutes later saw the brunet washed and re-dressed in the spare clothes he kept in his locker at work. The cool shower had taken the edge off his exhaustion, but nothing could rid him of the dark rings under his eyes or the constant ache in his body. He'd had to take the tape of his ribs in order to shower and now each breath felt like a knife being dragged over his chest. He longed for a cold beer, aspirin and bed but so long as Hutch was missing he knew he'd never rest.

Starsky nodded a thank you as one of the other detectives handed him a Kevlar vest. He pulled his tee shirt off over his head without thinking and heard the soft whistle as Dobey saw the dark black bruises extended over his ribs.

'When were ya gonna tell me about those?'

The brunet cast a glance down. 'Occupational hazard. I've had worse' he said. A technician came forward and ignoring the bruises started to sandpaper away a patch of hair on his chest, cleaning it with methylated spirits before he attached the wire and taped it down. Starsky hissed softly as the purple fluid stung his abraded skin, pushed firmly against the sticky tape, then pulled on the bullet proof vest, closing the buckles around his body. With the stiff material tight around his chest he could almost breathe again, the hard, protective stuff acting almost like a brace. He pulled his shirt back on over the top and looked at his watch.

'Are you fit enough for this?' the captain asked cautiously.

'Uh huh. An' apart from that, this won't work unless it's me that Dale sees walking onto the pier'.

'Fine. But we'll be within 500 yards of you. You get into trouble, you shout, got that?'

'Got it. And Cap'n? Thanks'.

At precisely 8:45, Starsky, Dobey and three detectives from narcotics walked out of Dobey's office, down the stairs and while Starsky climbed once more into his Torino, the other four got into a plain dark blue Ford and pulled away, making theor was inconspicuously down to the docks.

oOo

Hutch tossed and turned in his coffin, finally shaking himself awake with a scream. He's been dreaming that he was caught between huge rollers in some freakish factory. He was tied to a conveyer belt and he was going to be fed between them, to be stretched out like toffee ready to be processed. He opened his eyes, staring wildly into the darkness until he remembered where he was. Unsure which nightmare was worst – the waking or the sleeping one, he shuddered, realising that his body was shaking violently.

It had been 3 days since Hutch had been taken from his bedroom. Three days during which time he'd remained fairly quiet in his casket. Occasionally flicking on the light when his imagination ran away with him, or when he needed a drink or to relieve himself into the bottle, he remained admirably docile. But now, his head pounded, his skull feeling as though it would be cleaved in two by the pains, a tight band round his temples pulsing in time with his heartbeats.

He pulled in a fuggy warm breath, choking on the almost palpable air inside the coffin. He'd noticed in the past two or three times he'd awoken that it was getting increasingly difficult to breathe. His three days must be almost up. The note told him he had only 3 days of air and water and now, he looked at the final couple of mouthfuls of fluid in the bottom of the second water bottle. Fatalistically he unscrewed the top and swallowed down the dregs. Not much more than a mouthful anyway and it felt warm and brackish, almost oily on his tongue.

His side no longer hurt quite so much now, and for that he was truly grateful, although he knew that in reality it was a bad sign. Not hurting meant that he was beginning to lose feeling in his side and that wasn't good at all. Some time over the past 12 hours, the wound had finally stopped bleeding although in the clammy confines of his prison, the residue around the wound didn't dry or crust as normal blood would. Instead it remained sticky and warm and made him feel all the dirtier.

His mind was playing tricks now too. Twice he'd been shaken awake from some nightmare convinced that he heard sounds outside his coffin. The first time, they were distinct words as though someone was shouting or arguing from a great distance. The send time there was a scratching sound and before his senses had fully kicked in, he'd feverishly imagined that worms and beetles were eating through the wood and would surely soon get to him, to eat him alive. At that point he'd gone berserk, kicking and thrashing at the unforgiving boards, clawing with his finger nails at the roof until his finger tips bled and his nails were in shreds. Only when his strength gave out did he quieten and drift back into a troubled sleep.

But from that time on, each time he awoke, he could tell he was getting weaker and weaker and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. How much longer could he hold on? The fever was consuming his body and Hutch feared that pretty soon, his mind would begin to break down. What would be worse? Dying in pain, or dying as a madman?

He shouted out into the muffled confines of the coffin.

'FOR GOD'S SAKE STARSK. FIND ME PLEASE. FIND ME NOW'