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.

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 THIRTEEN

Friday, afternoon (Old Canyon Road, an abandoned church)

He lay on his side, his awareness and sensibilities slowly intruding into the murky and unnatural sleep that was forced upon him. Dark, heavy lashes gradually lifted, revealing dazed and bewildered eyes that immediately closed when the room began to spin.

Starsky took in shallow breaths as he forced the nausea down, swallowing hard to keep the bile from rising, as the spasm in his queasy stomach roiled uncomfortably, forcefully trying to expel the remaining drug that coursed throughout his system.

He breathed through the dizzy spell, realizing that his hands were tightly tied behind his bare back. His mind tried to piece together what had happened, slowly remembering bits and pieces of the living nightmare in which he found himself. His dark blue eyes widened as he remembered Simon's voice whispering in his mind, and the shock of seeing the madman's disciple in his own bedroom.

He groaned softly as he sat up slowly, glancing at the red mark on his chest where the dart had punctured, remembering the whispered words of Luke as he hissed in his ear, "Your journey begins Polaris . . . Simone welcomes you to his dream . . ." Starsky involuntarily shuddered, shaking his head to clear out the cobwebs so that he could allow his mind to think like a detective.

Just knowing that the voice belonged to Marcus, and that he somehow had access to his mind, drove the dark haired detective to the brink of insanity. 'How the hell could all of this be happening?' He breathed heavily, feeling sickened and violated with the thought of that murderer traipsing around in his subconscious mind, remembering the dark warning from Collandra about the voice wanting to get him. He pushed down the panic he felt and chose instead to focus on his surroundings, mentally calming himself down . . . perhaps if he searched hard enough, he would be able to find a means of escape.

His cobalt blue eyes slowly lifted and tracked the ceiling of the room he was in, taking note of the balcony and the seats along that upper area. The place seemed spacious with a high cathedral-like ceiling. One could tell by looking, that at one time this place was ornately beautiful, and now its former glory had been ravished by time and hardship. The passing years had not been kind to this place and he could tell that this building had fallen into bad disrepair and was probably abandoned. A large part of the room was charred and blackened, telltale signs of a fire that had its way with the structure years before. His gaze drifted lower and took in the wooden pews that sat in rows, facing the altar he was leaning up against.

Starsky's eyes rose once again to look at the balcony area which seemed somehow familiar to him, his mind flashed to the dream he had of Hutch hiding behind a pew, like those before him, and of the dark silhouette of a man, aiming his bow with deadly precision, shooting the arrow into his partner's back from the exact same balcony that he was now staring at.

The same sense of alarm returned full force and Starsky struggled to sit up straighter, worriedly looking around for his partner, hoping he hadn't slept through his chance of warning Hutch. He breathed rapidly trying to get a handle on his distress, his arms straining against his bonds, his chest muscles rippling with the movement, as perspiration glistened on his upper body. He looked desperately around the darkened room, immediately sensing that his partner was not there, not yet anyway, while simultaneously realizing that he was in some kind of dilapidated church, the few candles that were lit glowed dimly throughout the darkened chamber.

"Simone dreamed of this day," a voice echoed in the stillness of the room, reverberating eerily against the altar on which he leaned. Starsky quickly looked to the source of that sound, seeing four men walking towards him, garbed in those familiar hooded black robes that Starsky had never thought he would ever see again. The inverted red crucifix made the brunet involuntarily shiver as images of his capture, so many years ago, came hauntingly to the forefront of his mind.

He heard it again, the soft chanting that got progressively louder as they neared him, "Simone, Simone, Simone, Simone . . .." The sound of their monotonous droning sent shivers down Starsky's spine, and he worked furiously at the cords that bound his wrists, tearing his tender flesh in the process. He could feel the warm trickle of blood, as it flowed down into the palms of his hands and yet, the ropes still held fast.

Starsky leaned forward in an attempt to get his legs under him so that he could stand. He barely made it to his feet, wobbly and unstable, before he was grabbed by two cult members who forced him back down to his knees. The chanting now engulfed his whole being, his vision blocked by a swirl of black robes that encircled him, "Simone, Simone, Simone, Simone . . ." the droning increased in volume to an almost fevered pitch.

Suddenly, the intonations stopped and the dark haired detective was yanked to his feet to face the cult's stand in leader. "I am the Keeper of the Flame," Luke said softly, his voice thrumming with suppressed emotion, "And the Flame now lives within me . . ."

"Yeah? You're nuthin'!" Starsky drawled, his blues smoldering, his whole demeanor radiating disrespectful cockiness. Though it chilled the brunet to the bone, to once again be in the presence of these demented worshippers, no one would have been able to tell by the self-assuredness and confidence portrayed by the cop, who stood in the midst of the blacked garbed figures, alone and defenseless. The dark haired detective glared defiantly at the cult members as they encircled him; with the exception of Luke, their faces remained hidden, deep within the pocket of their hoods as they swayed hypnotically, chanting the name of Simone.

The blow came from nowhere and doubled the bound man over. Blinding, burning pain scourged his bare back and shoulders, and the brunet gasped as he fell to his knees once again, hearing the rattle of the thick metal chain was it whistled once again through the air and wrapped with punishing accuracy around his ribcage.

"Uungh," the brunet groaned softly, gasping, feeling the white-hot burn, racing up the conduit to his brain as it registered the fiery pain that ignited his whole left side. Starsky gritted his teeth, refusing to make any more unwanted sounds, curling his body into the agony, as another blow rained down upon him, the thick, metal links catching the side of his bound arm and shoulder, leaving thick red welts in its wake. Starsky gasped again, refusing to cry out loud as the agonizing pain lanced throughout his body.

"Simone dreamed you would be disobedient," Luke hissed, "And like a child, you must be beaten into submission . . ."

-.-.-.-.oo0oo.-.-.-.-

Friday, afternoon (Starsky's apartment)

Hutch sat in the quiet stillness of his partner's empty apartment, making sure not to disturb anything. With the exception of the phone, everything remained as he had found it when he entered the brunet's place and realized that Starsky had been abducted. The blond had used his own handkerchief to right the phone and pick up the receiver, returning it to its cradle, so that he could make a quick call to dispatch and then one to Dobey. He had also used the same handkerchief to open the top drawer of the nightstand only to see that his partner's gun was also missing.

His mind raced while he waited for back up and for the lab team to go over Starsky's bedroom with a fine-toothed comb, hopefully, they could get at least one good print somewhere that would lead him to find his missing partner.

Starsky. Hutch closed his eyes, pale lashes pressed against his cheeks. He could still picture his partner huddled against the door of the car as they drove home in silence last night, despair and remorse radiating off the dark haired detective in waves. The tall blond sighed, feeling the heavy mantle of guilt settle over his own shoulders, 'How could I have left him like that?'

He had known his friend was in a vulnerable state and yet, he had still left him on his own to deal with things that Starsky was obviously unable to deal with. 'Shit, how could he deal with anything? He only got out of the hospital a few days ago, emerging from a coma, only to have to cope with these strange and bizarre dreams and paranormal experiences. And I left him . . . all alone knowing all the while that I shouldn't have!' Hutch mentally berated himself, feeling lower than dirt. And now, knowing that Simon Marcus' loonies were out and about, it filled the blond's heart with dread. In his heart, he knew somehow that Marcus was involved in his partner's disappearing act.

Hutch's heart grew heavy with frustration and fear. "Hang on Starsk," he whispered softly to the empty room, clenching his fists with helpless despair. "Just hang on buddy."

He jumped, startled by the ringing of the phone. Taking his handkerchief, he quickly picked up the receiver and settled it against his ear, "Hello?"

"Starsky?" a man's voice on the other end said, "You okay over there?"

"Who is this?" Hutch demanded, as silence briefly ensued.

"Hutch? That you? It's me, Joe." Collandra's usually strong voice sounded weary and quiet to the blond's ear.

"Yeah, it's me, Hutch," the tall blond said, silently wondering why the psychic was calling his partner.

"Um . . . look, is you partner there?" Joe asked hesitantly, "I ah . . . I gotta speak with him 'bout somethin'."

Hutch sighed deeply, the loss of his partner weighing heavily on his heart, fear and frustration causing his stomach to clench in knots.

Joe's voice rose in agitation, "Hutch? Oh god, am I too late? D-did they get him already? Am I too late?" Tell me I'm not too late . . ."

To be continued . . .