Ties and Tough Love

by Zebra 3 and Me

Some of these Starsky and Hutch stories are episode related, what ifs, dramas, etc.

TIES and TOUGH LOVE

By TLR

Stories-

1. Bloodstain. (Edited). H is missing

2. Echoes of the Fix. (Edited) S goes undercover to find the source of tainted heroin

3. Big Boys Don't Cry. (The Plague Missing Scene)

4. Ollie's Thoughts-Thoughts from the Teddy Bear

5. What If (Fatal Charm)-Based on the Fatal Charm episode

6. Black Widow—Based on The Avenger episode, related to "Sweet Revenge".

7. Last Hope-H's last hope when S is involved in an accident

8. Next Door-Young S's next-door-neighbor

9. Partners (What If?)-A tragic possibility for the Partner episode

10. Sweet Revenge (Missing Scene)-A visitor comes to the hospital after S is shot

:::::

BLOODSTAIN

by tlr

Hutch knew something was astir when he parked in front of Starsky's house at six in the morning and found all the lights on, Starsky awake, dressed, on the phone, and a suitcase packed.

"What's going on?" Hutch asked looking around.

Starsky put a finger to his own lips. "Sshh," he whispered. "Talkin' to Ma. Gotta go to New York."

Hutch could hear her crying on the phone. "What's wrong, Starsk? She okay?"

"She is, but Nicky isn't. Landed himself in jail last night. Cops found coke in his car, but he swears it ain't his. I gotta go."

Hutch stood with hands on hips and watched his partner.

"Yes, Ma," Starsky said into the receiver. "Yes, I'm coming. Yes. Just calm down. We'll see what we can do. I'm hangin' up now. See you later. I'm on my way."

Starsky shook his head in wonderment at her still-chattering voice, then gently hung up.

Hutch watched him lift the suitcase. "So you're going to save his skin again?" he asked at his back.

Starsky offered a lame shrug. "I'm his brother, Hutch."

"Yes, and a good one. Better than he deserves. Don't you think it's time he grew up and faced the consequences for his actions? You, or your mother, God lover her, have bailed him out every time. He needs to learn a hard lesson, Starsky. That's love too."

Starsky's hand squeezed and un-squeezed the handle of his suitcase. "It's for Ma too, Hutch. What it does to her . . . "

"What HE does to her. You're not responsible for your brother's mistakes, and you can't always save your mother from the pain that HE creates for her."

Confusion and anger both clouded Starsky's features. "So you're sayin' I shouldn't go?"

Hutch shook his head no. "Go. Visit him. Be supportive. Hold your mother. Give her your shoulder to cry on. But let Nick grow up and be a man. Don't pay his bail. Don't give him any money. Don't let him lay a guilt trip on you about you leaving him without a big brother in New York. Isn't that what you want for him? To be a man? Isn't that what your father would want?"

Starsky carried his suitcase to the door. "Just leave my father out of it, okay?"

Hutch took his arm. "Starsky, okay. I'm sorry. I just mean-"

"I know what you mean," he said quietly as he walked toward the door. "Lock up, huh? I'll be back in a few days."

"Starsk . . . hey . . ." (I didn't mean it).

Starsky waved his hand as if to say it was okay, and went on out.

Hutch was left in the Starsky-less house.

"Hutchinson," he said as he walked through the rooms turning out the lights, putting away his breakfast food of bacon, egg, and cheese on a bun, and turning off the TV, "you really know how to put your foot in your-"

He saw the two men in the living room when he came from the kitchen.

Dressed in black, hooded sweatshirts, both holding pistols.

"Where's Star-" he started.

He never saw the third man, who dropped him with a hard chop to the face.

"That's what we want to know," the man said as he leaned over and spoke into Hutch's bleeding face.

Hutch's eyes roamed dazedly toward the hooded figures standing over him.

Black-

Hoods-

Starsky-

Marcus-

-His last thoughts before passing out.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

An old, wet smell.

Moving shadows.

Whispered chants.

Watery sounds.

Around him, over him. Behind him.

(I've been drugged)

(Something's wrong)

Voices faraway, his body falling but going nowhere.

A yelp of fear escaped him, but he remained tied to the straight-backed chair at the wooden table in the large, hollow room.

"I believe Detective Hutchinson is coming around."

The chanting ceased.

The air hushed.

The voice. Marcus. So mellow, so . . . no, not soothing. Don't say that. There's nothing soothing about him. It's a deception. A lure. A calling-

Hutch opened his eyes to find his head drooping to his chest, blood still dripping onto his lap from the blow to his face.

One hooded man grasped a handful of his hair and pulled his head up.

"Marcus," he mumbled through a swollen lip.

Marcus, in a white sweatshirt, his hair about the same length it had been a year ago at his trial, leaned forward, calmly, and lay his palms flat on the table in front of the blond detective, smiling a slight and secret smile.

"The tables have turned," the cult leader said mildly.

Hutch tried to move his hands, but they were tied securely behind his back and to the chair with spiked leather straps. Each movement caused the spikes to dig tighter into his wrists.

Hutch tried to look around to see where he was: a large room, possibly a basement, an attic, even a cave or a dungeon. Who knew?

His head bobbed again, and the cultist nearest him was resigned to holding the blond head up by a handful of hair.

"Scum," he muttered softly.

Marcus leaned toward him, across the table, much the same way the blond man had leaned across the table toward him a year ago, and spoke in his creamy, lyrical way.

"Lightness, I dreamed this. I dreamed we would be at a table again. Only, it would be my table, not yours. And your hands would be bound, not mine. And I would be the one full of deadly love, like a poison, not you."

Hutch dared not say Starsky's name. He didn't want to bring him into this, even though he knew, in his deepest of hearts, that this wasn't about Ken Hutchinson at all. That it was about Starsky. And that sooner or later the conversation would turn to . . .

"Yes," Marcus said gently. "It has always been about Darkness."

Hutch tried to concentrate on the piercing pain in his wrists to keep from listening to that wickedly soft voice. He even wrestled his wrists around to sharpen the pain.

And it almost worked. Marcus was saying something and Hutch was blotting it out, but part of it-"Starsky"-"where"-"mine"-"tell me"-"dreamed this"-was seeping through.

"What?" Hutch gasped, trying to concentrate his eyes on Marcus's face. "What did . . . you say?"

"I said," Marcus explained slowly and patiently, as if speaking to a very young child. "We want you to tell us where your partner is."

A small, giddy, drug-high laugh drifted from Hutch. Marcus was questioning him about his partner's whereabouts in much the same way he himself had questioned the cult leader about it a year ago.

"That one's easy," he murmured. "I'm not telling you."

"He's not at home, and he's not at the police station, and he's not at your friend Huggy Bear's, and he's not with his lady friend, but we believe you know where he is, and we believe we can get you to tell us."

"Nnnn," Hutch muttered. "No way."

The man standing over him drew a dagger from a sheath at his side, and tilted Hutch's head back to expose his throat.

"Going to tell us, Lightness?" Marcus coaxed.

Hutch merely shook his head no.

The man drew the dull edge of the blade across his throat, but the only damage was inside Hutch's head. He flinched and sucked his breath in.

"So loyal," Marcus purred as he came out of his chair and rounded the table to Hutch's side. He leaned over Hutch's upturned face and exposed throat, caressing his pulse.

"I dreamed this too," he whispered. "I dreamed you would resist." He bent his head down, his bearded mouth opening slowly, like a cobra's, and carefully, leisurely, sank his teeth into the muscle of his throat.

Hutch stiffened, growled, blood dribbling down his neck. He tried to move away, but Marcus took his head in his hands and held it firmly.

"Light," he whispered with blood on his lips and mustache. "Light. Must you always stand between me and the Dark?"

Blinded by pain, trembling from it, unaware that tears were drying on his face, Hutch nodded.

"So be it," Marcus said tenderly.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"You family to the Starsky kid?" the warden asked as he rattled his key chain.

"Brother," Starsky answered, but looked away when he said it, and showed the man his police ID.

"No kiddin'?" the man asked as he looked the ID over. "That two-bit hood has a cop for a brother?"

Starsky put his wallet away. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Just let me see him, huh?"

The warden shrugged and led him down a hall of cells where the prisoners yelled and spit and banged on the steel bars.

"Here he is," the warden said as he showed Starsky the last cell on the right. "You got twenty minutes."

The warden left, leaving Starsky looking through the bars at his brother, who was pacing nervously about, a hand in his hair.

"Nicky?"

Nick turned with a nervous grin, approaching the bars and putting his hand through. "David. You came. I knew you would."

"Yeah, well . . . " Starsky reluctantly shook his hand.

Nick slid a piece of gum in his mouth. "No-good set-up's all it is, Dave. Coke belongs to a buddy of mine. Don't believe for a minute that your little brother'd-"

Still gripping his hand, Starsky pulled his brother to the bars, their faces a breath apart.

"I'm getting tired of this, Nick. You know what it's doin' to Ma? When's it gonna stop, huh? How many chances you supposed to get? You keep promising to straighten yourself out. Look at you. You act like you're in a Holiday Inn."

"IT WASN'T MY DOPE!" he shouted, loud enough for anyone interested to hear. "I WAS HOLDIN' FOR A FRIEND!"

"Yeah, sure. Does it matter, Nick? It was in your car. That's enough. Possession. You think you can get by on charm and sympathy? Hutch is right. You need to learn a lesson. I'm not payin' your bail this time, and I won't let Ma either-"

"Hold on, hold on. You said Hutch? Since when does he come before fam-"

Starsky pushed him backward and pointed a finger at him. "Don't even let that question leave your mouth."

He turned to leave.

Nick reached through the bars again. "Davey, wait. Talk to me. I don't know what to do. I'm scared. They could put me away bigtime for-"

"NO KIDDING!" Starsky roared at him, turning back. He settled his voice when it drew looks from the guards. "Maybe that's what you need. Get a taste of WHY you need to stay out of trouble. You think it's fun seeing you mess your life up over and over? You think it's a big joke? 'Oh, hey, I got away with it that time. I'm slick. I'm cool. I'm smart. They can't catch me. And if they catch me, I have a mother and a brother and some friends from the old neighborhood with money'-"

"You shut up! You don't know nothing!"

"No, YOU shut up! I'm not payin' your bail, nor am I payin' for a fancy lawyer again, nor am I talkin' to the judge to cut you a break. You can raise the money on your own, walk into that courtroom like a man, and convince a jury that that coke isn't yours. IF that's the truth. That's how it works, Nick. No more favors. Well, yeah. One more favor. And this is it: Walking away. That's what I'm gonna do for you. Walk. Will it hurt me if you go down? You bet it will. Will it hurt Ma? What do you think?"

Nick gripped the bars and pressed his face against them, an angry plea. "No fair, Dave! You judge me! You had it easier than me! You up and LEFT me! AND MA!"

Starsky reached in to grab his shirt, yanking him up against the bars. "I was twelve years old, Nicky. I didn't leave anyone. Ma put me on a bus with my baseball cards and sent me

packin' to California. I wanted to stay. I begged her to let me. She said it was too much for her. She was under a lot of stress with Pop's murder. What was I supposed to do? Add to her burden? I didn't mean to leave you alone, Nick. It wasn't my choice."

Nick lowered his head.

"So," Starsky finished as he let go of his brother's shirt. "Stop usin' me as an excuse. I've heard it . . . " He swallowed hard. "One too many times."

This time when Starsky turned to leave, he could walk without looking back.

"Hutch, huh?!" Nick shouted after him. "You love him more than me! I hate him! And I hate you!"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch came to, only to find the room upside down.

He wanted to walk away, started to move, but found his ankles bound, to the floor-no, to the ceiling, by rope. His effort was short-lived. The drug and the beating had sapped him of strength.

The cult members were wandering around below him, chanting in low unison, each carrying a knife and a chalice.

(For blood?)

(God, had they somehow gotten to Starsky?)

He tried moving his arms, finding his wrists still bound behind him, but numb now, unable to feel the steely spikes biting in. He didn't see Marcus. But there was a girl standing in front of him. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach up and cut the leather straps on his hands.

When his hands were free, his arms fell heavy and useless in the air. The slowly-returning circulation, although prickly and annoying, was a welcome sensation.

He realized he'd been like this for hours, maybe all night.

"Will you . . . " A hoarse cough escaped him. "Cut me down? I can't muh . . . "

She smiled, almost sadly. "I have to take your shirt off," she said as she slid his jacket off, then his shirt, then his T-shirt. She lay all three garments on the table.

"I'm Marissa," she said in a light voice that somehow sounded like a silvery wind chime.

"Marcus told me to get you ready."

His head swam. And throbbed. He wanted to throw up. Again he tried to pull his ankles free of the ropes, but it couldn't be done.

"Ready?" he whispered to her upside-down face. "For what?"

She was face to face with him, her lips almost on his as she spoke.

"For the sacrifice," she said as she pressed her lips against his. "Tell Marcus where your partner is. You think you can hold out. But he's not finished with you."

"Get away from me," he groaned into her face.

She slipped his baseball jacket on, caressing the fine dark wool, the soft, white leather sleeves.

"Marcus!" he shouted to the walls, the followers, the air. "Marcus, you dirty animal! Leave my partner al-"

"Silence!" one of the cultists said as they all raised their voices to chant above Hutch's.

"Marcus!" Hutch yelled. "Come here!"

"Stone him," Marcus said coming through a heavy door, and though his voice was mellow, his followers heard it below all the chanting and yelling, and obeyed, picking up the baseball-size rocks that were piled in rusted fifty-gallon drums. Two of the men each held an arm to keep him from covering himself up against the assault.

"Nn-nuh-no," he stammered when he realized what was going to happen. "Wait. Let me-"

The first one, to the face, almost knocked him out. Each follower took their turn, hurling them one at a time, and at first he winced and yelped out, but the wincing and yelping diminished with each blow, until he was bloody and still. And, when they were finished, Marcus walked over to Hutch and clutched his hair, lifting his head and speaking into his gasping, bleeding face.

"Speak only when spoken to," he instructed quietly, and released his head again.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky wasn't surprised to see Hutch's car parked in front of his house when he got home.

He knew Hutch would be waiting to hear what had happened in New York.

And he wasn't surprised to find the door unlocked. Often Hutch would let himself in to wait, make himself at home with a bagel and a cup of coffee, turn the radio on, or play his stereo or guitar.

But today there was no sign of stirring, and the silence seemed different, almost heavy, in the air.

"Hutch?" he asked as he walked through the house.

Nothing looked amiss. Hutch had turned the lights out, put the breakfast food away, and turned the TV off.

The phone rang just as he saw the bloodstain.

Such an innocuous little spot. He'd have overlooked it altogether if he hadn't bent down to tie his shoe.

Simple.

Yet speaking everything.

Eyes on the bloodstain, and remaining in his crouch, his hand reached for the receiver.

(Okay, which lowlife is it?)

(Which one grabbed my partner?)

"Hello?"

Dobey's voice, agitated and distinct above the background noise of the ringing phones, tapping typewriters, and cop voices.

"It's about time, Starsky. Where have you been?"

"Cap . . . "

"What have I told you to about not checking in with me? If one of you, or both of you, are shacked up with some girl, at least you could call in sick to let a body know where you . . . what's wrong?"

(He knows. He can tell by one word. The way I said his name)

"I've been in New York," he said looking at the bloodstain. "Family stuff. Hutch was gonna tell you. I'm here at my place and there's a. . . " He looked around the living room, for something else, another clue, another sign, anything. "Bloodstain on my floor. Hutch

was here locking up for me when I left." He took a breath. "I think it's his."

Starsky heard Dobey's office door slamming inside the receiver.

"Great!" the captain roared in his ear. "Simon Marcus killed an inmate just to get transferred to a maximum security prison, and on the way over there, he caused a collision and jumped out of the van."

Starsky almost dropped the phone. He held the receiver to his ear with both hands. "What do you mean he jumped out of the van?"

"I mean he's gone. On the loose."

Starsky rose to his feet and began pacing in small circles.

"Look. You put out an APB. Put out as many men as you can. I'm goin' after Marcus myself."

"No! You get your tail over here into protective custody!"

"No way! This is Hutch's life we're talk-""

"Starsky, listen to me!"

"No! You listen to ME! Marcus wants me! He sent his men here to get me, and found Hutch instead!"

Dobey lowered his voice. "Starsky, let me send some men to-"

"I'm goin' after Hutch," Starsky said with a lowered voice too. "So if you want to stop me, you go right ahead."

There was silence on the line, and then Dobey said, "Be careful."

Starsky slammed the phone down and ran out the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Simone tells us that truth comes from pain," Marissa said as her fingertip blotted a drop of blood that had gathered in the corner of Hutch's eye.

He moaned softly from his upside down position, too weak to try to open his eyes.

The followers were all sitting in the floor and chanting with candles when Simon Marcus came through the heavy door.

The cult leader watched as, in one long motion, the girl's fingers traced in an upward stroke, from Hutch's eye, to his neck, chest, her hand sliding up his belly, past his navel, inside the hollow of his pelvic bone.

Marcus reached for her hand and pulled it gently away from his blond prisoner.

"Marissa, go to town. Bring back the gasoline."

Marissa nodded, then left the room.

Marcus turned his attention to Hutch.

"Where is Starsky? I'll need him by midnight tonight."

The sound of Marcus renewed Hutch's struggle a bit. He shook his head no.

Marcus smiled at the small attempts Hutch was making to free his ankles that bound him to a beam in the ceiling. "Don't you want down?"

Hutch's hand groped slowly in the air and found Marcus' shoulder. The cult leader brushed it away.

Marcus stroked his hair. "Just tell me where he is and you won't have to hurt anymore. I'll call him. Offer to trade. You for him. Life for life. Light for Dark."

But he couldn't talk. He could only produce a half-moan, his eyes on Marcus' every move, wondering and fearful of what he was going to do.

Marcus' fingers slid over Hutch's throat again, gently squeezing. "Oh, I know you can't talk." The voice remained mild. "But you want to, don't you? You want to say, 'No, don't come, Starsky. He'll hurt you.'" He smiled again. "But he'll come. I dreamed that he would."

Hutch's hand came up again as Marcus was leaving, found the hood of his sweatshirt, and clung weakly.

"Help," he whispered.

"Never touch Marcus," the cult leader said as he uncurled Hutch's fingers from his hood. "Marcus touches you."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky stopped at the small rural grocery store for a map. He didn't know the exact location of the old zoo. He'd been in the van a year ago upon his arrival to the rundown place, and had been under the influence of Marcus' poison when he left, so he wasn't quite sure of its whereabouts.

True, Marcus was probably too smart to return to the zoo. His cohorts had probably found a new dwelling place. But his old stomping grounds were a good place to start looking.

He could have radioed Dobey for the location, but didn't want an ear-chewing.

He could have asked the woman behind the counter for directions, but he didn't want any nosy questions jeopardizing Hutch's life.

"How much for the map?" he asked the lady in the hairnet.

"Dollar even," she smiled as she rang up his purchase.

Starsky quickly put the dollar down and turned to leave, and that's when he saw it in the security mirror on the wall above him.

The jacket.

White leather sleeves. A school jacket.

Worn by a frail girl.

Of course it could have been her jacket, except for the baggy fit. And it could have been her boyfriend's, the loving way she caressed the arms of it. But the tiny knick in the leather at the right elbow (thanks to their old Army buddy John Colby dropping him cold to the cement with a karate chop to the back of the neck) told him whose jacket it was. And this too-young, too-willowy, hippie commune waif in the long flowing caftan, flower in her hair, and Marcus-worship in her longing eyes was definitely no girlfriend of Hutch's.

Gail.

No, not Gail.

But almost like her.

That helpless entrapment on her face. Naïve adoration.

She was carrying around a gas can that was almost as big as she was.

"Can I have some gas?" the girl asked the lady behind the counter.

"Sure, honey."

The girl placed a five on the counter. "Keep the change."

Starsky was so stunned by the sight of Hutch's jacket that he almost let her walk away from him.

"Um, no," he said following her out. "Wait. Five gallons is pretty heavy for a girl to carry-I mean, I didn't mean—here, let me help you."

She handed him the can. "Thanks."

He cursed his shaking hand as it took the can from her, then walked to the gas pump, noticing a rickety farm truck. "That yours?" he asked her.

"Yes," she said following him out to the pump.

"Run out of gas?"

"No. Just need it for the tractor."

"Oh," he said in an easy tone. "You live on a farm?"

"Well, sort of. I mean . . . "

He stuck the nozzle into the can and began to fill it, trying hard to keep his eyes off of Hutch's jacket. If she noticed him looking . . . or suspected . . .

He turned the pump off and replaced the nozzle on the hook.

"All done," he said as he carried the full can across the dusty lot and over to the farm truck.

"Thank you," she said as she watched him lift it into the back. She adjusted the flower in her hair with a lithe hand. "You're very kind."

He nodded, barely hearing her words, his eyes moving up and down the jacket, moving a little closer, breathing in her scent, hoping to detect the smell of Hutch's soap, aftershave,

sweat, or blood, anywhere on her.

"You alone?" he asked with a forced smile.

"Why, yes. I am. Is that your-"

"Good," he said clapping a hand over her mouth and pulling her behind the grocery store.

The girl kicked and tried to squeal through his hand.

He crouched down with her, between some bushes and an old rusted hull of a car, holding her from behind and clamping her between his knees.

"I don't have time for games," he hissed into her ear. "Don't make a sound and I won't hurt you."

She continued to struggle.

"I just want my partner."

Her struggling stopped. She tried to turn her head to look at him but he wouldn't let her.

"Where is Marcus holding him?"

She breathed hard against his hand, then moved her head no.

He spun her around, gripping her shoulders.

"Look," he said into her face. "You're wearing his jacket. If you've hurt him-if Marcus has hurt him, you're looking at some pretty serious time. And if he dies, you're looking at accessory to murder. Judges don't go easy on cop killers. Now you don't want that for yourself, do you?"

The fear was draining from her face, replaced by a look of wonder.

"You're him," she said in a faraway voice. "You're Darkness, aren't you? You're the one Marcus-"

He shook her once. "Where are they?"

She smiled softly. "I can't tell you that. Simone has dreamed, and nothing should interfere."

Seething, he drew his hand around, poised to backhand her. "I want my partner."

Her laughter was light and musical. "Don't you understand? Simone gets whatever he wants, and he wants you. He knew you would come for Lightness. He knew. He dreamed it."

His hand wavered in the air, and so did his voice as he pulled out his gun. "Don't make me kill you, little girl."

For the first time she was looking nervous, a little human.

"You love Light, don't you? He keeps calling for the stars. Simone dreams about the stars. And the sky. He says they will make him complete."

He put the gun to her head. "If he dies, the biggest part of me goes with him. Do you understand that? So I don't care if I end up in a jail cell, a psych ward, or a graveyard, but Marcus is gonna pay, one way or the other. If you have hurt him or killed him, I will hunt you down. All of you. And kill you."

He let that sink in, then added, "But if you tell me where he is, and I find him alive, I'll make sure you get a good lawyer, a good deal. I'll go to bat for you."

"But the Master, he . . . if I tell you . . . he won't let me live. He wants you. For the ceremony tonight. The celebration. The sacrifice. He'll do anything to have you. He wants you as badly as you want your partner." She lowered her head and embraced herself, massaging the white leather sleeves. "Lightness is beautiful. And he loves you so much."

"What do you mean?" he whispered. "How do you know? Why do you say that?"

Her slight shoulders began to move with her sobbing, and her head bowed lower and lower, until she was a ball curled in the weeds.

He jerked her up and yelled into her face.

"Where! Tell me where he is!"

Her face dissolved into anguish as she slowly removed the jacket.

"Potter's Farm," she whispered. "Two miles North."

He tore away from her, the jacket in his hand, his sneakers spinning through dust and weeds and gravel as he ran to the car.

But a small gunshot, the sound of a firecracker, popped behind him, and he stopped in his tracks, looking back over his shoulder to see the girl slumping to the ground, a bullet wound to her temple, a small derringer in her lithe, open hand.

Panting, Starsky scrambled to the Torino and left before the cashier could come outside to check on the noise.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The confusion of lights, black and whites, troopers, and deputies all threw Starsky off when he slid the Torino to a halt in the dust of the commune known as the Potter's Farm.

He was supposed to be the first one here. Not them. He was supposed to be on time. Not late.

And he was supposed to be the one leading the handcuffed followers from the basement of the farmhouse, not the local sheriff and his men.

Something had happened. Dobey had contacted the local authorities to alert them to Marcus, to try to save Hutch's life-both their lives.

He stared at the cultists in half-fear. It had been a year since he'd had contact with them, and the memory hit him like a tidal wave.

But his concern for Hutch pushed all fear aside, and he was left a red fury.

"Hutch!" Starsky yelled as he ran headlong toward the followers. "Where is he? Where's Marcus?"

Starsky would have plowed headfirst at the cultist closest to him if two deputies hadn't caught him and pulled him back.

"My partner!" Starsky shouted into their faces as he grabbed and pushed at each man. "Marcus! Where is he?"

"Gone," one smiled serenely.

The sheriff guided the follower into the back seat of a patrol car.

Starsky jumped toward the man again, and again was pulled away.

"Your Captain Dobey gave us a description of your partner," one of the deputies said. "And Marcus. They're not here."

"They're here," Starsky said walking past them and toward the farmhouse. "Somewhere. There's supposed to be a ceremony tonight-"

"We searched everywhere, Detective. They're not-"

"HE'S HERE!"

Starsky suddenly turned and lunged for the patrol car, at the cultist's face that smiled as pale as the moon out the rear window.

"WHERE!"

The sheriff climbed into the patrol car and drove the cultist away.

"They'll be interrogated," the deputy tried to console the frantic detective. "They'll talk. And we're bringing in more men to comb the area. We'll find them."

Starsky looked around to see state troopers parading more of Marcus' robed, handcuffed followers out of the barn, the cellar, the farmhouse.

All alive and well except for Hutch.

All breathing and moving except for his partner.

"Where?" he asked as he circled the cultists, his hands going toward them as if to grab them, beg them, but pulling back at the last second as if they were white-hot. "What happened to him? Where is he? Where's Marcus?"

But the followers only offered their thin, empty smiles.

"Come on, Detective Starsky," the deputies urged him. "There's nothing here. Let's go."

But he wouldn't. He just stood there in the dust as if in a stupor and watched each and every patrol car leave the commune in its dusty convoy.

He looked around the commune. The farmhouse. A cellar A barn. An old water tank. A tractor. Empty chicken coop. Greenhouse. The garden.

"Hutch!"

He pulled his gun out and started looking, starting with the farmhouse. Basement first.

Marcus liked dark, hidden places, so the basement would be the most logical place to start.

And there were signs that some ceremonies had taken place here-chalices, candles, incense, a stone altar.

"Hutch!"

But he wasn't here.

He went upstairs to the ground floor, searching the rooms which held the barest of furnishings-rickety tables, iron beds, furniture that looked like it had been picked up at the dump.

No electricity. They used kerosene lamps and candlelight.

No running water. They carried it from the well, and the spring behind the house.

"Hutch!"

He checked upstairs. Each bedroom, each closet, each cubby-hole.

No Hutch.

And then the grounds outside.

The barn. The cellar. The chicken coop. The greenhouse.

All empty.

And no Hutch to be found.

"Simon Marcus!" he shouted into the air. "You want me?! Come and get me!"

When the only reply was the rusty turn of the windmill, he raised his voice.

"I'm here, Marcus! Come on out! Your freaky little friends are gone! It's just me and you!"

No answer of course.

He went around to the back of the house to find a huge pile of wood and brush, along with a couple of cans of gasoline like the one the girl had had at the grocery store.

Large, heavy stones arranged in some sort of design that meant something only to the cult.

Again.

He would search again, beginning with the basement of the farmhouse.

The stone walls were cold and damp to his touch as he made his way down the basement stairs.

He saw it all again: The candles, melted and black. Incense ashes, chalices. The only area of the commune that actually looked used at all.

Off to the left was a wall of shelves lined with Mason jars full of black-red liquid. Dark fruit? Jams? Beets? Black cherries?

Behind the shelving, though, he saw another door, hidden by the canned fruit. A door he had completely overlooked the first time. That the local authorities had overlooked too.

Pulse quickening, Starsky pulled the tall shelving over into the floor, where all the jars crashed noisily onto the stone floor.

"Hutch!"

He didn't know how he knew Hutch was on the other side of that door. He just knew.

It took several pushes, but he moved the heavy door open and stepped into a deeper, darker room, cavernous in its dimensions, hollow and cold.

Unlit torches on the wall.

A stone altar for butchering. Grails to catch the red life. Old skulls on the floor. Vats for bathing . . . or blood-letting. Goat skins. A collection of knives and spears along the wall.

The room.

Of chant.

Of ritual.

Dark worship.

Unholy sacrifice.

"Hutch!"

Past a heavy red curtain that he pushed aside . . . . . . . . . . "HUTCH!" . . . . . . . . . . still hanging as Marcus had left him, upside down from the ceiling, limp, bruised, blood-caked, and unmoving. Eyes closed. Heavy stones all around the floor.

Shock stole Starsky's breath.

(Can't see, don't want to see, can't see him dead, don't want to see him dead)

(Hutch, no, please)

"Oh God," he choked, blinking hard at the white spots that rushed past his eyes.

But then his trembling hands reached out, toward his partner, for-a pentagram on Hutch's stomach, drawn in blood-two words in red-LOVE HURTS-

A breath . . .

"Starsk."

Fainter than a whisper. A mere pulse of a sound.

Heart pounding, Starsky took Hutch's head in his hands and carefully, carefully, lifted it, trying to see into eyes that were half-closed.

"Hutch? Are you really alive?"

A snuffle of blood answered him. Hutch was doing more gasping than breathing. More dying than living.

His hands tried to come up to touch him, but fell back down.

"Oh God," Starsky panted softly as he looked around for something to climb on, stand on, to get him down.

A heavy chair, carved in gargoyles, throne-like and obviously Marcus', sat at one end of the room. Starsky grabbed the arm and lugged it across the stone floor, then climbed onto it and reached up, opening his pocketknife with trembling fingers.

Not wanting Hutch to hit the floor when he was cut down, Starsky gripped the back of his belt with one hand while he cut the ropes at his ankles with the other.

"Okay," Starsky whispered as he cut. "Okay, Hutch."

Hutch dropped heavily but was saved from hitting the floor head-first by the grip Starsky had on his belt. But Hutch's falling weight still managed to topple Starsky off the chair and they both fell into a heap.

"Hey," Starsky panted as he held Hutch against him and sat up at the same time. "Hey."

Hutch lounged limply against his chest.

Starsky patted his face and spoke into wandering eyes.

"Hutch? Can you hear me? Huh?"

When he didn't answer, Starsky's hand skimmed briefly over his arms and legs, searching for broken bones amid the confusion of bumps and bruises. In his search he discovered that the dried-blood pentagram on his stomach was not a carving. Drawn in blood, yes. But blood belonging to someone else or something else.

"Keep breathing," Starsky whispered as he took Hutch under the arms. "I'm getting you out of here."

He knew it would be better to call an ambulance and not move Hutch around, to prevent further injury, but getting him out before Marcus returned was more important.

Starsky struggled to haul him to his feet.

"Come on, buddy. Hang in there."

Hutch's arms could not come up to cling to his partner. Starsky put an arm around his waist and moved him toward the stone steps.

"Up," Starsky panted. "Help me, Hutch. I can't carry you outa here. Help me, buddy."

One step at a time, a slow step at a time, with Hutch unable to offer much assistance, they went up the steps.

"Hutch, where's Marcus? He still here? Huh? Do you know? We got his goons, but he's gone. Did he say anything? Did-"

Starsky realized he was not able to respond.

"He drug you?" he asked as he bit back a sob of anger. "That what he did? Hutch, so help me-"

It seemed like forever, because Starsky didn't want to hurt him, but he finally pulled and

packed Hutch up the stairs and into the sunlight of the outdoors.

Hutch couldn't stand, and Starsky couldn't hold him any longer. He gently lowered Hutch onto his side in the grass for a moment, crouching with him, catching his breath, looking around and keeping one hand on Hutch's arm.

"We're out, Hutch. Give me a minute and I'll get the car. Then we'll-"

A glimpse of movement between the trees stopped him. White shirt. White hood. Long hair. Beard.

"MARCUS!"

Starsky reached for his gun and ran across the back yard, into the field, and toward the dense woods.

"SIMON MARCUS!"

Starsky followed, zipping through the trees, jumping bushes, logs, a stream.

"MARCUS!"

They ran deeper into the woods. Starsky lost sight of him but kept running.

And would have kept running if the weak cry of "Starsk!" in the air hadn't stopped him.

He skidded to a sliding stop in some brush, head swiveling, torn between Marcus and Hutch, but finally turning, of course, in Hutch's direction and running as hard and as fast as he could.

Marcus would have to wait.

For now.

"Hutch! I'm comin'!"

Starsky ran across the field and into the yard, where Hutch still lay as he left him, on his side but trying to raise his head.

"Starsk?" he groaned.

Starsky knelt beside him and squeezed his arm. "Don't move, Hutch. I'll bring the car over. Marcus ran off. I'll get you to a hospital."

Hutch nodded as his head dropped back into the grass. He watched his partner run across

the yard to the Torino, and then, when it felt safe enough, he closed his eyes and lost consciousness.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

In the emergency room, Starsky stood next to the examining table Hutch was lying on and watched the doctors check Hutch over.

Although Hutch would never say anything in front of the doctors, Starsky could tell by the look in his eyes he was frightened, still thinking of Marcus, still feeling the effects of the drug, and all Starsky could offer him was his hand, which seemed to be enough.

One doctor passed a brief glance between them, and then at their hands, and nodded.

"He's been through hell," the doctor said.

"No need to tell us that," Starsky said softly as he smoothed back Hutch's sweaty hair. "Hutch, you're gonna be all right, buddy."

"He . . . " A half-smile. "He didn't kill you?"

"Look at me. Standin' right here."

"Or me?"

"Nope. We're here in the hospital."

"He . . . " Hutch closed his eyes. "He wanted you. I couldn't-" He jerked from a memory. A stone. "Tell him."

Starsky leaned down close to Hutch's ear. "I know, buddy. He's one sick monster. We'll catch him, though. But first you gotta get better, okay? You're safe here. I'm not leavin' you. So if you need to sleep, just close your eyes and I'll be here."

When Starsky saw that he was starting to drift off to sleep, he whispered near his ear, "Sacrifice, Hutch. Not the kind Marcus had in mind."

A slight smile softened Hutch's bruised features as he sank into a deeper sleep.

When the doctors nodded to Starsky, he stepped to one side to give them room to work.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky waited patiently by the hospital room window for Hutch to wake up.

The doctors had given his partner a load of medication and painkillers, along with a few stitches, and Starsky was glad to see him having some relief.

"Nnnn." Hutch sounded in his sleep, his bandaged wrists working at the sheets. "Go away. Can't."

Starsky moved to the bed and squeezed his shoulders. "Hutch," he said gently. "Open your eyes. You're in the hospital. Just a dream. You're gonna be okay."

Hutch's eyes came open and searched the room.

"Look right here at me, Hutch."

The sea-blue eyes settled on his, the tense shoulders relaxing.

"You're okay?" Hutch whispered.

"Right as rain."

"But . . . "

"Marcus' girl and I ran into each other at a little grocery store. She had your jacket on."

Hutch's eyes squinted as he tried to absorb the information.

"And," Starsky continued, "the locals were already rounding the cult members up by the time I got to Potter's Farm."

Hutch's hands tensed around the sheets. "Marcus?"

Starsky shook his head. "Chased him into the woods. So . . . "

Hutch's eyes slid warily to the window. "I hope he doesn't . . . "

Starsky knew that the poison Marcus had given his partner was making him a little paranoid. "I'm not leaving this room, Hutch. If he shows up here, he's got me to deal with."

That seemed to calm Hutch a little more.

Starsky smiled. "You're alive, buddy. That's the important thing. And I know what you took from him to keep me safe. I can't tell you what that means to-"

Hutch stopped him by grabbing his wrist. "Don't. You'd do the same

for me. We're family. If-"

Starsky sat on the edge of the bed and leaned down close to him. "If you think for one minute I'm gonna let this go without a thank you, tough guy, you got another thing comin'."

XXXXXXXXX++

From his hospital bed, Hutch watched Starsky walk around the room with the telephone in his hand while talking to his mother.

"Yes, Ma. I know, Ma. But he's lucky he got six months. No, Ma, possession doesn't mean he's using coke. Drug test proved he was clean. He had it in his car. And he knew better. Yeah, I hope this straightens him out too. Yeah, Hutch is fine." He looked over at Hutch and smiled. "She's gonna mail you a goody basket of her homemade pastries."

Hutch laughed weakly. "Tell her she better send two, because you're not getting any of mine."

Starsky relayed the message, then hung up and put the phone back on the dresser.

"Six months, huh?" Hutch asked.

Starsky nodded. "As bad as this is gonna sound, Hutch, it's the best thing that ever happened to him."

"I know what you mean. If this doesn't sober him up . . . "

A light rap at the door made both of them turn their heads.

Huggy was escorting two ladies into the room, one a curvy strawberry blonde, the other a shapely brunette.

"Hey, bro," Huggy said with a grin at Hutch's bedside. "I'm not all that good at pickin' out get-well cards, so this'll have to do."

Hutch smiled at the girls, and then Huggy. "And who, may I ask, are these fine young ladies?"

"Josie and Toni. Your visiting nurses. Out of uniform of course."

Hutch smiled at their short, clingy dresses. "Of course."

Starsky cleared his throat. "Um . . . " And then coughed, and then put the back of his hand to his forehead. "Oh no," he said in an overly weak and dramatic voice. "I feel woozy."

He groped for the empty bed next to Hutch's and eased slowly against the pillows. "Think I feel a fever comin' on."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "You girls wouldn't consider servicing him too, would you?"

End

::::;:::::

ECHOES OF THE FIX

By TLR/Zebra3andMe

CHAPTER 1

Captain Dobey closed the door to his office, shutting out the sound of ringing phones, tapping typewriters, and loud voices in the squad room.

"Some deadly heroin on the street," he said looking from Starsky to Hutch as he settled into his chair behind his desk. "Cut with fentanyl." He gave Hutch a steady look. "I'm giving it to Starsky and a temporary partner."

Hutch almost dropped the files he was holding. "You've got to be kidding."

Starsky started to say something, but Dobey answered before he could open his mouth. "I think it would be best if you sit this one out, Hutch."

"Why Starsky?"

"Because he's a damn good cop."

"And why not me?"

Dobey's steady look wavered a moment.

"Why not me, Captain? You think I'll hurt the case?"

"I didn't say that. But in light of your history-"

Hutch slammed his fist onto the desk. "I didn't choose my history! And it was over a year ago!"

"Objectivity is of the utmost importance, Hutchinson! And so is your safety! And the safety of your partner!"

"So what, I don't get to work heroin cases anymore?"

"We think Stefan Bartley is our man. I'm sending an undercover to go in as a buyer. We need to trace the stuff back to its source. We'll score some, test some, prove its source. I'm pairing him with Luis Ramirez. Five years in Narcotics."

"That biker gang reject from a Billy Jack movie?"

"That 'biker gang reject' has an outstanding record. Do you think I'd team your partner with just anybody? He's going to get Starsky on the inside with Bartley."

"How?"

"An undercover policewoman named Maria. Posing as Luis' sister. Starsky will be a love interest. A tag-a-long for Luis. Luis has built a good, deep cover. And I want to keep him there, so that's why Starsky's going to make the actual arrest and not Luis. Luis will continue to operate in the drug scene long after Starsky is out of it. He's been under so long with them, the cops forget sometimes whose side he's on."

Hutch gave Dobey an ice stare. "He'd better remember whose partner he's protecting while he's under," he said, then, with a brief glance at Starsky, walked toward the door. "Or I'll forget whose side I'm on."

Starsky followed him into the squad room. "Hutch, takin' you off the case wasn't Dobey's idea."

Hutch stopped and looked at him.

"What?"

"It was mine."

Hutch moved in close to Starsky's face, his jaw set, his voice low. "Oh is that right? Afraid I might get a little close to it, Starsk?"

Starsky looked down and shook his head no. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again, that's all."

Hutch's eyes drilled into him, glistening with tears. "You think I'll use?"

"You know better than that."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm not-I think it'll call up some bad memories, and feelings, that could put you in

danger. And with wackos like that . . . you don't need the distraction."

"Don't you think I should be the judge of that?"

"Sometimes our judgement's not too clear. It's . . . like you said. It's been a year. That's not very long."

"You think I'll jeopardize the case?"

"I think you'll jeopardize your life. I'm doing this for your safety, buddy. Take a vacation, go sailin', go fishin', spend time with Jennifer, somethin' fun. And let me get that stuff off the street."

"Gee, thanks."

Hutch stormed toward the squad room door.

Starsky walked behind him. "Hutch, wait. Don't go away mad. I need to know you under- "

Hutch banged the door open, and, without looking behind him, slammed it back in his face.

CHAPTER 2

To preserve both their covers, Starsky met with Luis Ramirez outside the motel Ramirez was staying in, The Crow's Nest.

Luis, a beefy Hispanic with a thick accent and long braided hair, black leather vest, and tattoos along both arms, held his hand out to Starsky. "Good to meet you, Detective. I've heard good things about you."

"Same here."

Luis nodded toward two motorcycles. "You ride?"

"Sure," Starsky said climbing onto the bike.

Luis climbed onto his bike and handed Starsky an envelope. "Temporary identity, Brody."

"Brody?"

Luis shrugged. "I get to name you. Billy Brody. Like it?"

Starsky made a face. "Do I have a choice?"

Luis grinned. "Nope."

Starsky opened the envelope to find fake driver's license, Social Security card, and some cash.

"If Bartley gets wise and runs a check on you," Luis said, "and he will . . . he'll find a rap sheet a mile long on Billy Brody. You served five for armed robbery, two for trafficking. Your phony criminal record's in there too, so brush up on it."

Starsky stuffed the envelope into his hip pocket. "Can't wait."

"You ready to meet my 'sister'? She's dying to meet you. Then we'll get acquainted with Bartley."

"That fast, huh?"

"That fast. He's throwing a party tonight at his house. Bring Maria. It should be interesting, seeing as how Bartley has a thing for her too. But, of course, my sister Maria won't give him the time of day."

Starsky kicked the bike into life.

"Hutch," he said under his breath and the roar of the motor, "what have I gotten myself into?"

CHAPTER 3

"You know," Hutch said to Huggy as he swigged on his beer at the bar. "Sometimes I could strangle that partner of mine."

Huggy rested his elbows on the counter and smiled crookedly. "He's just lookin' out for his main man. Can't fault him for that, can you?"

"He could have declined the case."

"Not when Dobey gives it to him. Can he? He knows Starsky can get the job done once he's inside, and it'll take Luis to get him in. Right?"

Hutch sighed into his glass. "Yeah, right. But he could have discussed it with me."

"Why? So you'd have a fight? He knew what he was doing."

Hutch felt a cool hand on the back of his neck and turned to see Jennifer, the tall brunette Starsky had introduced him to a few weeks ago.

(Something to distract me, Starsk? Someone to keep me company while you do this thing? A consolation prize? You went to Dobey weeks ago, didn't you?)

"Hi, Ken," she said kissing him. She rubbed his back. "You okay?"

"Sure," he said as he rose to his feet. He took her hand. "Let's go to my place."

CHAPTER 4

Maria was standing in the doorway of the little camper, wearing a skimpy tube top, a suede vest, tight jeans, and red lizard boots under them. She wore a small ring through her navel. A small blue feather dangled from her single earring. Her skin was tanned and creamed, her eyes curious and lively.

"So you're Detective Starsky," she winked as he got off his motorcycle.

He smiled and winked back. "Billy Brody to you."

She looked at Luis. "You guys look hot. Come on in."

Luis and Starsky climbed into the camper, which was cramped but tidy.

"Sit down," she said as she handed them a cold beer.

The three of them crowded in the small corner booth. Starsky picked up a ceramic ashtray with an Indian design. "You make this?"

"Actually, Luis did."

Starsky looked at him. "Oh yeah?"

He shrugged. "Got to do something in the down time."

Starsky grinned, then looked at Maria. "You really think the fentanyl-laced heroin is Bartley's? Why would he do that? Wouldn't be good for business, would it?"

Luis lit a cigarette. "Bartley has a sadistic streak. He'd rather make a buck at his customers' expense than destroy the stuff. That's why I won't let my little 'sister' date him. He's going to get suspicious if she keeps turning him down. Girls just don't turn Bartley down, you know what I mean? He's got looks, money, dope, all of it. So I figure, if she's got a boyfriend, he won't be so suspicious."

"Just jealous."

"But not suspicious."

Luis looked at his watch. "Everybody ready to party?"

Maria ran her hands down her figure and gave a flirty smile to Starsky. "Do I look okay, Billy?"

"You look fine to me, honey."

He got out of the booth and held his hand out to her. "My fine steed awaits."

She got out of the booth and put her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply and passionately on the lips. "We need to rehearse."

He kissed her back. "Yeah, I see what you mean. Have to be convincing."

She kissed him again. "Have to make him jealous."

"So let's get into character."

"Find our motivation."

"Hey, hey," Luis said getting out of the booth. "I think you got the part. Let's go to the party."

Starsky helped her down the steps of the camper. He swung onto the bike, and she swung on behind him.

"Follow me," Luis said as he got onto his motorcycle. He was still grinning. "And try to remember you're just playing a role."

CHAPTER 5

The party was at Bart's Tavern, a bar owned by Bartley himself, but operated by his right-hand man, Lorenzo, and it was in full swing when Luis, Maria, and Starsky walked in.

A burly biker bouncer held open a duffel bag.

"Weapons."

Starsky sighed as he dropped his piece in, followed by Luis and Maria.

The bar had a Southwestern flavor, Tex-Mex paintings, striped blankets, and wagon wheels on the walls. A wooden floor, some barrels of beer, saloon doors leading into the men's rooms.

Country music with a south-of-the-border sound played loudly, the smell of cigars in the air. Couples dancing. Poker games underway. Raucous banter between the partying bikers.

Out of habit, Starsky's eyes immediately scanned the room for drugs, but saw none. He suspected that went on in some of the back rooms, or maybe upstairs.

"Stefan Bartley," Luis said heartily as the three of them walked to a back table where a large man of Native American origin sat playing poker. "So good to see you again."

He was a handsome man, with long black hair, a strong nose, high cheekbones, and the terse black eyes of a hawk. He wore a red shirt under a floor-length black leather coat.

"Luis," Bartley said without rising. "It's good to see you. As well as your sister."

Maria didn't acknowledge the statement. She entwined her arm around Starsky's.

Bartley looked at Starsky. "She a good lay?"

Starsky started across the table, but Luis held him back. "Easy, my friend. Not the best introduction to Stefan Bartley."

"I know who he is," Starsky said with his eyes still on Bartley. "And I'm not out to impress him, so back off."

Luis let go of him. Starsky took Maria's hand and led her outside the tavern.

"Wow," she grinned at him. "You over-played that scene just a bit, didn't you?"

He took her arms and pulled her into a kiss. "Who said it was an act?"

"You mean . . . " She started to laugh. "You were really defending my honor?"

"Is that so funny?"

"Well, no, but . . . " She stopped laughing and looked deeper into his eyes. "I think I like you, Detec-"

He put a finger to her lips. "Billy Brody to you."

She smiled. "I like how you work. You don't want Bartley getting suspicious of the new guy, so you do what he least expects, which is to tell him to jerk off. You're supposed to be a big buyer. Bartley was expecting you. Now since you made him mad, he'll have to come to you. Pretty shrewd. And convincing."

He slid his hands up her bare arms and rested them on her shoulders. "Think we should go back inside and cool off with a drink?"

"You buying, Billy?"

He swatted her on the behind and took her hand, leading her inside the bar.

"Two beers," he said to Lorenzo behind the bar.

Lorenzo pushed his cowboy hat back on his head and drew two beers, then set them on the counter in front of them.

"Bartley wants to see you in the back," he said biting on a toothpick.

Starsky looked over his shoulder and saw Bartley looking at him over a hand of poker.

"Bartley can wait till I finish my beer."

CHAPTER 6

Maria and Starsky drank their beer and listened to the music on the jukebox for about thirty minutes.

As the last few customers were leaving and Lorenzo was closing up for the night, Luis came to escort her out so that Starsky could talk to Bartley alone.

Starsky kissed her and said, "I've got some business to take care of. See you at the camper tonight?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

He watched her walk out the door with Luis, then when she was gone, strolled casually to the back table where Bartley sat alone. His poker buddies were gone. Lorenzo and a couple of Bartley's men were playing cards at the bar.

"Sit down," Bartley told him.

Starsky nodded and pulled out a chair.

Bartley shuffled a deck of cards. "Luis says you looking to buy?"

"I am."

"How much?"

"Half a mil to start."

"Well, before we make any deals like that, I have to know you're legit."

"Sure, check my background, whatever."

"No, I mean . . . really have to know you're legit."

Starsky just looked at him.

Bartley slid a wooden salad bowl across the table. "Show me."

Starsky saw the contents: Syringes, vials of heroin, spoons, lighters, rubber tubing.

The sight caught him off guard, wrenched his stomach. The needle. The vials. Hutch's voice in his head during withdrawal (just get me some. You know where the stuff is, if you're my friend, you- you're my friend, then help me).

"I never mix business with pleasure," Starsky told him.

Bartley pulled a jagged knife from beneath his vest. "I do all the time."

Starsky looked at the bowl of drug paraphernalia again.

(Okay, Hutch, I was worried about your safety, now what about mine? It doesn't look good, and I wish you were here)

He looked around as if he expected Luis to be there.

If he took it, it would get him closer to Bartley-not to mention save his skin-but it could blow the case and possibly end his life if it contained fentanyl. If he didn't, Bartley would know he was a cop and would kill him. Neither choice seemed good.

"I'm waiting," Bartley said without blinking. He was a man in no hurry.

Starsky knew that the longer he sat there, the more suspicious Bartley would become.

"I'll do it," Starsky finally said. "But let me use my own stuff. I've got some on my motorcycle."

Bartley smiled. "Don't trust mine?"

"I don't trust anybody's with fentanyl on the street."

"Oh," Bartley said smoothly. "You've heard about that."

Starsky moved to get up. "I'll be right back."

Bartley stabbed the knife into the table. "I don't think so."

Starsky settled back in his seat.

Bartley pushed the bowl closer to Starsky. "This is my new stuff. Billy Brody. Or is that just an undercover name?"

Starsky stared at him, bitterly regretting that he hadn't strapped a pistol to his ankle earlier.

Bartley smiled. "You're a cop, aren't you?" he asked as he reached inside his jacket.

Starsky ran for the door, even though two of Bartley's men flanked it.

But it wasn't the men who stopped him. It was Bartley, when he rose to his feet and took aim across the room.

The bullet hit him high in the back and drove him forward into Hutch as the blond ran in with gun drawn and aimed, flanked by fellow officers, including Luis, and Maria. Bartley aimed again, but Hutch fired, then moved Starsky outside and away from the building.

"Ambulance!" Hutch yelled to a plainclothes officer, who ran to a patrol car.

Chaos continued inside and outside of the tavern as officers gained control via the raid amid rapid gunfire.

"Right here," Hutch whispered as he held the bundle of Starsky against him and applied pressure to his bleeding shoulder. "Stay right here."

Whem the riotous noise died down and officers were leading the arrested away to patrol cars, Maria and Luiz rushed over to Starsky and Hutch, putting their guns away and crouching with them.

Starsky groaned. "We get 'em?"

"We did," Hutch said with a pale smile. "They got us a little bit too." He glanced at Luis and Maria, an ambulance sounding in the distance. "Thanks for the call."

End

::::::::::::

BIG BOYS DON'T CRY (A Plague Missing Scene)

By TLR

Poem: The Plague

See my world through stain glass

No more songs by the sea

Our love is passing away

The gold is vanishing from thee

XXXXXXXXX

Starsky stood in silent heartache at the observation window, marking precious time with each breath Hutch struggled to make and keep.

(Don't die)

(Please)

(Hold on)

(God, help him hold on)

(Give him another breath)

It reminded him of another loss, another time. Long ago when he was a boy. The memory

surged back like a tidal wave, thanks to this plague draining the life and heart from his partner-(the game is, Hutch is dying)-

(I know, Hutch)

(God, I'll try to help you)

(I'll try to save you)

(Give it to me, I'll take it for you, God knows I will)

The glass dissolved beneath the palms of his hands, sliding away to an old, deep-sea memory of that other loss so long ago, of that other time when he felt the world, and life, and fate, and God, betray him by taking what he loved, away.

He could feel the hardness of that corner bench in their living room after the burial. It gave nothing. No mercy. No comfort. It didn't care that his father was gone. That's when his new, different, sad, confused life began. A page had turned, and he had no choice but to live the words written there.

He sat by himself, a once laughing and mischievous little boy, now solemn, on the bench along the wall of the room, only partly aware of the mourners around him-policemen in uniform, women in black, his mother's face still looking veiled even though the black lace was lifted.

His brother Nicky played on the floor with some wooden trains that their father had carved.

Good with his hands, Michael Starsky.

They could fix bikes and climb trees and carve trains and whittle whistles, and they could ruffle up his and Nicky's hair, twirl a pistol, play catch, snitch bites of food from their mother's plate, touch her face, tickle their bellies, and move around dramatically when he was telling a story about how he caught the bad guys.

His hands had turned scarlet in the street from holding his chest. Little David had been there to see that, to hold his dear red hand close to his heart, hoping and praying and willing and begging-

"Don't go. Pop, don't die."

But the light was going down in his father's eyes-down like a blue sunset.

His last breath-an I Love You-(keep being a good boy)-(take care of your mother)- (look after your brother)-

How many days ago?

Two? Three?

Saving his father's last words like treasures-keepsakes, mementos, jewels-loving seals on his heart.

His mother kissing his cheek: "There, there, Davey."

His uncle butting a knuckle under his chin to lift the limpid blue tears. "Buck up now, David. Big boys don't cry. You're the man of the family now."

He nodded.

What else could he do? He was just a boy.

He sniffed and looked at his brother Nicky, patting the place beside him on the bench.

"Hey, Nicky."

Nicky kept puttering and chugging with the trains. He seemed to not fully understand what had happened.

Finally his eyes raised to his big brother. "When is Pop comin' home?"

"Never," David had to whisper. The first responsibility of being a man: Tell the truth. "He's never comin' home."

Nicky brought the trains and sat in the place his brother was patting.

David put his arm around the small, innocent shoulders. "Pop said look after you. You're my brother."

"If you're my brother, then make our pop come back."

David buried his tears. "I can't," he said like the little man he wanted to be. "I wish I could, but I can't."

Nicky looked at him for a long time, then got on the floor again to push the trains around.

(Big boys don't cry)

David moved to the living room window and lowered his head against it so no one would see his tears.

(Big boys don't cry)

He lowered his head against the observation glass, looking at his hands-looking for blood?-Hands that could build clipper ships and mold clay and work a camera and strum a guitar and handle a lady and snitch bites of food from-a sob catching in his throat like an injured dove.

Hutch had talked to him about his father.

(Boys shouldn't have to lose their fathers, Starsk. They shouldn't have to know that kind of loss. They should always live a carefree life, riding bicycles and climbing trees, and doing things with their dads. It's okay to cry over what you should have had and didn't)

And now the glass separated him from what he loved most in the world, a world that Hutch had helped restore in his life.

"Please, Hutch. Please, God. I'm beggin'."

Huggy's hand on his shoulder did nothing to ease him.

"You need to find Callendar."

Starsky's soft whisper into his own chest: "I need to be here."

Huggy's whisper, soft into his shirt collar: "He knows you're here. I'll call you if . . . if there's any change."

Starsky sniffed and raised his head. "I won't quit, Hutch." He backed away from the glass, from the sight of his dying friend, one reluctant step at a time. "Hear me, Hug? I won't quit."

"I know, man."

"I won't."

"I know."

A few more backward steps and he was turning to run down the hall, full of fear and panic at first, and then, with each stride, gaining hope and determination.

"Hold on, Hutch!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Hear me? Hold on!"

End

OLLIE'S THOUGHTS

XXXXXXXXX+

I'm just a soft white teddy bear.

A gift.

From Terry to Hutch. Friend to friend.

"Please love them both, and don't let either of them change."

I'm Hutch's bear.

Hutch loved me all right. Sat me in a place of honor, on the nightstand beside his bed, right along with his other important things, like his clock, his moon and star necklace, a bottle of vitamins, whatever book he was reading at the time.

That was my usual place, but I didn't stay there all the time. I was a bear on the move. Sometimes he sat me in the living room, sometimes in the kitchen. Sometimes he talked to me like he does his plants.

I've been around. Seen a lot, done a lot, been to a lot of places. For a bear, that is.

I've even ridden in his car. If you can call it a car. He took me to a school one day when he couldn't think of any other way to get a little girl to feel brave enough to talk to him.

He took me along to an old folks home when he and Dave went to sing them some songs to cheer them up at Christmas time.

I was there at an orphanage when they went to play some basketball with the kids.

Hutch kept his promise to Terry. He loved me and Dave.

One time, though, I wondered if he could keep his promise, and that was when he and Dave got into it over Kira.

He was so mad and confused and upset he flung me across the room and I hit the wall. Then he went off to another room to pace and cuss. Then he came back again and picked me up, and he hugged me so tight to his chest I thought he was going to squeeze the stuffing right out, and said he was an ass and had to make things right with Dave before he blew it.

Hutch kept the other part of his promise. He didn't let me change. And though he almost

let Dave change, not to mention himself, when Kira happened, he came to his senses before it was too late.

And then there were the times Dave was down over something, maybe a case that went bad, a girl who'd hurt him, and Hutch headed over to his house, a bottle of wine or a pizza or a new Fats record in one hand, and me in the other.

But for all the times Hutch took care of me and Dave, and he did, because that was his job, it turned out me and Dave took care of Hutch more times than he took care of us.

Like, Dave took me to the hospital to sleep with Hutch when he had the plague. How he hugged me so tight in his scary virus fever, when he was all alone and so sick and not allowed any visitors, not even Dave.

Dave sent me in there, because he knew I couldn't get sick.

Hutch was too sick to see Dave writing on the window with the lipstick, but not me. I saw that lost but hopeful look on his face. It was his turn to help Hutch.

How happy Dave was when he found Callendar in time and knew Hutch would be okay.

He kissed me and threw me into the air and caught me again.

And I was there when Hutch got food poisoning, and then later when he got shot by that young girl.

I've seen all those times when my caregiver has needed a caregiver. Me and Dave were never far away.

And then there was the worst time. Dave shot up by bullets. Me and Hutch found out that both of us loving Dave wasn't enough. Dave was dying, Hutch was losing him, and they were both slipping away.

But a miracle happened.

Dave was tougher than anybody realized, and he surprised us all.

Even me.

I wasn't there to see Dave wake up, but I was there when Hutch brought him home to get well. He let Dave have his bed while he took the sofa.

I again sat nobly in my special place on the bedside table, next to Hutch's special things, like his star and moon necklace, and his book, and his partner.

Dave reached for me and held me tight while he fell asleep under all the pain pills, but he

wasn't so far gone that he couldn't give me a kiss on top of the head.

"Night, Ollie," he whispered to me, and closed his eyes.

By that time I was a little worse for wear. A little smudged, a little torn, from all their handling, loving, crying, hoping, fearing, praying, and whispering.

But Hutch kept his promise. The next morning, while Dave slept, Hutch pulled a chair up close to the bed and sat me in his lap, where he began to mend me with needle and thread with his careful, skillful, loving hands, a lot like the way he always mended Dave.

Then he took me into the bathroom and put water and shampoo into the sink to suds me up.

But in the end, after he gave me a long look, didn't. He just held me to his nose and smelled my musky, salty, aftershave-y, medicine-y smell, and decided not to wash all that-all me-all them-away.

Instead, he carried me back to where Dave lay sleeping, and tucked me under his arm.

I don't know what the future holds for me, but I know where my home is.

It's wherever they are.

End

::::::::::

WHAT IF? (Fatal Charm)

By TR

XXXXXXXXX

"He'll be dead before you get here."

Like cubes of burning dry ice, her words tumbled around inside his head as he gunned the Torino for Hutch's place.

"No, Diane," he said out loud into the interior of the car, as if his words could stop her like bullets. "No, Diane. No, Diane-"-A motorcycle cut in front of him-"- Get outa the way!"

The cyclist shot him the finger, but moved.

"Don't do it," he panted at Diane again as he gripped the steering wheel desperately hard, leaning into it with panic. "Don't do it."

Thoughts fanning in his mind like a deck of cards-

(The watch)

(Her in his apartment)

(You deserve each other)

(You're just like him)

(Her in his apartment)

(She's in his apartment)

(He'll be dead before you get here)

"No!"

He slammed the brakes on in front of Venice Place and jumped out, door open, engine running, heart pummeling inside his chest like a frantic fist.

"Diane!"

He raced up the stairs and through the door-(distract her, grab her, ANYTHING, just keep her away from-don't let her-)-

Dark apartment.

Shadows.

She was here somewhere.

She'd turned off the lights.

Shower spray in the bathroom.

She moved up behind him, the long knife raised over her head, a look of crazy love, crazy regret, crazy hate, in her eyes.

"Everybody loves him."

He turned and saw her, reaching under his jacket for his gun as she slashed down with the

knife, viciously one time and high in the chest, just under his left collar bone.

The single stab drove him down to the floor and she pounced on him like a wicked lynx, straddling him.

His disabled left arm fumbled inside his jacket again, but she swatted his arm away.

"Dia-Diane!"

His right hand grabbed for her wrist to keep the knife from arcing down a second time, and he caught it, managing to twist it and force her sideways onto the floor, where he now straddled her to hold her down.

She was growling with the bared teeth of a rabid animal while he pinned her knife-wrist to the floor.

"I hate you," she hissed.

His head swam in circles.

Circles of pain, circles of shock, circles of relief, circles of fatigue, circles of love.

"Hu-"

A hoarse sound escaped him.

"Hurry!"

(Don't think he heard me)

(Damn shower)

(Don't know how much longer I can hold out)

(Getting weak)

(Dizzy)

(Blood loss)

Another hiss: "I hate you."

"I don't cuh-"

'I don't care' was what he tried to say, but his mind was swirling out.

"I loved him," came her voice again, but this time it was sad and lonely, not bitter and hateful. "Me. Me. I did. It was me. Why can't he love me back? Why can't he love me like I love him?"

His eyes were glassy and drooping as he slumped down a little farther. If she'd have struggled with half the effort she had thirty seconds ago, she'd have overpowered him.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. His head bowed, his breath was small and slow.

"STARSK!"

He came running, in just his white boxers, as wet and slippery as a big white seal.

Starsky didn't see him or hear him. He was sinking low, and Diane was recharging at the sight of him, spitting, snarling-"I love you! I love you! Why can't you love me?"

Hutch punched her in the face one time, and her ranting ceased. The knife clinked metallically to the floor as she passed out. He quickly cuffed her.

Starsky raised dazed eyes to find his partner. "Hutch?"

Hutch caught him just as he slumped sideways, and, due to the amount of blood on Starsky's shirt, and the phone cord that Diane had so obviously and maliciously cut, scooped him up to carry him down to the Torino to take him to a hospital.

Starsky gave a weak, delirious giggle on the way down the stairs. "Only a best friend would run out in public in his underwear for you."

"Starsky, please be quiet," Hutch grunted as he struggled with his endearing but infuriating cargo, setting him on his feet at the passenger side of the Torino and leaning him against it long enough to open the door for him.

Starsky dipped to his knees, and Hutch snared him by wrapping an arm around him and easing him into the passenger seat. Then he rounded the front of the car and got in.

"Hey," Starsky moaned softly, smiling his giddy smile again as his dripping-wet, plastered-hair partner settled under the steering wheel. "Just don't drip all over my seat, huh?"

End

::::::::::::

BLACK WIDOW

(Based on the episode "The Avenger", related to "Sweet Revenge").

By TR

XXX+PART 1XXX+

I look into the bathroom mirror as I shave off all my long brown hair and let it fall into the sink.

All of it.

A smooth, round head. Strong. Invulnerable. Male. Dark glasses to hide the truth. Square, pin-striped shoulders to meet the world.

Monique won't like it, but Monique isn't in control of things right now. I am. And when I put my foot down, there isn't much she can do about it.

Oh.

She will resist my idea at first, as usual. Some surface objection she really doesn't mean, that's meant to prove to herself she's still human, or just better than me. But then after she realizes I'm too strong, she goes along, as usual.

The mental hospital was only a respite; the medication a thin sheath of reality separating she and I. She's the one who tries to live the normal life, but is only partially successful at it. I'm her dark side, the one who flirts for her, loves for her, stands up for her, and, at times, kills for her. And it is me who was locked up in a madhouse for her.

She can blame it on me all she wants to—that's what I'm for. It's the only way she can live with who she is and what she does.

But there are times when she knows we are one and the same, when there is such clarity about why she/we mate, and kill.

Like the time with Detective Dave Starsky.

Monique said he was different; she said she cared for him; and didn't want to kill him. She pleaded and begged with me because she knows how strong I am. She knows the violent urges are irresistible . . . exactly like a climax . . . a maddening crescendo . . . then the explosion . . . release . . . kill or go mad . . . kill or go mad . . . and then the afterglow . . . warmth . . . satisfaction . . . everything right with your world.

They deserved it, didn't they? Those men.

Her men.

The first man was her daddy. He raped her in her pink bed when she was just three, and kept on raping her until she was thirteen and pregnant, and then he punched her stomach until he made her lose his baby.

His baby. Not hers. Not theirs.

Her mother horrified. Her mother didn't believe Monique's terrified screams— "Mommy, please! The blood! Why am I bleeding? What's coming out of me? Oh Mommy, I'm scared!"

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

"Shut up, little tramp. Little whore. Little slut. Who have you been sleeping with?"

Her mother knew.

Her mother knew.

Outside she said she didn't, but inside she really did.

Little girl. Daddy's little girl. Who cooked for him, cleaned for him, and sucked for him.

Little Monique. Brought him a poisoned tart.

(No more hurts, Daddy. No more bad men. No more Daddy. No more men)- (I'm sorry, Daddy. I love you. I'm sorry)

But she couldn't do it alone. She needed the help of someone else. Someone tough and strong. Someone Daddy wouldn't overpower in the bed. A boy. A tough, strong, capable boy. Almost like a big brother. A protector. Someone who could be strong for her, and who could defend her when she needed it.

After Monique hemorrhaged and healed, he called for her to come into his bed one Saturday morning while Mommy was at the Laundromat.

Monique knew what he wanted—(No, not again, please)—and she couldn't do it, not one more time. She didn't want to hurt down there again, and she didn't want to bleed again, or make a bad baby again.

So, to fool her daddy, and to hide her shame and guilt, to remove herself as far away from her deed as she could, she put on one of her daddy's suits—much too big. But it hid her.

I, Harry, said no more to her daddy, and put a stop to it. She wasn't Monique anymore, and it wasn't Monique who baked and carried him the tart. It was me.

No apologies from Harry.

When Monique's mother found him dead in the teenager-pink bed, she wailed and lamented, and had the frame of mind to lug him into their bedroom and leave him on the floor, all the while giving Monique accusing, hateful looks.

The coroner said it was a heart attack.

Monique cried at her daddy's funeral—(Why did it have to be so cruel, Harry? Why?)

(Cruel men deserve cruel deaths, Monique. All men are cruel. Some just hide it better than others. You should know that by now. You should know that better than anyone)

Monique tried to prove me wrong.

She met many men in hopes of finding one who would not trick her, use her, or hurt her.

But they all lie, just like I told her they did.

Each one lied.

The sailor.

The banker.

The salesman.

The cop.

Ah yes, even the cop.

"Different," she said.

She hoped.

She prayed.

(Let it stop, Harry. Please let it stop. I don't want to do this anymore. Not to him. He's special)

No, Monique. You know that none of them are special in the end. They all lie in the end.

All.

And it's because of that one man . . . that . . . that . . . Hutchinson . . .

If it weren't for him, we wouldn't have been penned up like a rabbit in a cage, with people . . . especially men . . . leering and jeering and cheering and having their fun and their way with their needles and their straps and their pills and their straightjackets.

(Come on, Monique. Give it to us or we'll take it from you)

The medication only masked me. Muffled me. It did not eliminate me. Only Monique can terminate me, and she never really truly wanted to. She needs me too badly to let me go.

She can't survive without me. Without me, she's a vulnerable kitten to be pounced on and shredded by the mongrels of the world. The mirror tells me that. The long hair in the sink tells me that.

And, Detective Hutchinson, since you are the man responsible for my discovery, exposure, capture, and humiliation, we have some unfinished business to attend to.

XXX+PART 2 (3 months later)XXX+

With exaggerated fanfare, Huggy carried over a tray holding a bottle of champagne, four glasses, a single rose in a crystal vase, and a Hallmark-card-size envelope, setting it onto the table where Starsky, Hutch, and Dobey were seated.

Starsky eyed it with a mixture of sarcasm and sweetness. "Went all out, didn't you, Hug? Your dollar ninety-nine house champagne?"

"Chump," Huggy grinned wryly as he sat down with the other three. "Best champagne for the best cop's return."

Hutch cleared his throat. "Best cop? Since when?"

"Since he found you in your hide and seek game, remember?"

"Remember?" Hutch repeated with a roll of his eyes. "How could I forget? Every time I see a can of clam chowder, my guts do cartwheels."

Dobey cleared his throat and reached for the champagne bottle, pouring four glasses. "Huggy, you really did bring out your best. Three ninety-nine." He picked up his glass for a toast. "To the return of my best men."

"Here, here," Huggy chimed.

Hutch raised his glass too. "To the best partner in the world. Welcome back to the force."

Starsky raised his. "Good to be back, Ollie."

The moment of silence and looks passed between them spoke what all four could scarcely express. A hundred-dollar bottle of champagne would never touch it, nor a thousand roses, nor a million words. The misty eyes said it all.

After the glasses touched and they drank some champagne, Huggy handed the white envelope to Starsky.

"Here you go, bro. Don't ever say I didn't do you no favors."

Starsky opened the envelope and pulled out a hand-written note. "A lifelong gift certificate for my lunchtime specials."

Hutch turned his head away from Huggy, cupping fingers around his mouth to Dobey:

"With lunch specials like his, his life won't be very long, huh?"

Huggy nudged Hutch's elbow off the table. "I heard that."

"Thanks, Hug," Starsky said with genuine appreciation as he tucked the note into his hip pocket.

"And, Detective Hutchinson," Huggy added, "may I have the number of the barber who shaved off your mustache and your lovely goldilocks?"

"Why," Dobey grouched, "so you can thank him?"

"Hell no. Kick his ass. Nobody messes with my man's hair and stache without my permission."

"Leave it be," Dobey warned him. "At least it's back to regulation."

Huggy grinned and ruffled Hutch's short hair.

XXXXXXXXX+

After their drink at Huggy's, Dobey headed for home while Huggy closed up. As Starsky and Hutch headed for Hutch's car, Hutch said, "Want me to take you to Merle's so you can get the Torino?"

"Nah. Mornin's okay."

"Gonna be okay with it?"

They stopped at the tan Ford, Hutch on the driver's side, Starsky on the passenger. They exchanged a look over the top.

"Sure," Starsky shrugged. "Already been over there to look at it. Checked it out. Drove it. Merle did good work on it."

Hutch looked down at his keys. "It doesn't uh . . . you know . . . bother you?"

"Nope."

"How 'bout the garage? Been there yet?"

A pause in the air. Hutch looked up. This time it was Starsky's eyes that were lowered.

"Well," he said slowly, and with a small shrug, "actually, I um . . . haven't been to the garage." He waited for Hutch's next words, and, as if he knew what they were, began to nod. "Yeah, I need to do that, don't I?"

Hutch smiled and extended his arm across the top of the car, palm up. "I'll go with you."

Still looking down, Starsky reached across the hood and clasped his hand, a gesture reminding him of past moments that were this close.

"Thanks, Hutch. You're my pal."

They looked at each other and smiled, then got into the car.

XXXXXXXXX+

It was just turning dark when they arrived at the underground parking garage at the police station. It wasn't particularly busy, no cops coming or going at the moment, all cars parked in spaces.

Without a word, both got out of the tan Ford and looked toward the spot where Starsky had been shot.

Starsky hadn't budged, but his eyes were fixed on the area. Hutch started around the front of the car to stand next to him, licking his lips and trying to control the waver in his quiet voice. "Can't walk past there without reliving it," he said as his hand moved unconsciously to his chest. "Gets to me every time."

"Funny," Starsky said just as quietly, "I can't remember being shot at all. Just the patrol car, the guns, the sound, and then . . . that's all."

"Partner, I'm sorry I didn't stop them. If I'd—if I'd—sooner-" Hutch bit his lower lip to keep it from trembling, and Starsky saw it.

"Hey . . . " His right arm slid up Hutch's back, hand squeezing the back of his neck. "Ambush, Hutch. Gunther. Not you. You did all you could do."

Hutch spoke into the fist pressed to his mouth. "No, I didn't. Starsky, I swear to God, when I saw you on the ground, I thought it was over. I mean over. I thought there was no way you could survive that much damage. And because I didn't react—didn't see them sooner, yell sooner, stop them, anything—I felt like I helped them pull the trigger. I didn't cover you, shove you down, protect you—"

Starsky squeezed his neck harder and pulled him a little closer, against his side. "They waited till the car was between us. They wanted to separate us. They knew you'd have done any and all of the above if they gave you the shred of a chance. I thank God every day they didn't get you. Every day."

Hutch ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Hell."

"I'm not dead, Hutch. Alive. They didn't get us. We got them. It's gonna be okay. All of it. There's nothin' I want more in this world than to wake up in the morning and hit the streets with you. Nothin'. And I ain't lettin' Gunther, these scars, these past months in the hospital, even you . . . stand in our way. We beat them, buddy. Just remember that. Look at me. Little body work, fresh coat of paint, good as new, us against the world again . . . "

The blond head nodded. An expulsion of pent-up breath.

Starsky made a show of straightening Hutch's collar and adjusting his jacket. "Come on," he said dragging Hutch by the arm toward the place where he'd been shot, "you'd think you were the one who took all the slugs. We doin' this for me or you?"

XXXXXXXXX+

When they walked back toward the tan Ford, Starsky said, "Give me your keys."

"What for?"

"Need to practice for in the morning, don't I?"

Hutch grinned and tossed him the keys.

Once they were in the car: "Ah, this is the life," Starsky said as he gunned the engine and peeled out of the garage on squealing tires.

Pedestrians and motorists alike made room.

Hutch gripped the armrest of the car. "Starsky, will you slow down! I'd hate to get a speeding ticket right here in front of the police station!"

Starsky laughed and slowed the car down. "Feels good, huh?"

Hutch put a hand to his stomach. "Feels sick."

"You hungry?"

"Kidding? My stomach's in ropes, thanks to your driving. But I do need to stop off at Vinnie's first and pay my bill, so you can grab something there if you want."

"Yuck. Not his soybean burgers and carrot juice. I'm talkin' pizza or tacos or—"

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah. Business as usual."

XXXXXXXXX

Starsky watched as Hutch paid Vinnie the bill at the gym.

"Been a long time since you been here, Hutch," Vinnie said as he stashed the money in his cash register drawer.

A few late-night patrons were using the gym, a few in the boxing ring, a few skipping rope, a few lifting weights.

"Yeah, well," Hutch said with a light shrug as he smiled Starsky's way. "Had more important things to do lately."

Starsky walked over to a punching bag and threw a couple of punches at it, then held it for Hutch. "Your turn, Rocky. Make up for lost time. You pay all that dough, least you could do is use the facility. Vinnie'll think you don't like him no more."

Vinnie winked at Starsky over Hutch's head. "Listen to your partner, Blondie."

Starsky frowned. "'Partner'? Hutch, you didn't tell him what we do?"

Vinnie raised his hands defensively. "Hey, hey, alls he said was that you were partners. Didn't say in what. Could be business, could be crime, could be window washing, could be shoe salesmen, could be anything. I mind my own business all these years, I plan to keep mindin it. You two could be wiseguys for all I know. I ask no questions, I keep my mouth shut and put my money in my drawer."

Hutch shook his head and walked over to the punching bag that Starsky held for him, and

began pounding away, lightly at first, then harder, then like a machine, until he was sweaty, achy, and spent.

It was the first time since his shooting and recovery that Starsky had seen him do anything for himself, and with such gusto and abandon.

The time spent at Vinnie's, including the soybean burgers and carrot juice Starsky endured, was priceless, and it showed in the beaming smile on the blond's face, and the ease and confidence in his body as he slid into the passenger's side of the car again.

XXX+PART 3XXX+

Crouching in his bedroom closet, I waited for him. I could hear him coming from the shower and shuffling tiredly in my direction. I smelled soap and shampoo. I imagined him toweling his hair. Heard a rustling of cloth—maybe pulling on some clean boxers, turning the bedspread back. The winding of the alarm clock.

A slight creaking of bedsprings as he settled in. Sighing. Sleepy. Tired.

Relaxed. Unguarded. Perfect.

XXXXXXXXX+

Harry waited another thirty minutes, and when he heard the sound of deeper breathing, he pounced, so quickly, fiercely—"Huh? Who—"-first the saturated cloth over his nose and mouth to subdue him, and then when his eyes rolled back from the sweet-smelling fumes, pieces of new white rope to tie each wrist and ankle to a bedpost—no time for protest.

He groaned and moved his head to look, blinking, disoriented, trying to focus on the pin-striped-suited figure standing over him.

A strong figure. Bald. Marble-hard face. Cold eyes. Reptilian hiss.

"You," came the whisper in the dark.

His eyes rolled again—real or unreal?

His hands fought the ropes, futile. His ankles pulled.

Too tight.

Too weak.

"Suh—Starh—" a gasp for help.

"QUIET!" Harry roared as he straddled the blond's middle and pounded away at his face with a hard elbow until his head fell back onto the pillow.

The flick of a switchblade didn't register, but the ripping sound of cotton did as it sliced through the cloth of his shorts.

Harry was still on him, but Hutch still bucked his pelvis to throw him off—a spurt of adrenaline, desperation.

"Your fault," the voice growled through clenched teeth. "All your fault."

Black leather-gloved hands around his throat, squeezing until his wide eyes were slowly closing, until the bucking ceased, until he was calm in the bed.

Like a black snake, Harry leaned down on top of him, spreading his length along the blond body, coarse black clothes like coarse black scales, and undulated his pelvis into the bare one.

"Not different," he whispered. "He's not different. Not special. He lied. You lied. You found out. You knew. You-"

Harry brought the sweet-smelling cloth toward his face again, and Hutch saw the small glint of the switchblade through the moonlit window.

"No more I love you," Harry whispered sadly. "No more I love you."

Hutch struck out at the figure the only way he could—with his mouth-his head darting up and teeth crunching into the close throat.

Harry's scream in the air. A pounding at the door. The halting of the blade.

"HUTCH! I'M KICKIN' THE DOOR IN!"

Running footsteps. Familiar. Frantic. Loving.

(Starsky)

Firing on Harry, blasting him from the bed and onto the floor.

A sob. A gasp of air. Starsky.

"Oh hell, Hutch, what the hell-"

Starsky was digging into his jeans pocket for his pocketknife. He quickly and cleanly cut the ropes at his ankles, then dove to cut the ones at his wrists, absorbing and filing every detail at once—the sweet smell in the air, dead Harry on the floor, Hutch's raspy breathing, the rolling of his swelling eyes, the lacerated shorts, the reddening streaks around his throat, bleeding nose, mouth smeared with blood.

The lax hands fell to the bed, one catching on Starsky's forearm. His mouth worked to speak, but only his eyes did.

Starsky sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Hutch up to lean against his shoulder, while at the same time reaching for the bedside phone.

Breathing hot air against Starsky's jacket collar and trying to keep his eyes from rolling, Hutch knocked the receiver from his hand.

"Nuh," he groaned groggily, and shuddered against him. "No report. I'm all right."

Starsky shook him and held his face up to look at him. "Hutch, you're on something. Who was it? What'd she give you? Do you know what it is? It could be an overdose or—"

Hutch's head tilted backward as he struggled against the poison and pulled in faint gasps of breath. Starsky reached for the fallen receiver and dialed an ambulance.

"Did you say Hutchinson's apartment?" the dispatcher asked. "Your partner?"

"GET THE HELL OVER HERE!"

After that call was made, he made another.

"Cap?"

He made no attempt to disguise the agitation in his voice.

"Starsky?" Dobey's voice grumbled into the receiver after four rings. "Do you know what the hell time—" The agitation stirred him out of his fog. "What's wrong?"

Starsky swallowed hard as he shoved the receiver between his ear and shoulder, trying to keep one arm around Hutch to hold him up, while at the same time putting one hand to his throat to monitor his pulse.

"Hutch," he said in a small pant. "Monique got into his place and, I don't know what the hell, gave him something, I don't see any needle marks, his breathing is ragged and shallow, he took a pretty bad beating, and . . . a favor, Cap, okay? I handle the case."

Starsky hung up the phone. Now both of Hutch's hands were clamped weakly on Starsky's right forearm. Starsky took the perspiring, bleeding head between his hands and knelt by the bed, wanting Hutch to see him.

Hutch's eyes were still fluttering, toward the ceiling the wall, across the room, as his body began to succumb to the poison in his lungs, bloodstream, and brain cells.

"Ssss," came the sound from him.

Starsky blinked back tears. "Hey."

The word brought Hutch's eyes to his partner's face.

"Breathe," Starsky whispered. "One breath at a time. I'm right here. Help's on the way. We'll get you to the hospital and everything'll be okay. Easy, okay?"

Hutch's eyes held onto his partner's. When he started to chill, Starsky pulled a sheet up and wrapped it around his shoulders.

"Better?" Starsky smiled, eyes sparkling like blue diamonds. Comfort in the word. Caring in the eyes. Expertly controlling his fear and worry. Pushing down the images of heroin addiction and a deadly plague—both had so savaged his partner's body-that crowded his mind. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

The ghost of a light played in Hutch's eyes as they stayed fixed on his partner's. Then the siren of the ambulance sounded. Starsky released a sound of relief, and Hutch found it much easier now to give in completely to the poisonous wave that washed over him and carried him away.

XXXXXXXXX+

He came to in the back of the ambulance when one of the paramedics placed an oxygen mask over his face. He fought against the hands that tried to hold it firmly in place.

"Easy," Starsky said as he took Hutch's red, rope-burned wrists in his hands. "Oxygen mask, buddy. That's all. Let me have your hands. Don't fight 'em."

But still he struggled, harder when Starsky gripped his wrists.

"Sedative," the second medic announced as he slid a needle into Hutch's tense arm.

As Hutch's body went limber, his eyes located his partner's again, blinking drowsily at him. The remainder of the ride to the hospital, and the paramedics' efforts to stabilize him, proceeded without disruption.

XXXXXXXXX+

Captain Dobey found Starsky pacing the hall outside the emergency room where the doctors were working on Hutch. "How is he?"

Starsky turned away, biting down on a thumbnail. "Don't know." He scrubbed a leather sleeve across his damp forehead. "She used a cloth soaked with whatever drugged him. I gave it to the hospital lab so they could try to figure out what they were dealing with."

An emergency room doctor ambled from behind a curtain slipping a toothpick between his teeth.

"Hello," the tall doctor with the handlebar mustache said with an amicable smile. "Doctor Huffman. Somebody said you were gonna wear a hole in our floor, so thought I'd come and give you news about Detective Hutchinson."

Starsky waited with held breath.

"Well, he's out of the woods, but it'll take time for the poison to go through his system. X-

22 is what they call it. Tranquilizer and hallucinogen in one. Recreational drug with the punk scene in small doses. Lethal in large ones. Paralyzes all the body systems to death if it isn't caught in time. I've seen a few overdoses of it come through my emergency room. Good thing you got to him when you did. Looks like he's a pretty tough customer, though. Banged up some, but that'll heal too. I'm sending him up to a recovery room so we can keep our eye on him for a few days. Few days rest here under the care of our fine, pretty nurses, he'll be right as rain to go home. Any funny stuff happens, like a relapse or something, you bring him straight back here, got it?"

Some of the anxiety melted away from Starsky's face, and he shook Dr. Huffman's hand. "Thanks, Doc."

Dobey smiled too, then patted Stasrsky's shoulder as he made his way toward the exit.

"Keep me posted, Starsky."

XXXXXXXXX

Starsky slouched in the chair next to Hutch's bed, legs propped on the edge of the mattress.

It was morning and he caught the first stirring of Hutch's head, the batting of his drowsy eyes.

"Hey, Starsk," came his talc-faint voice, his hand reaching through the stainless steel bed rail.

Starsky sat up, put his feet on the floor, then leaned toward the bed. "You thirsty? Got some white grape juice over here."

A slight nod of the head brought a bottle and straw to his lips, where Hutch took a small sip.

"Throat hurts," Hutch said as his hand stroked it.

"No doubt. She did a number on you. But it's gonna be okay. The poison will leave your system soon, and you'll be good as new."

"Is she…you got her? Hard to remember. Seems like a dream. Nightmare more like it."

"Yeah. She's history."

XXXXXXXXX+

When Starsky and Hutch stepped into Hutch's apartment, the blond was not surprised to find that his partner had cleaned up his bedroom.

"Thanks, Starsk," he said as he sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. "Man," he said looking around the room. "It still seems unreal."

"Manager of the halfway house where Monique'd been staying found some notes she wrote, about how she'd been raped as a very young girl by her father, had a miscarriage, twisted stuff. She wrote how she had it in for you because you stopped her from killing me. She blamed you for ending up in a mental hospital. I talked to her sister, and she said she didn't know anything about what was going on with her father and Monique. Now the sister believes Monique poisoned him and that it wasn't a heart attack like their mother said."

Hutch released a cynical laugh. "And the beat goes on."

Starsky opened the closet door and searched the boxes on the top shelf. "In the mood for a game of chess?"

"Sure. You think I'm still fuzzy from the hospital, don't you? I'll still beat you."

"Loser buys the pizza. Pepperoni for me. Vegetable for you."

XXXXXXXXX

Hutch grabbed his jacket and shoulder holster in response to the honking of the car horn outside his apartment on Monday morning.

For the first time since Gunther's hit, Hutch bounded down the stairs with a smile on his face. Even the Torino seemed inviting.

"Hurry up!" Starsky yelled out the passenger window as he shook a white paper deli bag at him. "My breakfast's gettin cold!"

Hutch laughed and slid into the seat beside his partner, smelling a BLT from Starsky's breakfast bag. "Business as usual, buddy," he said as he picked up the granola bar and boysenberry yogurt cup Starsky had brought for him.

End

::::::::::::

LAST HOPE

By TR

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 1

XXXXXXXXX**

Starsky and Hutch were following an eighteen-wheeler around the winding two-lane road. They were headed for a vacation at the home of Starsky's current girlfriend, since their captain, Harold Dobey, hadn't let them have one in a year and a half. With as many arrests as they made, there was always something coming up with a case that needed their attention, and Dobey would not let them go until every one was taken care of, either in a formal report or in a courtroom.

"Cindy will be surprised," Starsky said as he grinned at the thought of his sexy blonde-haired girlfriend.

"YOU may be the surprised one," Hutch told him as he read a poetry book in the passenger seat beside him. "It's never smart to show up on a girl's doorstep without calling her first."

"Why not?"

"She could have a new boyfriend, that's why not, and then you'd get jealous and make a scene, she'll slap your face, throw you out, and tell you she never wants to see you again."

"Gosh," Starsky said with exaggerated concern. "Maybe I should stop at the next gas

station and give her a call."

Hutch just shook his head.

Starsky honked his horn at the semi in front of him. "Can't that rig go any faster?"

"What's the big rush, we're supposed to be relaxing on a vacation, not getting all riled up."

Starsky blasted the horn again, but the truck didn't speed up. It started slowing down instead, which caused Starsky to grip the steering wheel so hard it made a squeaky-leather sound in his hands.

"I'm passin' him," Starsky said as he edged the Torino out and around the eighteen-wheeler just a bit. Seeing a car coming, he darted back in.

"Starsky! Will you be careful? You may think you've got nine lives, but you've really only got one, and so do I!"

Starsky eased out around the semi again, and again the big truck moved across the yellow line into the on-coming lane to block him.

"Look at that, Hutch! He's doin' it on purpose!"

Getting agitated now, Hutch fanned himself with the poetry book. He'd lost his mood for reading now. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure he's got it in for you, Starsk. I think you're paranoid."

"You know what they say about paranoia."

Hutch rolled his eyes, knowing that, as usual, he was taking the bait and being the best straight-man Starsky ever had. Sometimes he just couldn't stop himself, even when he wanted to. It was in his nature and he responded dutifully, like a sidekick. "No, tell me, what do they say?"

"'Just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.'"

"Oh, for crying out loud."

Starsky pulled around the semi again, and again the semi veered to keep him from passing.

This time Hutch sat up straight in his seat and pointed to the truck in front of them. "Did you see that? He tried to block us!"

Starsky gave him a look of disbelief. "What the hell have I been telling you?"

Hutch put the red light on top of the Torino, and turned the siren switch on. "Let's pull him over. I want to give him a piece of my mind."

Starsky grinned. "You're not supposed to get all riled up on a vacation, Hutch."

"Oh, stuff it and pull the guy over."

"He ain't budgin'."

The siren and lights did not seem to concern the truck driver. He kept driving at his annoyingly slow speed, and edged out across the yellow line whenever Starsky tried to pass.

Even though the trucker probably couldn't hear Starsky's voice over the sound of the wind and the noise of his rig, Starsky stuck his head out the window and yelled anyway.

"Pull over!"

When Starsky flashed his badge up for the driver to see in his rearview mirror, it seemed to do the trick. Gradually the driver geared down with a lot of grinding and hissing and pulled the rig to the side of the road.

Hutch cut the siren and both got out of the Torino and walked to the driver's side of the idling truck. "Okay," they both said at the same time as they looked up at the bearded driver in the high cab. "Out of the truck."

The truck driver lacked emotion as he looked at them. "Sorry, officers," he said as he raised his hands shoulder-high in the air. "Just havin' a little fun, you know?"

"Out," Starsky repeated.

"You got it. Just let me undo my seatbelt."

His hands lowered as if to unbuckle his seatbelt, and then flashed back up to fire off several shots at them with a pistol. Neither detective had time to pull a weapon. When Starsky and Hutch both scattered to the ground, the truck driver kicked his truck into gear and took off. Rolling up on his elbow, Hutch jerked his gun out from under his jacket and fired at the wheels of the truck, but in his panicked state, missed. He was, however, able to see the license plate number, and his mind chanted it while he put his Magnum away and turned over to his hands and knees and looked for a partner.

"He didn't get me, Starsk," he panted. "He get you?"

Starsky was sprawled facedown on the highway, blood spreading a red stain from under the chest of his new white T-shirt with the tiger on the back that he'd bought just for their

vacation. One blue tennis shoe was off his foot and near the yellow line.

Hutch screamed "STARSKY!" and scrambled to his feet.

Starsky wasn't answering.

Hutch wanted to hurry over to him, but he had to make the area safe first.

He grabbed two flares from the back floorboard, lit them, then set them a safe distance away to warn approaching drivers from both directions.

Then he snatched up the radio mike through the driver's side window. "This is Detective Hutchinson! My partner's been shot and I need an ambulance on Highway 90, about five miles north of Willow!"

A car was coming. The driver, a hippie in a jeep, saw the flares, plus the red revolving light of the Torino, and got out to help.

"Hey, man! What can I do?"

"Flag motorists down on this side of the road. Don't let them around till I say so."

"I'll do that."

Hutch talked into the police mike again, this time giving a message to Dobey by the dispatcher, giving a description of the driver, truck, and license plate number.

After that call was made, Hutch threw the mike in the seat and ran to where Starsky lay in the road. A moan passed Starsky's lips, and gently Hutch turned him onto his back and pressed one hand onto his red-stained chest to stop the blood. Starsky's eyes were closed and his face was pale. He choked a little every time he tried to breathe.

"Hutch," he coughed, and an exploring hand moved in the dirt to find him. "What happened? I get shot? Where'd he—where'd he go?"

Starsky groaned and tried to lift his head.

"Sshh," Hutch whispered as he caught the back of Starsky's head in the palm of his hand when he couldn't hold it up anymore. "Quiet," he said in the softest voice he had. "Don't move around, buddy. Shot you in the chest and took off. But I'll get him. Got Dobey on it already. Must've had drugs or hot merchandise in that truck."

Starsky moaned again, his eyes fluttering open to see his partner. He reached up with his hand and found the tail of Hutch's plaid shirt. "Don't feel so good, Hutch."

Hutch kept putting pressure on the bleeding bullet wound. "I know, Starsk. Ambulance'll be here soon. Can you hang on?"

He nodded.

"Sure," Hutch said in a near humming voice, almost singing. "Sure you can. I'm right here with you all the way."

He saw that the hippie had blocked traffic off in the lane they were in. Traffic in the opposite lane was slow because the drivers slowed to see what had happened.

He kept his worry away from Starsky. He could feel Starsky trembling from shock and took his black and white school jacket off to cover him.

"Need any help, pal!?" a few of the passing drivers would ask.

"No thanks!" Hutch yelled back. "Ambulance has been called!"

Starsky mumbled something, and Hutch leaned down close to him.

"Sshh. Starsky, please don't talk. Just be still."

"Not hurt?" Starsky asked.

"Who, me? I'm fine. Worry about yourself."

Starsky mumbled something else about 'vacation', and then he was quiet as he passed out, his hand slipping away from Hutch's shirttail.

Hutch was himself now trembling, but it was from a different kind of shock.

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 2

XXXXXXXXX**

Hutch was yelling at one of the emergency room doctors, trying to get past him and to the gurney where Starsky lay.

"I don't want to lose my partner!"

The doctor was big, but it took two physicians to push Hutch out of the emergency area.

"We have to do emergency surgery. The bullet's near his heart and he lost a lot of blood. Go to the waiting room and calm down."

"If he dies—"

The doctors saw the look on his face, and they were now kinder. "We'll do everything we can," one told him. "Now let us do our job."

The doctors released him slowly, as if waiting for his tightly-wound body to spring back any moment, and they returned to the emergency room area to close a curtain around them.

Hutch was left by himself in the hallway, and he looked around the strange hospital as if to find a familiar face, someone to talk to or sit with, like Dobey or Huggy, but he was alone.

He planted both hands against the wall next to the emergency room's double doors, head down, trying to calm himself down. He was so pre-occupied with Starsky that he didn't notice the faint red palm prints he left on the wall when he took his hands down and walked off.

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 3

XXXXXXXXX**

Hutch walked up and down the same hall, not stopping to sit down, only stopping for a drink of water when his mouth became dry.

Doctors and nurses came and went from the emergency room, but there was no news about his partner's condition yet.

A glance at his watch told him it was late evening. He'd been in surgery for a couple of hours now.

To the air in the hall he whispered, "Please live, Starsk. I'm pulling for you."

He wished he could be in the emergency room with Starsky, but knew it wasn't possible.

A voice made him look up.

"Hutch?"

It was Captain Dobey walking down the hall toward him.

"Truck driver's been picked up. John Rodgers. He's in county lock-up. How's Starsky?"

Hutch's voice came out strangely small and weak for a cop who was supposed to be used to handling life and death situations like this. But nobody brought out Hutch's soft side,

along with his tough side, more than his best friend did.

"In surgery. He may not make it."

Dobey nodded, cleared his throat, then as if he didn't know how to respond, said, "Found cocaine and sub-machine guns in the sleeper compartment of Rodgers' cab. Also in the stoves and refrigerators he was transporting in the back. He has some syndicate connections, we think, but he's not giving any names."

But Hutch's mind was not on the truck driver.

"I don't want him to die, Cap," he whispered as he turned his head and looked at the wall.

Dobey's mind wasn't on the truck driver either.

"That makes two of us, Hutch."

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 4

XXXXXXXXX**

"He's out of surgery," the doctors said as they joined Hutch and Captain Dobey at the end of the hospital corridor. "But . . . "

Hutch looked from one to the other. "But what?"

"But we still don't know. If he survives the night . . . "

Hutch didn't realize he had stumbled back until he felt Dobey's hands catch his arm.

"I want to see him."

"You really shouldn't. He—" One look at the captain, and the doctor nodded. "Very well. But only for a few minutes."

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 5

XXXXXXXXX**

Hutch stood just inside the doorway of Starsky's room. It was hard to believe that just hours ago he and Starsky had been on their way to Cindy's house for a vacation. It was also hard to believe that this could be the last time he would see his friend.

All the machines and their sounds, the tubes and wires and dials, told the truth: His partner was living by a thread, and he didn't want to lose him.

"Please," he whispered as he walked over to the bed, no longer looking like a tough cop who took on criminals for a living. He looked more like a scared little boy who was lost and didn't know his way home.

Not knowing if Starsky could hear him or not, or could respond, Hutch knelt on one knee beside the bed and took his hand, and began to pray for the life of his best friend.

"Please, God," he whispered. "You're my last hope. I don't know who else to turn to. I know I'm one of those people who only talks to you when things are going bad, and for that I'm sorry. But this is one of those times, and I need your help. I think you're the only one who can save him right now."

Even after Hutch was finished with his prayer, he remained on one knee, his eyes closed, squeezing Starsky's hand and hoping it would somehow make him recover.

"Starsk, I'm here for you. I don't know what to say, except that I want you to be okay, and if I could give any amount of blood or money to save you, I would. If we could do it over again, I'd want to be the one to take that bullet, not you."

Words seemed to dwindle away from him, and he had nothing left to say. He knew that there was no need to explain their friendship to Starsky. He would have stayed there all night on one knee, but the doctor came in and told him he had to leave the room.

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 6

XXXXXXXXX**

Captain Dobey saw Hutch coming from Starsky's hospital room, and saw that his face looked chalky white.

"Hutch, I think you should come with me to the waiting room where you can sit down."

But Hutch walked past him like he didn't hear.

"Hutch?"

He kept walking down the hall, past the nurse's desk, and out the sliding glass exit doors.

Thinking he'd stepped out for some fresh air, Dobey didn't follow him.

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 7

XXXXXXXXX**

Hutch showed the county sheriff his badge. "I'm here to see John Rodgers about the shooting of my partner."

The sheriff, a plump, narrow-eyed man who was cocked back in his chair behind the desk bearing his nameplate, looked the badge over. Three deputies milled around the office, shuffling through papers, going through files, one talking on the telephone.

"Your captain's already questioned him."

Hutch put the badge into his hip pocket. "I need to too."

A ceiling fan whirred slowly over their heads.

The sheriff sat up straight in his chair and leaned toward Hutch across the desk. "Suppose I say no?"

"Suppose I call it interfering with an investigation?"

The sheriff thought that over, then took a ring of keys from his top desk drawer and stood up.

"Ten minutes, city cop."

Hutch smiled. "All I need is five."

The sheriff gave him an odd look and led the way down the hall to the jail cell containing John Rodgers.

Hands folded behind his head like he didn't have a care in the world, Rodgers lay on the bunk in his blue jail uniform.

"Got a doctor close by?" Hutch asked the sheriff as he unlocked the cell and opened the barred door.

"Sure. Just down the street. Why?"

"He's going to need one," Hutch said as he walked over to the man, planted a knee in his chest, and began punching down into his face and stomach.

Rodgers yelled out and tried to ward off Hutch's attack.

"Hey!" the sheriff yelled to his deputies. "Get the hell in here! I need your help!"

The deputies came running, and it took all four of the law enforcement officers to pull Hutch off of the man.

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 8

XXXXXXXXX**

Dobey had already heard about Hutch's attack on the man when Hutch arrived back at the hospital.

"What the hell were you thinking!" the captain shouted as Hutch came down the hall.

"Revenge," Hutch answered without regret or remorse. "And how sweet it is."

"You could be charged with police brutality. Jeopardize your job."

"The man put a bullet in Starsky's chest. What do you think my job will mean to me if he dies?"

Dobey saw a different man. The one who left had been gentle and hurt. The one who returned was like a striking venomous snake. Only his partner could bring out both sides so quickly and distinctly.

"You're suspended for 3 months."

"Good."

"Without pay."

"GOOD!"

Hutch threw his hands up and stalked down the hall to the elevator.

XXXXXXXXX**

CHAPTER 9

XXXXXXXXX**

The next morning Dobey and two of the doctors found him sitting alone at a table in the hospital cafeteria, staring at a cold cup of coffee held between his hands.

"Been here all night?" the captain asked him.

Hutch didn't look up. His silence was the answer.

"Your partner survived the night," one of the doctors said. "He still has a fight ahead of him, but it looks like he's out of the woods."

Hutch slowly rose from the table. "You—you mean it?"

Dobey saw the boyish hope and vulnerability return to Hutch's eyes, and shook his head.

"You can sit with him a while," the doctor said. "But only a while. More time as he gets stronger."

Hutch looked around as if he didn't know where he was. "He's okay. I can't believe he's okay. Will he—" He looked urgently at the doctor again. "Will he be able to return to work? Do the things he did before?"

"I see no reason why he can't."

Even the doctor was smiling at the bewildered but happy look on Hutch's face.

Hutch didn't know what to do except shake the doctor's hand. "Thanks."

Dobey and the doctors smiled and followed him from the cafeteria, unable to keep up with his anxious pace.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

CHAPTER 10

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Thank you, God," Hutch whispered over and over as he ran down the hall to Starsky's room. "Thank you."

He rushed through the door to find Starsky's drowsy eyes halfway open and looking expectantly in his direction.

Hutch's grin brightened his face. "Hey, Starsk!"

Starsky was only able to lift a couple of fingers in greeting, but it was a miracle to Hutch as he crossed the room and smiled down at him.

They didn't say anything, because they didn't have to.

Hutch pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down to take in the look of his answered prayer.

End

:::::::::

NEXT DOOR

By TR

XXXXXXXXX+

Rosetta carried a tray of lunch down the hall to her young nephew's room. Balancing the tray of homemade chicken soup, cheese sandwich, and iced tea on one palm, she knocked on the door.

"David? I should come in. A growing boy needs his nourishment."

Silence answered her, like it had for the past three days.

She knocked again and raised her voice. "David! How do you expect to make your father proud if you stay in your room all the time?"

There was a wounded choking sound from inside the room, and then the door swung open to reveal a proud-chested boy of ten with teary blue eyes and a sob in his throat.

"My pop was already proud of me!" he cried at her, and moved to slam the door in her face.

Rosetta stopped the door with her heavy shoe and set the lunch tray on the dresser, then, eyes concerned and confused, took him by the shoulders and tried to rattle some sense back into him. He had a sensitive side, but she never saw it, so she could never nurture it.

"Tears won't bring him back, Davey! You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself!"

He struggled in her hands, trying to wrench himself free. "I want to go home!"

She gripped his upper arms tighter. "This is your home now! Your mama can't keep you right now!"

"I'll be good! I'll take care of Nicky! Mama needs me! Just take me back home!"

Uncle Albert came tromping into the room. "What's the fuss about, David! Why give your aunt Rosie the devil?"

His young face was fierce and sorrowful with pain and grief. "I want my Ma! I want Pop!"

Uncle Albert grabbed a handful of the boy's hair and looked levelly at his wife. "You have dinner to cook."

Her eyes searched his face. "No. Albert . . . "

He gripped the boy's shirt collar and pulled him to his tiptoes, still addressing Rosetta. "I said you have dinner to cook."

She lowered her eyes and left the room.

The boy tried to run, but was spinning his feet in the air and yelling. "Let me go!"

Albert backhanded the boy across the face, knocking him to the floor.

"You're our responsibility now," Albert said as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and looked down at the crumpled boy. "And you'll do as we say. Do you understand me?"

Lying on the floor on his side, David was too stunned to answer. He could only raise a confused, frightened face to his uncle, one hand holding his right eye.

Enraged that David hadn't answered, the man slipped off his belt and doubled it. "I said do you understand?"

Blinking back tears of shock and disbelief, David raised up on an elbow. It was the first time he had been assaulted as a child, and the mere idea that it was even possible both surprised and terrified him. It never occurred to him that an adult could or would want to hurt him. It was a new and strange feeling which left him feeling strangely simple. "My pop never hit me," was his quavering whisper.

The belt slapped across his face.

David howled out and flinched into a tight curl, covering his face with both hands. "Don't! Don't! I understand! I understand! Please don't!"

Albert slipped his belt back on and allowed the boy to run from the room.

David ran as fast as he could, through the house, off the porch, and into the grass, heading down the sidewalk. He bumped squarely into his next-door-neighbor.

"Whoa, there, where's the fire?" the man asked as he gently caught the boy's shoulders.

David looked up at him.

"What happened to your face?" the man asked. "It's red."

The boy looked down.

The man looked toward the house, then took a step toward it as if to confront whoever was responsible.

David pulled him back. "Hey. No. It's okay. What's your name?"

The man stopped, stepped back, and looked at him. "John Blaine. What's yours?"

"David Starsky."

"Well, David Starsky, if anyone lays a hand on you again, you come and tell me, will you?"

A smile brightened the boy's features. "Really?"

"Really. Now, have you had dinner yet?"

"Not yet. My Aunt Rosie is gonna make some."

"I'm making spaghetti and meatballs. Would you like some?"

""I don't know."

"Come on. We'll ask your aunt and uncle for permission."

They walked toward Albert and Rosie's house, and the boy looked up at John, still smiling.

End

:::::::::::

PARTNER (What If?)

by tlr

I came to and blinked around groggily, at first unable to remember what happened. And then, seeing the hospital room and my white gown, all the pieces flashed together in my head like a bunch of film clips and I remembered that I'd crashed the Torino chasing some two-bit crook down the highway.

Hutch.

I looked over at the hospital bed beside mine, saw it empty, raised up off my pillow-

"HUUUUTCH!"

-and buzzed for the nurse.

A cute one came running. I must have sounded like a braying elephant.

"What is it, Mr. Starsky?"

How could I tell her or make her understand?

I didn't know where he was, if he were hurt. But I knew one thing. If he was okay, he'd be right here in my room with me, and he wasn't. My heart was pounding like a racehorse.

"My partner. Ken Hutchinson. We were in the car together. I gotta know if he's okay."

"Okay, don't exert yourself. I'll go get the doctor."

"Hutchinson," I reminded her as I settled back onto my pillow a little. "Ken Hutchinson."

She hurried out the door.

I felt a little better, figuring he had to be alive. Because if he were dead, Dobey or Huggy or some doctor would be here to tell me when I woke up, right? I mean, I'd feel it.

While I waited for word on Hutch, I checked myself out, finding I only had a scratch above my eye covered with a Band-Aid.

Huh. No broken bones. No big cuts. Not so bad. Stay a night for observation and we'd go home the next day.

It was a few more minutes of waiting, and I couldn't help but look over to the empty bed.

Hutch should be there. It wasn't such a bad crash, was it? What was I supposed to do, NOT chase that speed demon?

Hutch told me to slow down, that it wasn't worth it. But me, I couldn't let that guy get away.

I heard voices at the door and sat up, hoping Hutch would come in with them and give me grief about driving like Mario Andretti and crashing the car. But there was no Hutch. Just a doctor, and Captain Dobey.

The cute nurse politely bowed out, closing the door softly as she went.

I could see from Dobey's face that it wasn't good. The doctor was trained to deliver bad news in a calm, professional manner, but Dobey's expression gave it away.

I looked at Cap, not the doctor.

"Where's Hutch?"

I was beginning to breathe harder. My chest rose and fell in quick pants.

When they only looked at each other, I took Cap's forearm and pulled him closer. "Where is he?"

The doctor cleared his throat to begin his speech.

Tired of waiting and wanting to see Hutch, I threw the covers back and swung out of bed.

Sorry I did, too, because the room began to spin and I swayed sideways.

Cap took my shoulders and sat me down, then leaned over to me and gave me a serious look with tears in his eyes.

Tears from Captain Dobey were not good.

"He took some pretty hard knocks, Starsky. Head injury. Bumps and bruises. No broken bones. But . . . "

That's as far as Cap could go. He was still leaning over me like I was a little kid who needed steadied for a big letdown.

The doctor took over.

"But he has a spinal injury, Detective. He's paralyzed from the waist down, and we don't expect him to ever walk again."

The news hit me so hard that a cloud of black passed before my eyes.

I blinked and squinted at Cap through the dark fog. "He's para . . . " I found it very hard to swallow. "Doc, you gotta be wrong about this. Maybe if you run some more tests or . . . "

I must have had one strange look on my face, because the doctor said, "I'm sorry."

(I'm sorry?)

What does sorry mean?

I'm sorry for giving you the worst news of your life?

I looked from Cap to the doctor, my dark haze finally passing. "Does he know?"

The doctor nodded. "We told him, but I'm not sure how much he understood under all that medication. He's sleeping. We'll talk to him again tomorrow, explain it more thoroughly, when he's fully awake and oriented."

"I . . . " My throat was getting tight. Oh, Hutch, what have I done to you? "Cap, I need to see him."

"Tomorrow," the doctor said.

"No," I said getting off the bed again. "Right now. If he wakes up during the night . . . I need to be there."

"Huggy's with him," Cap said. "You need to rest."

I settled back on the bed, just pretending to go along. "Yeah, sure. I'll rest."

Cap eyed me like he suspected I was faking.

"I'll come back around," he said as he and the doctor moved toward the door.

When they were gone, I was left to stare at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning. What do I say? What do I do? How can I take it back?

When the day nurses left and the night nurses came is when I put my robe on and slipped down the hall to the nurse's station to find out Hutch's room number.

324.

Guilt settled into my bones like some kind of parasite as I made my way down the hall and to his room. How does it happen so fast? You go to work, do your job. In the back of your mind you have an idea that something like this could always happen, but you never really think it's going to. I would jump in front of a locomotive for Hutch. But slow down when he tells me to? Just couldn't do it. Is that crazy? It wasn't Forest who brought him down. Wasn't some goon with a gun who took it all away. And after all the times Hutch was there for me. Saved my life. Is this how much I think of his?

I quietly pushed the door open to Hutch's room. There was a small light on in the corner, and Huggy was dozing in the chair next to the bed. Hutch was asleep, breathing deeply and heavily, white bandages around his head, some cuts and bruises on his face. I slipped quietly over to the bed and just stood there, no intention of waking him up because he needed his rest. He was under such heavy medication I don't know how he heard me. Guess he just sensed I was there, because his heavy eyes, a velvet blue because of the medicine, blinked open and gazed at me for a minute. There was this faraway look in his eyes, like he was wondering if he was really seeing me, or was he just dreamin'? Either

way, his fingers moved to the edge of the bed and I squeezed his hand.

I tried to say something, but the words just wouldn't come out.

And then, just like a light going out, his eyes closed and he was asleep again.

There wasn't anything else for me to do except go back to my room and try to get some sleep.

But it didn't come that night. All I did was stare at the wall and think about what I should have done different, and how I could ever make it up to him.

The next morning I was up and dressing in my clothes when the cute nurse came in to check on me.

"Mr. Starsky, what in the world are you doing?"

"Gettin' clothes on, what's it look like?"

"You're not planning on going AWOL on us, are you?"

I zipped my jeans and buttoned my shirt. "Not while my partner's here."

"Would you like some breakfast?"

"No thanks." I reached down for my shoes and fought a wave of dizziness.

"Whoa," I said as I sat down in a chair.

The nurse came over to me. "You're doing too much. You took a knock to your head too, you know."

"I'm all right," I said as I put my shoes on and tied them.

"Are you going to see your partner?"

"Yep."

"Would you like a wheelchair?"

"Nope."

"At least let me escort you to his room."

"No thanks. I know where it is."

I left her standing in my room as I went down the hall to 324.

Huggy was standing outside Hutch's door like he was guarding it.

"He awake?" I asked as I put my hand on the door to push it open.

Huggy wasn't smiling, and he looked as ragged and frayed as I felt. He moved my hand down off the door and stepped in front of me. "He is."

Huggy and I stood chest to chest.

"Look," I told him. "I'm in no mood. I didn't sleep last night. My head's poundin' like a sledgehammer. I need to talk to-"

Huggy shook his head no. "He doesn't need this right now, Starsk."

"That's not for you to decide," I said as I pushed him aside and stepped in the room.

Hutch was awake like Huggy said. He looked tired and washed out in the morning sun that came through the window and fell across the bed.

Right then I knew both of our lives had changed, and forever.

"Hutch," I blurted out, my voice on the verge of a sob. "I'm sorry."

Those two words. Sometimes so big. Sometimes not big enough.

It was the strangest thing. How his hand came up and stopped me in my tracks. One gesture. The physical force of Huggy's body couldn't keep me out, but Hutch's brief movement blocked me like a tank. And the worst part was that he turned his head away from me on the pillow. Couldn't even look at me.

"Hutch," I said, but not moving closer to the bed. I actually held my hands out like I was begging. "Please. I know I can't take it back, change anything, but I still want to be here for you . . . help you out . . . "

God. My own words were making me sick to my stomach. They sounded like plastic blocks coming out of my mouth. I could just imagine how they sounded to Hutch.

He still wasn't looking at me. His head was still turned away, toward the window. I saw his throat move as he fought a sob, and then it felt like the floor was being yanked out from under me.

Huggy moved in front of me again, as if to block Hutch's view of me.

Without Huggy having to say anything this time, I turned around and left, going back to my room to sink onto my bed, numb, drained of every ounce of physical and spiritual life that I had.

Our lives had changed all right, and it was my fault.

I walked out of the hospital without telling anyone and caught a cab home.

The phone was ringing when I got there, and it was Merle calling to tell me he was working on the Torino.

"I'll have it good as new in a day or two," he said in a too-cheerful voice.

"Keep it," I told him, and hung up.

There was no way I could drive that car again.

I'd lost my appetite and still couldn't sleep, so all I could find to do with myself was walk around the neighborhood, thinking about how bad Hutch must be feeling. He'd lost everything because of me. His legs. His job. I felt like crawling in a hole. I'm responsible for my partner's safety, and look what I do. How can I ever make something that bad go away?

"Make it a double," I said as I set my glass down in front of Diane again at Huggy's bar. "Better'n that, leave the bottle. I'm not drivin'."

She eyed me like she was about to say something, but she didn't. Ended up giving me the bottle.

I drank on the Bourbon pretty hard, liking the fuzzy feeling it gave my head. Hutch didn't hurt so much then.

I took Diane's wrist when she reached for the phone.

"Who you callin'?" I asked her. "Huggy's at the hospital with Hutch. Dobey's at the hospital with Hutch. Everybody's there but me."

She replaced the receiver and came around to my side of the bar, where she put an arm around me and kissed my cheek. "Bad mistakes happen sometimes, baby. We know you didn't mean to hurt him."

"I did more than hurt him. I destroyed his life."

She stood with me, her arm around me, leaning her head against mine until I was finished with my bottle. Then she said something to one of the waitresses about watching the bar and helped me up the stairs to Huggy's apartment and put me to bed.

I was drunk and could feel it, and I didn't care.

"Can't take it back," I droned over and over as she pulled my shoes off and loosened my belt. "Can't undo it."

"Sshh," she said as she climbed into bed beside me, stroking my face, humming me a song, trying to kiss my heartache away. "We all know you'd trade places with him if you could."

I appreciated that she understood, but her words didn't make me feel any better.

I sat in one of Merle's loaners, parked across the street from Hutch's place.

Diane told me Huggy was bringing Hutch home from the hospital today, and I wanted to be close by.

Huggy. Good old Huggy. Showed up in some white van with black leopard spots on the side. Got something for Hutch to complain about, I know.

Only Hutch wasn't doing much complaining, or talking at all for that matter, when Huggy opened the sliding doors of the van and set a wheelchair on the sidewalk.

I had to put my forehead down on the steering wheel at the sight of it.

No way. That couldn't be real.

Up till now I thought I'd accepted the reality of it, but seeing that wheelchair for the first time, I realized I only thought I had.

That would be Hutch's life from now on. How would he adjust?

My breath sounded short and fast in the confines of the front seat, and it took all the strength I had to raise my eyes off the steering wheel to look back at the van. Huggy was struggling to lift Hutch from the front seat and down into the wheelchair.

Hutch put an arm around Huggy's neck and tried to assist.

I couldn't help it. I wanted to run across the street and help him, and actually had the car door open. But I stopped myself at the last minute. Hutch really didn't want me here. He hadn't called me. Hadn't asked me to come.

So I just sat there gripping the steering wheel and watched Huggy push Hutch to a nearby apartment, up a small ramp, and inside.

Nearby apartment?

Oh my God. Why didn't I think of that? Hutch couldn't use Venice Place anymore. Not with all those stairs. He had to take a ground-floor one. Huggy must have had all of Hutch's stuff moved for him. Without telling me, and without asking me to help.

I closed my eyes, fighting against the images that muscled their way in: Of Hutch running every morning, so fast and strong. Running that money all over town when we handled that kidnapped girl. Running down the street at that Mexican bar to keep me from getting creamed.

No more running.

No more partner.

I'd just have to find a way to live with what I'd done. Like Hutch had to.

I was cleaning out my garage when I saw Captain Dobey's car pull up to my curb.

It'd been, how long since we'd talked? Weeks ago. Since the hospital.

He leaned back against the grill of his car and watched me toss some old rugs and blankets into a pile.

"I didn't come to give you a hard time," he said as he folded his arms across his chest. He was dressed in casual clothes. Short-sleeved shirt and golfing pants.

"Good," I said as I kept working, and without looking at him.

"I just uh . . . came to see when you were coming back to work."

I brushed my hands off on my black T-shirt and stuck my hands in the pockets of my khaki shorts. "I'm not."

He studied me a long time, then said, "You're a good cop. I'd hate to lose you."

"Just a sec, Cap. Be right back."

I left him resting against the front of his car with a curious expression on his face while I sprinted up my stairs and came back down with my gun, holster, and shield.

"Here," I said putting the things into his hands. "Ain't no way I want to be a cop after what I did to Hutch."

He looked down at the things in his hands, then back up. "Starsky, things happen. Nobody knew-"

"HUTCH KNEW! AND I KNEW! HE TOLD ME TO SLOW DOWN AND I DIDN'T LISTEN!"

"Starsky! Do I have to knock some sense into your head?"

We were both drawing looks from my neighbors, who were outside washing their cars and or walking their dogs on this fine Saturday morning.

"What are you going to do for a job?" he asked hotly.

"I'm workin' with a construction crew across town."

He snorted like he was disgusted, then took my gun, holster, and shield and tossed them into his back seat.

"I'll be around if you need me," he grumbled as he slid under his steering wheel and took off.

I returned to cleaning out my garage.

I didn't have any feelings one way or the other about my new job. Take it or leave it. A paycheck. Nothing of meaning about it. Not like there'd been when me and Hutch were cops. That was more than a paycheck. I think we'd have done it for free, except that we had to keep a roof over our heads and food in our mouths.

Glad you're not here to see me, Pop. I don't think you'd be so proud now.

I thought about Hutch non-stop as I helped build houses. Like what he was doing, how he was doing it. Grudgingly admitting that I was glad Huggy was there to help him out. Some days I was glad to have a hammer in my hand just so I could pound out some of my frustration.

So many times I wanted to just head over to his house for lunch, just to say hi, or take him somewhere, see how he was gettin' along. But it was useless when he didn't want to see me. He had a right to feel the way he did. I don't blame him. If I hadn't been so reckless, he'd still be walking, we'd still be working together, and would still be friends.

You think nothing can harm a friendship like the one me and Hutch had. Except that you don't count on one of the friends doing the harm.

So, as much as I wanted to go over to his place to see him, I didn't want to make him feel worse than he already did.

One day I was sitting on a sawhorse at the site and eating my lunch when I looked up to see Kiko walking toward me.

I didn't even have a smile for him. Couldn't remember the last time I smiled at all. Food tasted like mush. I slept badly. I just worked through the day to pass the time and make a living, and then I went home to a boring, Hutchless house.

"Hi, Starsky. How you doing?"

"How's it look like I'm doin'?"

He chopped the heel of his sneaker into the dirt. "About as bad as Hutch. You need to go see him. He's not doing so hot."

I stopped chewing my sandwich and narrowed my eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he's not eating, and he can't sleep, and he-"

I held my hand up. "Kiko, he has a right to feel bad. You realize what happened? He can't walk. He can't do police work. All because of me. I have to accept how he feels."

Kiko closed my lunch pail. "Starsky, he didn't come to the door this morning when I went to see him. I don't know if he was home or not. I went to see if Huggy could help, but he was gone too."

I walked over to the foreman and told him I needed to take the rest of the day off. He gave me a funny look but didn't say anything. I'd worked seven days a week for him plus overtime every day, so he wasn't going to balk on a few hours. I was the best man he had.

"How'd you know where to find me?" I asked Kiko as I went to my black Nova.

"Captain Dobey told me."

"Need a ride home?"

"Why can't I go to Hutch's with you? He's my friend too."

"Just get in the car. You're goin' home."

I dropped Kiko off at his house, then drove over to Hutch's new place.

I didn't see Huggy's funky van anywhere, but I did notice that Hutch's tan Ford was nowhere around. Huggy probably sold it for him. Or at least took it to Merle's.

I walked up the three wide steps. A ramp was in the middle, with regular steps on each side.

"Hutch?" I said knocking on his door.

When I got no answer, I knocked again and raised my voice. "Hey, Hutch! Let me in for a minute! Kiko's worried about you!"

When I still didn't get an answer, I tried the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open a few inches.

Hutch caught it in his hand and swung it wide open.

"Want to come in and get a good look?" he asked as he backed up his wheelchair to give me room to come in.

The sight of him in the chair took my breath away. My knees went weak, and when I opened my mouth to talk, I lost my voice.

"Want to go play some wheelchair basketball with me?" he asked in a tight, low voice. "Or how about a nice roll on the beach?"

My voice cracked when I finally did find it again. "Hutch, I know there's nothin' I can say-"

He grabbed the front of my shirt and jerked me down to his eye level. His arms were as strong as ever. "Don't say you're sorry."

"But . . . " I swallowed. "I am."

Tears gathered in his icy eyes and he shook me a little. "Look what you did to me."

I nodded, trying to keep from crying myself. "I know. I didn't mean-"

He looked toward another room, the bedroom, and then back at me. "Sweet Alice came over last night, Starsk," he said in a trembling voice. "I cooked dinner for her, I played my guitar. We had a nice time. I tried to do something normal, you know? Like old times? And I tried to make love to her, but I couldn't. Not the way I wanted to. It wasn't normal, and it wasn't like old times. She said it didn't matter to her how we did it, as long as we did it and we were together. She said all the right things, and I know she meant them, but. . . but . . . I made her leave, even when she didn't want to go. So what do I do about that, Starsk? Huh? What do I do about making love to a woman?"

He still had my shirt clutched in his fists.

I just shook my head. "I'm sorry."

"Get out of here," he said as he shoved me back. I stumbled against the door and fumbled for the knob, my eyes on him all the while.

Words escaped me. I didn't have any left to say as I watched him turn his chair around and wheel toward the bedroom.

My visit only confirmed my worst fear. He really did hate me.

I couldn't believe it, but Huggy had a half-smile for me when I walked into his place that afternoon. Having just come from Hutch's, I was in no mood for one myself.

"Gonna eat?" he asked me as I sat down at the counter.

"You mean I'm allowed?"

"Hey, don't get me wrong. I don't like to see Hutch in his predicament, but I ain't holdin' no grudges."

I took my jacket off and leaned up on the bar. "Burger."

After he told Diane what I wanted, he turned back.

"You check on him every day?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Not every day. He don't want me around every day. He knows how to use a telephone. But sometimes I admit, I dream up an excuse to go over there, like takin' him a

sampling of new cuisine. He's keepin' busy with that new job of his."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Teachin' firearms safety and first aid at the police academy where you dudes trained."

I nodded.

"'course," he said with a careful look in my direction, "he says it don't compare to detectin', but you know, at least it's somethin'."

That evening I drove around until I ended up at Sweet Alice's. She was watering her plants on the patio in a lacey white dress.

"Busy?" I asked as I got out of my car and walked toward her.

She looked at my Nova, then at me with a smile. "Never too busy for you, hon. Come on in."

I followed her inside and over to the kitchen area. Her smile lit up the whole place, but I couldn't offer her one in return.

She poured two glasses of iced tea and handed me one at the kitchen bar. "Somethin' I can do for you, Starsk?"

I took a drink of the tea, then set the glass down. "I um . . . guess I want to thank you."

Her smile turned a little uncertain. "For what, sugar?"

"For bein' you," I said, and then on impulse, leaned toward her and kissed her cheek. I drank the rest of the tea, set the glass down, then walked on out.

Next Saturday, one half of my brain said go see Hutch at the academy, the other half said stay away.

But I gave in to my better half and drove across town to the academy.

Walking through the halls was weird. Familiar and strange at the same time. Old faces, new faces. Experience and fresh starts, all under one roof.

Sure brought back a lot of memories.

I checked at the front desk to find out where Hutch was teaching, then headed down to the gym. I didn't go in, I just stood in the doorway and watched as he trained about twenty students in basic first aid. Today he was demonstrating with a cadet how to do a leg splint.

Huggy was right. It couldn't compare to "detecting" but Hutch obviously had his heart in it, even making jokes with the cadets about how some of the splints looked. Making the best of the lousy situation I'd put him in.

I moved out of the doorway and walked back down the hall, then through the front doors and across the parking lot to my car.

I drove home thinking it was good seeing Hutch again and knowing he wasn't staying cooped up at his place.

Thirty minutes later I parked my car in front of my house and got out.

Somebody walked toward me, and at first it looked like any other old guy in a faded work hat and coveralls, but by the time I saw who it really was-Crazy George Prudholm, who I realized must have escaped-it was too late. He and a couple of his cohorts attacked me all at once with some baseball bats. I reached for a gun I no longer had, and then it was lights out.

When I came to, my head was in Hutch's lap and I wasn't sure if I were dead or alive. I heard a ceiling fan whirring above me and realized I was in Hutch's new apartment. Crazy George must have thought he'd killed me and wanted to dump my carcass on Hutch's doorstep.

I didn't know how bad off I was, but I couldn't move anything, and each breath was a stab to my lungs.

"Huh-" I coughed.

"Easy," Hutch said as he dabbed the caked blood away from my swollen eyes.

My hand groped up for him because my eyes were too swollen to open. I felt the hard floor under me and could tell Hutch was sitting Indian fashion with me halfway in his lap.

"That you?" I heard myself mumble from what seemed like a mile away.

I felt his hair, his face, then his hand as it clasped mine. I decided I was either dead and in heaven or was worked over pretty bad, because the last time I saw Hutch, he was in no mood to play Florence Nightingale.

"It's me," he said kindly. "Ambulance is coming. I found you outside my door when I got home from work. You know who jumped you, Starsk? I'll call Cap."

"Yeah," I muttered through my mashed mouth, but passed out before I could tell him anything else.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, couldn't tell if it was night or day, where I was or what was going on, but I could hear Hutch's voice nearby whenever I was conscious enough to hear anything at all.

My eyes were still puffed closed when I came fully awake, but I could hear Hutch talking to Dobey beside my bed about what had happened.

"I think he's awake," Hutch said as he came right up to the bed in his wheelchair and put his hand on my forehead. There was a slight creak in his wheels that I would learn to recognize as Hutch. Reminded me of his old car in a way. "You waking up, Starsk?"

I tried to nod but don't know if I did.

"Was it Prudholm?" he asked. "Huggy said he heard he escaped the sanitarium."

I guess I nodded, because Dobey said, "We'll get him, Dave."

Oh boy. I must have looked like Frankenstein's monster if he called me Dave.

Hutch's chuckle was gentle and affectionate, a familiar sound I missed, and liked hearing again. "Got my attention this time, didn't you, buddy?"

"You don't have to . . . " I struggled to tell him. "Stay. If you don't want . . . "

Hutch leaned closer to me and put his hand on my arm. "Starsk, I'll have to live the rest of my life in this chair, but I'd hate to have to live it without you around."

I couldn't control the groggy laugh that escaped, even though it hurt my face, my chest, and my stomach. "Thanks, George."

Last thing I heard before I drifted off to sleep was Hutch saying, "So I hear you've been building houses?"

For the next few days I still couldn't move. I lay like hurting lumps of clay in the bed. One

broken arm, some cracked ribs, various bumps and bruises, and some stitches.

Huggy dropped by to bring a special meal, and Sweet Alice came by to model some new dresses she bought. Kiko brought his mother to see us. And best of all, Captain Dobey stopped in with the good news that he personally had arrested Prudholm after he traced a tip to a halfway house near his old hangout.

Hutch stayed right there by my side, bringing me things to drink, sneaking in some snacks, turning the TV to some old gangster movies, reading me some true crime detective magazines, being the consummate worrywart.

"You know, Hutch," I told him once I could pry my eyes open to look at him, "you'd make a good Jewish mother."

He actually beamed with pride at that remark. I just shook my head. It could be worse. He could be giving me the cold shoulder.

I wanted to talk to him about the crash, and about how bad I felt, and how responsible I felt, how things seemed bad right now but they would be okay, but I knew we'd already said what needed to be said. He'd forgiven me, and that's what I needed. We didn't need a lot of words, Hutch and me. But we did need each other. And as long as we had our friendship, we were still partners, and could face anything life had to offer.

End

:::::::::::::

SWEET REVENGE MISSING SCENE

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

I saw him halfway down the hospital corridor, alone, pacing back and forth with his hands on his hips, head down, eyes on the floor.

He looked more than alone. He looked lost. His eyes had lost life. His hair lost color. His skin was almost gray with heartache. The look on his face told me he was nearly detaching. From David? Himself? The world?

If David didn't pull through . . . I didn't want to think about what that would mean for Hutch.

I heard bits of murmuring at the nurse's desk:

"Shot…"

"Police garage ….."

"Ambushed…"

"Police uniforms…"

"Life support….."

He didn't see me coming toward him down the hall. He had moved to the observation glass and pressed his forehead against it. I don't think he was seeing anything but Dave.

Even when I approached him and touched his shoulder, his eyes didn't stray from the still figure of David in the bed.

He didn't move his eyes the slightest in my direction. They remained on his partner. The only indication that he knew who I was and that I was next to him was the stiffening of his arm under his jacket sleeve.

My name fell so blandly from his lips. He was losing even his voice.

"Kira."

I wasn't sure what to say. He knew I was there. I thought he would at least look at me, but he didn't. And I knew why. He thought that if he took his eyes off of David to look at me, something terrible would happen. He was willing David to stay alive through the glass. I think it took every ounce of strength he had.

His pale voice spoke softly against the glass. "Why did you come?"

I knew that was coming, yet I still hadn't prepared an answer for him.

I shrugged. "I had a choice when I heard the news. Stay home or come here. I didn't want to open an old wound, Ken, but . . . "

"Don't flatter yourself by thinking that we had a second though about you after we left Huggy's."

"Obviously you didn't. Neither of you called—"

"Do you have to turn this into something about you? Did you come here to see him or piss me off?"

"He loved me—"

His voice was soft acid, eyes remaining on David. "I know."

"Look, okay, we're grownups. I came to see David, to show you some support. I know what he means to you."

"You don't know anything, lady."

My hand went out to touch him again, but I took it back. "I'll leave if you want me to."

It was a long time before he answered. He was so focused on David's chest rising and falling that I think he forgot I was even there.

His voice had lost the poison and was now near a whisper again. "I want you to."

I didn't move at first, thinking he might change his mind and say my name again, touch me, take my hand, slip an arm around me.

But he didn't. So I really was left with no choice but take a last look at David, pass a silent prayer his way, and walk back down the hall.

Taking another glance over my shoulder, I saw him standing in the same place, his forehead still against the window, eyes wet, longing for David's life. He didn't realize I was gone. Nor did he care.

End