Hutch stopped shaving. It was unconscious at first, a result of not wanting to accidentally bump his still healing nose. Two weeks in, the five o'clock shadow becoming a tried and true beard, and Luyu commented, as they lay in bed together, that he looked different. He smiled at her, found her lips, then felt her fingers on his bearded cheek and realized.
"Does it bother you?" He asked, his rough fingers coming up to cover her smooth, cool ones.
Luyu responded with quiet thoughtfulness, something that Hutch had learned meant he might not like the answer, but when it came it would be Luyu's honest and heartfelt opinion. They were both interrupted by an unexpected jolt in her belly and Luyu's eyes widened. She grinned and took Hutch's hand, guiding it to the rounded lump and the distinct jabs coming from within.
Hutch felt a foot or a hand making solid right hooks or straight kicks against Luyu's skin. He kept his hand glued to her belly fascinated by this new, unexpected connection to his unseen son or daughter. Luyu watched him, watched as his blue eyes danced behind blonde lashes. She wondered, as she fed her fingers through his lengthening hair, if their baby would be blonde or dark haired. Blue eyed or brown. Hutch turned a smile her way and she grinned back, wondering if he or she would have thin lips like their father, or full lips like hers. Would they look Native American, or Scandinavian? Or some beautiful combination of both.
When they finally rolled out of bed, Hutch to shower and shave all but his mustache, and Luyu to prepare breakfast, and the picnic lunch they would need later in the day, Luyu's fingers itched with the desire to map her baby's features out exactly. She hadn't sketched in ages, but suddenly she had to see it's face, fingers, nose, eyes, legs. While she cooked she found herself blissfully lost in the mental drawing she had already begun. Their child would have Hutch's eyes, she decided, ice blue with a slightly darker complexion and auburn hair. A lady killer, if a boy, and reason enough for her father to keep a shotgun on hand if a girl.
Hutch came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, smelling of soap and cologne. They enjoyed a brief moment pressed together before Luyu said, "I need to take out the compost."
Hutch looked over her shoulder at the overflowing coffee tin then said, "No. You don't." His lips and smooth cheeks found her neck, then her collarbone and she shuddered.
"But I do...I...it's overflowing." She insisted, her breath growing heavier despite her insistence.
Hutch had gone below the collar of her nightgown, his hands on her belly but his lips circling tender breasts. She felt her stomach drop a little, her body responding instantly to what Hutch was doing. Her mind went from the sunny compost to the cool sheets of Hutch's bed in seconds, but there was still a hot breakfast on the stove, and a picnic lunch to make, and it was already dangerously close to time for them to leave.
Luyu growled in the back of her throat, brought his lips back to a safer region, then kissed him. "I must. And you must. And we must."
"Make love." Hutch said, pressing into her lips.
"Make lunch, Hutch, lunch." Luyu insisted, then pressed in enough to tease Hutch as mercilessly as he had teased her. She felt his breath quicken, felt that he was already responding, and once again she thought about the sheets...the cool soft breeze that always caressed them after…
"Compost. You finish breakfast. We'll have time." Luyu said, hastily, then backed away, her right hand reaching blindly for the coffee tin, her lips still engaged with Hutch's.
"Breakfast." He murmured, then let her go, knowing they were both, now, in the same dire straits. He wasn't hungry for the eggs and toast, despite how delicious they smelled, but he knew his lover. Luyu would take breakfast in bed, over eggs and toast, any time she could. No use burning good food in their haste.
Luyu righted her nightgown, then threw on a light jacket of Hutch's before she headed out the door of the apartment, and to the leaf and weed strewn pile that promised rich, well aerated soil underneath. This was where Hutch dug for worms that he used when fishing, and the soil for his family of plants growing in the house. It was another part of Hutch, well established before he ever met Luyu, that had endeared him to her. He loved more than just her. He was passionate about the earth and its health, passionate about his work, and indelibly linked to his partner.
A song came to her mind. An old Native American prayer for the earth that was often sung on harvest festival days, and at the first planting. She remembered it because it served so frequently as a nursery rhyme for the modern members of her tribal family. She sang it, softly, spreading the contents of the coffee tin over the weeds from the week's cutting, effectively drowning out the footsteps of the man coming up behind her.
He used chloroform. The familiar scent triggered something in her brain, but not alarm, before the cloth crushed over her nose and she couldn't breathe. Her belly tightened at the top and bottom, her diaphragm struggling for air, her pelvic muscles drawing up her legs to instinctively protect the baby. She felt a rough hand crush her left breast and squealed, the pain and her fear bringing tears to her eyes. The squeal reminded her that she had weapons at her disposal and she screamed with the last of her held breath, then used her elbows to slam against the body behind her.
She still had the coffee can in her hands and she tried to use it to her advantage, swinging it behind her toward the head of her assailant. The move freed her face from the choking cloth and she only realized that she had begun to get light headed when fresh air rushed into her lungs, starting a coughing fit. She backpedaled, her feet scraping on the dewy grass, felt an arm slip around her neck and took in a hard, hasty breath screaming before her air was cut off again.
"Hutch!"
Then a hard, sinewed forearm was cinched against her windpipe, with a strength that translated the anger her fight was fueling. She couldn't breathe, felt pressure in her head building instantly, and clawed at the windbreaker sleeve, desperately putting her nails to use. She faintly heard Hutch's voice, felt a large vehicle sweeping up to the sidewalk. The mid-morning sun was dimming and she was moving, against her will toward the van. More bodies appeared, hands closed around her ankles and for a brief moment she felt air against her bare underside. She was naked under the nightgown and it panicked her to feel so exposed and helpless. Ghastly noises were coming from her throat and the baby in her belly was kicking, responding now that both of them hadn't had any oxygen for over a minute.
"Let her breathe!" A voice demanded, a voice that wasn't Hutch, and that didn't come from the man still holding her from behind. Another cloth swept under her nose, her throat was released and she got two sobbing gasps of air before more chloroform and cotton.
She was carried toward the vehicle, her limbs losing feeling, her eyes closing despite her desperate fight to keep them open. It suddenly felt like dusk instead of dawn, and she felt cold, vacant, like an empty prison cell. Made only of cold concrete and iron bars. She wondered if this was what death felt like, and instantly felt the negative space in her belly...as if her baby had had enough and decided to move out.
She remembered a voice begging, "Please stay." Her own voice, barely a rough whisper, then nothing.
Hutch had tried taking on three at a time. The van had swept up and emptied out like a subway car, men in black swarming Luyu, and more rushing to the aid of the man that had been attacking her. Hutch had grabbed the baseball bat by the door the minute he'd heard Luyu's scream and he used it now, freely. He swung at heads and arms and shoulders, clearing a two foot space around him and working his way toward Luyu.
None of the men had drawn any guns or knives, a fact that sank into his mind then disappeared once Hutch had a new target. A few of the men were on the ground now, clutching wounded limbs, and the men still on their feet kept their distance, taking wide stances and watching Hutch warily through the holes in their masks. Luyu had stopped struggling to his left, and a quick glance gave him a terrifying image. The pink gauzy lengths of Luyu's nightgown, floating under her suspended body, a limp hand flopping over the arms of the man holding her, her torso twisted so that the bump of her belly was exaggerated. Looking like a broken doll.
Hutch changed tactics and stormed after the men disappearing into the van. The tip of the bat hit the open side door once, then landed on flesh. Hutch dealt three solid blows to the man's head and shoulders before the van walls prevented him from taking a full swing. Hutch backed up half a step, slipped the length of the bat under the chin of the man who had managed to lay Luyu down on the floor of the van, then yanked back and felt the man's head smash against his chin. The unintentional blow traveled from Hutch's jaw, up through his nose and burst in the front of his brain as a brilliant flash of lightning but he hung on, yanking brutally on the bat until he felt a snap.
The man went limp, urinated himself, then slipped out of Hutch's grip and crumpled to the ground. The van started to pull away, the other masked men scrambling to make it inside and escape the enraged cop. Hutch launched the bat, end over end at the front passenger door and it shattered the window, lodging in the three inch gap it made in the glass. The sudden appearance of the bat distracted the driver and the van swerved into the path of a sedan coming up the road in the other lane, the impact of the two vehicles once again bringing the van to a stop.
Hutch threw himself into the still open side door and used his fists, elbows and head to do as much damage as possible. He was within reach of Luyu's ankle when the van lurched backwards, then forward, sweeping around the stopped sedan and starting down the road. Hutch changed tactics and threw himself toward the front, wrapping his left arm around the driver's seat and ripping at the mask on the driver's face with his right.
"Get him under control!" The driver shouted, the steering wheel rocking back and forth with the increasing speed of the van and the driver's one handed effort to fend off the blond cop.
Hutch clung to the seat, ripped off the ski mask, then closed his fist around the cloth and punched at the driver's right ear until the he felt cold metal slam into the side of his neck. The strike distracted him and he turned his head long enough to sling a right cross at the man in the passenger seat, trying to wield the bat in the confines of the front cab.
The driver hit the brakes and Hutch was tossed forward, pushing off with his legs in the last moment so that he slid onto the dash, instead of going headlong into the instrument panel. Hutch kicked out with his feet, using both heels to knock in the nose and teeth of the guy in the passenger seat then planted his left foot in the headrest, and went to kick the driver. The driver hit the gas, the van lurched forward and Hutch was once again between the front seats, scrabbling for purchase.
He got upright and had his right arm around the driver's neck when felt sharp, cold pain his back. His muscles stiffened and the pain came again, and again, in his shoulders, his lower back. He turned to address the pain and the giant, enraged bee that was attacking him shifted its focus to his right side, shoulder and arm.
He caught the wrist of the man in the passenger seat, stopping the onslaught and for a moment he registered the fear radiating from the man. The chassis of the van rattled around him, but the masked man with the knife was frozen in place, barely breathing, his knife arm going slack. A bead of blood rolled down the blade between them, trembling at the point of the knife before it fell, breaking the spell. Hutch kicked the the passenger in the chest with the last of his strength, keeping hold of the knife hand, preventing the passenger from escaping the full force of the blow.
The van rocked violently, and the passenger door flew open. The man with the knife dropped out of the van, grabbing at Hutch's leg at the last moment. With a helping shove from the driver Hutch flew out after the masked man, his left hand catching for a spare moment on the door. The driver jerked the van to the right, Hutch lost his grip and met hot asphalt, managing an awkward roll.
When the world finally came to a stop Hutch couldn't feel anything but the heat from the sun and the solid pressure of the black top preventing him from sinking into the middle of the earth. He turned his head toward the fleeing van, eyes focusing for a second on the painted over tags. The smear of white paint left the impression of the license plate, but he couldn't decipher the numbers or letters. Then the van was turning to the right. The vehicle had been white, but now sported a broad red streak. His own blood, Hutch realized, left there when he fell from the passenger side. A great big, bright red identifier that might help the police track down the van.
If they knew. If he could tell them.
Hutch rolled his head back to center, closed his eyes against the glare of the sun and drew in a low, stabilizing breath. He sat up, adjusting as he moved, to what was still working on his body and what wasn't. He flopped over onto his belly, pushed up with his left arm and right leg, and came to his feet slowly. The driver of the car that the van had hit had left his vehicle, jogging in hesitant spurts toward the masked man Hutch had left on the sidewalk. He'd gotten within feet of the man with the knife when he saw Hutch rise and came to a stuttering stop.
"Y-you ok man?" The driver was in his forties maybe, showing a bit of age around his eyes and mouth, but his coiffed hair was jet black. He'd sweat through the light green button down shirt he wore, shining leather loafers on his feet showed a smudge of something...maybe blood.
Hutch struggled to bring his thoughts together, staring at the driver before he looked to his left, to the front door opening on a house wife with a babe in arms, staring out at him. He pointed to the door and said, "Call the police."
"You're bleeding, mister." The driver said and Hutch looked down at the puddle forming on the ground under his right hand.
"Call the police." He said again, trying to force more will into the command, taking a short step forward. Pain arched up his back and the muscles froze again and he felt his right shoulder hitch up. He stopped, a bleeding, blond haired Igor, stuck to the asphalt like it had begun to melt the rubber soles of the deck shoes he'd slipped into before leaving the house.
"Call the police!" He begged, his voice breaking. The pain, or the fear, or the rage spilled tears down his cheeks but they were short lived. He forced another step, then another, gaining momentum in the barest of senses.
The man in the green shirt stayed rooted to his spot, staring at the trail of bodies, staring at the bloodied man trying to return up the street. The mother with the baby disappeared, the screen door empty and dark. Hutch was halfway to his driveway before he heard sirens. He'd reached his neighbor's drive before his body forced him to sit. Hutch tried to aim for the brick retaining wall but he missed and slid down to the sidewalk. Time passed without him noticing. He hoped no more than a few minutes, but enough time for the Torino to have screeched to a stop in front of him.
Starsky was on one knee beside him, talking to someone on Hutch's other side. Hutch glanced, caught the tailored sleeve of an EMT uniform, then looked back to his partner. The movement of his head seemed to perk Starsky up and he heard the brunet say, "He's comin' around."
"They took her."
"Took...Luyu?"
Hutch nodded.
"Men?"
Another nod.
"How many?"
Hutch sighed, closed his eyes, running back through the fight. "Five, ten maybe." He breathed, then there was hard pressure against his back and Hutch couldn't think anymore. Starsky's hand was hot and sweaty on the side of his neck, another hand clinging tightly to his left arm, and he came back to that heat.
"Were they in cars, trucks.."
"Van, white, blood on the side...right side." Hutch said.
"Which way did they-"
"North."
"We need to move him. These don't look too deep but he's lost a lot of blood."
"She's pregnant." Hutch said, fresh sweat bathing his face. The gurney wheels rattled as they dragged the empty bed onto the sidewalk, drawing Starsky's attention for a second.
"I know, pal. She'll be alright, we'll get 'er."
The EMT pushed Hutch's back away from the retaining wall and prepared to get behind his shoulders to lift him up. Another EMT moved in to grab Hutch's feet. Starsky moved back, supporting Hutch's right side and waiting for the count.
"I felt it kick."
"The baby?" Starsky asked, not fighting the hopeful smile.
"Yeah.." Hutch said, the beginnings of a smile of his own showing on his face before he paled, his eyes rolled back and his body went into convulsions. The EMTs reacted instantly, laying him back on the ground. One of them called for a tongue depressor and another barely stepped back in time to avoid a gout of vomit coming from Hutch's mouth. The attack ended as quickly as it had begun, and there was no blood in the vomit. One of the EMTs made the remark with what sounded like optimism.
Starsky lead the way for the ambulance, his siren and light going. He parked his Torino in the bay and followed the EMTs to the ER doors on the off chance that Hutch would regain consciousness, having more information about the attack, the white van, the men.
He stood outside the ER doors for twenty minutes before one of the nurses came for him. "He's awake. He wants you."
Starsky went into a room gradually emptying of medical personnel. Based on the heart monitor and the wads of bandages temporarily attached to his partner he could judge that Hutch was for the moment stable. He had on a blood pressure cuff and an oxygen mask lay by his head. He'd been propped by pillows and allowed to rest on his unwounded side and a pale hand quested out as soon as Hutch could smell his partner's cologne.
"Hey, Hutch, hey. We got APBs, we got all the cops out lookin'. Dobey's callin' everybody with a badge within a hundred miles." Starsky said, pulling a chair in close, grabbing the hand, holding Hutch's gaze.
Light, cool circles peered out of bloodshot, strained sclera. Hutch thought about Luyu, swathed in pink, perfect in all her pregnant, feminine glory. About the lax hand slung over a black clad sleeve. Her belly protruding because of the unnatural twist of her spine as they shoved her into the van.
He flashed on the image of the mother and child in the doorway. There, staring one moment, then gone the next. About the key differences between Luyu...and the mother. The woman in the house had her baby in her arms. Luyu still carried the baby in her belly.
The woman in the house had solid brick walls between her and the danger, Luyu...had nothing to protect her. Hutch had fought like a banshee, like a wild man, like a total fool...and she was still in danger.
The woman in the house had a ring. He'd seen it, he realized, glinting against the sun, brilliant against the dark blue of the sleeper the baby had been wearing. Luyu didn't have a ring.
The woman in the house had worn yellow. Luyu wore pink.
The woman in the house would sleep in her own bed tonight. Safe.
Luyu…
There was a knock on the ER doors and Starsky lifted his head to catch the top of Captain Dobey's dome before the door opened. The captain took two steps in then looked over his men quietly. He'd had a quick run down from Starsky while the brunet lead the ambulance across town, but the jumbled details never told the whole story. They didn't speak to the shockingly pale skin ringing deep bruises barely covered by the bandages. The clothes in rags so the EMTs could get quickly to the wounds, leaving the patient exposed and vulnerable.
"They found the van." Dobey spoke quietly into the silence. "It's empty. Left in a gravel lot under the highway. They're talking to homeless guys that hang out down there now."
Dobey crossed the room as he spoke, coming to the foot of the bed. "The van was stolen but the owner didn't have much to say about it. The inside of the van was clean...no blood other than...Hutch's." The captain raised a hand to gesture at the wounds on his man's back. "I told them to call me here once they have more."
Starsky's focus shifted back to Hutch for a minute, watching the blue eyes that were trying to close. He didn't know if Hutch was worn out from the pain, the news, or everything together. But it wasn't relief making his body relax.
"Hutchinson.." Dobey said softly, and Hutch's eyes immediately opened again. "The IA has questions…"
Hutch groaned softly and Starsky flashed the captain a look. Dobey put his hand up and his voice took on a sterner tone. "There are two dead men, and one civilian involved in this. And the only one that saw anything was Hutch...so far. We're canvassing your neighbors...but right now...after last month." Dobey went back to leaning on the foot of the bed watching Starsky's jaw tighten before the brunet looked back to his partner. The blond reached toward the tall cup of water on the stand by the bed and Starsky produced it, helping Hutch drink.
"Bat.."
"What?"
"Baseball bat…" Hutch enunciated and Dobey looked to Starsky for an explanation. Starsky was focused on Hutch, just as clueless. "My bat…" Hutch finally added.
"Who had the bat?" Starsky asked after a moment of open-mouthed fishing.
Hutch pointed to himself, his eyes once again trying to close.
"Finger prins." Hutch said, the words starting to slur.
Starsky looked to Dobey who was already turning to the door.
"I'll tell the officers on the scene to locate a baseball bat. Stick with him, Starsky." Then Dobey was gone, and Hutch slipped into oblivion, his partner glued to his bedside.