Sensing Trouble

Part 2

He was wrong, of course.

Hutch knew he should have seen it coming. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he'd always known she had a vindictive streak wide enough to bring whole worlds to crashing ruin.

Plants could be replaced, and guitars repaired. He had no pets, no children, no wife, no close family at all. Hutch was not in the habit of making himself vulnerable, and he didn't have much in his life that he considered irreplaceable.

Except Starsky.

Even having to explain to Dobey how it had happened that his ex-girlfriend had kidnapped his partner, in a fit of rage over having been dumped, paled in comparison to the pain he felt at the thought that Starsky might already be dead.

He retraced Starsky's tracks, heard the testimony from her ex-boyfriends, and wondered how he could have been so blind. She wasn't a beaten or abused victim of circumstance. She was the director of her own drama, rearranging each scene until it suited her best.

The door to Starsky's apartment was sealed with yellow tape. Hutch took it down and folded it neatly before slipping it into his pocket. Starsky's home had become a crime scene. He opened the door, and paused. The furniture had been rearranged, cupboards and drawers emptied, and fingerprint dust littered every flat surface. He tried to imagine his habitually tidy partner's reaction to the disarray, and couldn't. All he wanted was Starsky back. The rest of it didn't matter.

He sat down on the couch, now in the middle of the room, and fished her note out of his pocket, underneath the tape. He unfolded it carefully.

If I can't have you, then you can't have him.

We could have been so happy together.

Just remember whose fault this is.

It's my fault, thought Hutch.

One of the men she'd hired cracked. Afraid of going down for murder, he placed an anonymous call to the precinct and gave them the location of the missing cop.

It was a gift. More than he deserved.

Hutch raced out of the room even as Dobey was on the phone yelling for back up. He pulled up to the warehouse, leaving the black and whites in the dust of his wheels. He caught them trying to flee the scene. He didn't bother pulling his gun. He didn't bother identifying himself.

They knew who he was.

He laid one man flat on his back in the dust, ignored the pain blossoming in his knuckles, and literally ran right over the second in pursuit of his real quarry.

Her.

She stopped at the corner, and, as if the distance between them was somehow immutable, he stopped as well.

"You won't shoot me."

Her voice, so confident. That half smile. The face he had once loved – and maybe still did love, a little. He hesitated, and she was gone, darting around the corner of the building.

Hutch ran after her, his Magnum in his hand, but she had disappeared into the maze of buildings.

He was lost. Turning on his heel, looking and listening for some clue. And in the silence, he heard something else. A sound that kicked him in the gut and made him stumble as he ran. He used his shoulder to ram through the warehouse door.

He stopped. Just for a moment, and then he was across the floor and on his knees beside Starsky. He didn't know where to begin.

Starsky was blindfolded, and his hands were cuffed behind him. It looked as if he'd been tied to a chair at one point, but he had kicked himself free and was now struggling to get to his knees.

His feet. Hutch felt a surge of nausea at the sight of Starsky's feet. They were bare, and streaked with blood and soot. She burned him. The bitch burned him, and I…

Hutch grabbed Starsky's shoulders, "It's okay, I'm here…"

Starsky jerked at his touch, throwing himself backwards. "Ain't you assholes had enough of me yet?"

"Ssh, Starsky, it's okay. It's me…"

Starsky bucked violently, and Hutch lost his grip. The back of Starsky's head hit the concrete. Hutch grabbed the sides of Starsky's face, hanging on, trying to prevent Starsky from injuring himself further.

"It's me, Starsk!"

But Starsky continued to fight, and gentleness was not an option left to Hutch. He was forced to pin his injured partner to the ground. As he struggled to untie the blindfold, his fingers touched a tacky trail of blood and his eyes traced the source to Starsky's left ear.

Oh, buddy. "Please, please don't fight me," he begged. Terror made it hard to speak. Why doesn't hehear me? "Please!"

The blindfold came free, and Starsky abruptly stilled, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Hutch?" asked Starsky, tentatively, as if not quite certain. He blinked, and then squeezed his eyes shut. "Hutch! Oh god, my feet hurt!" He arched his back, pulling futilely at his wrists. "Get these goddamned cuffs off me!"

Hutch fumbled for his key, but Starsky's hip bumped into his hand and he dropped it. Behind him he was aware of people entering the room, and the sound of sirens outside. "Please, Starsk, stop pulling. I'll have them off in a sec…" He scrambled to retrieve the handcuff key, and almost dropped it again as Starsky yanked his hands away, toppling forward to land on his face on the concrete floor.

Growing frantic, Hutch bellowed, "Stop pulling!"

That got through to him. Starsky froze, shivering, his cheek pressed to the rough ground. Hutch saw tears leaking from under his closed eyes, his eyelashes sticking together damply, clinging to his bruised skin. He tried not to look too closely, needing all his concentration for the task in front of him.

Breaking down was not an option.

One more turn of the key, and the cuffs fell free of Starsky's bloodied wrists.

Starsky immediately curled forward on his side, reaching for his feet. Afraid that he might hurt himself, Hutch caught his hands. Starsky's left sole scraped the rough cement, leaving a bright smear of blood behind. With an exhausted sob, he let his head fall back. Looking up at Hutch, he asked, "Why didn't you listen to me?"

Later, in the hospital, there was no blame. Starsky was in and out of consciousness, heavily medicated. Nauseous, dizzy and deafened by the concussion, in extreme pain from the burns on his feet, he was barely coherent. The doctors took a skin graft from the inside of his thigh to repair the sole of his right foot.

He looked for Hutch every time he woke, clinging to him fiercely.

"I love you," he said.

Hutch laughed, because it was better than crying. He had thought he loved her, but it occurred to him now that if he had thought that was love, then he obviously had no idea what the word meant.

"I have to hear it, Captain."

Dobey rumbled worriedly under his breath, but nevertheless slid the tape recorder across the table at Hutch.

She taped him. She was planning to torture him for days and send me the tapes… And why? Was it just because she wanted to hurt me, or was it because she couldn't accept that I love him, too?

Or because she knew I never really loved her at all?

He pressed play.

Starsky was asleep, bandaged wrists folded over his chest, his burned feet elevated on a pillow. Hutch stood in the doorway, unwilling to approach any closer.

This is my fault.

He knew he was a coward. The concussion had temporarily deafened Starsky, but that was no excuse for not leaving a note. For not at least trying to explain.

So did you shoot her?

That had been almost the first thing Starsky had asked when he'd woken, and to his shame, Hutch had found himself actually grateful that his partner couldn't hear. He shook his head no, and Starsky took that to mean that she was in custody.

Hutch had let the lie stand between them. Deaf, or not, he couldn't think of any way to explain that he'd let her get away.

He's going to be angry when he wakes up and realizes I'm gone.

Hutch jammed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the scrape of the fabric on his damaged knuckles, and turned away. The uniform seated on the folding chair outside Starsky's room nodded at him.

"Don't wanna wake him, huh?"

"Yeah," said Hutch. "He needs his sleep. I'll see him later."

I hope.

Because there was only one thing he could think of that would make any of this better.

Finding her.

He took the tape from the Evidence room, dispensing with the usual forms and necessary permission. Dobey would have a fit. It was a thought that didn't worry Hutch particularly. Any and all consequences could be dealt with later, after he'd found her.

He left his badge on Dobey's desk. He thought about leaving a note as well, but anything he could write seemed irrelevant considering the circumstances.

Later, alone in his hotel room, he listened to the tape again.

Whose fault is it?

What Hutch couldn't understand was why Starsky resisted. He listened as his partner cursed, and cried, and then finally broke, telling her what was only the bare truth.

It's Hutch's fault!

He hadn't been listening earlier when Starsky had tried to warn him, but he was listening now.

She cheated him. He wanted answers, and she gave him none.

He wondered if ultimately she considered it winning.

"You got her, then? Good job." The officer stationed outside of the hospital room was clearly happy to be relieved of duty, quickly straightening from his bored slouch.

Hutch wasn't up to explaining the particulars. He simply nodded, his smile fixed. The other man stood, brushed a few crumbs off the front of his uniform jacket, and straightened his cap. He left with a grin, and a parting shot.

"Man, if I had your luck with women, I'd take a vow of celibacy."

Hutch nodded again, too tired to try to think of a comeback.

He braced one arm against the wall and stared hopelessly at the door to Starsky's room. There was no reason to expect sympathy or compassion from anyone. His poor judgment had led directly to his partner's kidnapping and torture.

Eight days.

It had been eight days since he'd last seen Starsky. Eight days since he'd stood in the doorway of his best friend's hospital room, lacking the courage to even leave him a note, explaining why he had to leave.

And now here he was, crawling back to face the consequences. To find out if he still had a best friend, or if sometimes love wasn't enough.

Hutch let his arm drop to his side. A deep breath, released slowly, and finally he reached for the doorknob. He let himself into the private room.

Starsky glanced up sharply, an alarmed expression on his face. Then he relaxed and scowled. "Oh, it's just you." He pointedly turned his attention back to the task that had been occupying him before Hutch had entered

Hutch had to step around several large baskets lined up on the floor. Flowers and fruit crowded the tables, ample testament to the good will of family and friends. Starsky was sitting up in bed, his feet on top of the covers. His right foot, the one with the skin graft, was still heavily bandaged. But the other was bare, the sole pink and glistening with burn ointment. It was obvious from Starsky's reaction that his hearing had returned, at least partially, and Hutch took that as a good sign.

It would certainly make talking to him easier. And hadn't a lack of communication been the root of their problem these last several months?

Wax in assorted primary colors had run down the front of Starsky and onto the sheets. He was trying, apparently without much success, to peel it off. Hutch stopped at the edge of the bed and frowned down at him in confusion.

"I've been melting crayons," said Starsky, as blandly as if this was the sort of everyday statement anyone might make to a friend they haven't seen in over a week.

Some weather we've been having.

Work's been a bitch, lately.

I've been melting crayons.

Then, to Hutch's horror, Starsky turned toward him and sparked the lighter. "See?"

Hutch grabbed it out of his hand without thinking. Heat singed his palm. With a yelp, he dropped the lighter on the floor and stuck the side of his palm in his mouth. A moment later, he removed it and took a breath preliminary to giving Starsky a piece of his mind.

"Haven't I been burned enough for one lifetime?" interrupted Starsky, preempting him with unnerving accuracy. He gave Hutch a dark look. "Yeah, we might want to discuss that one, partner. But to answer the questions you were so clearly about to ask, I scammed the lighter off an orderly. I'm not gonna hurt myself. I'm not gonna set my bed on fire. And I'm not gonna burn this ward down, much as I might be tempted sometimes." With a sudden violent motion he grabbed the remains of the crayons in his lap and flung them against the wall. "My left ear won't stop ringing. I'm not allowed to walk. I'm fucking bored!"

Hutch bent and picked up the lighter. His heart was still in his throat. Was it as simple as boredom, or could this be a sign of something much more serious? Had the torture affected Starsky's mental health somehow?

Starsky continued to vent.

"You could'a sprung me from this place any time you liked. Forty-eight more hours the doc said, and then all I need is someone to help me out at home for a month until I'm back on my feet. But no, you go and talk to him, and the next thing I know it's, 'We gotta keep you a while longer, Mister Starsky, just for observation.' Bullshit! You think I don't know there's been a uniform parked outside my door all this time?"

Hutch had no answer for him. He looked at the red plastic lighter in his hand, slowly turning it over. Ironically, he'd come prepared to talk, but now Starsky wasn't letting him get a word in edgewise. However, after the last eight days he'd probably earned the right. Oh hell, after the last six months he'd earned the right. And it was fair payback for all the times Hutch had told him to shut up. Just let him get it off his chest. It'll be good for him, and I can tell him after.

Assuming he still wants to hear anything I have to say.

"I don't see you, I don't see Dobey, everyone giving me the 'don't you worry, just rest your pretty head' line." Starsky's expression shifted subtly, from anger to pleading. "Okay, I know I'm not real fast on my feet these days. I still can't hear so good, and my balance and co-ordination are shot, but so far as I know I'm still your partner." He paused. "I am still your partner, right?"

The anxious question cut straight to Hutch's heart, rendering him speechless. He reached for Starsky. Always, you'll always be…

Starsky pulled his hand out of Hutch's. "Then why the hell are you keeping me in the dark?"

Hutch flinched at the rage in Starsky's voice.

Starsky crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, I can make some guesses. In fact, I think I have a pretty good idea what's going on. But I want to hear it from you, because I'll tell ya right now, I'm not happy with the lack of communication we got here. Why didn't you listen to me?"

Hutch felt his knees collapse beneath him, and he sat down abruptly on the edge of Starsky's bed. He looked at his hands, and at the lighter. He folded it into his fist, closing his eyes as the memory hit him with visceral force. He could clearly hear Starsky's voice, almost two weeks earlier, laced with pain, saying, "Why didn't you listen to me?"

God help me, I'm hearing you now.

"Hutch?" Starsky's voice changed. The anger was gone, and now he sounded concerned.

Hutch realized that he was hunched over, perched on the edge of Starsky's hospital bed, his hand over his face. Muttering an apology, he started to rise, jamming the lighter into the front pocket of his pants. He had to get away, wash his face, compose himself. The last thing Starsky needed was to have him break down.

After all, he wasn't the one who had been tortured. Whose feet had been burned, and whose toes had been broken, who had been beaten and concussed. He had no right…

Starsky clamped a hand over his bicep, stopping him.

"Look at me."

Mute, Hutch shook his head.

"Look at me." Starsky's voice was gentle, insistent.

Hutch bit down on the inside of his bottom lip, tasting blood. The urge to cry retreated a fraction, and he raised his head. The compassion in Starsky's eyes was worse than the anger had been earlier. Hutch looked away quickly, blinking.

"She got away," said Starsky. "And you were planning on telling me this, when?"

Hutch's guilt was obvious. All that remained now was the conviction and sentencing.

Starsky scooted over, angling himself so that he could see Hutch's face. "And all week you've been running yourself into the ground trying to track her down and make it right."

Hutch met his eyes, choking on the words he wanted desperately to say.

"You're sorry?"

Helplessly, Hutch nodded.

A half-smile tugged at one corner of Starsky's mouth. His voice rose, "For what? For not being able to gun down an ex-girlfriend? Oh heck, Hutch! I'd be more worried if you had!"

Acquittal. The suddenness of it left him reeling.

Starsky's hand settled on Hutch's leg. His shoulder bumped into Hutch's shoulder. "So, tell me the rest. I need to know why you're bleedin' all over my sheets."

Hutch started to protest that he wasn't injured, and then realized belatedly that Starsky was speaking metaphorically.

He felt a surge of anger and he almost pointed out that it just might have something to do with the fact that Starsky had been tearing one strip off him after another from the moment he'd stepped into the room.

Except that he'd been blaming Starsky for everything these past few months, and he was tired of it. Bone tired. He looked into his partner's face, and felt his irritation fade as a new thought occurred to him. My tourniquet. He flushed at the sentimentality of it, and saw the corners of Starsky's eyes crinkle in amusement.

"She got…" His voice cracked, and he tried again. "She got all the way to Tijuana."

"She got where?" asked Starsky, his eyes fixed on Hutch's mouth.

Belatedly, Hutch realized that Starsky's hearing still wasn't a hundred percent. He repeated himself, louder.

"She should'a been home free, then," said Starsky. "You don't have to shout if you talk to this ear. It's my good one."

He was so close he was almost in Hutch's lap now. The contact felt… good. Better than he deserved. His hand found Starsky's wrist, and his fingers lightly traced the healing marks. It hardly shows…

"I went after her." Hutch paused. "Not as a cop."

Starsky whistled quietly. "Well, that explains why I haven't seen Dobey all week. He must've been going crazy."

"I don't know." Hutch looked away and picked at his slacks, only now noticing how grimy they were. "I haven't seen him. I came straight here from the airport…" He was mumbling again, but Starsky seemed to understand regardless.

"Because you missed me so bad, you couldn't stand another moment apart," said Starsky, with gentle sarcasm.

"Yeah." There was nothing but honesty in Hutch's response. Lifting his eyes, he found the place on Starsky's cheek where she had burned him. It was only a faintly pink patch of new skin, under the rough afternoon shadow. Almost all better, now…

"So did you get her?" asked Starsky, after a moment.

Hutch shook his head. Memories of pleading with her, begging her not to… "She… um, she k..." He couldn't catch his breath. He was ashamed at his reaction. They were just words. Say them one after another and don't think about what they mean. "She took her life."

Heavy silence, and then Starsky said, "Shit."

Hutch heard volumes of compassion in Starsky's voice, and knew it was all for him. But, then again, Starsky doesn't know the full extent of my betrayal yet…

"Starsk, I-I know she hurt you, but she wasn't well. I thought I could…. She was hurting. I just wanted--." He couldn't find the words he so desperately needed, and he struggled to bring the few he had under control. At least he could count on Starsky to listen for as long as it would take…

"I know," said Starsky, sounding pained.

How can he possibly know? Hutch was suddenly aware of a new tension in Starsky's body. Looking down, he saw that Starsky's hands had clenched into fists. Is he angry at her. Or at me?

But Starsky looked up at him now with a determined smile. "So what did you buy me?"

"Huh?" Hutch felt a nasty jolt. Of all the reactions he had prepared for, this was not one that had occurred to him. He had so much to say. After all this time he was finally ready to talk. And now it looked like Starsky was no longer going to listen, after all. The irony of it was almost enough to make him want to cry.

"Well jeez, Hutch! You went to Tijuana! Didn't you get me anything?"

Hutch read pleading in Starsky's face. He was asking if they couldn't let the matter drop, go back to normal, pretend that none of this had happened. He doesn't want to talk about it.

If there was an edge of hysteria in Hutch's laugh, Starsky didn't comment.

"I can't believe you'd ask me that," said Hutch, making a desperate decision to play along. "Is that all I am to you? The guy who buys you stuff?" Maybe I don't want to discuss this stuff either. Maybe it's really okay to let it all go. He tried to douse the spark of resentment this thought ignited.

Starsky pulled him down backwards, until they lay side by side on the bed. The wax covered sheets crackled, bright bits of crayon flaking off between them. Starsky threw half of his blanket over Hutch, hissing under his breath as a corner dragged across his tender soles. "Well, considering that you've been using any excuse you can to get into bed with me, I figure…"

Hutch's chuckle was closer to genuine this time. "You're the one who said he loved me."

"I said that?" There was honest puzzlement in Starsky's face. Hutch realized that he'd forgotten the conversation.

"Yep. First day you were here." And I hung onto that the entire time I was in Mexico, wondering if you'd still feel the same when all was said and done. It occurred to Hutch that he'd been a fool to question the constancy of Starsky's love. It was always there, even when communication failed.

I should find that more reassuring than I do. Is love enough?

"Wow." Starsky looked thoughtful. "I guess that explains a lot."

"How so?"

"Well, why else would I put up with all the crap you dish out?" His grin took the sting out of his words. But then his smile vanished and he hoisted himself up on one elbow to look at Hutch with deadly intensity. "However, if you ever cut me out again, I swear, I'll spend the rest of my life making you pay."

Hutch made a sound of tired agreement. It was probably not the most appropriate response, but he was too exhausted to think of anything else. He couldn't summon the energy to force Starsky to listen to him, and he was no longer even certain that talking would be a good idea anyway. Eventually, he would have to face Dobey. There would be questions to answer, and dues to pay.

At the moment, none of that seemed important.

He was remembering the warmth and weight of his grandmother's crocheted throw, wrapped around him as he dozed in front of the large fireplace at the farm. He felt a similar lethargy claiming his limbs now. Too tired to think…

"So, what about my present?" asked Starsky, returning to his previous complaint.

"Look what you did to the last present I gave you," said Hutch, his eyes closed. I give up.

"Okay, so I melted the crayons. But only after I finished the coloring book."

Hutch felt something lightly tossed onto his stomach, and he opened his eyes to see the Jumbo Coloring Book he'd bought for Starsky. It had been a gag gift, nothing serious. He'd half expected Starsky to pass it onto Rosie or some other child. Curious, Hutch picked it up and flipped through the book. Every page had been colored. Tiny holsters had been carefully drawn under the arms of most of the characters, who seemed to alternate between bright yellow and curly brown hair. And every single car was candy apple red.

Starsky and Hutch go to the Circus. Starsky and Hutch feed the Elephant. Starsky and Hutch bust the Creepy Clown.

Starsk, buddy, you're scary when you're bored.

"Hey, Hutch?"

He let the book fall onto his chest. "Yes?"

"If she's dead, does this mean I get to go home?"

Hutch closed his eyes again. "I've already started the paperwork. But I'm going to have to move in with you until the doctor gives you the okay to walk again."

He smiled to himself at the sound of Starsky's barely audible, but unmistakably joyful, "Yes!"

Tomorrow, Hutch decided, he would find another bit of odd Mexican pottery to give to him. And he would apply some thought to the problem of keeping Starsky entertained while he was off his feet.

And maybe pick up a fire extinguisher. Or two.

Just in case.

The dreams kept coming back.

There was the one in which he stood by the side of the road as they took her body away in a jeep. The motion of the vehicle over the packed earth and stones caused the sheet to slip off of her face. Her head fell back, her dead eyes opened and she looked at him, the red line of her mouth stretching into an impossibly wide grin. Her expression was pure, horrifying triumph.

The other dream was the one in which he was fatally wounded, his chest ripped open, and she refused to let him die. He asked her why, and she replied that only animals get mercy. Because, unlike men, animals take no more than what they need. It's men who are greedy, who demand more than they are entitled to, and who end up having to pay.

He woke several times a night, staring into the dark, his heart racing. Logic had little power against the unsubtle working of his subconscious. Self-examination got him nowhere.

What he really wanted was someone to talk to, but Starsky continued to refuse to discuss her, and eventually Hutch gave up trying. She was gone, but the distance she had created between them still persisted, and he didn't know how to bridge it without Starsky's help.

They were both ordered to see the department's psychologist. Hutch did not tell her about the dreams. He wondered what Starsky told her, and drew no comfort from the knowledge that it was likely his partner had also said very little.

To be continued...