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 to the rights of Starsky and Hutch.

Warning: "Episodes" 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. I would hate to spoil someone's fun.

--oo Episodes oo-

By: Shawne 'til dawn

. . . CHAPTER 12 . . .

He was floating on a wave of darkness just above the level of pain, until the soft continuous tapping slowly dredged him upwards from his troubled sleep. Heavy, dark lashes lifted to reveal dazed blue orbs that tracked its way to the window ledge above him. Starsky blinked the perspiration from his eyes, willing his hazy vision to clear, squinting to focus on the blurry shape that stood outside of the window, struggling to make sense of what he saw as he peered through the dirt stained glass. It was Mari.

Breathing hard and gritting his teeth against the sudden pain that flared through his side, the dark haired cop forced himself to sit up straighter, as he lifted his arm to grab the window ledge. Dragging himself to a standing position, his pressed his other hand against his lower abdomen, feeling the pull on his stitches, as he leaned unsteadily against the wall. Starsky unlatched the top lock and pushed the window up, a cool breeze immediately caressed his warm face, and the brunet briefly closed his eyes enjoying the fresh air that filled the enclosed room.

"Where's Hutch?" the dark haired detective said, breathing heavily as he looked for his partner.

"Hutch? Isn't he with you?" Mari whispered, climbing over the window ledge, "He left a while ago to look for you."

Starsky grabbed onto the small woman's arm and helped her over the ledge. He quickly closed the window and locked it, pulling Mari down to the floor with him. That simple task had drained the brunet of his already depleted energy, and he gasped softly as he once again slouched against the wall, turning his face away from the woman as he silently surfed through the pain that tore through his side.

"He's out there," Mari whispered, "I knew he was coming. Hutch told me not to leave, but I knew he was coming out to find me . . . I shouldn't have left. I should've known that Hutch was coming back."

Starsky turned to face the frightened girl, sending up a silent prayer of safety for his partner, "Hey . . . it's okay," the brunet said reassuringly, "Hutch is a big boy . . . with a big gun . . . he'll be okay. It's better . . . that you're here . . ." The dark haired detective looked to the trembling girl, a small smile tweaking the corners of his mouth as he covered Mari's hand with his own, his heavy breathing the only sound in the quiet room.

"You okay?" he asked softly. Everything swam in and out of focus for the dark haired detective who wearily fought against the nausea that roiled in his gut. He was so damn tired . . . tired of fighting against the pull of the dark tide that wanted to drag him under once more.

Mari lifted sad brown eyes to the brunet's face which glistened with perspiration, and nodded silently, watching as the detective wearily closed his own eyes, concealing those beautiful blue orbs from her view, his shallow breathing filling the silence as he rested once more, apprehension and anxiety for his partner's safety causing him to drift in and out of an uneasy sleep.

'Was she okay?' Mari pondered silently, in the stillness of the stuffy room she was cloistered in, the detective's soft question still ringing in her ears. 'Would anyone be okay when faced with the knowledge she had just gleaned?' All these years of 'seeing' and running led her to this moment . . . this day of reckoning.

The small Asian woman shuddered silently with the knowledge that had been bestowed upon her. All these years . . . it was no wonder that she and the killer were linked; they shared something so horrific that the universe had bound them together in an eternal web of fear, pain, anger and death.

It was him . . . all this time . . . it was him and she never knew . . . how could she have been so stupid? Yet, everything that had been shown to her through her "episodes" about this man had until now, been out of sequence, vague and distorted until today . . . now everything was so clear and the clarity of all those years shook her to the core.

Mari bit her lower lip to still its trembling, feeling the overly warm grasp of David's hand still upon hers. She looked down to where they were connected, her vision blurring suddenly, as a silent tear splashed down upon the wooden flooring. She closed her eyes, feeling the warm rivulets as they ran down her face, her mind drifting back to the source of her anguish.

She sat amid the Styrofoam cups and assorted paper that littered the floor of Hutch's car, clearly disregarding her senses that screamed out to her to run, that warned her not to touch the blood stained blade. Shaking with fear, fighting down her instincts for self-preservation, Mari carefully opened the zip lock bag. Taking a deep breath to stop her quaking, she reached in, her hands shaking as she brought the blade out. Clenching the handle in both hands immediately brought bloody visions of death and slaughter to her mind's eye, her senses were violently bombarded as her as 'episodes' rushed to the forefront of her mind with such force, that she felt her back slam against the glove compartment of the car.

She could hear herself gasping from a distance, as images of small hands breaking the neck of a pigeon came into view; the bird's piteously limp head rolling to one side, its eyes forever staring at its killer as the boy chuckled, and tossed it without any remorse, to the stack of other dead birds he had previously killed. She witnessed those same hands over the years, hands that had changed and grown, but still left a wake of pain and destruction, as it killed and tortured kittens and other defenseless animals. Larger, brutal hands that graduated to wielding knives that carved mercilessly into the flanks of puppies and dogs . . . 'familiar' hands that held back the leaves from the hedge that he peeped through, as he watched the young Asian woman walking home from the community college he attended.

Mari gasped softly seeing her sister in her vision . . . feeling the lust of the man hiding behind the bushes, his hands frantically grabbing onto the front of his pants, stroking himself through the material, as he quickly brought himself some relief, the sticky moisture uncomfortably adhering his underwear to his skin. Gasping with pleasure as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm, he thought about the small woman who walked by unknowingly, watching with fascination as she opened the door and walked into her modest home.

"My home" Mari whispered, as she crouched beside the sleeping detective, her eyes vacant and distant, lost in the "episode" that took her over . . .

There was something about Naomi . . . her quiet confidence, her poise and grace, the way she carried herself that irritated him. Most girls found him attractive and he was usually sought after on campus with his good lucks and charming personality, but Naomi had no interest in him, even when he turned on his charm and flashed her the grin that seemed to make girls fall so easily for him. Instead Naomi just seemed to shudder and quake inside when she saw him and that pissed him off. He sensed somehow that she 'knew' . . . knew of the dirty and sordid things that he did . . . that she could somehow feel his thoughts . . . perhaps that was why she detested and stayed away from him . . .

Naomi intrigued him with her indifference to his ploys. It annoyed him as well, and his infatuation with the petite Asian woman grew to an obsession. He watched her all the time when he thought she wasn't looking, wanting her, needing to be the one who would melt that cold, icy heart with his perverted passion.

Naomi was on his mind every waking moment, as he discreetly followed her around campus, watching her every move, noting what she wore, or what she ordered at the campus cafeteria. To see her one day, standing outside of the library, talking to a tall handsome student and watching as the young man leaned his dark head down to sweetly kiss her, brought his killing instincts to the surface, he could barely control the raging jealousy that coursed through his veins. No one would have Naomi. No fucking bastards would touch her if he couldn't. He vowed to himself that he would be the first, and the last man she would ever know, and he plotted and schemed on what he would do to keep his vow sacred.

It killed Mari to see her family's demise through the eyes of the gloating killer . . . to see the horror and fear on her parents' face as they stared at the gun, to "live" through the agony of what her sister endured until all life left her body. To feel the triumph and the satisfaction the killer felt as he pulled up his pants and wiped the bloody blade against the hem of her sister's dress . . . to subconsciously know, as her worst nightmare unfolded before her horror filled eyes in the present, that she was hiding silently in a hamper, unable to stop the madness from happening in the past. Everything swirled in a vortex of colors and sound as the truth was rapidly unfurled in her mind's eye.

Her visions came one after another . . . rocking her world in a kaleidoscope of images, as she sat on the floor of the LTD. She could suddenly seeing herself with a blanket over her shoulders, in a black and white newspaper photo next to the article of her family's slaughter, reading the headlines through the eyes of the killer as he skimmed over the details of his triumphant first kill, seeing his large hands tremble as he pondered over what to do about the little sister that got away. 'Hearing' his thoughts as he decided to get out of state and move up to Canada where it would be safer for him, where no one knew of him . . . 'feeling' how sweetly addicting and powerful the taste of that first kill had been which eventually drove him to kill again and again, though nothing came close to the sweet intensity and magnitude he derived from killing Naomi and her family.

Mari "knew" the exact moment when the killer realized that he needed to find Naomi's sister and relive the power and glory of that wonderful first kill . . . feeling blessed in his ownership of the young girl who he felt belonged to him. She could see him now in her mind's eye, cruising around the neighborhood in search of Naomi's baby sister, who he deemed as his 'property'. That was the day her life as a fugitive began, the day her never-ending nightmare started.

Mari shook as tears ran silently down her face, trembling, as she crouched under the window with the wounded detective who still held her hand as he slept. Everything was clear now … abundantly clear. Everyone thought the Interstate Killer had made his first kill up in Canada, only Mari knew that he had started his spree on home soil . . . in her home, horrifically stealing everything that she loved away from her, turning her sheltered life into a dark nightmare that she had been running from ever since.

The young woman sighed softly, and rubbed at the tears with her free hand. Mari looked once more to Dave's hand that still held onto hers, the warmth from his large hand traveling up her arm and into her heart. Today, two people had held her, offering comfort and support, and though it felt almost foreign to her, it nevertheless filled her with solace and security.

She lifted her small hand nervously and gently cupped the side of the detective's face, watching as the heavy line of his dark lashes rolled and fluttered up, revealing a sliver of dark blue. Mari smiled at the dazed look on the brunet's face, watching as he focused in on her face. Something about that vulnerable look reminded her of a little boy who had just awoken from his nap.

"Hey," Mari whispered, "You okay?"

Starsky snorted softly, a little grin breaking out, "You stealin' my words? Didn't I just ask you that?"

"That was a little while ago . . ." Mari said softly, concern for the detective making her frown, as she lifted her hand from his flushed cheek to his forehead, feeling the warm feverish heat that emanated from the brunet.

"H-Hutch?" Starsky whispered, closing his eyes at her gentle, cool touch to his brow. The dark haired detective drew in a shuddering breath and opened his eyes again when Mari remained silent.

"He hasn't returned yet." Mari said softly, the worry she felt evident in her voice, as she watched the concern darken the blue in the detective's eyes, "Maybe I should go out and look for him . . ."

"No . . ." Starsky interjected, struggling to sit up straighter, squeezing her hand reassuringly, as he shook his head to clear the cobwebs away, "He's okay . . . didn't hear any gunshots . . ."

"A knife has no voice," Mari whispered, gently reminding the brunet of the precarious situation that Hutch might be in.

Starsky softly gasped as he straightened up, the wound to his side jarring with the movement, "Look . . . Hutch wants us to stay here . . . when he finds you gone, he'll come back . . . he's probably . . . on his way back now . . . we gotta . . . "

Whatever else the dark haired detective was about to say was lost, as both sets of eyes turned abruptly to look at the doorknob, when it suddenly rattled and turned . . .

To be continued . . .