Disclaimer: This story was written purely for entertainment and is not for profit. It is not meant to trespass in any way on the holders of the rights to Starsky and Hutch.

This is the first time that I will be posting by chapters—thanks Eli and S'gal! Hope it works! Mahalo to all of the wonderful people in my life, who continue to encourage, support, and inspire me in my endeavor to write.

Warning: "Silent Witness" might be considered a dark tale and contains some graphic scenes and foul language that may be offensive to some readers. This story also revolves around a paranormal/metaphysical genre; if this is not your cup of tea, then please refrain from sipping.

oo Silent Witness oo

CHAPTER SIX

(Wednesday evening, Starsky's place)

It felt good to feel the hot water pounding on the rigid muscles of his back. Starsky slowly rotated his neck, feeling the bunched cords loosening under the heated spray. He closed his eyes as he slid the slippery bar of soap against the skin of his chest, working it up into a rich, cleansing lather. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the soap and the soothing heat from the water, while his mind drifted to this morning's strange events.

The image of the little girl's vacant eyes flashed in his mind's eye and a feeling of sadness and a sense of loss pervaded his senses. "It's too late . . ." he heard her sad, soft whisper in his ear.

Starsky's eyes suddenly popped opened as a shiver ran down his spine. He quickly reached behind him to blast the hot water, hoping it would take away the chill that resided in his heart.

What happened today scared the dark haired detective shitless. This was the kind of stuff that belonged in those lousy B movies he loved watching. Starsky knew that he had always been a little on the superstitious side. Whereas Hutch was skeptical about things like voodoo and vampires, Starsky never doubted the possibility that things unknown did exist.

That's why it surprised the brunet how open-minded his blond haired companion had been to that psychic they had met several years ago while trying to solve the Haymes abduction case. The blond had been more than receptive to Joe Collandra's reluctant help in finding that kidnapped girl.

Joe, a psychic from Atlantic City, had moved to the Bay Area, intending to live out his life quietly as an obscure owner of an eatery called, J.C. Cafe. After the bad publicity he had gotten in Atlantic City for failing to find a ransomed boy in time, the once well-known psychic wanted to be blend in and remain anonymous, hiding himself and his ability away from the public's condemning eye.

Hutch had been so ready to enlist the help of Collandra, despite the skepticism he received from Starsky; and much to Starsky surprise, they had found Haymes' daughter just in the knick of time, from the hazy clues of Joe's visions. Although that case had a happy ending, the way it was solved gave the brunet the heebie jeebies. Things like that, happened on TV or in books, but as far as Starsky knew, the BCPD had never enlisted the help of a psychic to aid in solving a case.

Starsky rinsed off the lather, washed his hair, and stepped out of the shower. He grabbed the fluffy towel off the rack and wiped off the excess water from his chest, face and arms. He vigorously scrubbed the towel through his curls as he stood before the basin. The steam from the shower had fogged up the mirror and the brunet used a corner of the towel to wipe away the mist from its smooth surface.

Starsky wrapped the towel around his lean hips and stared at himself for a minute in the mirror, noticing the tired lines under his weary, blue eyes. Hutch was right . . . he needed to sleep longer. The brunet chuckled at that thought. After all, he had just been asleep for six days straight!

The sudden gut-wrenching pain to the side of his head came out of nowhere. He could hear himself groaning softly as his hand immediately pressed against the throbbing ache to his skull. The fingers from his other hand dug into the porcelain basin as he tried to get a handle on the pounding pressure in his head.

The steam in the room appeared to be thickening and the brunet gasped and struggled to take air into his burning lungs. He held the side of his lowered head, his breathing shallow and rapid; gasping softly as pain once again stabbed viciously into the area just above his left ear. He scrunched his eyes shut against the pain, biting his lip to keep from crying out and alerting Hutch. A bright flash of light blinded him behind his closed lids, and he sensed it coming . . .

She was walking home from the bus shelter; her blond curls looked almost silver under the dim glow from the streetlights. She hated to walk alone at night like this, but the friend that she usually walked with, was at home with the flu. The click of her heels against the pavement sounded loud and hollow to her ears as she peered warily into the shadows ahead of her, while silently cursing the slight drizzle that was ruining the curls in her hair.

Something inside her made her aware that she was not alone out there in the dark and she quickened her steps, feeling the cold hand of fear as it grabbed her heart. She started running, though she didn't know why, her breathing ragged as her fear began to overwhelm her. She could hear her shallow breaths and she suddenly screamed, as unseen hands dragged her into the bushes that lined the sidewalk.

Starsky could hear himself gasping, holding the side of his head as he sank slowly to the tiled floor in his bathroom . . .

He could hear her muffled screams and see the whites of her eyes as she focused on the blade that flashed from the dim lights of the streets. She could barely breathe, the metallic taste of blood coating her tongue, as the pressure from his hand brutally grated her tender lip against her teeth. Her frightened mind shorted out, trying to comprehend why this was happening to her . . . she had always tried to be a good girl . . . to be obedient. She watched in horror as the large butcher knife sliced through the air, the downward thrust of the flashing blade sinking deeply into her abdomen, as she let out a blood-curdling scream . . .

"Ungh," Starsky groaned, curling himself into a ball on the tile, his hands clutching his stomach, folding into himself with each thrust of the blade, as it entered the young, dying girl. He could feel his own flesh tearing as the large knife was thrust repeatedly, forcefully. He groaned again in agony, rolling on the tile, curling into the pain as he grasped tightly to his abdomen, feeling his life's blood spilling through his fingers, struggling to take in more air and ride out the punishing stabs to his mid-section. He could still hear the girl's soft cries growing weaker and weaker as her attacker wiped the blade against her dress and got to his feet.

She was dying, as the drizzling rain became larger drops and fell on her upturned face; she was dying . . . and she knew it. She could vaguely hear the retreating footsteps of her assailant, her mind becoming foggy and dark. She wondered briefly if she would be missed by anyone and closed her eyes as the pain became dull to the point of numbness. She felt so alone, never would she have thought that she would die like this . . . her last fragmented awareness, was of how cold she felt, and how she wished she had brought her sweater . . .

"Save her." The calm voice rang clearly in his ears as Starsky lay gasping on the floor, the punishing pain in his mid-section beginning to diminish. He took in shallow breaths and laid there, still curled, feeling the throbbing in his skull lessening with each labored breath that he took.

He had to get up. Hutch was out there. It wouldn't do to be caught on the floor like this. The blond would probably drag him straight to the hospital with only a wet towel around his hips. Starsky slowly uncurled his damp body from the tight fetal position he was in and sat up. Every muscle in his body screamed in agony with that movement. The brunet looked to his abdomen, almost expecting to see blood. Nothing.

God, was he losing his mind?

To be continued . . .