Author's Note- Not much left now! Thanks to everyone who has been reading, and even more thanks to those who take the time to reveiw. The ending will not dissapoint you. (evil giggle)

With trembling fingers, Hutch smoothed out the scrap of newspaper as gently as he could. The wet print was delicate and limp, and it took all of Hutch's concentration to not rip it. When it was laying flat on the arm of the couch, he grabbed the corner of the afghan and pressed it down gently, sandwiching April's obituary between the absorbent materials.

Behind him, Starsky was poking around in the kitchen. They had driven home from the hospital in near silence, but even that was loud enough. After being subjected to every type of scan and x-ray and examination the hospital had in its possession, Hutch was released into Starsky's care with a moderate concussion and an assortment of miscellaneous bumps and bruises. He had been lucky in many ways. He wasn't at the bottom of the ocean right now, he was still attached to all his appendages, and if the hospital had found any traces of alcohol in his blood, it hadn't been enough to point out. Hutch was thankful he had stopped at two beers.

A pot clattered to the floor, making Hutch jump. Pain exploded in his head and he growled, "Take it easy over there, Starsky. You'll wake up the neighbors."

"Well maybe if you'd put a little time into organizing things instead of creating booby traps, I wouldn't have to duck every time I open a cabinet."

Hutch closed his eyes and used his fingertips to massage his temples. "Nobody's making you cook diner. You can leave anytime you want."

"I don't think so, buddy. I signed papers, remember? You're in my custody for the next 48 hours."

"I don't need a babysitter."

"You need a friend."

Hutch bit his tongue against a reckless reply. He was tired but jittery, frustrated, and not in the mood for company. Over the past few nights, he had found solace in his solitude and now he craved it. Starsky was just being his usual cheerful self, but as much as he appreciated the effort, Hutch was just not in the mood. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and went back to carefully blotting the small square of newspaper.

Starsky must have sensed that he'd won, for his voice was light and unconcerned. "Dobey called while you were getting x-rayed. They towed your car to the garage. You were right, the brake lines were cut."

The refrigerator door was opened and closed, then something heavy set on the counter. Hutch couldn't bring himself to look, afraid the churning in his stomach would increase at the sight of food. He lifted the afghan and lightly touched April's face. It was still damp.

Starsky's news didn't surprise him, and he couldn't bring himself to react with more than a quiet "Hmm."

"Did you see anyone hanging around your car?"

"No." He pressed the afghan down again.

"We must be getting close. It's too big of a coincidence. Someone is getting nervous, we just need to figure out who."

Hutch rolled his eyes. Isn't that what they had been trying to do this whole time? If he had any sort of clue, the suspect would be in jail right now. Hutch felt his temper growing and with practiced ease, pushed it back down. He felt on-edge, nervous and fidgety. He glanced around for a bottle of alcohol, knowing full-well he would never be allowed to drink it but yearning nonetheless. Starsky was ruthless about that sort of thing, and as long as Hutch was on painkillers, he wouldn't even be allowed one beer.

Maybe he could sneak away. Hutch eyed the door and tried to think of a valid reason to run to the convenience store- alone.

Suddenly Starsky was beside him and lowering a steaming bowl to the coffee table. "Eat," was the one-word command and Hutch eyed the bowl before him.

"What is it?" he asked, his stomach already lolling.

"Soup," Starsky replied as he moved back to the kitchen. "It's beef and vegetable, the kind you add water too. It was about the only thing in your pantry."

The last words held a hint of… annoyance? Pity? Hutch made no effort to feed himself and instead watched as Starsky plopped down next to him. "What's that?" he asked, eyeing the bowl of pink, chunky substance wearily.

Starsky dropped a half-empty bag of tortilla chips between them and rested his feet on the table. "Dip," he replied, crinkling the bag as he grabbed a handful of chips. "Like I said, the cupboards are bare. Thankfully, I'm a master at microwaving cheese and salsa." He dunked a chip into the bowl, ate it, then held it out to Hutch. "Want some?"

Hutch winced. "It looks like vomit, Starsky. Where'd you find the cheese?"

"It was in the door of the ice box. I woulda used Velveeta, but this was the only thing you had."

Hutch suppressed a groan. "Starsky, that was a block of mozzarella I was saving to use in Chicken Parmesan!"

Starsky looked at the bowl. "Oh." He studied the concoction thoughtfully. "It is pretty stringy, now that you mention it."

Hutch shook his head and rode the wave of pain that accompanied the movement. If there had been a flicker of hunger within him, it was gone now. His stomach flip-flopped acrobatically and he tried to block out the crunching sounds next to him. He turned back to the arm of the couch and checked on April's obituary. It was nearly dry.

"You need to eat."

"Not now, okay? I really can't." Hutch peeled the newspaper off the couch and held it in his lap.

"Whatcha got?"

"Nothing." He suddenly felt embarrassed about his possession and moved it to his lap, covering it with his hand.

Starsky didn't make a move, but Hutch could still feel those eyes upon him.

The silence pushed harder than words and Hutch found himself rambling, "It's nothing, okay? Just a newspaper clipping… I… I just don't want to talk about it right now, okay?" He didn't want to get all emotional. His connection with the dead girl was unexplainable, and he didn't think Starsky would understand.

"Fine," Starsky replied, going back to his chips and dip. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. How's your headache?"

"Pounding," he replied, quickly shoving the obituary into a nearby magazine.

"It'd probably help to eat something."

"Starsky, no. I said I'm not hungry, alright?" His tremors were worsening and the room seemed to be getting colder. Was this a side effect of the hospital pain killers?

"Okay, okay. I give. You look like crap, though. Are you tired?"

Grabbing onto any excuse for his irrational behavior, Hutch quickly agreed. "Yeah, I am," he said, jumping up and circling the coffee table. "You okay on the couch tonight?" Stupid question, Hutchinson.

Starsky merely raised an eyebrow. "I think so…"

"Okay, well, you know where everything is." Hutch stood in the doorway to his bedroom, feeling extremely awkward. Starsky nodded, and Hutch took a breath. "Well, goodnight then."

"Night," Starsky returned through a mouthful of chips.

Hutch shut the door quietly and leaned back against it. What the hell was wrong with him? Starsky probably thought he was losing it. Hell, he thought he was losing it. The room moved slowly around him as Hutch struggled to calm his racing heart. He hated to think about how his headache would feel at full boar, without the pain killers.

Hutch steadied himself and pushed off from the door. He made it to the bed and plopped down heavily, his arms quivering from the strain of holding his own body upright. The gnawing ache for alcohol was overwhelming and his body itched with it. What was happening to him? Hutch looked around the bedroom, need overcoming fear, and miraculously, he found a near-empty bottle of whiskey on the nightstand.

He grabbed it, ignoring the warning bells screaming from the back of his mind, and downed the last couple of ounces. It was not enough, not nearly enough, but it took the edge off. The alcohol's warmth crept through Hutch's veins like something dark and sinister, bringing with it a false sense of calm.

He shoved the bottle under the bed and lay down, letting the sedative soothe him.

o0O0o

Starsky poked at the sizzling pancake absentmindedly. After Hutch had went to bed last night, Starsky cleaned up as quietly as he could. It had taken all of his control not to barge in the bedroom and badger his partner into talking. Starsky knew Hutch well enough to know that the blond needed his privacy, and Starsky would respect that. He made himself wait for four hours, then went into to make sure Hutch was still breathing. Those were doctor's orders, after all.

Starsky had woken to the sound of his watch's alarm several more times throughout the night. Each time he checked on his partner, he had found Hutch asleep- sometimes deeply and sometimes not- but getting the rest he needed nonetheless. When dawn arrived and sunlight bled through the curtains, Starsky was up making himself busy. He straightened up the apartment, finding it messier than usual. He washed the dishes, picked up the various dead leaves that littered the carpet under the yellowing house plants, and gathered discarded clothing in a pile in the corner. It was busy work really, an effort to return things to a state of normalcy. Hutch's behavior last night had been confusing and erratic. Starsky chalked it up to the painkillers, knowing how Hutch rejected that sort of chemical influence. Hell, Hutch had almost died yesterday- he was entitled to some mood swings.

Blinking, Starsky shoved the spatula under the pancake and quickly flipped it. It hissed and crackled as the wet side landed in the butter. He sighed, the lack of sleep finally catching up to him, and set the utensil on the counter.

A movement in the corner of his eye startled him and he turned, finding Hutch standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Painting a smile on his face, Starsky greeted him. "Morning." Just test the waters first…

Hutch stared at him for a moment, his blond hair raised from his scalp on one side, then finally he returned the smile. "Morning."

So far, so good. "You feel like eating?" Starsky asked, removing the golden pancake from the skillet.

Hutch didn't move but his vision turned inward, as if he were consulting with his stomach. "Guess that depends on what you made."

Starsky poured more batter then grabbed the plate of pancakes and set it on the kitchen table. "See for yourself. You're lucky I found anything at all. When was the time you bought food?"

Hutch blinked.

"That's what I thought. Now come over here and sit down."

Hutch looked hesitant and Starsky realized that Hutch was purposely hiding in the shadows. He reached out, shook the bottle of pain relievers, and cooed mockingly, "Come here boy, come and get 'em. You can do it…"

Just like the shy puppy Starsky was imagining, Hutch made his way into the sun-lit apartment and plopped down at the table. As he checked the cooking pancakes, he heard Hutch shake out some pills and lift the glass of nearly-expired juice from the table. Knowing Hutch equated the need for the pills with weakness, Starsky waited until he heard the glass return to the table before turning around.

"So, after you get yourself cleaned up, we're going to head back over to the school. See if we can squeeze anything out of the other drivers." He let the words hang, hoping Hutch would agree with the plan.

The blond picked up a fork and poked at the breakfast. "Yeah, sounds good," he said, and Starsky felt uneasy at the subdued tone in his partner's voice.

"You sure you're up for it?"

"Of course. I want this guy, Starsk."

Starsky went to the table and pushed the almost-empty bottle of syrup closer to Hutch's plate. When Hutch ignored it, Starsky rolled his eyes. Hutch continued pushed pancake bits around his plate, giving the faint illusion that he was indeed eating.

Starsky sighed a little and moved back to the skillet. He was glad that Hutch was sill interested in the case, but if Hutch didn't start acting more like Hutch, Starsky wasn't sure what would happen. He didn't like this sullen character Hutch was turning into. And he certainly couldn't use him as a partner. Attempting to lighten the mood, Starsky announced, "I didn't fry it in fat, Hutch. It won't clog your sparkling arteries."

Starsky thought he saw a blush just before Hutch stabbed a piece of the pancake and ate it. Inside, Starsky cheered. He was winning.

"Thanks for staying last night," Hutch said as Starsky scrapped his own breakfast onto a plate.

Starsky sat at the table across from Hutch. "Nowhere else I'd rather be." He grabbed the syrup and began to eat with much more enthusiasm than the other man.

He felt Hutch's eyes on him for a long minute. He recognized that form of heavy silence; Hutch was debating within himself. It was the type of silence Hutch exuded when he wanted to tell Starsky something but was afraid to at the same time.

"What?" Starsky said as he looked up, giving Hutch an opening to speak his mind.

Hutch blinked and dropped his gaze to his barely-touched breakfast. "Nothing."

Feeling bold, Starsky pushed. "You know you can talk to me. Just come out with it already."

"It's stupid," Hutch said, shaking his head.

"Come on, Hutch. Just tell me."

"No."

"Did something else happen yesterday? Do you know who sabotaged your car?"

"No," Hutch said, and pushed away from the table. "I told you, it's nothing. I'm going to get a shower now."

Starsky cursed silently. He had pushed too hard, and lost. Sighing, he told himself that Hutch would talk when he was ready, and he began to finish his pancakes.

o0O0o

"So where were you on the morning of the ninth?"

"I was driving my route, detective. I arrived at the school minutes before I started hearing sirens."

Starsky studied the white-haired woman before him. Lydia Baker was the paradigm of grandmothers. Her deep but soft wrinkles were covered over with light-colored makeup and her deep blue eyes twinkled as she spoke. Her modest clothing looked hand-sewn and was trimmed in lacey ruffles.

The woman was in her late fifties and had been working for the school district for nearly twenty years. Of all the bus drivers, she was the oldest of both age and employment. Which meant she would know the other drivers the best.

"What can you tell me about Terry Gray?" Starsky asked, feeling somewhat guilty as the plump woman squirmed uncomfortably. He doubted she'd ever been so close to a law officer before.

Lydia frowned so fast, Starsky wasn't sure if he'd even seen it. "Terry is a decent man, I suppose," she said thoughtfully. Everyone seems to like him enough. Why, is he in trouble?"

"Do you like him?" Hutch asked, ignoring her question, and Starsky was surprised to find that he'd almost forgotten the blond was there.

Lydia folded her hands in her lap and twirled a large, sparkling ring around her finger. "There's something about that young man," she started slowly. "He is very quiet, and he likes to watch people."

"Watch people?"

Lydia looked over her shoulder quickly. "Terry almost never joins our conversations or card games. He usually stays in the corners, in the shadows, smoking a cigarette and just… watching."

"No one's ever said anything to him?" Starsky asked, his interest in Terry deepening.

"Oh, we've tried many times to welcome him, to treat him like one of us. He stays away by his own choice, I'm afraid. He's pleasant enough though, if you talk to him."

"We've talked to him," Hutch muttered, one hand rubbing his side.

"What do you know about Tom Bandy?" Starsky asked, hopefully switching to an easier topic for the old woman.

Lydia smiled. "I'm afraid I know more about his wife, Elizabeth." Her gaze traveled beyond the concrete walls of the bus barn. "We're very close friends. I actually drove her to school, long ago. Poor little Lizzie didn't have many friends, despite what a beautiful young lady she was becoming. I had just became a bus driver and didn't have many friends either, I suppose. I had just moved here from Georgia, you know."

Starsky smiled but steered Lydia back to the focus of the conversation. "So you were close with Elizabeth? You were friends when they were married?"

"Oh yes," Lydia replied with a wave of her age-spotted hand. "Tom was a good man back then, very loving and a hard working, devoted husband."

"Back then? He wasn't recently?" Hutch asked, shifting in the creaky lawn chair.

Lydia's face darkened again and her hands fell into her lap. "Over the past few years, Tom grew angry. He withdrew from us," she waved her hand to signify the other bus drivers, "and the man Elizabeth fell in love with began disappearing. She'd call me sometimes, on the nights when Tom had gone to the bar. The past month seemed to be the worst. He'd be so hung over that he'd call in to work, claiming to be sick. And then Elizabeth started getting bruises."

"He was hitting her?" Starsky felt something stir within him, and he leaned forward.

"She'd never tell me," Lydia sighed. She played with a ruffle on her shirt sleeve. "We all wanted to believe that Tom would pull through this. He was always responsible with the children- never drove when he had been drinking. We simply covered his shifts and prayed for him to get better."

Starsky bit back an ill-tempered comment. "How well did Ms. Bandy know the rest of the bus drivers? It sounds as though you were all very close."

Lydia smiled warmly. "Oh, we were very close. We'd have holiday parties together, barbeques… Elizabeth and I would often go shopping together."

"Would Terry attend any of these get-togethers?" Hutch asked.

"No, but he was at Elizabeth's house quite frequently. Elizabeth would say Terry came over to see Tom, but now that I think about it, I've never seen the three of them together."

Starsky looked at Hutch, and Hutch looked back. "Are you sure about that?" Starsky asked. A discovery like this could bust the case wide open.

Lydia grew very still as she though about it, then nodded. "Yes, I am sure. Each time Terry was at Elizabeth's house, Tom was not there."

Like a hound that had caught scent of it's quarry, Starsky rose quickly from the chair. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Baker." He extended his hand to her as Hutch rose as well. "I think we have enough information for now."

Lydia looked between the detectives. "I hope I haven't said anything to cause either one of them trouble. Terry can be a nice man, and Elizabeth-"

Starsky's hand wrapped around her soft and wrinkled one. "Don't worry Mrs. Baker. We won't tell anyone what you told us. You just worry about yourself, alright? Try not to let those ankle-biters get the best of you."

Resignedly, Lydia nodded her head and offered a small smile.

Once Starsky and Hutch were back in the Torino, Starsky announced his suspicions with enthusiasm. "So Tom Bandy is spending more and more time at the bars, and Elizabeth is home alone, and lonely. Either Terry notices this, or Elizabeth downright asks him to come keep her company. I mean, they already know each other through the school district."

"And he would have had too have seen the bruises, especially if they were having an… affair," Hutch continued, adjusting the vents so the cold air blew directly on him.

"So he either assumes that Tom is hitting her, or Elizabeth tells him, and Terry starts to resent Tom, and the pain he's causing Elizabeth."

"Assuming he has some shred of decency in him, like Lydia said."

Starsky held a hand over his eyes to shield the blinding sun. "Terry wants Elizabeth all to himself. Let's assume that Terry is the one to cut the brakes on the bus. You think it was just coincidence that the same morning, Tom shows up for work drunk?"

"Could be. But what about my car? You think he'd sabatogue my car? And why?"

Starsky thought for a moment. They had only talked to Terry for a short time yesterday. At that time, they hadn't pegged him for a killer. Starsky tried to recall their conversation. "What could he have said to him that would cause him to come after you?"

Hutch blinked, his hand freezing over the dial for the air conditioning. "Maybe it's not what he said to him that got him upset."

Who else had they talked- "Elizabeth? You think he followed us to Bandy's house?"

"We hugged, Starsk. If he was there, he saw that. Maybe he got jealous. Wanted me out of her life too."

Starsky rubbed a hand over his mouth. "So everyone Elizabeth comes in contact with is a potential target."

The detectives sat in silence for a moment, realizing the weight of that statement.

When they made eye contact again, Starsky spoke calmly.

"I think we need a warrant."

o0O0o