Hi All,

Sorry this chapter was so long in coming. I injured my arm and have to type one handed (or my sister Shawne will shake her 'Hutchinson warning finger' at me – Eep!) One handed typing SUCKS. Okay, enough about me. Not too many answers in this chapter. There will be answers in chapter 8. Really. I mean it this time!

Thanks to Kreek, my wonderful friend and sounding board, the same goes forEli, wuemsel, Shawne and I can't leave wondrous Pony out either… ;-)

Warning! Darkness ahead, if you are sensitive, please do not read this chapter.

Chapter 7

Metro, late Friday Afternoon

Hutch stared at the small desktop calendar that sat in the center of the desk. Starsky's empty chair was directly behind it, framing the small cheap, calendar. It was the fifth day since Starsky had gone missing, 'had been kidnapped', he silently amended. The room hummed with voices, but the words were indistinct, he let them wash over him, he couldn't care less about what the others in the room were saying. Five days… five whole days… a lifetime to be held captive by Simon's crazy followers and just this morning, Simon Marcus had slipped into a coma. Another lead bit the dust, at least until the man recovered - if he recovered.

Police departments all over Utah had been informed and were on the look out for Marcus's followers and were to question any they found. Since a fellow police officer was involved, they were very keen to assist Bay City Police in any way possible. Still, it had been five long days - and there was nothing he could do about it. The blond reached out and flipped the little calendar over and contemplated knocking everything off the desktop, including the big, pink, grinning piggy bank that Rosie Dobey had given to Starsky as a birthday present.

The feel of a hand on his shoulder caused him to twitch at the unexpected touch.

"Hutch, I've got the lab results from the tox screen from the cult follower, Dick Clemons… Hutch?"

He blinked and looked up at the hand's owner with temporary confusion before it turned in to recognition, "I'm sorry Cheryl, I must have been daydreaming." He wiped his hands down his face and stifled a yawn.

She gave him a commiserating look, "From the expression on your face, I would have to say it's more of a day nightmare, than a daydream," She quirked her lips up in the corners "if that makes any sense. Would you like some coffee? I just brewed a pot."

"Yes," and as she turned to get it; Hutch tugged at her sleeve, stopping her, "No wait, you were trying to tell me something a moment ago, what was it?"

"Dick Clemons, the cult follower who died in the interrogation room yesterday. Well, he had massive amounts of cyanide and some slightly lower levels of strychnine in his system. It was overkill; either one by its self would have killed him several times over."

He reached out and squeezed her hands in his. "Thanks Cheryl." The lanky blond then carefully stood up and putting both hands on his in the small of his back, he slowly leaned backwards, trying to loosen the knot in his overtired, screaming muscles. He hadn't slept very much in the last five days.

"Hutch, could I see you in my office, please?" Dobey's voice was low.

Cheryl dismissed herself after squeezing the blond's arm and shoving a brimming mug of fresh coffee in his hands.

Hutch nodded his farewell at her and entered Dobey's office. Ice water filled his veins as he caught his captain's grim expression, whatever the big man was about to say, it wasn't good.

"Have a seat Ken." The hefty captain motioned to the chairs before his desk.

Hutch sat down on the edge of one of the two chairs located there, his eyes slid to the empty one beside him then back to Dobey. He quickly downed the hot coffee like it was a shot of whisky; he grimaced as it burned all the way down his throat, he set the empty mug on Dobey's desk.

He watched as the big man turned away and dug in his various pockets for something; he dug around until he produced a handkerchief. He then spent several seconds blotting his face. Each dab increased the blond's ire. "All right, what is it? Why'd you call me in here Cap'n? Is it a new lead?"

Dobey looked over at him through his bushy brows "I just got off the phone with Cabrillo. Dick Clemons had been an inmate there for nearly a year; he was admitted shortly after we rescued Starsky from Marcus's followers at the zoo. Clemons tried to jump off Bay City Bridge and attempted to take a few State Patrol officers with him. He was found incompetent to stand for trial, so he was sent to Cabrillo, been there ever since, that was until he escaped two days." Dobey looked at the calendar on the wall, "Make that three days ago. They were doing a bed check and he was gone."

"Wait…" Hutch stood up and walked away from the desk, he looked over his shoulder, "What're you saying Cap? How could he have kidnapped Starsky if he just escaped three days ago?" Confusion made its tracks across the exhausted blond's face.

"It's not possible that he kidnapped Starsky, he couldn't have. Maybe we're looking at this all wrong… maybe Starsky's stewardess girl friend did set him up some how. Maybe Marcus's goons have him, or maybe we're chasing our tails and aren't even looking at the right suspects." Dobey grunted as he stood up to get some water from the cooler in the corner. He tried to hand the paper cup to his tired and disheveled detective.

Hutch waved it off, "Maybe, maybe, maybe! Maybe he's in Utah; maybe his girlfriend set him up… alls we've got is a basket full of maybes. That and a quarter will get us a cup of coffee. Why would Clemons do it?"

"Confess to the crime and kill him self? He was legally insane, suicidal and he was part of a cult that has a serious grudge against you and Starsky. Being that he was one of Simon's followers, he had to have more then one screw loose and they're not the most mentally stable bunch of people to begin with."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah… All we have are questions, I want some answers dammit! We're just chasing our tails and we're not any closer to finding him then we were five days ago!" The irate detective snatched up a handful of folders off of Dobey's desk and shook them in his captain's face, "What good are these files? What good is it to know that Clemons had nothing to do with Starsky's kidnapping? What good are we? Answer me that captain!" An unexpected wave of fatigue washed over him, weakening his legs and he slumped down into the nearest chair. The files spilled out of his hand and all over the floor. "What good are we?" He buried his face in his hands.

Dobey crossed the room and placed a hand on a slumped shoulder, "Hutch, you're not thinking straight, you're exhausted… you haven't slept in days… you're wearing the same clothes you've had on since Monday… you need a bath and you need to sleep. You're no good to anyone one like this. Go home, you need to take a break."

The lanky blond glared up at his superior and shrugged his shoulder to remove the comforting hand, "What I need is a solid lead, what I need is to find Starsky!" a yawn caught him off guard and cracked his jaw wide open, despite his best efforts to subdue it. He struggled to maintain his glare as he stood up, fighting off yet another yawn as he did so.

Dobey moved around to stand before him and he leaned in to catch Hutch's eyes before speaking, "Ken, you're not alone here, you're not the only one looking. You're not the only one who cares about finding Starsky… every cop in Bay City is looking, every cop in Utah is looking, we'll find him, son. We will find him." He reached out to place his big hand on the young detective's shoulder; the lanky detective jerked his body backwards, away from the touch. Dobey didn't try again; "Go home Hutchinson, I'll call you if I hear even a peep."

The only response he gave his superior was to slam Dobey's office door shut as he exited.

'How dare Dobey tell me to go home, to give up?' Hutch stalked down the hallway, it vaguely registered that people moved quickly out of his way as he increased his stride to its maximum length, until he was walking as quickly as he could without breaking into a jog.

'That's right, keep movin'. He glowered at his fellow officers as he made his way towards the garage; almost smiling at the startled looks some gave him. No one protested or got angry with him. Some had worry in their eyes, others pity.

"You don't wanna go that way."

Hutch pulled up short, to stare at the figure before him, "Why not?" He snapped.

"Reporters are looking for you. Go out the back way, we'll keep 'em busy on this end." Detective Wofford gave him a lopsided grin. "Better get going, you know how reporters are."

Hutch nodded and turned on his heel, heading towards the lesser-used exit into the garage. He turned the corner, and found that the hallway was lined with fellow officers, who started clapping as he walked towards the door at the end of the hall. Then they stopped, did a precision about-face and filtered back into the main hallways, heading back to whatever duties they had.

The lanky detective's eyes began to burn; he spotted a bubbler and stopped for a drink. 'I'm thirsty', he told himself as he forced water by the lump in his throat. He didn't want to feel; his feelings had become a raw wound, aching and sore with no form of relief in sight. He denied himself all forms of comfort. He couldn't accept it, not when there was likely no comfort for Starsky. But the show of support from his bother and sister cops, offered minimal, welcome, relief.

He wiped the water dribbles from his chin with the sleeve of his shirt and stared at the distorted image of his face in the metal fountainhead of the bubbler. Bubbler. Starsky always laughed at him when he called it that. He had carefully explained this term to his transplanted New York-come-Bay City partner. Bubbler was a term that he had picked up from his grandfather when he stayed with his farm in Wisconsin, something he had done every summer until grandpa died. That word was one of the few things he had left of his grandfather; he wasn't about to give it up. Nor was he about to give up his search for his friend.

The blond looked at his image again, twisted and bent by the curve of the fixture, 'I'm not giving up, do ya hear me Starsk? I'm not giving up! Whatever is happening to you, don't you dare give up either. I will find you, no matter what it takes! No stone unturned, no person unquestioned…'

His thoughts trailed off as he remembered that there was someone he hadn't talked to. It was a long shot, but what the hell? What else was a White Knight to do, but tilt at a few windmills? With an ember of hope clutched tightly in his heart, Hutch quickly made his way to his car.

XXXX

Starsky was awakened by a sharp pain in his fingertip and he slowly pried open his heavy eyelids to find out the cause. It took some doing to focus his blurry vision. A small movement helped him find the source. A tickle over the small pain tightened his line of vision and revealed Mickey the rat. Mickey bent down and licked the blood as it welled up from the wound. The pain was from when the rat had bitten him.

He watched with growing disgust as the rat lapped at the slow flow. Another sharp nip and he found the energy to move his hand; the rat scuttled a few feet away only to stare back at him with beady, unblinking black eyes. Blood was smeared around its mouth. His blood.

Starsky's upper lip curled in distaste, "Why Mickey? I – I thought-" a dry cough interrupted him, his voice little more then a dry, whispery rasp, "I thought we was pals…" He thought about killing the creature, but then he'd be alone. The rat was better company then the grinning skull, than again, the skull wouldn't try to bite him when he was asleep either.

Blue eyes contemplated the rodent for a while. "We're both just rats in a trap, ain't we? A pair of rats just tryin' to survive… you're just tryin' to survive… can't hate ya for that, can I?" He pushed an elbow underneath himself and slowly worked his way into a sitting position. "But that doesn't mean I wanna end up like poor Marie Prevost."

Another cough interrupted him; it was a dry hacking thing. He was far weaker today then he had been yesterday. He couldn't believe that they would deny him rainwater to drink. It had angered him. He had shouted and pounded the walls, not that it had done any good. They had given him a life sentence. Now he was beginning to understand that it was a 'life sentence' until he died.

Starsky found his rock and worked at scratching another mark diagonally across the other four. Five marks. Five days in this stinking pit of despair. He let the rock fall from his hand and rested his head against the wall of the well. He heard a scuffling sound and tilted his head just enough to see the cause.

The rat backed away and down into the hole it had dug, until only its bloody muzzle and black soulless eyes remained visible over the rim.

"What? You never heard of Marie Prevost?" he rasped in a conversational tone, "She was a silent film star… made 105 films in her day… she had some hard knocks,went into seclusion… and drank a lot… one day she died. They didn't find her for a while… and when they did, they found her little dog…"

Starsky looked at the rat, and tried to swallow the thick, pasty bile that rose up in his throat, "Her little dog…" He stopped, breaking off eye contact with the rat; he looked up at the wooden structure that now covered the well. It allowed some light in and he thought he could make out the bottom of a bucket hanging high above him; mocking and taunting him… why hang a bucket over a dry well? It was yet another level of torture… another reminder of his inability to get even a drop of water.

He reached up a shaky hand towards the bucket, so high above. Gazing longingly at it, he whispered to the rat as he let his arm drop back down to his side, "Her little dog… survived."

TBC

Author Notes: The information about Marie Prevost is true. She died of a combination of self-imposed malnutrition and alcoholism. Though it is open to interpretation if her Dachshund bit her in an attempt to wake her up or (eep!) did the unthinkable in order to survive. Marie Prevost was honored with a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, which can be found at 6201 Hollywood Blvd. There is also a song about her tragic end called "Marie Provost" by Brit rocker Nick Lowe. (The slight name change is from NL.)