Being There and Above and Beyond

by Zebra 3 and Me

These stories contain dark drama and intense situations.

BEING THERE and ABOVE AND BEYOND

By TLR

Stories-

Children Green and Gold-A child abuse case

Omens-Gunther's men strike again

Playback II-S must face himself

Shadows-A Jewish hate group seeks revenge for the Holocaust

Sleep-A member of the Mafia retaliates

Snowstorm II-Recovery from the camping trip

The Fire-H goes the extra mile to save a baby

Damages-A tragic accident may change S forever

Premonition-The Plague/SR missing scene

Premonition II-Sweet Revenge missing scene

Shadows II-H struggles with victimization

Shadows III-H reaches out to an abused child

Tainted-There is more to H's new love than meets the eye

Twist of Fate-H's worst fear is upon him

CHILDREN GREEN AND GOLD

By TLR

"We have a fourteen-year-old boy with a knife wound to the stomach," the female doctor told Starsky and Hutch when they displayed their shields to her in the waiting room of St. Joseph's hospital. "We don't know who did it or why. He isn't talking."

"Parents here, Doctor . . ?" Starsky read her ID pin. "Silva?"

"Father's dead. Mother's on her way over from the laundromat." Dr. Silva smiled at him. "Haven't I treated you before?"

He grinned, flattered she remembered. "Yeah. Last year when some big ape cracked me in the ribs while I . . . " His chest swelled with cocky pride and he dipped his head in mock modesty. " . . . was arresting him for bank robbery."

Hutch rolled his eyes.

Dr. Silva smiled. "I never forget an open hospital gown."

Starsky glanced at her hand and saw no ring. "Interested in a movie tonight?"

"Sorry. Already made plans."

"Raincheck?"

She smiled, a twinkle in her soft brown eyes. "We'll see."

Starsky and Hutch both watched her sashay from the waiting room.

"See how smooth I am?" Starsky said as he nudged Hutch's arm.

"Yeah, Smoothie, she fell head over heels for you, didn't she? Let's talk to the boy."

The boy lay stiffly in his hospital bed, eyes fastened somewhere out the window, hands holding firmly to the sheet partially covering his bandaged stomach.

He was a handsome boy, with emerald-green eyes and a shock of black hair, but his face was ghostly pale and his eyes held the look of a weary old man.

"Hello there," Hutch said politely as he displayed his ID. "I'm Detective Ken Hutchinson, and this is my partner David Starsky."

The boy did not move or acknowledge their presence. It wasn't new to Hutch. Most kids these days didn't like talking to cops. "Can we talk to you?"

The boy didn't respond. Hutch saw on his thin throat what appeared to be three small healing burns or scabs. "I didn't get your name."

The boy answered without looking at him. "Joe Pillman."

"And your mother's?"

"Wanda."

Even though Hutch could easily find the information in the files, he wanted the boy to talk, even if it were about such mundane details.

Starsky sighed, trying not to sound impatient as he took a seat on a stool. Hutch's ice-breaking small talk eventually bore fruit, but it was a boring and tedious process. Starsky would have preferred to cut to the chase, but he understood that that tactic wasn't always the best when dealing with certain victims. Especially quiet kids.

"Wanda," Hutch repeated. "Where do you and your mother live?"

"Fifteen Baird Avenue in Venice."

"Venice? That's where I live. I know your house. There's a smiley face sticker on the front door."

Joe's eyes darted halfway toward Hutch, but then went back to the window again. "I've seen you running in the mornings."

Hutch looked at his partner and smiled. "Small world, Starsk."

Joe waved a hand at the dark-haired detective without looking at him. "And I've seen your car. That red . . . tornado."

Starsky grinned. "Torino."

Hutch laughed. "I like this boy." He sat on the foot of the boy's bed. "Where does your mom work?"

"She doesn't. She gets a disability check."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's okay. She's depressed or something. Takes pills for it every day. Doesn't get out a lot. Just to the store or to the laundry. Sorta lays around the house and watches soap shows. Except that I don't think she really watches. Mostly she just stares off at the TV."

"You and your mother get along?"

Joe nodded.

Starsky stepped over to the bed. "Your mom got a boyfriend?"

Hutch heard the beginnings of impatience in his partner's voice.

"No," the boy answered. "Too tired for a social life."

"Anybody else live with you?" Starsky asked.

The boy was shrinking back into his pillow but Starsky didn't see it. Or if he did, he didn't care. He couldn't help but stare at the boy's neck. "What happened to your neck, Joe?"

The boy laughed a little, his hand going to his throat. "Curling iron. Haven't got the hang of it yet."

Hutch knew his partner had pressed too far too soon, and wanted to cut the interview before they lost the boy completely. "Starsk, we can do this later. He looks tired."

But Starsky pushed. "How did you get stabbed, Joe?"

He didn't answer. He had clammed up like Hutch knew he would if questioned too directly.

"Were you attacked?" Starsky asked.

"No."

"Fight at school?"

"No."

"A gang?"

"No. It was an accident." He laughed again, but this time was even less convincing than the last. "I fell on it."

Starsky's eyes suddenly flashed anger at the boy. "You expect us to believe that?"

Hutch shot him a sharp look. "Easy."

Starsky ignored the look. "Huh? Okay. Tell us how the accident happened. Tell us how you were just peeling an apple in the kitchen and all of a sudden you just fell on the knife."

"Starsk . . . "

"And your neck? Tell us how careless you were when you were curling your hair."

"Starsky!"

"Did your mother do it, kid? Because if she did-"

Hutch was off the bed and pulling Starsky out the door by his arm, taking him halfway down the corridor. "What's with you? He won't tell us anything with your fire-breathing dragon routine and your-"

Hutch stopped because Starsky was looking down at the floor, hands on his hips.

Hutch softened a bit. "It's not a routine, is it? It reminds you of somebody, doesn't it?"

Starsky turned and walked down the hall toward the elevator. Hutch followed him.

"Starsky, talk to me."

"Hands," Starsky said as he pushed the down button on the wall. He was agitated, shifting from foot to foot. "Hands are supposed to love, not hurt."

"Starsk-"

"But they scar, and kill, and destroy."

"Not all hands, Starsk."

"I could understand a stranger doin' it," he said, then suddenly kicked the wall. "But not his mother!"

"I suspect it's her too, but we can't jump the gun. We need more than a hunch to prove it. Especially since he's not talking. You know how abuse is."

They looked at each other, Hutch reading more from Starsky's eyes than he really wanted to, Starsky saying more with that look than he ever could with his mouth.

"An uncle knocked me around a few times," Starsky shrugged. "It was nothin' compared to

this kid."

Hutch squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry, Starsk, but I think I should handle this one by myself, or we should tell Captain Dobey to assign it to someone else."

Starsky jerked his arm away from him. "You think I'll jeopardize this case? Just because I happen to feel strongly about-"

"No, not intentionally."

The elevator doors slid open and a plump, red-haired woman clutching her purse stepped out, trundling past them and going down the hall.

Starsky followed her. "You did it, didn't you?"

He didn't have to ask her name to know it was the boy's mother. He knew by her dull, medicated eyes and her sluggish body. Even her tongue was thick with medication when she spoke. "I beg your par-"

Starsky took her arm. "I'm not gonna let you see him. Not until the investigation is-"

Hutch grabbed Starsky's jacket collar and pulled him down the hall. "Starsky, don't say another word. Get on the elevator-"

"Let go of me."

"Go down to the station-"

"I mean it, Hutch."

"And run a background check on Wanda Pillman. I'll see if I can salvage this investigation."

"Stuff it."

Hutch pushed Starsky into the elevator, then ran to catch up to Wanda Pillman before she could go into her son's hospital room.

Hutch and the woman sat in the waiting room drinking coffee. It was difficult for him to read her lethargic eyes, her laggard demeanor. What bothered him the most was that she just sat compliantly without ever asking about the condition of her son.

"Joe's going to be okay," he told her, even though she hadn't inquired. "Accidents happen all the time. Maybe he'll be more careful in the future."

He watched her to see if she was buying his feigned naiveté. It was hard to tell.

"You're probably wondering why I would be questioning you about this," Hutch told her. "Standard procedure for a hospital to call the authorities when they get an injury to a child this serious. Certainly no one is accusing you of anything, Mrs. Pillman, but the hospital will be keeping Joe here for observation for a few days, and I am asking you as the investigating officer not to have any contact with him until we clear this up. That's standard procedure too. He'll be fine here."

She licked her dry lips with her dry tongue, neither voice nor expression changing when her mouth finally did open and her slow motion words rolled out: "How did Joey say it happened?"

Starsky drove past the Pillman house three different times before deciding to stop.

He parked in front of the nondescript house bearing the smiley face sticker and got out of

the car.

(Nothing different here. Nothing wrong. Just a small white house. Like a lot of the other small houses on this street. Nothing unusual, nothing unique, except for maybe what goes on inside it, and except for the fact that you're walking up to it without a search warrant, Sergeant, nothing wrong except for that).

Starsky tried the front door and found it unlocked.

(What are you doing here? This is against the law, you know. Illegal. Even if you found something, like what, what exactly are you looking for, even if you found something you couldn't use it, they'd throw the case out of court, just go get a warrant, go get Hutch, he was right, you don't need to be doing this case, you don't need to be here, you're going to screw it up, and then what, the kid loses, he'll have to come back home to that monster lady and whose fault will that be?)

Starsky opened the door (stay or go, go or stay, legal or illegal, help or hurt, right or wrong) and stepped inside.

The interior of the house was as plain and drab as Wanda Pillman. No pictures on the walls, no flowers, only a couch, a chair, and a TV in the living room (she likes the soap stories).

The kitchen reflected the woman's depression. Stacks of filthy, mold-encrusted dishes filled the sinks and lined the greasy kitchen counters, and overflowed on the stove. Boxes, cans, and packages of half-eaten food were piled on the table, and even the chairs. Mouse droppings peppered the place mats, and roaches were feasting on the leftovers.

Starsky went to the small bathroom, which was filthy. The tub's dirty ring looked like it had been there forever, and the sink was full of scum.

With a pencil he swung the medicine cabinet door open and viewed its contents. A stick of deodorant, a toothbrush, and bottles and bottles of prescription medicine.

(She's depressed. She takes pills every day)

Reading the prescription labels, Starsky realized Wanda Pillman was more than just depressed. She was probably manic-depressive, maybe even borderline psychotic.

He closed the door again and went to the next room. It had to be a bedroom because of the bed and dresser, but besides those two pieces of furniture, the room was bare. The bed had no sheets, the opened dresser drawers were empty, and no clothes hung in the closet.

He went to the last room of the house. Another bedroom. Her bedroom. And maybe . . . (no, that couldn't be right, he's too old, too big, maybe, no way, maybe his bedroom too)

A wave of nausea kept wanting to roll up his body, but he fought it. He had to. He had to understand what he saw before him: The clothes closet which held her clothes and his. The dresser which held her clothes and his. The bed with the rumpled, stained sheets. Her nightgown. His boxers. Her red hair on the pillows. His black hair. Pubic hairs in the KY Jelly on the bedside table.

(What happened to your neck, Joe?)

(Curling iron)

(Sure it was the curling iron, kid? Because after I see her bedroom here, after I see what she does to you, I don't think it was the curling iron, no, not at all, I think those marks on your neck are hickeys)

Starsky turned and ran, scrambling out the front door in time to heave into Wanda Pillman's drab, nondescript shrubbery.

Starsky raced up the five flights of stairs of the hospital, no time for the elevator.

(You couldn't tell, Joe, but you wanted somebody to find out, didn't you? You couldn't expose your mother yourself, turn her in, rat her out, because you still love her, God knows why, you still love her even though she's been sleeping with you for years, you probably thought it was a normal thing to do until now, until you got old enough to realize, old enough for puberty, for boy/girl stuff, for something to compare it to, to see how abnormal it all always was, and you felt shame, didn't you, you felt like you were a part of it, like there must be something wrong with you too, she told you she loved you, she told you she was your mother, that you could trust her, but you learned, somehow you learned that it was wrong, that mothers didn't sleep with their fourteen-year-old sons, that they didn't make you do things that were sick and unnatural, and you wanted someone to know, to find out and stop it, even though you couldn't say it yourself, you wanted the perversion to end, you wanted to stop the pain, stop her, stop yourself, and the only way to get people to notice, to look inside that nasty closet of yours, was to show us in a physical way how much you really hurt inside, you had to let the pain out, so you cut yourself open, didn't you, you stabbed yourself to let it all out, so someone would see)

(Freud, how did you know? Who got to you when you were a kid?)

"WITCH!" Starsky roared as he threw the door open and burst into the hospital corridor.

His chest was heaving madly as he ran like a maniac toward the woman who stood near the water fountain with Hutch.

Hutch saw him coming and tried to grab him, but Starsky knocked him against the wall and kept going after her, tackling her from behind and grabbing her hair to pound her face into the floor. "YOU WITCH! I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!"

Hutch grabbed Starsky from behind and shoved him facedown on the floor, planting a knee in his back. "Starsky! What's wrong with you?!"

Starsky's response shocked him. He was crying into the floor. A weak, helpless sound. No fight left.

Hutch stared at the woman. "What did you do?"

The woman was rolling over and reaching for her purse on the floor.

Hutch's left hand was on Starsky's back, while his right pulled out the Magnum, aiming it at the woman. "Don't move," he told her. "Don't touch that purse."

But her hand kept going, and Hutch could only watch in pale horror as she drew a small pistol from her handbag.

"Put it down," he told her in a wavering voice, but she didn't listen, and as she brought the gun up, toward him or herself, Hutch would never know for sure, he had no choice but to pull the trigger.

Starsky flinched under Hutch's hand at the gunshot, and then the doctors, nurses, security guards, and patients were all running to see what had happened.

Starsky and Hutch stood with Joe Pillman, who was dry-eyed, at the pitifully small funeral. Dr. Silva was in attendance, as was Captain Dobey. All wore grim faces, and Captain Dobey couldn't remember the last time his detectives had been so down over a case before.

The minister read a passage from the Bible. "'Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest'."

It was at these words that the boy began to sob softly, hand to his forehead, shoulders hunching in grief.

Hutch put his arm around the kid's shoulders and squeezed. "It's over, Joe. You'll be all right."

Joe whispered into his hands. "I still love her."

Hutch looked at Starsky, then at the boy. "I know you do. There's nothing wrong with that. She had the problems, Joe. Not you. She was full of poison and she spilled it into you."

The young teenager wiped his eyes with the tie Hutch had loaned him. "I've got nowhere to go."

Starsky took a photo from the jacket of his black suit and handed it to the boy. "Yes, you do. This is your foster family. We'll drive you over there whenever you're ready."

End

OMENS

By TR

Captain Dobey's sedan and two black and whites were already at the abandoned storage building when Hutch barreled his car into the parking lot, spilling out before it even came to a stop, running for the steps that led down to the basement.

The two rookies were cordoning off the area with yellow police tape. Dobey grabbed Hutch's jacket sleeve. "You don't want to go down there, Hutch."

Hutch's eyes stared blue and wide into his captain's face, reading his eyes, panting for breath.

"He's a mess," Dobey said quietly.

Hutch broke free of Dobey's grasp, but Dobey pulled him back again, digging his fingers deep into Hutch's arms. "Hutch, he's gone."

Hutch shook his head no and tore away from him, throwing the door open and plunging down the basement steps.

"Hutchinson!"

To the officers Dobey barked, "Keep everybody out," then followed Hutch in.

The two uniformed officers exchanged a look but would do as they were told.

Hutch reached the bottom of the basement steps and looked around, seeing something, or someone, covered by a white sheet. There was a bloodstain on the sheet, and one hand poked from beneath it.

"Starsky!"

Hutch ran over to the white shape on the floor and fell to one knee, jerking the sheet off and flinging it aside.

Dobey approached him. "Hutch, there's nothing you can do."

Hutch looked down at Starsky, who lay curled on his side in a heap (nothing final here, just like the time you found him on his floor after that idiot injected him with the poison, just like the time he was shot in the Italian restaurant, just like the time Marcus' cult grabbed him, just like Gunther's guns . . .)

Blood matted the side of Starsky's head, the light gone from his ever-glimmering eyes.

"Gunther," Dobey said quietly. "Shot him in the head. He wouldn't tell them where you were. At least..." He looked down at his shoes. "That's what their note said."

Hutch ignored Dobey and put a trembling hand on Starsky's still head. "Starsky?"

Dobey closed his eyes. "Hutch, he's dead. Let's go."

Hutch took Starsky under the arms and sat him up. "Hey, Starsk? You okay? You hear me? You with me?"

"Put him down, Hutch."

Starsky's head fell forward and Hutch shook him gently, sniffing, eyes wet, repeating the same nonsensical words of comfort he always said when Starsky needed it. "Starsk? I'm here. Come on, okay? You'll be all right. Talk to me."

"Hutch, for God's sake," Dobey groaned. "He's gone. Let him go."

Hutch stubbornly shook his head no, then picked Starsky up and carried him toward the basement steps. "It's okay," he crooned softly to the lifeless body he carried. "You'll see. Just hang on. I'll get you some help."

"Hutch!" Dobey roared at his back. "Damn it, he's dead! Put him down!"

Hutch carried him up the steps and over to his car, laying him onto the hood on his back. "They killed him."

Dobey moved toward him. "Hutch, listen to—"

"They took him."

Hutch lowered his head, and when Dobey stepped up behind him, the blond cop turned and wept on his captain's shoulder.

End

PLAYBACK II

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch noticed Starsky staring at the body of the dead priest who had been tossed carelessly into the big dumpster in the basement of an abandoned schoolhouse as if he were a mere piece of refuse himself, facedown in the garbage, clothes torn, trousers down around his ankles, throat slashed, the white clerical collar a dark rusty red from the dried blood.

A police photographer stepped up to take a picture. A member of the crime lab looked at Hutch. "How the hell do we collect samples from this stiff when he's in a dumpster full of garbage?"

Hutch's face was grim and pale and his tone was sharper than he had intended.

"You collect samples anyway, Fultz. Take the whole thing out of here."

"You're kidding."

"I said take the whole thing down to the lab and collect the samples there."

Captain Dobey nodded to the forensic detective to do as Hutch said.

The forensic detective shrugged and did as he was told.

The photographer and a few uniformed rookies were leaving the scene with the forensic detective, who was wheeling the dumpster out with the help of a couple of assistants.

Dobey spoke to Hutch but his eyes were on Starsky. "Hutch, we're done here. Whenever you want to leave."

Hutch nodded, then watched Dobey as he ushered the last of the cops from the basement.

Starsky and Hutch were now alone in the dark, dank basement, its only light a sick yellow bulb in the ceiling.

Hutch looked at Starsky, (what's this place doing to you, friend? Bringing back memories you don't even know you have? Memories I have but your mind so conveniently and blessedly erased clean?) who was standing as still as a mannequin in the middle of thefloor, staring at the spot where the dumpster had been.

"Ready to leave, Starsk?" Hutch asked softly.

Starsky didn't answer, so Hutch started collecting the evidence baggies that had been placed on a wooden stool.

"Somethin' happened," Starsky said softly in the silence.

"What's that, Starsk? What do you mean?"

Starsky looked down, fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket. "When Vice had me."

Hutch set the evidence aside to give him his full attention.

"I don't know if…"

Hutch moved over to him and placed a hand on his forearm, caressing the leather. "I suspected, but was waiting for you to tell me."

Starsky's voice was now even quieter than it was before. "I didn't know how to tell you. What to say."

"I'm here. Anywhere, anytime you want to talk."

When it looked as though Starsky's knees were giving way, Hutch pulled him close, and Starsky hung on for dear life.

End

SHADOWS

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

"This makes the third time I've seen that blue van behind us," Starsky said as he looked into the rearview mirror. "I think they're following us."

Hutch looked into his side view mirror and shrugged. "Just a bunch of teenagers." He glanced at his watch. "Getting hungry?"

"I could go for Mexican."

"Authentic?"

"If that's the only way to get you to eat Mexican."

"It is today."

Starsky pulled the Torino into the parking lot of Chico's, an authentic Mexican restaurant, noticing that the blue van was now pulling in next to his car.

Hutch saw Starsky glowering in the van's direction. "You're getting paranoid, partner."

Starsky spoke with his hand on the door handle and his eyes still on the vanload of

teenagers next to him. "After Marcus last month I think I have a right to be."

Hutch saw Starsky's eyes fixing on the driver, and suddenly regretted his remark. The memory of finding Starsky at the zoo was still vivid, and an even stronger dream of finding Starsky too late, slashed apart like a sacrificial animal, white and bloodless on Marcus' altar, had haunted him every night. He could only guess what memories and dreams lay behind his partner's eyes.

"Hey, Starsk. I was just kidding about that. I know you have a right to be suspicious. That's our job, right?"

Starsky got out of the car. The teenagers were laughing and looking over a map.

"Hey," Starsky snapped in a surly voice as he pulled out his badge and motioned to the driver to roll his window down. "You boys lost? Because I noticed your van behind me three different times, and if I see it behind me again I'm gonna fix it so you won't be able to drive for a year."

The driver was nonchalant. "Are you threatening a minor, Officer . . ?" Fishing for Starsky's name.

"Detective David Starsky." He nodded his head in Hutch's direction, where the blond saluted casually from his forehead with his Magnum. "And that's Detective Hutchinson."

The driver, a teenager with hard-edge eyes, saluted back. "Heil, Hitler. Mein Kampf." He looked at Starsky. "Sure you feel safe with this Nazi dog by your side? Us Jew boys have to stick together, you know. We don't need to be consorting with the enemy. How do you know he won't stick you in an oven?"

Starsky was pulling the boy through the window by his shirt when Hutch jumped from the car and grabbed Starsky back, shoving him facedown on the Torino. "Don't! It's not worth it!" And over his shoulder to the boys: "You better get out of here before I let him up!"

The driver laughed as he settled back under the steering wheel, unnecessarily smoothing the hair on his nearly shaved head. "See ya around," he said with a wink, then put the van in reverse and left with squealing tires.

Starsky growled into the hood of the car. "Are you gonna arrest me or what?"

Hutch still had him pinned. "Will you behave?"

"For now."

"Then I'll let you go with a warning." Hutch pulled him upright and straightened his

jacket.

Starsky glared after the van as it went down the street. "Why did you stop me?"

"Why? How about he's a minor? You want an assault charge? Police brutality? And how about you don't stop that kind of asinine behavior with violence?"

"You heard what he called you. I wasn't gonna let him—"

"Did you get the license plate?"

"No. My face was on the car, remember? Did you?"

"No. I was too busy pulling you off that kid."

"Well that's just great."

"They're just kids, Starsky. Punk kids who want to stir up trouble, mix it up with the cops, have something to brag to their friends about."

"Punk kids who know about your German heritage, and my Jewish one."

"Starsky, I do have blond hair. That's an easy assumption to make. And you don't exactly look Swedish. They were guessing. So what? Just kids. Forget about it."

"But they were following us."

"No. You say they were following us. Maybe you are a little paranoid from Marcus after all."

"Maybe I am. But I'm gonna find out who those kids are, how they know us, and at the very least have a nice little chat with the driver's father."

"Who probably fed those ideas to him all his life. Whose parents we probably arrested somewhere along the line and that's how they know us."

"Lookit. You can be a victim all you want. You can overlook it or minimize it, but I'm not. I'm gonna find out who they are and why they followed us."

"To get our goat, Starsky. Do you think if they were serious about hurting us they'd be so blatant about it? Man, I know you're a little wary, and I know why, and that's okay, but I don't think we should waste our time tracking down juveniles."

Starsky's eyes flashed anger and hurt. "Your safety's a waste of my time? Remind me of that next time I take a bullet for you."

"Starsky, I didn't mean—"

Starsky turned and stomped toward the entrance of the Mexican restaurant. Hutch went after him. "Starsky, come here. I'm sorry."

Starsky tromped toward the bathroom, Hutch behind him. To the gawking patrons Hutch said, "Take a picture."

Hutch found Starsky gripping the edge of the sink and leaning over it.

"Starsky, you took what I said the wrong way. I think you went back to work too soon after Marcus. It's affecting everything you do, everything I say to you. If we're not careful—"

"You mean if I'm not careful."

"No. If we're not careful—because I'm as responsible for your safety as I am for my own—we could both make a stupid mistake and get ourselves killed. All because we're not focused."

"There's 'we' again."

"It is 'we'. Because you can't concentrate on your job because of Marcus, and I can't concentrate on mine because I'm worrying about you. So yes, it's a definite 'we' that we are talking about here."

Starsky ran his finger absently across the porcelain sink. "What do you want me to do?"

Hutch looked at him in the mirror. "Talk to somebody. A therapist. Somebody."

"I talked to you. That's enough for me."

Hutch smiled a little. "I appreciate the faith you place in me, but I'm not a professional. I'm your best friend, and that's not the same. But I'm telling you that you need it. First the shooting in the restaurant, then the poison that that GODFORSAKEN BELLAMY injected you with . . . " He stopped because his hands were shaking, and his voice was beginning to, and he didn't want to lose it right now, he just wanted to get it out so he could help his partner. "And now Marcus. It has to be affecting you. You just don't see it." He carefully licked his lips. "But I do."

"Okay," Starsky answered into the mirror. "If you want me to, I will. I'll see somebody."

"No, Starsky, don't do it because I'm asking you to. Do it because that's what you need right now. I'm sick of coming so close to losing you so many times. I mean it. Literally sick. And here you are . . . here we are . . . right back on the job a month after Marcus

grabbed you. Well, I'm putting the brakes on for both of us. Pulling the plug. It's too dangerous to be working like this. I'll talk to Dobey."

"All right. I said I'd do it, didn't I?"

But still, Hutch had the feeling Starsky was doing it for him, not for himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Captain Dobey was briefing two older detectives when Starsky and Hutch stepped into his office unannounced.

Dobey scowled at them. "Don't you believe in knocking? I'm busy here."

"We need to talk," Hutch said to the captain.

The seated detectives, Anderson and Bernstein, appeared disgruntled at having been interrupted and ignored by the two younger ones.

Dobey saw the way Starsky was avoiding eye contact by studying a plaque on the wall he'd seen a hundred times, and he saw the way Hutch was running a hand through his hair.

To the other detectives: "You're excused."

"But what about the—"

"I said you're excused. You can brief me later."

The two older detectives sighed harshly but nevertheless excused themselves.

When they were gone, Hutch pointed at Starsky as he spoke to his superior. "He needs some time off."

Dobey looked at Starsky. "What's going on?"

Starsky still wasn't looking at him. He shrugged. "I don't know. Hutch thinks . . . I think I need some counseling."

"For?"

"You have to ask?" Hutch asked him.

"I offered more leave. You both said no."

"It was too fresh then," Hutch told him. "We were just wanting to get back to work instead of thinking about how close a call it really was. He needs more time."

"Then you do too."

"Why?"

"Because if it was important enough for you to come in here and ask for him, then it's affecting you too. So I'm going to put you both on leave. Is a month long enough?" Hutch looked at Starsky. "Maybe."

"If you need more time, let me know."

"Don't worry, I will."

Starsky spoke, his eyes still averted. "Thanks, Cap." And he shot a mean look at Hutch. "I think."

His deed finished, Hutch started to leave, but Starsky took his arm and stopped him with a gentle squeeze. "Hold it. We're not done yet."

Hutch turned back. "What do you mean?"

Starsky spoke to Dobey instead of Hutch. "Cap, we ran into a van-load of teenagers today. They know Hutch is German—"

"My mother is," Hutch clarified.

"—half German," Starsky corrected. "And that I'm Jewish, and they were spouting slurs right and left at him."

Hutch threw up his hands. "See, Captain? This is exactly why he needs time off. Everybody's a criminal now. Everybody's a suspect. Everybody's following us. Even a bunch of obnoxious but harmless teenagers."

"Catch the license plate?" Dobey asked.

"No, " Starsky replied as he threw Hutch another mean look. "Unfortunately I was distracted by an irate police officer. But it was light blue, panel sides, new model. Ford I think."

"I don't have to run that van through DMV. I know who it belongs to."

Both detectives stared at him.

"The van belongs to Judge Meyers."

Starsky looked at his partner, then back at Dobey. "Does he have a kid?"

"A burr haircut and an earring?"

"That's him."

Starsky started out the door. "I am definitely going to have a chat with that little jerk's father."

Hutch followed him out into the squad room. "I thought we were going to forget about that?"

"No, you want to forget about that. I can't. And I won't."

"Starsky, it's Judge Meyers' son."

They headed down the hall for the elevator.

"I don't care if he's the Pope's son, Hutch. Why are you takin' this so lightly?"

Hutch shrugged. "I don't know. I don't let things like that bother me."

They stepped into the elevator and Starsky pushed the ground-floor button. "But if he'd said it about me, you'd have cold-cocked him, minor or no minor."

The elevator doors closed. Hutch looked down, and it was that gesture that told Starsky he was holding back.

"Hutch, come on. What is it?"

The blond head slowly shook no. "Nothing."

"It's something."

"You'll think I'm crazy."

"I've known that for a long time now, but go ahead."

Hutch finally looked up, his usually clear eyes cloudy. "It's just . . . my mother is a full German. That makes me half. And I should be proud of that, but sometimes I don't want to tell anyone because I'm ashamed of what the Nazis did to your people." He looked away again, his eyes finding one of the buttons on the wall.

"Hutch, you shouldn't be ashamed of something you didn't even do. You can't help having German blood, any more than I can help having Jewish blood. And you know what? It's okay to feel bad when people say stuff about you. I've been called a few names before. It doesn't feel good, so don't pretend it doesn't bother you. But I think we should talk to his father anyway. I don't want to back down from this. We need to confront both of them. It probably won't change anything, but it's better to try than just sit back. You'd confront him for me, wouldn't you?"

Hutch looked at him. "You know I would."

"Then I'm gonna do it for you. And I promise I won't slug anybody. I'll fight with my mouth this time. Okay? We'll go together."

"I can fight my own battles, Starsk."

"Doesn't look like it to me."

Hutch was looking down at the floor now. "Starsky, I am asking you kindly. Please let this go for now. Do it for me."

Starsky studied his bowed head. He couldn't figure out what was going on inside it, but he would respect Hutch's wishes. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "I'll drop it." He ruffled Hutch's hair. "For now, Blondie. But one of these days we're gonna talk to Judge Meyers and that fine specimen of a son of his."

Starsky leaned back against the elevator wall and changed the subject: "I feel like a kid being sent home from school for a stomach ache," he grumbled.

Hutch raised his head and smiled. "You look like a kid being sent home from school for a stomach ache. Trust me, Starsk. It's for the best."

"I hear you, Doctor Hutchinson."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky pulled up alongside Hutch's place to let him out. "I feel naked without a job."

"Put some clothes on," Hutch said as he got out of the Torino. "And you have a job:

Getting your head on straight again so I can have my old partner back."

Starsky looked at his watch. "The Godfather is coming on TV in fifteen minutes. I gotta go."

Hutch shook his head no and looked in through the window at him. "No Godfather. You go straight to the Happy Hills Clinic and make an appointment."

Starsky laughed. "Happy Hills Clinic?"

"Well, whatever it's called."

"You can't deprive me of Pacino."

"Pacino? Give me a break. Brando's king."

"Pacino."

"Brando."

"Pacino."

"You're more important than both of them put together."

"Ah, gee, I think you like me a little bit."

Hutch slapped the top of the car. "Get out of here."

"Don't hit my car."

Hutch grinned and started for his front door, but stopped when he saw Starsky getting out of the Torino.

"What's up?" Hutch asked as he walked back.

Starsky nodded toward the blue van that parked down the street. The young driver and an older man were changing a tire.

"Our friendly boy scout," Starsky said as he started down the sidewalk

Hutch followed him. "You said you'd drop it."

"I didn't specify how long."

There was no need for Starsky to pull his badge. He and the robust, ruddy-cheeked older man were already acquainted. He and Hutch had brought many criminals into his courtroom, and the judge had even handed them a medal of bravery at a banquet ceremony.

"Judge Meyers?"

Judge Meyers rose from his crouch wiping his slightly greasy hands on a rag. He had a

commanding presence, even without his black robe. "Ah, Detective Starsky. How are you?" He extended his hand to Hutch. "And Ken . . ?"

"Hutchinson," Hutch said gripping his hand.

Starsky knew Hutch wasn't going to do the talking, so he started the conversation. "Your Honor, did your son tell you what happened this morning?"

Judge Meyers looked at his son. "Frank? Did you do something illegal?"

Frank said nothing. The judge looked at Starsky. "Did he?"

"Illegal? That's questionable. Wrong? Definitely."

The boy rose to his feet too, looking down at the tire tool in his hand. "Okay, Dad. I'll tell you."

He raised his head and looked at Hutch. "Me and the boys were goofing off. Stupid dare. We were—" He laughed a little. "Watching some cops at the precinct and picked these two. Found out what we could about 'em and followed 'em around." He looked at his father. "I said some stuff I shouldn't have."

"Offensive remarks to my partner," Starsky said. "Who happens to be of German descent. And he even criticized me for being a Jew who would dare associate with him. Except he used some pretty nasty language."

Judge Meyers looked at Hutch. "I've never taught my son to hate any group of people."

"I'm sure that's true."

"It was just a prank," Frank explained urgently to his father. "You know how much we like cops. We even got applications for the academy for when we turn eighteen."

Judge Meyers pursed his lips. "You make me ashamed to call you my son."

"Let it go," Hutch told the father. "He's still a boy. He's got a lot to learn about being a man."

Judge Meyers glared directly into his son's eyes. "What makes you think you're better than anyone else?"

Frank shook his head. "I don't, Dad. I told you. It was just a stupid prank." He looked at Starsky and Hutch. "I'm sorry, okay? I don't know what else to say."

Hutch extended his hand. "Apology accepted."

Frank put his hand out to Starsky.

Starsky ignored it.

Hutch nudged his arm. "Go on, Starsky."

Starsky grudgingly decided he could set a good example, so he shook the teenager's hand.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(A month later)

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other to keep from looking at the dead man.

The crime lab unit was busily gathering evidence in the modest, tastefully decorated living room.

A flashbulb flashed warm fire from the police photographer's camera.

"I was hungry until now," Hutch told Starsky.

The dead man hung from the trendy ceiling rafter by his own necktie, his face lavender, eyes bulging, tongue dark and protruding.

Starsky sighed glumly. "Only thing I'd be able to keep down now would be a chili dog."

Dobey approached them.

"Well?" Hutch asked.

"I'm taking the case from Anderson and Bernstein and assigning it to you two. They aren't getting anywhere. It's not a suicide, he's the fifth victim of a serial killer. All male. All professional people. No apparent motive. And all dead by hanging."

Detectives Anderson and Bernstein, older and more experienced than the younger detectives, stepped over to them, glowering.

"Boy wonders," Anderson said through a set jaw. "You want the case?" he asked as he dumped a stack of files at the younger detectives' feet. "You can have it."

As Hutch bent down to pick up the files, Starsky said, "Hey, we didn't ask for the case, but you're right in worrying we might show you up."

"We usually do," Hutch said as he straightened and thumbed through the files.

"No lip," Dobey warned all four. "We do what we have to, to get the job done. We need to catch this killer before we have victim number six."

Anderson and Bernstein exited with a grumble under their breaths and a slamming of the front door. Dobey looked from Starsky to Hutch. "If you want respect, you have to give it. Especially when a case is re-assigned."

Starsky shrugged. "They started it."

"Anderson and Bernstein are good detectives. Burned out maybe. Not as thorough as they used to be. They'd rather be home watching a ballgame or firing up the grill, but they're still good when they try. They don't go to the newest trainings like they should. I send you two to all those criminology courses because you're still eager and committed. They don't know how to latch onto a perp profile like you two, they don't get the psychology of a serial killer."

Starsky looked at Hutch. "He's complimenting us. He must be sick."

"I just want the nut caught," Dobey explained. "I'd take the case away from you if I had to. The papers are having a ball. 'Inept investigating.' 'Officers sitting on their hands while this killer gets away with it.' And you know something?"

Starsky and Hutch listened to their captain.

"They're right," Dobey concluded. "There's no excuse for this man's death. If we'd done our jobs, this wouldn't have happened."

Dobey turned with his hat in his hand and put it on his head as he made his way to the front door.

Hutch nudged his partner's arm. "I'll be back," he said as he dumped the files into Starsky's arms.

Starsky watched Hutch as he went into the kitchen where a female police officer sat consoling the widow of the latest victim at the kitchen table.

Hutch sat down with them and motioned with his head for the female officer to leave,

When the policewoman was gone, Hutch handed the elegant and bereaving older woman a handkerchief. "Would you like to step outside, Ma'am?"

"No, thank you," she whispered tearfully.

From the corner of his eye he could see the men taking her husband's body down, so he

moved in the chair directly across from her to block her view.

The widow could only weep into the handkerchief.

Hutch licked his lips and opened his mouth to continue. "Mrs. Helmut, I know this is hard for you, and it's not the best time, and maybe there's never really a good time, but if my partner and I . . . " He motioned with his finger for Starsky to join him, which he did after depositing the file folders on the coffee table.

"Mrs. Helmut, this is my partner, David Starsky."

Starsky touched her shoulder and seamlessly picked up where Hutch left off, as if it were a natural thing to be able to read someone else's thoughts. "Mrs. Helmut, if we're going to find your husband's killer, we need to ask you some questions now. Time is crucial when dealing with a serial killer. And he will do it again unless we stop him."

Mrs. Helmut dabbed at her nose. "I understand," she said meekly. "Ask me anything."

Hutch handed her a card file. "These are the names of the other four victims. Do you know any of them?"

She read the names, then lifted her red-rimmed eyes. "No, I don't."

"Did you see anyone snooping around the house?" Starsky asked her. "Did he mention anything about work? Or about being followed? Any new acquaintances"

Mrs. Helmut shook her head no to all the questions.

"It's very unusual for a serial killer to kill inside the victims' own homes," Hutch told her. "That's why we asked those questions."

"The door wasn't forced," Starsky added. "So maybe your husband knew the killer and let him in."

The woman folded the tissue in her hands. "I knew it wasn't suicide. Donald wouldn't do that. He didn't believe in that. So I knew he couldn't . . . "

Hutch looked down at the card file, then up at Starsky. "All of these victims are Germans, or have German names."

Starsky took the card and read the names to himself. "Anderson and Bernstein didn't catch that?"

Hutch rose to his feet. "Hell, Dobey didn't even catch that. Let's get these files down to headquarters and go over them."

Starsky squeezed Mrs. Helmut's hand. "Not to be rude, but we gotta go. We'll be in touch. If anything occurs to you that might be helpful, first write it down so you don't forget it, then call our precinct."

Hutch produced a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "We'll do what we can to find your husband's killer, Mrs. Helmut."

"Thank you."

"We'll be in touch."

Starsky and Hutch walked through the living room where the crime lab was just finishing up, picked up the file folders, then headed out the door.

"What an oversight," Hutch said as they nudged through a body of officers, reporters, photographers, and nosey neighbors on their way to the Torino.

Starsky was at his left elbow. "I think we just found our first lead."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky cast a disheartened gaze over the files-photos, autopsy reports, victim profiles, crime lab reports, narratives, etc-that were spread out on the squad room table.

"Can't believe it took 'em five dead bodies to figure out it wasn't suicide," Starsky grumbled.

"Can't believe they didn't spot the German names."

Hutch was busy scribbling notes. "That's why Dobey took Anderson and Bernstein off."

"Dobey didn't know either."

"He only knows what detectives tell him, for the most part. He relies on us for the facts. What was he supposed to think?"

Starsky surveyed the photos. "Hung with their neckties. No ropes. No belts. No sheets. Is that important?"

"Everything's important."

"The killer wants everybody to see. The victims are on display. That's important to him. He wants an audience, right? He's got an ego."

"Very good, Inspector. Keep up the good work."

Starsky grinned. "Uh oh. Another compliment. You're not sick too, are you?"

Hutch tossed a paper wad at him. "I must be."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They'd been poring over the case in the squad room for three hours, discussing, exchanging ideas, taking notes, making phone calls to the families of the victims to schedule interviews-routine tasks in an investigation, but it was the tedious things which often led to a break in the case. Tedious things like all the victims having German names.

"Germans," Hutch said as he sipped some black coffee while pacing in front of the desk. "What is that? What does it mean to the killer?"

Starsky sat at the desk, dozing on folded arms on top of the pile of papers. "Hutch," he mumbled tiredly, "can we pick this up tomorrow? It's after midnight."

"Starsky, we're getting somewhere."

"You are. I'm in another dimension here."

"It's the German thing. It has to be. That's how we'll get him."

"So he hates Germans. Remember the Meyers kid?"

"Back to Germans. What else?"

Starsky still spoke with his head on folded arms. "He wants to get rid of them."

"Why? They're professional, decent people. Nothing shady in their backgrounds. Why would the killer want them dead above anybody else?"

'cause they're Germans. Hutch, we said that twenty times."

"Why would he want Germans dead?"

"Hates 'em." "Why?"

"Hate crimes. No reason. Just 'cause they're German. No reason."

"No, Starsky, there is a reason. Keep going."

"Hutch, I remember what my therapist said. The one you forced me to go to. He said to take care of myself, and above all, get enough sleep. Let's do this tomorrow. I like it, I think you got somethin', but man, my brain is fried."

Hutch was not a bit tired. This brainstorming session was energizing him. After a month of being away, he was raring to go again. But he had mercy on his partner.

"Okay," he relented as he finished the last of his coffee and patted Starsky on the back. "Let's go home."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

But Hutch wasn't finished. He kept free-associating about the case as he drove a snoozing Starsky home.

"We've been thinking in terms of a single killer, Starsky. But what if there's more than one? Think hate crimes. Hate groups. KKK. Cults. Underground organizations. What kind of a group would you be in if you wanted Germans dead?"

The car was quiet for a long time as Hutch drove through town. He was thinking and Starsky was sleeping.

Or so Hutch thought. When he pulled up alongside Starsky's house to let him out, Starsky rubbed his eyes and looked at his partner. "There's only one group of people who'd hate Germans enough to kill 'em."

Hutch didn't answer, even though he knew what Starsky was going to say.

"Jews," came Starsky's simple but quiet answer. "Certain Jews."

"Certain Jews may want to balance the scales, in their minds. Seek revenge for the Holocaust. For what Hitler did to them. Surviving Jews or maybe even their children or grandchildren."

"Hutch, I don't want to think about that. We'd have heard about something like that."

"Not if it's brand new. And nobody wanted to think about what the Germans-Nazis-were doing to the Jews either. But it still happened. You said yourself that Jews were the only group of people you could think of who would want to see Germans dead."

Starsky rubbed his face. "A group of Jews giving Germans a taste of their own medicine?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"And they just go around picking Germans from a phone book?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they're more selective than that. Maybe these victims of ours have Nazis in their family tree."

Starsky stared at him. "Hutch, you're givin' me goosebumps. I'll never get to sleep now."

"I'm sure you'll manage. Get out of here."

Starsky got out of the car. "You're goin' home, right?"

"No, I'm going to the library to look up the victims' family trees. If my hunch is right, I'll find some Nazis in their branches."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You've got German blood. You got Nazis in your branches?"

"My mother would know. She never mentioned it."

"I can see why. Be careful, huh?"

"With a name like Hutchinson, nobody would know about my German blood."

"Judge Meyers' punk son knew."

"That's because Judge Meyers knows us. Nobody else would know that unless they researched it."

"That's easy to do. You're getting ready to research people, aren't you?"

"Starsky . . . " (You're getting paranoid again, is what he wanted to say, but he didn't. The therapy Starsky had agreed to attend seemed to help with some of the anxiety, but not all, and Hutch supposed Starsky would carry a little paranoia around with him like an unwanted souvenir. He had certainly earned it).

Starsky could not disguise the worry in his voice. It was too late in the evening for that. "You look German, Hutch."

Hutch smiled. "Are you worried about me?"

Starsky got into the car again. "I'm wide awake now. Come on. I'll go to the library with

you. If there's even a library open this time of night."

"There is. UCLA campus. But we'll stop at the drugstore on the way and get you some smelling salts."

"Why?"

"Don't want you passing out when you see those walls and walls of books. It can be overwhelming."

"Okay, Professor Hutchinson. Better watch your mouth or I'll put the word out about your German roots."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the quiet cubicle at the UCLA library, Starsky watched Hutch as he fed names into a computer program that searched family trees.

"My mother could help with this," Hutch said as he scribbled notes. "She wrote some articles for a paper that helped expose some of the Nazi activity."

Starsky grinned. "Your mom was a spy?"

"Not exactly. She dated several German officers who were opposed to what Hitler was doing."

"Oh, I see." He winked at Hutch. "Sure you're not full German?"

Hutch gave Starsky's ribs a playful poke with his pen. "Watch it."

Starsky looked at Hutch's notes. "Ever think about it, Hutch?"

Hutch raised his eyebrows. "About what?"

"You, me. German. A Jew."

"The Friendship Least Likely to Succeed? I don't know. I guess I thought about it a little."

"Did you? Like what?"

"Like how I could care less. And how sometimes it makes me ashamed of my German heritage when I think of what my people-"

"Some of your people."

"-did to yours."

"Don't be ashamed, Hutch. You didn't do anything wrong. You're not responsible for what your ancestors did."

Hutch stopped writing and looked at him. "Did you ever think about it?"

"Yeah. What a weird combination for a friendship. And how it doesn't matter to me."

"Did you ever hate Germans for what they did, Starsk?"

"Yeah. But not because they were Germans. But because they were inhuman."

Hutch nodded. "Can't blame you for feeling that way. Sometimes I hate them too."

Starsky smiled. "Hey, I remember the times you took up for me when people slurred me. I appreciate it."

Hutch's eyes held his partner's. That such a friendship could even exist was an anomaly. There had always been differences, but that never seemed to matter, and if anything, only made them closer.

It was a strange night, this one. They'd had many like this, where they seemed to be breathing for each other, and as one, where spoken words were not necessary because they were reading each other's thoughts, and feeling each other's feelings, where there were no filters or barriers to their silent language.

"You think this group is really Jewish?" Hutch asked him. "Or do they want us to believe they are so we'll look in the wrong direction?"

"Maybe it's not a group, Hutch. Could be one person with a twisted grudge."

Hutch looked at his watch. "There are a lot of maybes and it's three in the morning. We need some shut-eye but . . . "

"I know. This seems too important to put off."

"Call Huggy while I'm researching. See if he can fish around for some information on anti-German activity."

"It's probably too underground for Huggy to know, but it wouldn't hurt to get him in on it."

Starsky padded quietly down the carpeted aisle, then turned around, whispering loudly to Hutch: "Psst!"

Hutch looked up.

Starsky made a motion with his hand as if he were drinking from a cup, silently asking Hutch if he wanted coffee.

Hutch shook his head no and pointed to a sign on the wall which read: No Food Or Drinks.

Starsky put a finger to his lips. "Sshh," he whispered mischievously, then tiptoed stealthily away.

Laughing, Hutch shook his head, knowing Starsky would be sneaking coffee in when he returned.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky used a phone near the front desk to call Huggy. The librarian, built more like a bouncer, kept his eye on Starsky while he dialed.

Not in the mood for explaining himself, Starsky took out his badge and held it up for the librarian to see.

With a disgruntled snort the librarian returned to his newspaper, his reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.

Starsky turned his back to the librarian to keep him from overhearing.

Huggy's phone rang ten times before he answered.

"This better be good," came his sleep-scratchy voice from the receiver.

"Huggy," Starsky whispered. "It's me."

"Well, Me, it's a little late for chattin', don't you think?"

"It's important."

"Always is, dude. How may I be of service to you at 3:15 in the morning?"

"Are you awake?"

"Like a rooster."

"Then listen up. Me and Hutch are at the UCLA library lookin' up some stuff on Nazis

for this case that got dumped in our laps. And I think . . . " Starsky glanced over his shoulder to find that the librarian had left the front desk, which was a relief because he didn't have to whisper now. "I think it's something big," he said in a regular tone of voice. "Somethin' new. We've got five dead Germans and we suspect they were killed by a group-probably Jewish—just because they had some Nazis somewhere in the family."

"Payback is hell. Long overdue if you ask me."

"Huggy, these Germans didn't do anything wrong. Can they help what their families did a long time ago?"

"Okay, I'm with you. Go ahead."

"It could be a fledgling group. Or there could be pockets all over the place, who knows?"

"That's a tall order. Not somethin' I'm likely to hear about from my contacts."

"I know. But we trust you. And we're desperate. And we know you won't leak a word about this case. So be careful, Huggy. We want to expose this person, or group, and catch the killers, but we don't want to jeopardize your safety."

"I second that motion. I'll be careful." There was a pause before Huggy asked, "Hey, Starsky, what makes you think this is so big?"

"Five victims so far. All mistaken as suicides at first. Not one shred of physical evidence left behind. The victims are killed in their own homes. No sign of a struggle. I'd say they've been trained."

"KKK?"

"KKK's too sloppy. Everybody knows when they strike."

"Para-military group?"

"Possible."

"I'll see what I can dig up."

"Thanks. Catch you later."

Starsky hung up and went to the vending room for coffee, passing the librarian on the way.

"Thanks for the phone," Starsky told him, then stepped over to the coffee machine, depositing quarters and getting two cups of coffee. When he saw that the librarian had

returned to reading the paper, Starsky crept quietly across the carpeted hall toward the cubicle where Hutch was working.

"Psst," Starsky whispered again. "Here's some coffee."

But Hutch was gone, and Starsky would have called his name, would have looked around for him, but he knew that would be fruitless because all his eyes could see were the splashes of bright red across the files, notebooks, and papers Hutch had been working on.

The coffee dropped unnoticed to the floor as Starsky turned and raced for the front desk

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The librarian was just peeling a banana when Starsky flew up to him and grabbed his shirt, yanking him completely across the desk to the other side, shaking him.

"Did you see anything?" Starsky panted into his face.

The librarian's eyes widened at the live dynamite in front of him. "I-you-what-"

"What did you see? My partner was workin' back there and now his blood is all over the place, so I want to know did you see anything or hear anything-"

The librarian was bigger than Starsky, but wasn't about to object to his method of questioning. "I don't know anything. I didn't see anybody at all. I didn't even go back there in your direction. We have two exits back there-"

"Show me."

The librarian hustled to show Starsky the two exits near the cubicle where Hutch had been researching.

"Don't touch anything here," Starsky told the man. "This is a crime scene. Don't let anybody else touch the area either."

The librarian nodded.

Hutch's Magnum was on the floor, spotted with drops of blood, so either he'd tried to pull it on his attackers or was made to give it up.

Starsky ran up and down the walls of books looking for someone who might have witnessed the abduction, but the room was empty. No students at 3:30 a.m.

Starsky went to both exits. One led out into an empty parking lot. The other opened onto a park area with a gazebo, benches, and a fountain. There were no signs of a struggle at

either. No blood, no disturbed shrubbery. Nothing.

Starsky ran outside, eyes scanning up and down the quiet campus street that ran along the library.

"HUTCH!"

Part of him knew it was pointless to call Hutch's name, but he couldn't help it. It was instinct.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"If you had something you thought was this big," Dobey snapped at Starsky, "why didn't you tell me about it?"

They were near the cubicle where Hutch had been, the investigators gleaning the area for evidence via blood samples, fingerprints, photos, possible fiber and hair samples.

Starsky was pacing and Dobey was chewing some Tylenols dry.

"We weren't sure what we had, Cap. We were just guessing."

"I've told you before about keeping me briefed." Dobey watched him pace, saw his face gradually turning ashen. "Starsky, what are you thinking?"

Starsky tried to keep his eyes off the blood-splattered desk and his mind on the facts, because if he allowed his eyes to see the sight, if he allowed his mind to absorb the impact, he would be too shaken to help his partner, and Hutch needed a level head thinking for him right now, not a basket case. "Like Hutch said, Hutchinson isn't a German name, so that tells me those psychos know us. They got him, not me. They left me alone because I'm Jewish. They made a clear statement. He must have been on their list all along. That they grabbed him after we were assigned the investigation is just a coincidence-icing on their cake. They got a bonus when they got Hutch. A German, plus the officer who's investigating them."

Dobey kneaded the back of his own neck. "Good God. It's four-thirty in the morning and we don't have a single lead as to who these monsters really are. He doesn't have a chance."

Starsky started for the front exit.

"Starsky, where are you going?"

"Huggy's. He has a chance. We're gonna find these ghouls and get Hutch back."

"It's too late."

Starsky shook his head no. "It's not too late."

"Starsky! Look at that desk back there and tell me it's not too late!"

Starsky kept walking, speaking over his shoulder. "They didn't get him in his own home, did they? They didn't hang him, did they? They could have killed him right here but they didn't. They took him out of here. So it's not too late."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch slouched in a chair in a room that resembled the prop room of a theatre, full of old clothes, trunks, and furniture. His head was down and he couldn't raise it, nor was he able to do anything to stop the blood that dripped from his nose and mouth and onto his lap.

"Wake him up," he heard someone say, and a hand clutched his hair, pulling his head up.

He gazed dopily at the four figures in front of him, who wore street clothes and black ski masks.

One figure patted his face. "You with us, you German dog?"

His eyes kept wanting to close, and his brain struggled to push words into his mouth. He couldn't talk or move, but he knew it was from more than just his confusion and injuries. He tried to move his leg but couldn't. Tried to wiggle a finger but couldn't. And he didn't understand why he was unable to straighten enough to sit up when he was trying as hard as he could. He couldn't feel the man's hand in his hair.

"We got you pretty much where we want you," one of the men told him as he patted his blood-stained cheek.

Hutch did not feel this either and was starting to realize with mounting dread and fascination that he was paralyzed, numb, that they had somehow wholly incapacitated him, leaving him without speech or movement. They could slit his throat and he would never feel it, break every bone in his body and would not be able to protest. Even if he could open his mouth to call for help, the sound would never escape.

(Where is Starsky? he wanted to ask them. Is he okay? Did you hurt him too? Because if you did, you are dead. You are already dead. But he couldn't even produce a whisper)

(What do you want? he wanted to ask them. But he already knew the answer. Theywanted to kill him without him ever putting up a fight.)

He saw the blue star of David tattoo on one man's hand as it opened a small First Aid kit

to draw out a hypodermic needle, and it was then that he realized his hands weren't even bound, that both arms hung useless at his sides, and his slumping body would have fallen forward if it hadn't been for one of the men clutching the back of his shirt collar.

"You're not wearing a tie," one of the men said as he tugged on Hutch's shirt collar. "So we have to do something else. Especially since you think you know who we are. And there's nothing you can do about it. Can't run, can't fight, can't call for help. Isn't that the way you Nazis like to do it? Hitler enjoyed dispensing experimental drugs to us. How do you like the one we gave you?"

Hutch was in no pain because his body could not feel, but the mental anguish of knowing he could not defend himself was far more excruciating than any physical pain they could inflict on him.

"Our time has arrived," one of the masked figures told him. "We've been fighting anti-Semitism the wrong way. Politics won't end it, religion won't end it, war won't end it, peace talks won't end it. It's eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Payback. Revenge. Retribution. You godforsaken Nazis snuffed out six million of us during the Holocaust. We will settle the score, and we will do it one German at a time."

The man with the star of David tattoo on his hand pulled a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. "First thing we do is give you an identifying mark." He stepped close to Hutch, put one hand on his chest, then slowly pushed him backward until he was sprawled on his back in the chair, then meticulously slid the tip of the knife under each button, snipping them off one at a time, exposing his skin. "Remember the numbers you put on my people's arms?"

Hutch's eyes were on the man, though his (Hutch's) expression didn't-and couldn't- change, but inside he was trembling with fear and was screaming Starsky's name over and over.

The man grasped Hutch's left wrist in his hand, pulling it out taut. "You don't deserve a number," he said with quiet distaste, and Hutch could only watch in dumb terror as he cut a swastika into the smooth underside of his lax forearm.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky hurled Huggy's alarm clock against his bedroom wall.

"I told you to help me!"

Huggy was jarred from the bed by Starsky's voice. He jumped out of the bed, one eye squinting in sleep. "Man, I called a few people. They hadn't heard any-"

Starsky clutched the front of Huggy's T-shirt. "They got him, Hug. Those people got

Hutch."

Huggy scowled in confusion. "Why didn't you say so?"

Starsky released him and picked up Huggy's clothes, shoving them at him. "You gotta help me. We gotta find him before it's too late."

Huggy wanted to tell him that there was little chance of finding out what Starsky wanted to know. This group was too professional and too organized to allow anyone on the outside a glimpse into their inner machinery. But Huggy didn't tell him that. He knew not to cross an agitated Starsky, especially when it concerned a missing Hutch.

Huggy pulled his clothes on. "Let's get to it."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The film projector whirred quietly as Hutch watched the black and white images on the pale wall across the room. He had no choice but to watch the grainy film of the routine activities in a Nazi prison camp, because the man with the star of David on his hand stood behind him and held his head upright between his hands so he could see it.

As Hutch watched the gruesome scene of Nazi soldiers piling nude, dead, emaciated Jewish bodies on top of one another in a single, huge grave, (he'd seen similar films before on TV documentaries and even real photographs that a Jewish professor of his had in college) he did the only thing he was physically capable of doing: He closed his eyes. And could not help but feel sympathy for the Jewish people, even for this group that held him today. They were justified, perhaps not in their actions toward him, but in their anger at the Nazis. He could understand why their hatred and craving for retribution was so consuming.

What Tony Vice had done (no, don't think about that, don't remember that, it hurts too much) to Starsky was so close to what the Nazis had done to those Jews that Hutch couldidentify with their rage. These Jews wanted revenge as badly as he (Hutch) had wanted revenge against Vice for ravaging his friend's body, robbing his psyche, and murdering his spirit.

"You did this," hissed the man's voice from above and behind him, and Hutch realized he could feel the man trying to crush his skull between his hands.

The pain was large and terrible, but Hutch was elated, because that meant the drug they had paralyzed him with was now leaving his system. He could feel once again. Could feel the sharp pain in his forearm and the sticky blood where the man had carved the swastika. Feel the throbbing in his face where they'd swung a golf club viciously across it at the library. The chilly air on his bare chest from where his shirt had been sliced open.

He bit his tongue to keep from crying out. He didn't want the man to know he had regained the use of his body.

"Life for life," the man seethed between his teeth. "We'll move through this country like a silent plague, and you Germans won't know what hit you. We'll strike when you least expect it. And it won't be just hanging. There will be accidents. Drownings. Overdoses. We don't have names, we can't be traced, our identities have been erased and replaced by fictitious ones. We are a thousand strong and we are growing. And you, my fine, blond, half-German friend, nosy detective, unfortunate Nazi, once-decorated officer, respected hero, look at you now. You can't even wipe your bloody nose."

Hutch reached up and grabbed the man's head in his hands, throwing him over his shoulder and onto the floor.

While the man was trying to climb to his feet, Hutch jumped from the chair and stumbled toward the door, but was met with a blow to the back of his head.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky drove the Torino recklessly through traffic.

Huggy held onto the dash. "You're a zombie, man. Why don't you let me drive?"

It was dawn on that Saturday morning. Starsky ignored his friend and kept driving.

"They know us," Starsky said. "It's someone we know. They followed us to the library. Probably been following us for days or weeks-" He looked at Huggy, then suddenly swung the car into a U-turn, causing traffic to screech to a halt with honking horns and yelling, swearing drivers.

Huggy stared at him. "Starsky, I'd like to be clued in before I bid this world goodbye."

Starsky gripped the steering wheel and floored the gas pedal. "I think I know who it is."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch came to, finding himself sprawled on his back on a table in the same room he'd been in before, knowing he was paralyzed again because of that queer, disembodied nothingness feeling he had in his body.

The hooded man bearing the Star of David leaned over him. "First rule to remember: Never try to escape. There are harsh penalties for that. Penalties that someone else will pay for you. A parent perhaps. Or perhaps that traitor partner of yours. He's not a true Jew. If he were, he wouldn't have a German for a friend."

(No! Hutch screamed at him, but it was only in his mind. Not my parents! And not Starsky! Please no!) (If you'll just let me talk. I'm a very good negotiator. I'll talk you out of this, make you understand your error, help you find another way, even voice my sympathy. I've been there. I know what one person is capable of doing to another. I've held ruination in my arms and tried to comfort it, wipe it out, make it better. Just let me talk. Let me talk my way out of this. Let me protect my mother and father and partner. I won't do it again. I swear. I promise. I won't try to leave. You can leave the door wide open and I won't try to run. You don't even have to paralyze me. I won't go anywhere. I'll stay in this room and you can do whatever you want to me, just leave my family and friend alone)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Meyers boy was hosing off his sports car in the family driveway when Starsky braked the Torino to a halt in front of the two-story house.

The boy's face blanched and he turned to run when he saw Starsky running toward him. "Whoa, man!"

Starsky grabbed the boy's jacket and drove him back against the garage door, holding him there.

"Don't man me! Where is he?!"

The boy's startled eyes were wide and gray, nothing like the hard-edge eyes that had glared at Starsky a month ago when he sat cockily behind his father's steering wheel.

"Who, my dad?"

Starsky slammed him against the door again. "My partner!"

The boy's face registered total surprise and confusion. "I don't know what you're-"

"You followed us last month, and you followed us last night, didn't you? You know what your mistake was? Slurring Hutch in front of me. It's so obvious now that you just couldn't wait to get your hands on my partner, you and your little skinhead friends."

The boy's pleading eyes latched onto Huggy's. "Honest. I don't know what you-I'm sorry, okay? For mouthing off to your partner. But I swear I didn't do anything to him. I don't know what you mean . . . " He looked at Huggy. "You gotta believe me. I didn't do anything. Yeah, I hate Germans. Nazis. For tryin' to wipe us from the face of the earth. I hate all Germans. But I wouldn't kill one. I wouldn't kill anybody."

And then the boy was crying, blubbering like a baby, and Starsky realized that the boy was either a very good sociopath or he was telling the truth.

Huggy patted Starsky's shoulder. "I think he's straight. Let up."

Starsky released him and stepped away, leaning over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

Huggy held his hand palm up to the boy. "It's cool. If you didn't do anything, that's cool."

Starsky straightened and turned back around to the boy. "I don't expect you to want to help me find my partner, as you referred to him as a German dog. But I'm gonna ask you this question anyway: Do you know of any anti-Nazi, anti-German groups, cults, whatever, in the area? We're working on a case involving five dead Germans, and I think they want my partner to be number six."

The boy regarded him with skepticism. "For real?"

"Probably Jewish."

The boy studied the air for a very long time. He had calmed down enough to reclaim some of his casual cockiness.

"No," he said finally, looking from Huggy to Starsky. "I haven't heard of any groups like that." And his smile was faintly sinister. "And I wouldn't tell you if I had."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch still lay on his back on the table. But hours hand passed since the shot wore off, and he could now feel the aches and pains seeping into his body.

His eyes searched the room. No one was here and the door was wide open, but he dared not try to leave again. Someone close to him would pay, and he couldn't let that happen. There could be hidden cameras somewhere, or they could be standing right outside the door just waiting for him to try to escape.

The masked man wearing the Star of David came into the room.

"Enjoying your stay?" he asked Hutch.

Hutch looked at him and tried to sit up, but the man shook his head no.

"Second rule: You don't do anything without my permission. And I say you can't sit up."

Hutch lay back down. "I know you hate me but-"

"Quiet. I didn't give you permission to talk."

Hutch's eyes took inventory of his captor, vaguely feeling that he had encountered the man before, even though he couldn't see the man's face.

The man slid his hunting knife from its sheath and stood beside Hutch, placing the tip of the knife to his throat and tracing lightly down his chest and stomach.

"I could slice you wide open," the man told him. "And you wouldn't stop me."

Hutch didn't move. He was strangely calm as his eyes stayed on the man's.

"You know why?"

Hutch knew why, but he wasn't about to answer after the man just told him he wasn't allowed to talk. Not after he had threatened to hurt his loved ones.

"I've conditioned you," the man told him. "Just like you conditioned the Jewish prisoners in the concentration camps. You learn to trust your captors. You learn to love them. Depend on them. Because we hold your life in our hands. We feed you or don't feed you. Beat you or don't beat you. Smile or don't smile at you. You know that from being a cop, don't you? You know that from dealing with kidnappers, hostages, and terrorists. And now you know from first-hand experience. You're at our mercy. We control you." He smiled. "Want me to prove it to you?"

The man put the knife back in its sheath and gripped the front of Hutch's shirt, pulling him to a sitting position.

"Go ahead," the man told him. "You're free to go."

Hutch sat with his head bowed.

The man nudged his arm. "Go on. Get out of here."

Hutch slowly shook his head no.

"Why not, German? I'm not stopping you."

Hutch raised his eyes to the man and shook his head no again.

"Don't look at me," the man told him, and Hutch dropped his eyes to the floor again.

The man smiled and spread his arms to the room. "What's the problem, Nazi? I don't even have my knife out. You can take me, can't you?"

Hutch sat very still, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe, fearing he would upset the man and he would give him another shot or take it out on an innocent person.

He sat that way, motionless with his head bowed and his eyes to the floor, even when the man left him alone in the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dobey watched Starsky pace in front of his desk. "Starsky, you haven't slept in three days. You can't go on like this. You're going to end up in the hospital, and then you won't be able to look for Hutch at all."

Starsky ignored him. He paced in tight circles, hands on his hips. "I thought it was the kid," Starsky said tiredly, and his voice seemed to be the only part of him that showed signs of slowing down.

Huggy was rousing from a nap in the chair before Dobey's desk.

A knock came at the door, then it opened, and a uniformed officer let the Meyers boy in.

"Sorry to interrupt," the uniform said. "But this kid says it's urgent he speak to Sergeant Starsky."

Starsky turned and looked at the kid, who held a cigar box in his hand and lifted the lid with a strange look on his face.

"It's my dad," he said as he revealed the Nazi paraphernalia inside. "He owns a small theatre just outside the UCLA campus. That could be where he has your partner."

Thirty minutes later Captain Dobey's raid enabled Starsky the chance to rush into the prop room of the Meyers Theatre, only to see him sitting pliantly on the table where Meyers had left him.

"Hutch?" he asked uncertainly as he put his gun away and stepped toward him.

At the sound of his partner's voice, Hutch's head came up, and he reached for Starsky with weak arms.

Starsky pulled him into a fierce, protective hug, marveling at the profound changes in him, from his cut hair to his submissive demeanor.

"I'm here," Starsky whispered as he helped him off the table. "Let's get you to the hospital. We got him, Hutch. It's Meyers."

Hutch said nothing, but clung to Starsky as tightly as he could.

End

SLEEP

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky sped the Torino through the busy night street, siren blaring, red light flashing, Hutch buckling his seatbelt and holding onto the dash.

Starsky glanced at his watch. "If we do this real fast I can get home in time to see The Godfather."

"You're just saying that because of who we're going to see."

"It's not every day you get to meet a real-life Godfather."

Hutch laughed. "In our line of work, yes it is."

"Aren't you even a little excited?"

"Why? We meet criminals all the time. That's what we do for a living, remember? Catch them, not protect them."

"Hutch, we are getting ready to save Frank Leone's life. How would you feel tonight goin' home without doin' anything, and then in the morning you read in the paper that Frank is dead?"

Hutch shrugged. "I'd feel happy. One less gangster."

"He's still a human being."

"And since when is it 'Frank', like you're on a first-name basis with the guy? I swear, those Godfather movies have gone to your head. Do you think that Frank Leone would hesitate one second if he wanted to blow you, me, or any other cop away?"

"He's King of the Mafia Crime Lords. Of course he wouldn't hesitate."

"They why do we want to save his life?"

"Because Dobey told us to."

"But he didn't push it. He said if we get around to it."

"Well, we are getting around to it."

Hutch grunted again. "Don't expect me to stick around when they go off on you with their Brando routine."

"Brando? Pacino's the man, remember?"

Starsky screeched the car to a halt in front of the Bluebird Restaurant, then he and Hutch

walked briskly to the front door.

A burly doorman moved in front of them.

Hutch was wordless as he produced his badge.

"Police," Starsky said rather politely. "We have an appointment with-"

The doorman folded his massive arms across his massive chest. "I know who you have an appointment with."

The doorman stepped aside but still eyed Starsky and Hutch closely. Hutch crossed himself before going in.

The detectives scanned the establishment's every detail in practiced but subtle efficiency. It was a cozy restaurant, lit mostly in a low blue, with soft strains of violins in the air around them. Men in expensive suits with cigars and drinks were lined along the marble bar and at the tables, women in diamonds and form-fitting evening dresses draped like silk scarves around their men's arm or shoulders, all enjoying sumptuous Italian meals. It looked more like a Hollywood party than a favorite Mafia hangout.

Several waitresses in skimpy uniforms slithered up to Starsky and Hutch, winking or stroking appreciatively as they passed. Hutch blushed while Starsky appraised.

"I'm impressed," Starsky sighed happily.

When the girls were out of ear-shot, Hutch whispered to his partner, "Put your tongue back in your mouth before Leone steps on it. Here he comes."

The patrons stared and whispered as Frank Leone, a tanned, robust man of fifty with short silver hair and a spark of life and humor in his eyes, approached Starsky and Hutch. His suit was silk, his shoes lizard. His ringed hand gripped Starsky's firmly. "Good evening. Frank Leone."

Hutch didn't offer his hand. Leone winked at him. "Come to my table. Hungry?"

"Sorry," Hutch commented wryly, "but when it comes to breaking bread with a-"

Starsky stepped on Hutch's foot. "We don't have time for-" he tried to explain, but Leone was already ushering them to a corner table with a mirror behind it.

The three sat. Hutch couldn't help but notice that the nearby tables were populated with Coppola extras with bulging dinner jackets. He gave each an even stare.

Leone poured them a glass of wine. "Now then. I know that a policeman's time is very

valuable, and I know that most of you don't make impromptu appointments with us, so why not get to the details of why you're here?"

Starsky nodded, his star-struck attitude being replaced with direct professionalism. "I'll be straight with you, Mr. Leone. I know you don't like cops, and my partner has some honest reservations about this meeting. It doesn't matter. If you know who we are, then you know our reputation. This isn't a social call."

Hutch sipped a glass of water that had already been set for him, then set it back down.

Starsky continued: "Our sources are very reliable, and they tell us that there is a contract out on your life and it could happen tonight."

Leone's eyes widened, even watered, his shoulders shaking with chuckles as he reached for his napkin to dab the corners of his eyes.

"Oh dear. Oh I'm sorry. Forgive me. But-" His laughter now spilled out as giant guffaws, his face deepening to a beet red, the Coppola extras laughing just because he was. "My young friends, there are always people wanting to kill me. There are dozens of-"

Hutch put his hand over Leone's wine glass and looked at him with such sincerity and urgency that Leone's fountain of laughter dried up.

"We're not a rookies trying to impress," Starsky told him. "We're here to tell you, to warn you, to get you out of town ourselves if we have to. Whatever it takes. But you have to act now. You can't-"

Starsky saw her first, in the mirror behind Leone. First her beautiful hate-filled eyes, then the pink pearl-handled Derringer she held under her silver serving tray. She wore the same skimpy outfit that the other waitresses wore.

"Hutch!" he warned, then jumped at her while Hutch pulled Leone to the floor and shielded him with his body.

Patrons screamed and ducked under tables.

Starsky had the girl facedown and was sitting astride her rear in order to cuff her.

"Pig!" she shouted over her shoulder at her arresting officer. She kicked her high heels on the floor and tried to spit at him.

One patron wolf-whistled at them. "Oooooh lah lah!"

Another grabbed his own crotch. "Give it to her!"

A third ground his hips. "Do it! Come on, baby!"

"Hurt her!"

"Wench!"

"Ouch!"

"Look out!"

Starsky dragged the resisting wildcat to her feet. Her hair, auburn and once in a ponytail, now ribbons around her face. Her eyes stabbed into Leone, who was picking himself off the floor with Hutch's help.

"I hate you," she hissed at the crime lord. "I hate you for killing my brother!"

Starsky hustled her toward the front door. "You have the right to remain silent-"

"Stuff it!" she shouted at Starsky.

"Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law-"

"I said stuff it!"

"You have the right to an attorney-"

"And I'll say stuff it again!"

The restaurant was alive with boisterous laughter, as if they had just enjoyed a one-act play at their favorite dinner theatre. Their don was safe and all was well.

In a hurry to catch up to Starsky, Hutch handed Leone the Rolex that fell from his wrist during the scene.

He turned to go, but Leone, pale, his lips dry, gripped his arm and moved in close to him, his eyes glistening a sliver of fear. His words were small with emotion. "Thank you, Detective Hutchinson. I sensed you were only here for your partner. You didn't have to push me to the floor. You could have allowed her to eliminate me, but you saved my life. You are a man of true integrity, and I will never forget this."

Hutch had to pry the man's fingers from his arm. "Just doing our job," he said quietly, and turned to leave.

This time Leone let him go.

But it wasn't until Hutch glanced back at Leone did he notice that the mirror behind Leone's chair had been shattered by the would-be assassin's bullet.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The precinct buzzed about Angela Sachi, the pretty Italian girl who'd almost killed Frank Leone. As Starsky and Hutch walked through the front lobby, fellow officers ribbed them mercilessly while the girl was being booked.

One officer chuckled. "Why did you stop her?" he asked them.

"Give her a medal for trying," another chimed in.

"Or a badge."

"Suckers."

"Whose side are you on anyway?"

Captain Dobey met them at the front desk. "Good work, you two."

Starsky grinned. "That mean we get a raise?"

"You just got one last year. If you want another raise, wear a tie."

"Is that the thanks we get?"

"The newspapers will thank you in the morning."

"Yeah, but since we're undercover, nobody'll know it's us."

"But we know," Hutch interjected, "that's all that counts."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky, still high from the bust, hummed happily with the radio as he drove Hutch home that night.

"We saved Frankie's life and he didn't even deserve it. Risked our necks for that dude. Angela Sachi coulda killed Leone, you, and me."

"I don't feel especially good about her being in police custody, Starsk. She needs to be in the witness protection program. You know how the wheels of Mafia justice turn. Leone will have her killed. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not next month or next year. But he will. I

mean, like you said, a life is a life. If we helped Leone, we can help her, right? I mean, I don't condone an assassination attempt, but I can understand why she'd want to get revenge on him for killing her brother."

"I already got that covered, partner. I talked to Dobey about that while you were typing up the report. He had her moved out."

Hutch smiled. "Really?"

"Really."

"She's not in our jail?"

"On a plane to who knows where by now."

Hutch's smile broadened into a grin. "What a boy scout you are tonight, Starsk."

Starsky pulled the Torino up alongside Hutch's canal-side cottage to let him out.

"Coming in?" Hutch asked as he got out of the car.

Starsky tapped his watch. "The Godfather, remember?"

"You won't make it in time to catch the beginning."

"If I use the light and siren I will."

"Just watch it here. You'll drive a hundred miles an hour, crash the car, and then you'll never get to see it."

"Okay," Starsky agreed as he got out. "That makes good sense."

Starsky joined Hutch on the sidewalk and they started for the cottage door.

That's when they heard the silky sliding sound of a windbreaker behind them.

They turned, but too late. Two men dressed in black clothes and ski masks rushed forward from the shrubbery, one grabbing Starsky from behind in a crushing bear hug, the other swinging a baseball bat hard into Hutch's face.

Blood spurted as far away as Starsky's shirt, the impact of the blow knocking Hutch off his feet and flat onto his back in the yard.

"Hutch!"

A nearby porchlight came on.

Howling with victory, the men raced behind the cottage and through the dark neighborhood.

Starsky, mindless of his aching ribs, dropped to his hands and knees beside Hutch, one hand moving reluctantly toward his bleeding partner.

A neighbor, an elderly woman in a silk bathrobe, padded barefoot across the street, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my God. Is that Ken?"

"Call an ambulance," Starsky choked to her, and she ran.

Starsky lifted Hutch into the crook of his arm, and he came boneless, his hand falling away from Starsky's ankle.

"It's okay, Hutch. Ambulance is on the way. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Let me up," Hutch mumbled through his mashed mouth, his head lolling to one side. "I'm all right."

Starsky held Hutch' head against his chest to support it. What bothered Starsky the most was that Hutch wasn't trying to move now, that his hands lay open and limp in the grass. "Hutch . . . "

"Sleepy," Hutch murmured faintly. "Just let me . . . " His eyes were rolling like lazy blue marbles. "You wake me up, Starsky."

"Hutch, please."

"Okay?"

"Hutch, don't . . . "

But Hutch's eyes closed just as the sirens sounded in the distance, and all Starsky could do was keep his hand on Hutch's throat, feeling a bit of hope in each slow pulse, somehow believing that if he took his hand away, the pulse would stop.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Captain Dobey, Huggy, and Starsky were in the waiting room when Dr. Langdon came in. Starsky stood at the window looking out. The physician was normally a busy, impatient man, but he took time to tread gently on this rice paper. He knew both detectives. They had defused a hostage situation between a domestic violence couple in the emergency room. He remembered Starsky as the show of force, a volcano on the verge of exploding, and Hutchinson as the negotiator, the voice of reason. The scene had lasted eight hours, Starsky pushing, Hutch pulling, until it ended peacefully and without injury to anyone in the hospital.

Dr. Langdon, to the room in general: "He may not live the night."

Dobey pressed a fist to his mustache, while Starsky kept looking out the window.

Dr. Langdon continued. "If he has parents, they need to be notified immediately."

Huggy was looking down at his shoes. "I already called his father."

Dr. Langdon went on. "He hasn't regained consciousness yet. We went in to try to relieve some of the pressure but . . . there could be serious brain damage, we just don't know yet. I know this is blunt, but I believe in straight talk, don't you?"

A nurse came with a tray of coffee, tea, and ice water, but no one seemed to notice as she set the tray on a magazine stand.

"Can we see him?" Dobey asked the doctor.

Softly: "I suppose you'll want to."

Dobey looked at Starsky's back. "Starsky? We should go see him now."

But he didn't move.

Huggy joined Starsky at the window. "It'll be tough, my man, but we'll go with you."

Starsky moved past them and out into the hall.

"You can save the life of Frank Leone, a godforsaken criminal, but not my son."

Starsky turned.

The voice. The face. The eyes. A lot like Hutch, but not Hutch.

(You've saved MY life before. Why couldn't you save my son's?)

Mr. Hutchinson grabbed the front of his jacket. "You've always been irresponsible, David. Full of mistakes. You shot that one little boy down

in the street. Remember that? And the girl you blinded with your bullet? Want me to go on? Because I have a long list, and my son is on that list now. What the hell were you doing while they were . . . "

The older man couldn't finish. He covered his eyes with one hand and wept openly and bitterly. He was not a man to let emotions out, so each sob fell out like a heavy brick.

"Lowlife!" Mr. Hutchinson roared at him. "Nothing but a product of the streets! Reckless! Impulsive! Selfish! Are you sufficiently sorrowful now? That

makes it all even now, doesn't it?"

Starsky couldn't look at him.

Mr. Hutchinson slung him away, Starsky sliding belly-first across the highly-polished lobby floor.

Mr. Hutchinson pointed a finger at him.

"No good!" he cried, and turned to step into the elevator.

Starsky could hear the older man banging on the inside of the elevator, along with his open howling.

He wanted to get up off the floor, because people were stepping around him and staring, but he couldn't, because the boogeyman, the movie reel, the bat, the blood, the relentless black images beat aroundinside his head like frantic crows in a birdcage.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mr. Hutchinson, Captain Dobey, and Huggy all stood at Hutch's bedside behind a pulled curtain in the emergency room, trying to see Hutch past the tubes, machines, and wires.

But he wasn't there. Not the Hutch they knew. Most of his head was bandaged, his eyes were closed, and the light that had been Hutch was gone.

Mr. Hutchinson's arm hung heavily at his side, his hand inching toward his son's, absently adjusting and smoothing his blood-stiff shirt. The older man appeared to be in mild shock. "Why didn't they put him in a hospital gown?" he whispered.

Dobey (because they knew he wouldn't need it?) only gripped the man's shoulder in return. He had tried to explain to the man that his son was slipping away, but Mr. Hutchinson had seemed not to hear.

Dobey turned when he heard the door opening behind him.

It was Starsky, and he was approaching the bed with glassy, faraway eyes.

Mr. Hutchinson must have known on some level that his son was leaving this world, because he didn't make a sound of protest when Starsky came toward the bed. He took Starsky's arm and brought him closer.

Sobs tore at the older man's throat. "He's dying, David."

Starsky dropped to one knee beside the bed, placing a trembling hand across Hutch's forehead, his voice a heavy whisper. "We're here with you, Hutch. Whatever happens, we'll be with you. If you're gonna stay, then stay. If you gotta go . . . "

Mr. Hutchinson knelt with him, squeezing the back of Starsky's neck.

Starsky leaned close to Hutch's ear. "I'll see you on the other side, buddy. I love you and I'll carry you in my heart forever. You made my life a better place. I don't think I told you how much I respect you and look up to you. For that heart that always looked out for me, and that head that kept me steady. Nobody can ever take that away from me. 'cause it's inside of me. And I swear to you, Hutch, I swear to you, it it's the last thing I do in this life, if they have to kill me to or put me away forever, I'm gonna get whoever hurt you."

The room was quiet for a very long time.

Dr. Langdon stepped into the room unnoticed.

"I'm sorry," he said as gently as he could. "It's time to go. We'll be turning the machines off soon to see if he can make it on his own. If he can't . . . "

Mr. Hutchinson and Starsky both nodded.

Starsky was grateful that he and Hutch's father agreed on this one point. Both knew that Hutch would not want to be sustained unnaturally and indefinitely by a machine.

The doctor held the door open for the four men as they exited silently and numbly from the room.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I think you should stay at my house for a while," Dobey told Starsky when they were in the hallway. "Or with Huggy."

Starsky only shook his head no and walked away from them.

Huggy started to go after him but Dobey gripped his arm.

"Let him go," the captain said quietly. "He needs time alone. He'll need us later, but right now he needs time alone."

Huggy looked toward the closed door of Hutch's hospital room.

"It can't be that easy. Here one day, gone the next?"

"It's that easy," Dobey sighed heavily as he pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket.

Huggy ran a hand across his eyes. "I'm gettin' out of here. Catch up with you later."

Dobey nodded. He watched Huggy go down the hall toward the elevator, looked around to see Mr. Hutchinson slumped in a chair, hand covering his eyes, his body silent, his face a pale gray. His other hand held a plastic baggie containing Hutch's ID/shield, watch, and ring. "Mr. Hutchinson," he said as he approached the older man, "I'd like to open my home to you for a few days. There's no need for you to stay at a hotel."

Mr. Hutchinson answered in a weak voice without looking up. "I don't think he knew, Captain Dobey."

"Knew what, Mr. Hutchinson?"

The older man sighed heavily, his voice unraveling to a thready whisper. "I don't think he knew I loved him. I didn't tell him often enough. I didn't show it often enough."

Dobey sat in a chair next to him. "He knew. He told me many times he wished you could say how you really felt about him. So he must have known."

"And I don't . . . " Mr. Hutchinson clasped the bag of belongings to his chest. "I don't know if he loved me."

Dobey looked at the floor for a moment, thinking of how to place his next words.

"Mr. Hutchinson, I don't think you know everything that went on with that anti-German group that abducted your son. He didn't want you to know everything because he didn't want to upset you. But I will tell you this: He wanted die for you. For you and Starsky. That's how much he loved you. You raised a fine young man. I wish I could say he were mine.."

The older man smiled through his pain and extended his hand to the captain. "Thank you for telling me this. And I will stay with you for a few days. You can tell me more stories about my good son."

The two men helped each other to their feet, then made their weary way down the hall to the elevator.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Mr. Hutchinson?"

Dobey and the elder Hutchinson were crossing the lobby of the hospital when Dr.

Langdon walked up to them.

"Captain Dobey?"

The older men turned to the doctor with inquisitive eyes.

"Where's Starsky?" Dr. Langdon asked.

"I'm not sure," Dobey answered with confusion in his voice. "Why?"

Langdon looked at Mr. Hutchinson. "Sir, your son is still alive." He sounded like a researcher who'd found the cure for cancer. "We turned the machines off, and he was breathing on his own."

Captain Dobey looked at Mr. Hutchinson, whose hand was over his heart. "Oh my God. I've got to see him."

"You can't. I mean, you can see him, but he's not out of the woods yet. He's off the machines, yes, and breathing on his own, but he hasn't regained consciousness yet. The next forty-eight hours will tell us a lot."

Mr. Hutchinson started for the elevator, then, flustered, came back to Dobey. "I'm going up to be with him. You find David."

"I will," Dobey said as he walked toward the front exit, his gait picking up speed, urgency, and spirit. "I'll do just that."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After no success in finding Starsky at his place, nor Huggy's, Dobey decided to drive to Hutch's cottage, and that's where he found Huggy sitting in his parked car behind the Torino.

"Starsky in there?" Dobey asked almost out of breath as he got out of his sedan.

"I guess, man. You told me to keep my distance, so I didn't check. What's up?"

"I think Hutch is going to make it. He has a fighting chance. They turned the machines off and he could function on his own. Only problem is, he hasn't regained consciousness yet. All we can do right now is pray."

Huggy got out of the car, a smirky smile on his face. "I knew if there was a way, my man Timex would do it."

Dobey and Huggy hurried to the front door of the cottage.

"Hey, Starsk!" Huggy called out as he pounded. "Open sesame! Good news! Hutch is gonna make it!"

The door suddenly flung open and Starsky gaped at them with wild hope and joy in his eyes.

"What?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Over the course of the critical forty-eight hours, the doctors and nurses tended to Hutch's various injuries while the four visitors paced and waited, taking turns at Hutch's bedside, Mr. Hutchinson praying and reading to him, Huggy lining up a dozen dates or so, Dobey telling him about the work he'd have waiting on his desk, and Starsky apologizing for not doing more to fight for him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

All four bleary-eyed visitors had been without rest and food when Dr. Langdon met with them in the waiting room.

"Well?" Starsky asked. "What's the story?"

"It's hard to say. I'd like to tell you that he's going to wake up today or tomorrow, or next week, but I don't give time-tables, and I don't give false hope."

Starsky, who'd been pacing circles in the room, stopped abruptly. "Just say it."

Langdon looked from face to face, then settled on Starsky's again. "He's in a coma."

Starsky sat down hard on the couch, looking up at the doctor. "What did you say?"

Langdon looked at Mr. Hutchinson. "It may or may not be permanent."

Starsky jumped to his feet and grabbed Langdon's white coat. "No way! Hutch didn't fight all the way back here just for you to come in here and tell us that!"

Mr. Hutchinson was so quick at intervening that Dobey could swear it was Hutch taking Starsky's shoulders and moving him away from the doctor.

"David," the older man said in the rational, reasonable Hutchinson tone, "he could wake up any day now. We just have to keep hoping and praying. Ken's strong. And he knows we're here."

The hope and joy in Starsky's eyes was gone. "You don't get it, Mr. Hutchinson. They hurt him because of me. That's what they said. And you're right. I didn't HELP HIM!"

"That doesn't matter, David. What matters is you holding yourself together for him. He wouldn't want you to-"

Starsky tore away from him. "HE WOULDN'T JUST STAND THERE AND LET THEM BEAT ME TO DEATH!"

This time Dobey grabbed him and shook him. "Starsky, stop it! You weren't just standing there! Come here!"

Dobey pulled him toward the nearby restroom and stood him in front of the full-length mirror inside. "Your chest and back are black and blue from where somebody held you back! What the hell could you do!"

Starsky punched the mirror and Dobey pulled him back.

"Get hold of yourself, Starsky!"

Langdon entered the room and said, "I suggest you take a walk and collect yourself. Your partner is alive and he has a chance of regaining consciousness. That's more than we could say earlier."

It took a few moments, but Starsky nodded, still looking at the doctor. "Okay. I'll take a walk. I'll collect myself. But I want to see Hutch first."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky leaned over the hospital bed and looked at his partner.

"Hutch," he said softly, "you told me to wake you up, so I'm gonna. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'm gonna wake you up like you told me to. I'm gonna come here every day to the hospital to see you. I'm gonna talk to you, and read to you, and play music for you, and tell you the worst jokes you ever heard. And if you wake up and find me gone, don't worry about it. Just know I'll be back. This ain't a goodbye, okay? It's just see you later."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The sun was just coming up as Starsky crossed the hospital parking lot to the Torino. He slid his key into the lock, and that's when he saw the hand-written note tucked beneath the windshield wiper.

Starsky opened the note which simply read: Ray Sachi. Delacorte Hotel, Room 212.

Suddenly Starsky understood. Someone wanted him to know that Ray Sachi, Angela's father, was responsible for the baseball bat.

He crushed the note, tossed it aside, and ran toward the Delecorte Hotel down the street, not wanting to attract attention with the Torino, but making sure his gun was under his jacket.

"Oh yeah," he panted as he ran. "Oh yeah. This is it. Come on, baby. You are dead. You are one dead mother-"

He raced down the sidewalk past the shops, pedestrians, bicyclists, skaters, reaching the door of the elegant hotel and bursting inside, sprinting across the lobby as people stared and gasped, up the beautiful winding staircase, out of breath, hand under his jacket.

"Oh yeah. Way to go. Showtime."

He pulled his gun out as he broke through the door to 212, but what he saw made him skid to a halt: Ray Sachi seated in a white velvet wingback chair, flanked by Frank Leone and two of his Brahma bull assistants who were digging the barrels of their guns into Sachi's temples.

Starsky stared as he tried to catch his breath, his face shiny and his hair damp with perspiration, his shirt clinging to his aching chest and back.

Leone slid a thin dinner mint between his lips and winked at Starsky while he spoke to Sachi. "Sachi, you're quite the popular fellow today."

Ray Sachi sat stiff and defiant, but he couldn't hide the trace of fear in his eyes.

Starsky raised his gun up and aimed it at Sachi's face, walking toward him, holding the crushing pain in his chest, his arm stiff. He blinked sweat from his eyes, his gun trembling slightly.

"You're dead."

Sachi grinned, showing perfect white teeth. The perfect white teeth that had grinned through the ski mask the night before.

"So's your partner. Except nobody'll give him a decent burial."

Starsky sprang at him and they toppled backward over the chair, Starsky pouncing on his back and smashing his face into the floor over and over.

"You like that, Sachi? Huh?"

Leone's men stepped gingerly out of the way.

Sachi's snakeskin boots kicked the floor as he grunted and cursed in pain.

"You like it, don't you? You get off on it, don't you? So get off. Come on. You like it. You know you do."

Leone's Brahma bulls exchanged a look of amusement and appreciation.

"We could use him," one said.

"He's good."

By now Sachi was flapping his arms and legs like a dying fish. His gurgling voice bubbled through his smashed nose as he wailed into the carpet.

"Okay, okay, cop. I got a wife and three kids. It was business, y'know? Like when you busted my Angie. You do your job, I do mine. I'm beggin' ya to let me go."

Starsky smashed his face into the floor again. "I begged for Hutch's life, remember?"

There was a soft crunching sound as Sachi's nose collapsed, and then Sachi's legs stopped. And the wailing stopped. And the flapping stopped.

Starsky stood up in the sudden silence, chest heaving for breath, aiming his gun down at the back of Sachi's head with one hand, swiping across his sweaty upper lip with the other.

(Come on, Detective Starsky, what's the matter, can't you do it? Are you chicken? Can't do it, can you? Can't do what you promised Hutch you'd do. Can't kill this monstrosity for what he did. You gutless wonder. Couldn't help Hutch. Couldn't do this. Couldn't do that. Can't pull the trigger)

Leone put a hand on the back of Starsky's neck and walked him a few feet away.

"I knew you couldn't long before you did," Leone said kindly. "That's why I'm here. I owe you a favor."

Leone fit a silencer onto the end of his gun and pumped round after round into Sachi's head.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Starsky got back to the hospital, excitement was in the air around Hutch's hospital room.

"We were just about to call you," Mr. Hutchinson told him as he took his arm.

"Dobey and Huggy were smiling for the first time in days.

"He's awake. And he's asking for you."

End

SNOWSTORM II (Revised)

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky lay on a gurney in the emergency room and watched his partner pace the floor in exhausted, endless circles. Shuffling really, his head bobbing wearily, his lax arms strength-less from carrying Starsky on his back.

"Hutch," Starsky mumbled weakly to him, "you can stop walkin' now. We're at the hospital."

But he still moved as if he were unable to stop, as if he were still running, walking, stumbling, crawling, for Starsky's life and didn't know how to quit.

A doctor approached Hutch and took his arm. "Detective Hutchinson, we need to examine you too. If you'll-"

But Hutch just pulled his arm away and kept walking.

An Asian doctor with wire spectacles carried a tray of supplies over to Starsky.

When Starsky thought it was about as private as he was going to get, he grasped Hutch's hand and said, "I'll never forget what you did for me."

Hutch circled close to the bed now, so Starsky could keep a grip on him if he wanted to. He looked at the doctors and nurses. "It's okay," he said with heavy eyelids. "You'd do it for me."

"Hey," Starsky said to the medical staff, "could somebody put him in a bed?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Detective Hutchinson," the nurse whispered as she touched Hutch's shoulder while he lay in his hospital bed hours later. "You have a visitor."

But her patient was soundly asleep, his face sunburned and wind-burned, his chapped and blood-cracked hands glistening with ointment and wrapped loosely in gauze, his feet and ankles so swollen the ER staff had had to cut his hiking boots away.

"I don't know how he did it," the nurse marveled softly.

The visitor brushed a lock of hair from Hutch's eyes. "I do."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky opened his groggy eyes to a buzz of voices in his hospital room. The group of reporters moved forward with their microphones, cameras, and notebooks.

"Will you give us an interview?"

"What kind of animal was it?"

"Is it still out there?"

"Do you have rabies?"

"How did you survive?"

"How do you feel?"

Too weak and overwhelmed for a Starsky-like response, he only managed to turn onto his side and pull the sheet up over his head.

But the reporters' voices were out-shouted by a ferocious "GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! HE'S BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH!"

The reporters stopped to stare at the older blond man with the forceful voice and ice-blue eyes who bore a striking resemblance to Detective Hutchinson.

"God Almighty," he growled at them. "Don't you vampires have any sense of decency about you?"

Mr. Hutchinson tossed them from the room one by one, most scurrying and sidling past him without his help, a few grumbling that they would sue him for damaged equipment, but none grumbling loud enough for him to hear.

The elder Hutchinson jerked news cameras from shoulders and threw them out into the hall, where they shattered against the wall. "Bloodhounds! Leeches! Here's a story for you!"

He gave the last straggler a swift kick in the pants when he decided he wasn't moving fast enough for him.

"David is recovering and I killed that wolf myself! It's being analyzed, so the townspeople can rest easy now! The excitement is over!"

Dr. Chung hustled up the hall toward him. "I tried to keep them away, sir. They wouldn't

listen. We're a small hospital and have no securi-"

He slammed the door in the doctor's face, then ran a hand through his hair as he turned and walked toward the bed, tension and a long-held breath draining from him with each step, until he was calm and collected at Starsky's bedside.

Wanting to take the inevitable tongue-lashing from Mr. Hutchinson like a man, Starsky pulled the sheet down a little to reveal medicated, hollow eyes. The man would surely blame him for his son being in the hospital.

"I was gettin' firewood," he offered weakly, as if he had to explain. "I didn't see the wolf until it was too late. I . . . I tried to run but . . . he got me. "

But no tongue-lashing came. Instead, the older hand settled warmly on Starsky's forehead and he offered a tight but genuine smile.

Starsky could only stare at him, believing that this was surely a dream. He had always hoped for acknowledgement and validation from Hutch's father, had even had (God, what would this man say if I told him that I dreamed about him as much as I dreamed about my own father, that I sometimes dreamed they were one and the same, that I wished he'd been around for father/son picnics and family photographs, God, what would he say about those) wonderful dreams about him.

"Those parasites come snooping around again," the older man said gravely, "you just give

whistle."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(But when Hutch saw Starsky staggering toward him in the snow, this time, he ran toward him, only to catch a lifeless body-)

"STARSKY!"

Hutch startled in the hospital bed.

Mr. Hutchinson took his shoulders. "Ken, wake up! You're dreaming!"

Hutch shook his head violently and threw an arm across his eyes. "Too late," he sobbed hoarsely.

The elder Hutchinson clutched his son to his chest. "It's all right, Ken. It's not too late. You're both safe here at the hospital. Wake up and look around." He raised Hutch's head and looked into his frightened face. "You're all right. David's all right."

Hutch's eyes traveled the room. "What? Where is he?"

"He's in his room, getting ready for the injections."

"I need to be there."

"You need to think about yourself right now."

"I am. And I still need to be there."

Hutch reached for the bed railing to climb out, but Mr. Hutchinson pulled him back. "Very well. I'll take you to his room. You're as stubborn as a mule, aren't you?"

Hutch held the back of one gauzed hand against his forehead while his father pushed a wheelchair over.

"Here," the older man said as he scooped his son into his arms and lowered him carefully into the chair. "I forbid you to walk on your feet until they're completely healed. Do you understand me?"

Hutch looked down at the feet he hadn't noticed until now, and saw that they were bruised and swollen. "I'd walk on them another thirty miles if I had to."

"I said do you understand me?"

Hutch nodded.

Mr. Hutchinson placed a light blanket over Hutch's lap.

"Can you get a pair of socks for my feet?"

"Why do you want socks on your feet?"

"Because they look terrible, all right?"

"Son, there are no socks here. This isn't a department store."

"Dad . . . "

The older man sighed heavily and sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his winter boots off, then slipped off his socks and put them on his son's feet. "There. Happy now?"

Hutch nodded.

Mr. Hutchinson put his boots back on, then maneuvered Hutch toward the door of his room.

A nurse met them with a breakfast tray. "And just where do you think you're going, Detective Hutchinson?"

"To my partner's room."

"He's doing fine. Dr. Chung is with him. You're to stay here until-"

But Mr. Hutchinson wheeled his son right past her and down the hall. "Now let's see, was it 215 or 217?"

The nurse just stomped away in exasperation.

The elder Hutchinson pushed his son into 215 where Dr. Chung was swabbing Starsky's stomach. Hutch saw that his partner still held the white rabbit's foot in his hand.

Starsky smiled wanly when he saw them. "Hey, Hutch. I think Dad's been watchin' too many John Wayne movies lately."

"Oh really?"

"He single-handedly emptied my room of about twenty reporters last night."

Hutch smiled. "Way to go, Dad."

Dr. Chung prepared the first of the two injections. "I apologize for the invasion, but-"

"Yeah, I know," Starsky mumbled woundedly as he turned his head, unwittingly allowing a clear view of the bite mark on his neck. "A possibly rabid police officer is news anywhere you go. Show me some water and maybe I'll put on a show for 'em."

"I'm confident you don't have rabies," Mr. Hutchinson offered.

"Thanks."

"Me too," Hutch added.

"Same goes to you. I wore the fur off your rabbit's foot."

"Don't worry about it."

Starsky opened his hand to reveal the mangled rabbit's foot. "Want it back?"

"No, that's okay. You keep it."

Dr. Chung smiled and flicked the syringe, which was Starsky's cue to brace himself for the injection.

Hutch took Starsky's free hand and gripped as best he could, trying hard not to wince. Starsky saw for the first time the condition of Hutch's hands. (His own hands weren't as chapped because they were without gloves in cold, but not the coldest, temperatures) Even though Hutch had squeezed his hand in the emergency room the day before, he'd been too disoriented to notice. But now he was alert enough to see the painful, oozing cracks, the blood-stained gauze. He hadn't worn gloves during the worst of the frigid weather. He'd left them on his partner.

Tears came to Starsky's eyes and threatened to spill over. He held an easier grip on Hutch's hand and looked over the side of the bed and down at Hutch's feet, to assess the damage to them, although God knew he didn't really want to see how bad it was . . . only to find that he couldn't see Hutch's feet because of the socks he was wearing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After the morning's injections, Starsky and Hutch indulged in a breakfast of oatmeal, juice, and hard-boiled egg while listening to Mr. Hutchinson's account of recent events.

"I heard about the blizzard on TV," Mr. Hutchinson explained to them. "And I tried calling the cabin. But of course the lines were down."

Starsky took a bit of oatmeal. "Get to the part about killin' the wolf."

The older man held his hand up. "I'll get to it. Hush." He saw that Hutch was having difficulty picking up his spoon, so he reached over and put it in his hand. "Now then. I knew Kenneth could take care of himself in severe weather, even a blizzard, but I knew the street kid would have some trouble, so I called the ranger's station and told them to check on you. They said they couldn't until the weather cleared, and they had REAL emergencies to tend to. I told them I was on my way out there and they would damn well check on my cabin since I donate a sizeable amount of money each year to forest conservation in that area, not to mention to the Forest Ranger's Association, which bought the DAMN HELICOPTER they picked you up in."

Mr. Hutchinson was growing agitated, but he quickly gained control as he continued.

"It wasn't long before the ranger's station contacted me and told me they'd picked up two men in the snow, and one could have been bitten by a rabid wolf. Since all flights to Colorado had been cancelled until a break in the weather, I paid a National Guardsman under the table to fly my rifle and I out. He landed in front of the cabin and waited whilst I engaged in my favorite outdoor sport."

Starsky grinned. "Hunting."

The older man flicked his hand dismissively. "Nothing to it. I followed its tracks and cornered it in a cave about a mile behind the cabin. At first it tried to stare me down with those cold eyes, but then it jumped at me, and that's when I shot it right in the air. I put it in a burlap bag and told the pilot to fly its sorry carcass to Animal Control after he dropped me off here at the hospital."

Starsky's hand unconsciously moved to the wound on his neck. "When you heard one of us was bitten, did you think it was Hutch?"

"Oh, I knew which one it was. As soon as they said curly-top."

Just then there was a polite knock at the door, and a pretty brunette poked her head inside.

"Detective Starsky, may I talk to you?"

He saw her pen and notebook and decided she was a reporter.

Mr. Hutchinson saw those items too and walked to the door. "Young lady, I don't believe I saw you here yesterday with that gaggle of reporters, but there will be no interviews."

He started to close the door in her face, but she said, "Wait. It's not about the bite. It's about surviving the blizzard. I want to do a human interest piece for the paper."

Starsky looked at his partner and whispered, "Can I talk to her? Tell her what you did for me?"

Hutch considered it, then shook his head no. "It's just between you and me, buddy," he whispered back. "We went through that alone, and I think we should keep it to ourselves."

End

THE FIRE

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"Hutch, wait!"

But Hutch kept running for the burning two-story house that was engulfed in flames.

Starsky didn't know if Hutch could even hear his voice over the roaring fire.

"Hutch! Wait for the fire department!"

Starsky could not keep his feet still. He stood in the yard in front of the house, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot, and he would have run in after him, would have helped him save the newborn (Please dear God! the father had cried as he ran from the house.

Somebody get the baby!) (Starsky grabbing his shoulders, assessing the young man'spain-stricken face) (I couldn't get to him! I tried! I couldn't!) But the father clung to his arms with the ferocious desperation of a drowning man and Starsky couldn't pry, push, or pull him loose.

Starsky's feet were prancing toward the house but he wasn't going anywhere. The man had superhuman strength and he wasn't letting go.

A crowd had gathered. The fire was fully involved, flames leaping from every window, smoke rolling from every crevice.

"Hutch!"

Huge, bright yellow-orange flames blocked the front door, and Starsky didn't know how Hutch had gotten inside, but he had, and Starsky knew he had to too.

"Hutch!"

Fire trucks made their way down the street, and a TV news van arrived even before the rescue vehicles did. Reporters, cameramen, firefighters, and paramedics converged on the scene all at once.

The firemen in their protective gear rushed the house with their powerful water hoses blasting.

"My kid!" the young father shouted to the firefighters. "My kid's in there!"

Starsky struggled—no, fought—to free himself from the man's talon-like grip, a growling sob catching in his throat.

"Somebody get this leech offa me! My partner's in there!"

The young father was oblivious, his knuckles white and bulging as they dug into Starsky's arms.

"Hutch!"

Hutch wasn't coming out. No sign of him or a baby, and the fire was just an

uncontainable roaring monster.

"Who's in there!?" a fireman demanded of Starsky.

"My partner went in after his kid!" he panted. "Hurry!"

The fireman didn't comment, only signaled for his men to stay back and spray only.

Starsky was grabbing at the firefighter as desperately as the young father was grabbing at him. "You gotta go in there!"

"It's too involved!" the fireman told him. "We have to try to spray it down a little first! If we'd been a little sooner . . . the whole structure could collapse!" A glance at the father. "Is the baby upstairs?"

A vigorous nod of the head. "You have to help—"

The firefighter seized Starsky's shoulder in one hand, and the father's in the other. "We can't! It's too late! I can't risk my men by—"

Starsky was free, tearing away from both the fireman and the father, racing toward the front steps of the house, the firemen on him like a pack of dogs to stop him.

Starsky screamed Hutch's name into the ground.

And then he heard it. Hutch's voice. Calling. But a dim sound beneath the roaring of the beastly fire. But Hutch's voice just the same.

"Starsky!"

Coming from the other side of the house.

Starsky and one of the firemen ran around to the side of the house.

"Starsk! Up here!"

Starsky looked up. He saw Hutch leaning out the window, the baby wrapped in his jacket and held tightly against his chest.

Smoke consumed him and Starsky could see flames jumping and smoke rolling all around him in the bedroom. He was gulping for air.

"Hutch! Hold on! Help's here!"

Hutch tried to call down to Starsky, but was so overcome with the smoke and heat that he

could not speak. Starsky saw Hutch sink to his knees at the windowsill, the unconscious baby slipping from his arms and out of the window, where it fell and landed unharmed into the net of the waiting firefighters.

"Hutch! Come on! Don't pass out! Stay awake!"

Whirling to the firefighters: "Somebody help him!"

But it was too late.

Starsky could no longer see his partner at the window. Smoke and flames engulfed the second story, and when the roof collapsed is when Starsky collapsed between the firemen who were steadying him.

The young father rushed over to where the paramedics were tending to his baby, while the firemen led a numb Starsky away from the scene of the fire.

End

DAMAGES

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"Dad sounded upset," Hutch told Starsky as he found a parking space for his Ford near a side entrance to the Matthews Inn, the elegant hotel his father owned jointly with his friend Saul Matthews.

"Why would your dad fly all the way out here from Minnesota to talk to you when he could use the phone?"

Hutch shook his head as he turned the headlights off. "I don't know," he said as they got out of the car. "He just said it was about Saul."

They walked through the courtyard, past a beautiful marble water fountain, and toward the red carpeting leading to a side entrance of the hotel.

"They're pretty tight, aren't they?" Starsky asked him.

Hutch opened the door. "Saul's the only man dad calls friend."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mr. Hutchinson was pacing the floor when Starsky and Hutch entered Room 300.

"Dad, what is it?"

Mr. Hutchinson stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair, releasing a heavy sigh.

"Saul was arrested, Ken."

Hutch couldn't remember the last time his father looked this distressed.

"What?"

"The authorities say he . . . " The older man shook his head. "Raped his nine-year-old grandson."

"Markie?"

Hutch looked around the room as if to get his bearings. He had known Saul Matthews all of his life. Had been to his house many times while his father visited, had played with his son Tom off and on while growing up. It was Saul who had taught him to play chess and "billiards" as he liked to call it.

Mr. Hutchinson looked toward the wall. "And I just . . . "

Hutch realized his father was reaching out to him. Needing him. For the first time in his life. He'd flown from Minnesota just to be near someone he loved.

"Here, Dad," Hutch said as he took his father's arm and sat him down on the sofa.

But the elder Hutchinson was on his feet again and pacing.

Starsky poured a whiskey for him, which he declined with a flick of his hand.

"I don't know what the hell they're trying to do to him, son. You know Saul. He wouldn't . . . "

Hutch licked his lips. "What evidence do they have?"

"It couldn't be true. All fabricated. All trumped up. All planted. And you can wager it's someone wanting money. Saul's a wealthy man and there are people-even the boy's mother-who would say anything and use anyone, including her son, to get it. She and Tom had a nasty divorce and she didn't get every dime she asked for, so this is her way of . . . "

"Dad, what evidence do they have? They must have had something to arrest him on."

Mr. Hutchinson spoke past the question as if he hadn't heard.

"I paid his bail."

"How much?"

"That's not important."

"Dad, it's your money. It's important. If he jumps . . . "

"Five hundred thousand dollars."

Hutch closed his eyes.

Mr. Hutchinson continued in a deflated voice.

"His arraignment is in two weeks."

"Dad, what about the evidence?"

The older man shook his head. "Nude photos of the boy, and a sexual abuse examination at the hospital."

Hutch took in a deep breath. "What does the boy say?"

"It doesn't matter what the boy said. His mother put him up to it so she could blackmail his grandfather. She probably took the pictures herself. That's just like her."

"Dad, they've got nude photos and physical evidence. Now I know how close you and Saul are, and yes, a mother could take pictures like that, but she couldn't leave semen, now could she? She couldn't plant the damage that rape can do to a small body."

"Saul wouldn't do that, Ken. You know him."

"What did the boy say?"

There was a long silence in the room.

Mr. Hutchinson looked at his son when he finally answered. "Markie said his grandfather hurt him 'in his pants'."

Hutch paled.

Starsky took Hutch's elbow. "Okay?"

Mr. Hutchinson began to pace the room again.

Hutch watched his father. "Legally he's innocent until proven guilty. But if he did it, he needs to get some help so he won't do it again and-"

He was interrupted by the phone.

Mr. Hutchinson lifted the receiver.

"Hutchinson here."

Both Starsky and Hutch watched the older man's face grow increasingly wooden and pale as he listened, watched his hand groping for the chair behind him.

Hutch rushed to his side and pulled the chair up for him, but his father gripped the edge of the walnut table and remained standing.

"Dad?"

Hutch was concerned about the numb look in his father's eyes.

"Dad, what is it?"

Eyes looking straight ahead, Mr. Hutchinson replaced the receiver. "I uh . . . he . . . "

"Why don't you sit down?"

"I don't want to sit down," the older man said absently.

"Who was that?"

Mr. Hutchinson blinked as if disoriented. "Saul's attorney. He . . . " He looked at his son. "Saul killed himself. Shot himself in his garage. And he . . . he confessed to that heinous crime in his suicide note."

Starsky, silent until now, squeezed the elder Hutchinson's arm. "Sorry," he said gently. "A lot goes on behind closed doors."

"No. I refuse to believe that about him."

"It's good the boy told when he did, sir. The abuse could have gone on for-"

"I SAID NO!"

It was a hard shove, powered by grief and rage. And it happened so quickly-but at the same time so very slowly-that it seemed to have a dreamlike quality about it as Starsky stumbled backward toward the window, arms pinwheeling for balance, clutching at the drapes which slid silky through his hands, and then crashing through the glass and was gone.

Mr. Hutchinson stared at the open window as if hypnotized, the night breeze rippling the drapes in an eerily languid way, in a way that should never have been, in a way that just looked very, very wrong.

Mr. Hutchinson took several jerky steps toward the window and looked down, the air ruffling his hair, and he saw Starsky sprawled facedown on the foot-wide marble edging that ringed the sparkling hotel fountain in the courtyard below.

The older man bolted from the room, and Hutch was left standing alone in the middle of the floor like a dazed sculpture.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mr. Hutchinson took the stairwell down, panting one word-"David"-over and over- "David. David. David."-as he descended the three flights of steps.

He was still panting the word when he reached the ground floor. He threw the exit door open and ran into the courtyard.

Comments from the small crowd that had gathered:

"He jumped."

"Fell."

"I saw him."

"Drunk."

"High."

"I called an ambulance."

Starsky lay limp and unmoving as a ragdoll, one arm in the fountain's water, the other on the ground.

Mr. Hutchinson, careless in his distress, and mindless of any basic first-aid rules he may have known, took Starsky under the arms to turn him over, to move him off the marble lip of the fountain, to assess the damage, to will him to be unharmed, to take it all back.

"Oh my God," Mr. Hutchinson squeaked hoarsely like a rusty old hinge. "I'm sorry, David. I'm sorry."

"DON'T MOVE HIM!"

Hutch came running up to them, each stride transforming his face from a mask of pasty shock to one of tearful anguish and disbelief.

"Oh Starsk," he whispered shakily as he fell to one knee beside them. "Keep breathing, buddy. Help's on the . . . did anybody call an AMBULANCE?!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The young surgeon with the wild hair jumped from the back of the ambulance with the paramedics, giving only a quick glance in Starsky's direction as he spoke to Hutch in

hyperactive sentences as he chewed incessantly on his gum.

"Internal injuries secondary. Head injury primary. What we do in the ambulance and in the emergency room at the shock trauma center will determine his survival and level of recovery."

The paramedics quickly but carefully braced and splinted the silent Starsky.

The surgeon continued as Mr. Hutchinson joined them: "Surgery in the ambulance. Control the swelling. Vital."

"Young man," Mr. Hutchinson asked, "do you know what the hell you're doing?"

The surgeon grinned as he smacked his gum. "They call me aggressive, brash, innovative, radical, experimental." He shrugged. "The trauma center got me on a grant. Hell, the trauma center's a grant. But nobody complains. Know why? 'Cause I save lives. And yeah, I toot my own horn 'cause everybody else is afraid to. We do a craniotomy. Time is crucial. Time, time, time. None to waste."

He began ticking words off on his fingers as he backed toward the ambulance doors, where the paramedics were already loading Starsky.

"Diuretics, steroids, anticonvulsants, ventricular drain, ventilator, barbituate coma. Keeps the pressure down. That's what we'll do."

Hutch grabbed his arm before he could climb happily into the ambulance.

"So help me, if we lose him because of you . . . "

The doctor's wide grin faded to a warm smile. "If I can't save him, nobody can."

Hutch released his arm. "Can I ride with you?"

"Sorry. No room."

The surgeon climbed happily into the back of the ambulance, then closed the double doors.

Hutch stood very still, eyes following the ambulance as it left.

Mr. Hutchinson approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Son . . ."

Hutch suddenly turned and shoved him back a step.

"WHY?!"

The older man tottered back a step, toward the fountain. The crowd gasped.

A second shove. "How could you!"

Mr. Hutchinson kept staggering backward.

third. A fourth.

"There! How does it feel!"

Hutch grabbed the front of his shirt just as he was falling backward into the fountain and pulled him back up to safety. "He would never do anything like that to you!" he screamed into his father's face. "He loves you more than I do!"

The older man looked down at the ground.

"Don't touch him again!"

Hutch stalked away, leaving the elder Hutchinson alone and gazing down at his shoes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch walked into the emergency room at the Life First Trauma center and tried to move behind the curtain where the wild-haired neurosurgeon was tending frenetically to his partner and yapping orders to the staff.

With a bare glance the physician kicked a scrub-covered foot at him. "Get the hell out of here. I need all the concentration I can get."

"I want to see my-"

The surgeon jumped at him with his bloody gloved hands held in the air. "You'll be seeing him at the funeral home if you don't give me some room."

Hutch tried to move past him. "I told you-"

The doctor was in his face. "I told you! Do I need a bouncer? Go to the waiting room!"

Hutch backed away from the curtain.

But not from intimidation.

He would do whatever Starsky needed to survive.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I had to hear about Starsky in the damn squad room?"

Hutch looked at Captain Dobey without breaking a stride in his pacing.

"Do you know what the rumors are?" Dobey asked him. "He jumped. He was drunk. He was-"

Hutch's voice was a whisper. "Pushed."

Dobey stared at him. "What do you mean pushed? Were you there?"

Hutch kept pacing, struggling for a stronger voice. "Saul. Dad. Starsky."

"Hutch, what are you talking about?"

"That crazy doctor won't tell me anything."

Dobey clenched his arms and stopped him. "Tell me what happened."

Hutch looked around the room. At the magazine stand, the couch, the TV, the window. (Oh God, not the window, please, this didn't happen, this did not happen, it has to be a dream, it has to be something else) Anywhere but Dobey's face.

Hutch's head lowered and his arms went lax in Dobey's grip. "I don't know if they can fix him this time.."

Dobey gave him a small shake. "Talk like that won't help him."

Hutch shook his head no again. "It was all wrong . . . Dad . . . the window . . . he . . . "

"Hutch, who pushed him?"

Hutch's head was still down, but he didn't answer. Instead he sank lower and lower, until Dobey guided him to the plaid couch and sat next to him. "Who, Hutch?"

Hutch slumped back onto the couch and turned his head away. "Dad."

"What?"

After Hutch told him what happened, Dobey rubbed his face. "Good Lord," he whispered.

Hutch held his arms across his stomach as if from physical pain. He said nothing else.

Simply kept himself turned away.

Dobey wanted to say something, wanted to console him, wanted to say words of hope and encouragement, but he honestly couldn't find any at the moment.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(Starsky was stumbling back toward the window and he crashed through with a loud noise, falling but not far, because this time Hutch grabbed his jacket collar, he had saved his partner's life, had kept him from falling, and it was such a wonderfully huge feeling of joy and relief he didn't know whether to laugh or cry and he found himself doing both)

But the waiting room was a dreary sight to awaken to. No joy or relief here. Only a crushing pain in his heart.

Hutch felt wetness on his cheekbone and touched his face, realizing he'd been weeping in his dream.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. Dobey was gone and no one else was in the heavy silence of the room.

"Ken?"

Hutch raised his head from the back of the plaid waiting room couch and swiped at his face, seeing his father in the doorway. A tragic sight. His hair mussed, his tie askance, shirt rumpled, posture slumped, eyes haunted, lower lip tremoring, his face twisting into a sorrowful expression and his countenance so marred with pain that he was almost unrecognizable. He looked drunk but Hutch knew he wasn't. It was devastation.

"Please," came the mournful, lonely sound of his voice. "I have to be here. Don't send me away."

Hutch looked away from him. "I have nothing to say to you."

Mr. Hutchinson came into the room and stood quietly at the window, turned away from his son. "God, forgive me," he whispered to the window pane. He pounded his fist one time hard into the wall, pressing his forehead against the textured wallpaper, a razor sob tearing his throat. "I didn't mean to hurt him!"

Hutch rose to his feet and approached his father from behind, squeezing his shoulder but not saying anything.

The older man turned and fell onto his son in heartbreaking sobs.

Hutch held onto his father and comforted him the best he could.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hours later Hutch was dozing on the couch again while Mr. Hutchinson was getting coffee from a vending machine down the hall.

"Dick Tracy?"

Hutch opened his eyes and saw the young neurosurgeon with the Einstein hair.

"Doctor Bernstein," the surgeon said as he plopped down exhaustedly beside him and offered a hand as he propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Man, my head is shot all to hell. What time is it?"

Hutch gripped Bernstein's hand. "I'm Detective—"

"I know who the hell you are."

Hutch sat up straighter. "How's my partner?"

"Broken arm, broken leg, head injury of course. He's in a coma, hooked to every machine we have, and some they don't even know about yet. If or when he wakes up, he'll be on his way to recovery. But I don't like to operate in 'ifs'. I like 'whens'."

Taking all the information in , Hutch nodded.

"You can see him if you want to," the doctor said. "But remember, he's comatose."

XXXXXXXXX

Hutch sat next to Starsky's hospital bed, looking and feeling very alone. His partner almost didn't look like himself, but Hutch reasoned that once he woke up, he'd be his old animated self again. Carefully Hutch's hand went out to squeeze the forearm not in a cast.

"Hey Starsk," he said in a small voice. "I'm right here. I hope you can hear me. I'll be here every day, okay? Dad…didn't mean to hurt you. He wants you to know that. Just…get better. I need you back."

He sat and watched his friend for a while longer, hoping, praying. Eventually Mr. Hutchinson appeared in the doorway, looking in, and was then joined by Dobey and Huggy.

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

It was sometime during the night that Starsky came out of the coma with a mumble. Hutch heard him and leaned toward him with a smile on his face. "Hey buddy, you made it."

Starsky blinked and looked around. "Where am I? What happened?"

Hutch took his hand and squeezed. "You're in the hospital. Dad pushed you and you fell out the hotel window. Do you remember that?"

There was a long silence, and then Starsky nodded. "Oh yeah. Am…I still in one piece?"

Hutch smiled. "Sort of. Broken arm and leg, and you just came out of a coma, but it could be worse."

Starsky nodded. "How's your dad?"

Tears came to Hutch's eyes. That Starsky could ask about the one who'd hurt him spoke of the true nature of his heart. That's one of the things he loved about his best friend.

"He feels bad, but he's doing better now that you're awake."

"Think I could see him?"

"Tomorrow. Just rest for now."

"Oh sure," Starsky said with slowly closing eyes. "Night."

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

Next day.

After Bernstein examined Starsky and gave a thumbs up, he raised a hand to Hutch and his father, then left the hospital room.

Starsky's eyes were on the downcast figure of Mr. Hutchinson, who stood near the door.

"Can I talk to you alone, Mr. Hutchinson?"

The older man's head lifted a bit. "Of course."

Hutch nodded. "See you in a bit," he said as he left the two of them alone.

Mr. Hutchinson still stood in the same place, as if afraid to move any closer to the hospital bed.

Starsky's small smile was genuine, which drew the man a little closer.

"David, I don't know how to apologize."

"S'okay. You were upset about Saul."

"That's no excuse. I just…my temper got the best of me."

Starsky nodded. "I know the feeling. I got a best friend too."

Mr. Hutchinson nodded and gripped his good hand. "You certainly do."

End

PREMONITION

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(Just pretend like it doesn't hurt and you can go in there)

Starsky watched his partner through the glass in the isolation ward of the hospital.

(You're getting sicker, Hutch, I can tell. This plague is moving through your body like mercury, slow but sure. You're so weak you can't get out of bed now, you're hot and cold at the same time, and when your eyes close I don't know if or when they're ever going to open again, because we don't know how fast this killer is)

(If it were a guy with a gun that were after you, I could save you. If you were held hostage I'd find a way like I always do. But I can't see this enemy. It's not human. I can't talk to it, swear at it, bargain with it, bully or bluff it out of existence)

Starsky saw his partner sleeping restlessly in the bed.

Hutch was hugging one of his pillows, his sweat-drenched hair clinging to his head, his youthful features marred by ceaseless pain. He didn't know Starsky was looking. Couldn't have known because his eyes were closed. But Starsky could see his partner's lips mouthing his names in a silent, fearful whisper, as if he knew he were only a breath away. Or wanted him to be.

Starsky saw a nurse coming.

"I need to go in there."

She was sympathetic but firm. "You've been in there too many times already. You know what the doctor said. He's highly infectious right now."

"Put me in the mask like you did before. Just one more time. I have to."

She held her clipboard firmly to her bosom, perhaps against the protest she knew was coming. "I'm sorry, Sergeant. It just can't be done."

But no protest came. Instead he simply turned and walked into the isolation ward.

The nurse took a step forward. "Sergeant!"

But self-preservation stopped her at the door.

She went down the hall to alert the doctors.

Starsky moved to the bed (God, get the mask on, if you get this too, how are you going to find Callendar and help Hutch?).

(Okay, so you get it too. Life will be such a bruised place without your partner anyway. Being here with him when he needs you is worth the risk. He'd sure as hell do it for you. Even if you get it right now, you'll still have time to bring Callendar in before it gets real bad. Hell, remember how long you held out looking for Bellamy before you went down? And Hutch was there with you every minute. When you were thirsty, he got you a drink. When you stumbled, he caught you. When you couldn't walk anymore, he carried you. So coming in here is the easiest thing in the world to do. Except maybe for seeing Hutch deteriorating by the hour. That's not so easy to do. That's the hardest thing in the world to do)

Hutch must have sensed his presence, because his feverish eyes blinked open and found him.

Starsky pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at Hutch's flushed face. "I'm back, buddy. We're still lookin' for Callendar."

Hutch's hand came up to reach for him, then dropped in fatigue. But Starsky caught it before it hit the bed and squeezed tightly.

Hutch opened his mouth to speak, but gasped instead.

"Sssh," Starsky told him. "You don't have to talk. I'll just sit here with you for a few minutes, okay?"

Hutch rolled his head no on the pillow. "Shouldn't be here."

"Don't worry about me."

"Starsk . . . "

"Save your strength, buddy."

But there was something going on in Hutch's eyes besides fever and pain. There was a look of fear and urgency.

"Hutch, your hand's shakin'."

Hutch swallowed and licked his dry lips. "I had a dream."

"Wasn't about that pretty nurse that took your temperature, was it?"

Hutch didn't smile. "I'm . . . I'm serious."

Starsky's smile faded a little. "Okay. You had a dream."

Hutch gave Starsky's hand a weak squeeze. "Listen."

"I'm listening."

Hutch paused to regain a bit of stamina before continuing. Even speaking was draining him of precious breath and strength. And the tears in his eyes told Starsky how serious he was.

"I dreamed . . . " He closed his eyes. "I don't know if I can even talk about it without . . . "

"Hey, it's okay. Take your time if it's that important."

Hutch opened his eyes again. "It's that important. It was about you."

"Then tell me. And I have another handkerchief here if you're gonna be a big crybaby about it."

Hutch tried to lift his head while he talked to him, but found he couldn't.

"Easy, Hutch."

"I dreamed we were at the station, okay? And we were going down to the car . . . " He paused in exhaustion, and for a moment Starsky thought he'd fallen asleep, or had passed out. Even the grip from Hutch's hand was disappearing.

Starsky stroked his forehead, pushing aside the damp hair. "Hutch? You still with me?"

"It . . . was the craziest thing. This . . . this . . . police car. With cops inside. . . " Hutch looked at the wall, as if he could see the dream playing out on a movie screen. "The cops have guns, and they open fire, and . . . I yell for you to get down and . . . I pull

my gun out but . . . they shoot you I don't know how many times. You never had a chance."

Hutch was becoming more upset, the tears sliding, his chest hitching with his silent weeping. He put a weak arm across his eyes. "You died, Starsky," he groaned, voice cracking. "You died in the hospital."

"Hutch . . . " He gingerly pulled Hutch's arm away from his eyes. "Hutch, look at me."

Hutch sniffed, but looked at him.

"Hutch, it was just a dream. I'm here. I'm fine. Nothin' like that's ever gonna happen. You'd never let it."

"You know I wouldn't. But . . . " Hutch shook his head no again on the pillow. "It was real."

"Buddy, they got you on all that medication. You got a raging fever. You're sick. All that can make you have some pretty wild nightmares." He leaned in close to Hutch for another attempt at humor. "I bet they put the hospital food in your IV."

Hutch's eyes held to Starsky's, and he seemed to settle somewhat.

"Okay?" Starsky asked him as he reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. "Just a nightmare."

Hutch nodded, then reached for the glass, but it slipped in his hand. "Damn."

Starsky held Hutch's head and the glass while he sipped at the water.

"Good?" Starsky asked him.

Hutch nodded again.

Starsky set the glass aside, then lowered Hutch's head to the pillow again. "I should go now, buddy. As much as I want to stay here . . . "

"I know. Callendar."

Starsky started to leave, but Hutch grasped his hand, his mouth opening to speak again.

But this time nothing came out. He simply didn't have the strength.

Starsky turned back, leaning over the bed. "I will," he said, answering Hutch even though he hadn't said anything. "I'll be careful."

And when Starsky was gone, Hutch buzzed for a nurse, who appeared at the window.

"Yes, Detective Hutchinson?" she asked, her voice dimmed by the glass.

Unable to speak, Hutch made a motion with his right hand as if he were holding a pencil and writing onto the palm of his left.

"Paper?" the nurse questioned. "You want paper and pencil?"

He nodded, then pulled the sheet up around him. He was getting cold again. And he hoped his hand wouldn't shake too badly while he wrote his partner-

(I trust you with my life, Starsky. I find myself in a bad situation and you're the one with a plan, a way, an answer, sometimes you're the only one, who else would I trust in this job, in this world, with my very life? Knowing that if I hurt, you hurt. If I'm up, you're up. If I go down, you're standing in my way, between me and whatever it is, to catch me, to break my fall, to hold me up. God it's scary how much you love me, so I know if there's any way to beat this thing, you'll do it for me, you'll do for me what I can't do for myself, but Starsk, if, if, IF there's no way to win, if I have to leave this world, then I don't want you to feel bad. I want you to be SURE you know that you tried your hardest, you did your best, you gave me your all)

-a note.

End

PREMONITION II

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch sat in the chair next to Starsky's hospital bed, numb, wooden, and dazed.

(Each minute, Starsky. Each minute you're in that bed, on those machines. Each minute destroys a minute of my heart)

(Until what, there's nothing left of me?)

(I'm sorry. . . I'm so sorry I didn't stop them. Please forgive me. You're here because of me. I'm not supposed to neglect your safety, I'm supposed to protect you, save you, how many times have I done that for you, how many times have you done that for me, I should have done something, anything, but instead I was complacent,

unprepared, and I should have been ready because I dreamed this would happen . . . )

The dream, the images—

The scraping of metal against metal in the precinct parking garage made Hutch look around.

The black and white.

The cops.

The guns.

"Starsky, get down!"

But Starsky could not get to his gun in time. The bullets hit him how many times, and he crumpled to the ground without a sound.

"Starsky!"

Hutch fired at the black and white that tore out of the garage, while at the same time rounding the Torino (It's okay, Starsky. Whatever it is, it's okay. Just like when you were shot in the restaurant. Just like when Bellamy injected you with the poison. It's okay).

But Hutch saw him on the ground and knew it wasn't okay.

The dream, the images—

(I dreamed)

(They shoot you I don't know how many times. You never had a chance)

(I dreamed)

(You died, Starsky)

(Just a dream, Hutch)

(You died in the hospital)

(Nothin' like that's ever gonna happen, Hutch. You'd never let it)

(You know I wouldn't)

But he did.

The dream, the images, became real today.

(You're going to die, and there's nothing anybody can do about it)

(God, I'm sorry)

(It's my fault)

(Should have)

(Could have)

(What if)

(What if I'd pulled my gun faster)

(What if I'd yelled sooner)

(What if)

(I'm trying, Starsk)

(I'm trying to find your kil . . . )

(The shooters)

(And I will)

(I swear I will)

(So help me)

(I'll get those if it's the last thing I do)

(They can't do this to you and get away with it)

(I'll keep trying)

(I swear)

(I promise)

(I vow)

(I won't give up)

(They can shoot me)

(A dozen times if they want to)

(They can kill me)

(But I'll keep trying, working, digging)

(Until my last breath)

"I don't know what to do, Starsk. I'm pushing the odds. I don't know what to do. I mean, wha-"

Hutch paused.

"What if."

Another pause. A sigh.

"Ah, man, what am I talking about?"

Hutch rose to his feet and began to pace.

"What am I talking about?"

And then he stopped.

(What? What was that? Was that something?)

A movement from the bed?

"Starsky?"

Movement from Starsky?

A bare twitch.

"Starsk?"

Starsky's opened eyes were as soft as velvet, and they were looking at him.

(Oh my God)

Hutch's own eyes widened in childlike awe.

"You . . . you're awake? He's . . . he's . . . he's . . .he's . . . he's awake . . . he's awake. Uh . . . ah . . . uhm . . . ahb . . . uh . . . uhm . . . "

He waved toward the nurse.

"Nurse, nurse, look! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake!"

He grabbed her and swung her around.

"He's awake! He's awake! He's okay! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake! He's awake!"

End

SHADOWS II

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Huggy glanced worriedly and frequently into his rearview mirror at Starsky and Hutch as he drove away from Judge Meyers' summer theatre, wishing he could leave Hutch's ordeal behind in that awful room. But there was no way. Hutch had brought it all into the backseat with him.

"How's he doin'?"

But Starsky didn't hear him. He held Hutch's head in his lap and stroked his hair, shushing and petting and whispering.

"I don't want to go to the hospital," Hutch whispered up to him.

"I know you don't, but you have to."

"No."

"Hutch-"

"I can't let anybody-"

"You have nothin' to be ashamed of. You didn't do anything wrong. It was him."

Starsky felt Hutch trembling against him, then lowered Hutch to the safety and security of his stomach again, who was still clutching Starsky's shirt.

"Starsky," Hutch whispered into his shirt. "I want to disappear."

Blinking back tears, Starsky swallowed and looked at Huggy in the rearview mirror. "Sshh. Don't talk like that, Hutch. If you disappear, you can't be my partner anymore. And I need you. You don't go anywhere without me, okay?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Leave me alone," Hutch told Starsky when Huggy pulled his car up alongside the emergency room entrance at Memorial Hospital. "I can do it myself."

"Do what yourself?"

"Go in."

Huggy opened the back door. "Then come on, Superman."

Hutch reached for the headrest on the front passenger seat to pull himself up, but stopped halfway to pull his sleeve down over the swastika with one trembling hand. Starsky let him struggle his way out of the backseat, then got out behind him. Hutch was leaning heavily against the car, head down, one hand over his sleeved forearm. He was still bent and stiff in all of his joints, his knees giving out. He sank lower, until Huggy took one arm and Starsky the other, then they helped him inside.

"I can do it," he mumbled with his head down.

"Oh, we know," Huggy said wryly, then offered a crooked smile.

The closer they got to the admissions desk, the lower Hutch sank to the floor, until Huggy and Starsky had no choice but to lay him down on his back on the cold white tiles.

"Doctor!" Starsky yelled to the busy emergency room. "Now!"

Several doctors hustled over.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The male nurse named Frank pursed his lips at his blond-haired patient. "We can't help you into your hospital gown until you let go of your partner's hand."

Dr. Feldman, a patient, composed man, observed quietly from a stool in the corner, his clipboard held against the breast of his white coat.

Hutch's head was turned away from the doctor and nurse, toward Starsky, who stood holding his hand next to his hospital bed.

"I don't want a gown," Hutch gasped to him with averted eyes. "I'm not staying very long."

"But hospital regulations say-"

"I don't care."

"And you're filthy-"

Starsky grabbed the man's white shirt and jerked him forward. "Shut your mouth."

Dr. Feldman approached the bed. "Very well, Frank. You can go now."

"Queers," Frank sneered at Hutch as he snatched his stethoscope from the bed and marched toward the door.

Starsky started after the man but didn't go very far because Hutch was still clinging to his hand.

"You're fired, Frank," Dr. Feldman said mildly to the nurse's back. "Collect your belongings and go home."

After Frank was gone, Starsky nodded his thanks to Dr. Feldman.

Dr. Feldman set his clipboard aside. "Kenneth? May I call you Kenneth?"

Hutch nodded slightly, his head still turned toward Starsky, his eyes focused somewhere across the room.

"May I examine you?"

Starsky found a small smile for the kindly, older physician. He knew what the doctor was doing. The soft approach. Allowing Hutch to strengthen his sense of safety, control, and morale by making even tiny decisions concerning his body, his immediate surroundings, and his life. Helping him to replace some of the will that had been stripped from him like so much wallpaper.

Starsky had seen Hutch do it again and again with victims. But if Hutch was aware of the doctor's subtle strategy, or bothered by it, there was no indication of it. He gave a bare nod of his head.

Dr. Feldman leaned over the bed and gently touched the horrible swelling bruises on Hutch's throat. "I can see you were choked. Frankly I'm worried that you throat will swell closed on the inside and you will asphyxiate in your sleep. That's common with choking victims. I see it in domestic violence victims all the time. Man chokes his wife, leaves the residence, she comes to and thinks she's survived, but then later the swelling sets in from the inside and she smothers to death. It's a good thing your partner brought you here. We can give you something to keep the swelling down."

Hutch's eyes slid warily to the doctor. "Shots?"

"Do you want shots?"

Another decision to boost the patient's sense of control. A choice to restore a small bit of power. "No."

"Then I'll give you liquid, if you think you can swallow."

"I'll swallow."

"We'll watch you for any residual effects from the paralysis. You don't know the contents of the syringe?"

Hutch moved his head no on the pillow.

"The color?"

"Clear."

"An odor?"

"No."

"Probably home-made."

Starsky suddenly squeezed Hutch's hand. "Hey. Captain Dobey said some vials were found in a small safe in Meyers' house."

Dr. Feldman smiled, then passed Starsky a friendly wink. "Let's see about getting those analyzed while I talk to your friend, hm?"

Starsky sensed that the doctor wanted to talk to Hutch in private, but didn't exactly understand why. (I don't care, though. I'd go to the moon in a rocket if it'd help you, Hutch)

Starsky looked at his partner. "Ready to let go of my hand? Up to you. I'll stay if you want me to stay. Go if you want me to go. But we really do need to find out what was in that needle."

Hutch hesitated, his eyes moving slowly from the doctor to Starsky. He carefully licked his lips. "What do you think, Starsk?"

"Your call, buddy."

Hutch looked through the physician's round, wire spectacles and into his eyes, sensing safety and concern. "Oh-okay, then. You can go."

Starsky slowly returned Hutch's hand to the bed. "I'll be back soon. Don't disappear on me."

Hutch managed a faint smile. "I won't."

Starsky patted his shoulder, then left the room, closing the door on his way out.

When he was gone, Dr. Feldman turned his full attention back to Hutch, who had taken to

staring across the room again, as if eye contact was just too much to ask at the moment. But that didn't seem to bother the doctor. He merely pulled the corner stool over close to the bed and sat down, and when he spoke, voice soft and hushed, it was as if he were spinning the room full of golden silk:

"I haven't spoken of my times in the camps in a very, very long time. I don't discuss it. Not even with my wife. And I suppose it is because she was not there. Even if I told her she would not understand, and I would not want her to hear about the things that were done to her husband. Some things are better left unsaid. My woman . . . my wife . . . will not be tainted in any way by those evildoings. She is unspotted, and I want to keep her that way."

The doctor kept a steady but non-threatening eye on his blond-haired patient. "We were led like dumb cattle to the slaughterhouse-to the gas chambers. The Nazis were cold and efficient. We were numbers to them, not people. Animals. Sub-human. Our corpses were rendered for soap. Our skin made into lampshades. Our women's hair was cut off and used to stuff mattresses. Our teeth were extracted for the gold fillings. Our bones ground into meal for fertilizer. Whatever was left was sent to the ovens. Six million men, women and little ones marched naked to our deaths. I was there. I saw their faces. And their faces had no hope. Most had no fight. I was very fortunate to escape. I saved what bread scraps I could in a pillow case because I knew I would need strength for when I ran. Others gave me their bread scraps as well. They were afraid to run. They were brave enough and kind enough to give me their small morsels, but they dared not take a chance on saving their own lives. The biggest part of me did not want to run. The biggest part of me belonged to the Nazis. I sat where they told me to sit, I ate what they told me to eat, and I slept where they told me to sleep. They beat me if I didn't. But that tiny part of me that did want to run. . . was full of hope, and stubbornness. I prayed for courage. I would die trying if necessary, but I would try."

The doctor paused, perhaps gathering composure before continuing.

Hutch's head turned toward him on the pillow. In his hoarse whisper he asked, "Did they threaten to kill your family?"

"They couldn't. They had already killed my family. I had nothing to lose by defying them. If my family had been alive, it may have been a different story. I'm afraid I wouldn't have been so bold."

Hutch searched the man's face, his eyes, tried to read his thoughts.

Dr. Feldman's next gesture surprised Hutch. He lowered his head as if ashamed.

"I slept with a Nazi soldier and he let me through the fence."

The physician looked at Hutch for his reaction.

Hutch's hand reached toward Dr. Feldman, who clasped it without words.

After some time in silence, the doctor continued. "Then I ran. I ran with my breadcrumbs. As fast and hard as I could, my feet barely touching the ground it seemed. God's speed for certain. Superhuman. I couldn't have made it without Him. As weak and as thin as I was, on the verge of starvation, I was never out of breath, and I did not need my breadcrumbs after all. God sustained me." He offered a slight smile. "Have you ever ran for your life, Kenneth?"

Hutch closed his eyes against the memory. "Yes," he answered softly, but it was Starsky's life he was referring to. Running for Starsky's life was the same as running for his own.

He spoke to the doctor without looking at him. "They cut my hair. And they spit on me. And they . . . they . . . "

"Urinated on you?"

Hutch nodded, his sob unable to pass his swelling throat. "Yes," he whispered.

Dr. Feldman lightly ran a finger down the swastika on the inside of Hutch's forearm. "You survived, Kenneth. Be proud and thankful for that. My life went on. As will yours. I attended medical school, got married, and have three fine children. And it may sound odd, but I don't want to lose the memories of the death camps, painful as they are. They are part of my past. A testament to God's mercy. They are part of me, and only make me stronger. They are vitamins for my spirit."

The doctor slid his white coat sleeve up to reveal a tattooed number on his forearm. "Vitamin."

"I'm sorry," Hutch whispered as he looked at Dr. Feldman's arm. "For what my people did to yours."

"Kenneth, I don't remember seeing you there. You weren't one of them. Just like I wasn't one of the Jews that hurt you. You were a victim, like me. And I stress the word 'were'."

"I feel . . . " Hutch swallowed. "I ashamed because of what they did to me, and I don't know why. I feel like everyone can see it on me. And that's crazy. I know they can't. But I feel . . . transparent."

"It's fresh, Kenneth. You're fragile now. That feeling will pass. But at least you have what looks like a good friend to see you through."

Hutch smiled a little. "Starsky? Yeah. He's my vitamin."

Doctor Feldman looked at Hutch with a direct sadness in his eyes. "I owe you an apology, Kenneth, and can't help but think that what happened to you was partly my fault."

Hutch's head came off the pillow. "Your fault? How could it be your fault?"

Feldman took his glasses off and cleaned them on the tail of his white coat. "How do you think I know what happened to you?"

Hutch gave a small shrug. "Don't know. I guess . . . they did some things to me that they did to you or to some of the others in the camps . . . "

"A good guess. But not completely correct. I . . . "

Hutch's eyes grew wide and helpless as he grasped at the silver rails to pull himself up. "No. You're not one of them, are you? You're . . . "

Feldman placed a gently hand on his chest and eased him back down to the bed. "No, no. Forgive my hesitation. No."

Hutch relaxed somewhat, but his eyes stayed on the doctor's, and his hands stayed on the silver rails.

"They contacted me by phone about joining," the physician continued. "Presented themselves as being an anti-Semitic group. I was going to join until I learned what they were going to do to you innocent Germans. I wanted no part of that. I tried to alert the authorities but they brushed me off. They said that could never happen. No crimes had been committed that could be attributed to them. I didn't know their identities. I tried tracing the call back to its roots through the phone company's records and found the call had been made from a pay phone. If I'd pursued more diligently, perhaps this wouldn't have happened to you."

Hutch shook his head no on the pillow and released the silver bed rails. "No way," he said softly. "They were going to get me no matter what. I was on their list. And just . . . just you talking to me . . . sitting with me . . . it helps. Because you didn't have to tell this half-German anything at all about your past."

Feldman rose from the stool and looked at his watch. "I'll send someone in with your liquid right away."

Hutch nodded, then watched the older man walk to the door.

The doctor stopped impulsively and came back to the bed, stroking the corn silk blond hair. "In all my life I never dreamed I would be comforting a half-German from a Nazi family." He smiled tenderly. "Perhaps that is why God spared me. For this place and time. Do you believe in fate?"

Hutch carefully considered his answer. "Sometimes."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky was using the desk phone in the lobby of the hospital. He shifted the receiver from his left ear to his right. "Just have somebody bring the vials down here. The doc needs to analyze them. If he knows what's in them, he'll know if Hutch needs any kind of treatment." A pause. "Yeah, Memorial Hospital. Doctor Joel Feldman. He's-" He saw something from the corner of his eye. "Hold on," he said into the receiver, then placed it on the desk.

He walked over to the male nurse, Frank, who wore a shoulder bag full of belongings while leaning over the water fountain for a drink.

"Excuse me," Starsky said politely as he tapped the man on the shoulder.

Frank turned, surprise registering in his eyes.

"This is for my friend," Starsky said calmly, then kicked the man savagely between the legs.

Frank gobbled in agony and held himself, dropping to his knees. "You mother-"

"And this is for me," Starsky added, kicking him viciously between the legs a second time.

Frank was groveling on the floor, squawking and writhing like a large bird.

Starsky returned to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Now where did I leave off?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(Frank, the male nurse, came into Hutch's room carrying a tray of medical supplies)

(I thought you were fired, Hutch said quietly)

(Dr. Feldman reconsidered, Frank replied as he picked up a vial and drew its contents into a syringe. He's a very understanding man)

(Hutch looked at the syringe, a shiver beginning to ripple up his body as he whispered, "Dr. Feldman said liquid. No shots")

(Frank turned toward Hutch, and it was only then that Hutch got a good look at the man's face-too peaked, too pain-marked, and too full of hatred to be from the firing

alone. Something physical had happened. Probably tangled with an irate Starsky over his crass remark. The man's face was pinched into a grimace. And something emotional was happening too. Something like simmering rage)

(This one will paralyze your heart, Frank hissed to him, and stabbed the needle toward his chest)

(Hutch's hands came up and grabbed Frank's arm, but too late. He could not keep the needle from plunging into and piercing his heart like a tiny saber)

Hutch awoke sobbing and kicking, Starsky trying to hold his flailing arms down before he knocked the IV stand over. Starsky was almost sorry that Hutch was regaining his strength, especially when he found himself sliding belly-first across the polished floor.

But that little setback didn't stop Starsky. He ran to the bed again and held Hutch down by the shoulders.

"Hutch! Wake up!"

Hutch thrashed and whined, still asleep, his hands finding the front of Starsky's shirt and clutching.

"Starsky!"

"Right here, Hutch. I'm right here."

"STARSKY!"

Hutch's eyes snapped open and he searched Starsky's face, panting.

"See, Hutch? Right here."

Hutch pulled him down into a desperate, crushing hug, weeping into his neck. "My heart."

Starsky patted his back, trying to maintain his balance. "What about your heart?"

"The nurse. Frank. He gave me a shot in the chest."

"No, he didn't."

"Yes, he did. He was right here."

"Just a dream."

"It was real."

"No, it just felt like it. You're okay. Frank didn't hurt you. I've been right here. See? Look around. See where you are?"

Hutch's eyes scanned the room over Starsky's shoulder, his chest jerking with harsh panting and sobbing, his voice breathless with childlike fear. "You sure, Starsk? He paralyzed my heart."

"No, he didn't. Your heart's fine."

Starsky put his knee on the bed and sat down to accommodate Hutch's powerful, almost painful hug. "Just a dream, buddy. Dreams can't hurt you. Scare the hell out of you, yeah, but they can't hurt you. If somebody wanted to hurt you in here, they'd have to go through that guard outside the door, and then me, and that won't be easy to do."

Hutch sniffed, not fully convinced that the heart slamming inside his chest was not paralyzed. But he settled somewhat because he knew Starsky wouldn't lie to him.

"I love you, Starsky. For being here."

"I love you too, friend."

"You saved my life."

"Somebody had to. I think your biorhythms have been messed up lately."

Starsky felt Hutch shaking, and at first thought he was crying, but then he realized the shaking was from a good long laugh.

Starsky pulled back and held him at arm's length, laughing too. "You okay?"

Hutch nodded, covering his eyes with one hand and continuing to laugh. "What the hell would I do without you, huh?"

Starsky ruffled his hair. "Without. Or a whole lot worse. You couldn't survive without me. You're a walking catastrophe and you know it."

Hutch ran a finger over the swastika on his arm, his smile fading a little.

Starsky's voice grew quiet. "What are you gonna do about that, Hutch?"

Hutch offered a small shrug. "I don't know. Dr. Feldman says I should keep it as a reminder that I survived, but . . . " He shook his head slowly. "I don't like it."

Starsky nodded. "Me neither. Messes up your beautiful physique."

Hutch laughed again. "What am I going to do with you?"

Starsky shrugged and grinned back. "Keep me, I guess."

End

SHADOWS III

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch didn't hear the arrest of the drug dealing man and wife in the other room-a plush, expensive living room which had been purchased with cocaine and heroin, and boasted a few odd furnishings that smacked of the occult-a Satanic Bible on the marble mantle, black candles on the shelf of a bookcase, an upside-down crucifix on an exquisite gold chain the wife was wearing.

Two rookies were making the bust and Starsky was supervising, Starsky exchanging colorful profanities with the suspect-something else Hutch didn't hear.

One of the uniformed rookies had said ("records say they got a kid") the handsome, upper-class couple had a child, but the pristine, lavishly furnished home bore no evidence of that. No toys, no kiddie books, no photos of anyone except the beautifully corrupt couple (records say they got a kid)

(records say)

(but the records didn't say anything about this, did they? Records didn't say that their kid, their child-oh, why? Why would they do this? How could they? Please let this be a dream, please let this be an hallucination or a godforsaken flashback from Meyers . . .)

The boy must have been about seven, and small for his age from malnutrition, thin and pale, skin gray, eyes fixed. But he was too big for the table he was usually tied to but not today—his makeshift bed, if one could call it a bed. Consisting of a rubber sheet, it was more like a prison.

Hutch's hand unconsciously moved toward him and felt for a pulse in the boy's throat.

A pulse.

Weak, but there.

His eyes.

Haunted and afraid.

The boy startled (making Hutch jump too) and slipped under the table to hide, sticking his fingers in his mouth and sucking on them. The baby bottle was empty except for a film of clabbered milk.

Hutch's voice was a thready whisper. "I'm sorry," he told the boy. He wanted to pick the boy up, actually thought his hands were reaching for him, but it was only a thought, an idea, because his body was no longer in the bedroom. He had gone into the delicate pink bathroom and was now clinging to the overhead shower rod, trying desperately not to throw up, black out, or lose his mind.

He hadn't noticed that Starsky had been standing next to him at the table-prison either, didn't know his partner had gingerly lifted the trembling boy up and handed him over to one of the policewomen, who, in turn, wrapped him in a blanket and carried him downstairs and out to her cruiser.

Hutch was still gripping the overhead bar, swaying on his feet, his breath coming in hyperventilating gasps.

"Want to throw up?"

Starsky's voice behind him. Close. But somehow far away.

Hutch shook his head no.

"You gonna?"

Hutch shook his head no again.

"You okay?"

Another shake of his head.

"Wanna go home?"

Again he shook his head no.

"What do you wanna do?"

Hutch finally closed his eyes. "I'm all right."

"Then let go of the shower rod."

Hutch was still swaying a little, his face pale. "Hutch?"

Starsky moved next to him and saw his glassy eyes. Gently he said, "Look at me, Hutch."

Carefully Hutch looked at him, his upper lip perspiring.

Starsky spoke soothingly and cautiously, as if disarming a delicate bomb.

"Good, Hutch. You're lookin' at me. That's good."

Hutch blinked sweat from his eyes. "Starsky, where am I?"

"Sshh. It's okay. You're with me. We're at the Lawsons. We're in their bathroom. They have a kid. You saw him on the table and it scared you. But that's all right. You're okay. Just keep lookin' at me."

Hutch's eyes never left Starsky's. He licked his lips. "I'm looking at you."

"I know. Just like I told you. Now I want you to do somethin' else." Hutch swallowed, then nodded.

"I want you to let go of the shower rod."

Hutch's arms quivered with an apparent effort. His hands were locked firmly around it.

"I . . . I can't."

Starsky raised his hands so Hutch would see every move they made. "Let me help you, okay?"

Hutch gave no objection as Starsky stepped into the tub to face him, and reached up

(God, his arm)

(We're probably the only two people in the world who still see-or THINK we see-the faint ghost of a swastika on the inside of his forearm, even though Dr. Feldman had done an excellent job of removing it with experimental laser surgery, even though it was completely gone, but not completely gone, gone to the doctor's eyes, gone to anybody's eyes, but not gone to Hutch's, and not gone to Starsky's)

and covered Hutch's hands on the shower rod with his own.

"I got you, Hutch. I'm right here. The boy'll be okay. Cheryl took him to the hospital. Don't forget to breathe, buddy."

Hutch looked at him without speaking.

"Okay, Hutch. Let' let go of the bar together. You ready?"

Hutch's voice was a trembling whisper.

"You're here, right?"

"I'm here."

"You're going to help me let go?"

"I'm gonna help you let go. Just take your time and relax, and we'll do it on the count of three, okay? Is the count of three okay with you?"

He nodded yes.

"Need more time?"

He shook his head no.

"Then let's do it together. On the count of one . . . "

Starsky looked directly into Hutch's eyes, seeing the fear and uncertainty that had him petrified, but seeing something else too.

Trust.

Starsky remained calm, even though his heart was melting inside his chest. Hutch was so close to disintegrating, but trying hard to hang on to his sense of being. Starsky thought if he himself showed even a trace of the anxiety he felt, Hutch would lose what little composure he had and Starsky would never get him back.

"Two . . . "

Face to face, Hutch caught each glimmer of Starsky's sapphire eyes, his face felt each breath he exhaled, his ears heard and felt a pulse-Starsky's, his own, one and the same- he couldn't tell which and it didn't matter.

"Three . . . "

Slowly and carefully Hutch relaxed his grip on the shower rod while Starsky gently pulled his hands down and away from the bar.

Hutch held his hands up and looked at them as if they were alien things.

"Okay?" Starsky asked him.

Hutch looked at Starsky again, and then his whole body began to tremble, and Starsky wasn't sure if it was from fear, exhaustion, or shock.

"Here, buddy," Starsky said as he pulled a plush pink towel from a chrome ring and draped it around his shoulders. "Sit down right here."

Starsky kept an arm around him while both sat down on the edge of the tub, Starsky willing to sit for however long it would take for Hutch to get his bearings again.

End

TAINTED

By TLR

Just returning from his morning run, Hutch saw the young blonde struggling to hold two large bags of groceries while trying to open the door to her apartment.

"Here," he said taking the bags. "Let me help you."

She looked up into his pleasant face, which beamed with health and life. "Um . . . thank you," she said meekly, then, as if embarrassed by her own ogling, suddenly became very busy with jostling the key in her lock.

"Can you get it?" he asked her politely.

"I think so."

His eyes traveled over her, drinking in her long blonde hair, sea-blue eyes, and trim, shapely figure. "Do you pretty-I mean . . . do you run?"

He blushed and looked down.

She smiled, encouraged by his boyish manner. "No. But I walk."

"Walking is good."

"I don't have a car."

"I do. I mean . . . I can give you a lift anytime you want. To the store, to the bank, to the post office, to the beach . . . " His eyes soaked in her pretty, poised features. "Or we could walk."

She smiled shyly. "I don't think so," she said as she opened the door. "But thanks for offering."

He started to pick up the grocery bags, but she got to them first.

"I got it," she said with another fleeting smile, then carried her bags inside her apartment.

"But . . . " The door closed softly in his face. "I don't know your name."

Starsky sat across from Hutch in a back booth at Huggy's, thoroughly amused and entertained by Hutch's enthusiastic description of his new next-door-neighbor.

"I mean, she's like . . . " Hutch searched the air for the right words. "She's sunshine. She's fresh air. She's a blue sky."

"So what are you doing here? Go get her."

"Starsky, there are some girls you just don't 'go get.' She's . . . I don't know. Shy, I guess. Different. I don't want to be too forceful."

"She wearing a ring?"

"A . . . " Hutch frowned. "I didn't notice. Surely not. Wouldn't I have noticed that?"

Starsky shrugged. "She's not 'different', Romeo. She's married."

"Dollar says she isn't."

"You're on."

Hutch rose to his feet and fished around in his pants pocket for some change. "Any requests from the jukebox?"

"'Why Do Fools Fall In Love?'"

"Starsk . . . "

"Hello, It's Me, I'm Married?"

Hutch shook his head and walked toward the jukebox, but then dropped all of his change in the floor when he saw the pretty blonde coming into Huggy's and taking a stool at the bar. She saw him and smiled politely, then turned to Huggy to place her order.

Hutch could only stare. She was dressed in a simple sleeveless dress that clung to her curves. The dress was above her knee, discreet, but revealed enough of her long legs to

open his mouth.

"Uh . . . "

Starsky was behind him. "Psst."

Hutch put his finger to his lips. "Sshh. She's here."

"Who's here?"

"Her. The girl."

Starsky looked toward the bar, saw the pretty blonde, then looked back at his partner. "So what are you standing here for? Go talk to her."

"Starsky, I haven't made time with a girl like that since . . . "

"Made time? Are you stuck in a Jimmy Stewart movie? Go talk to her or I will."

Hutch took a step forward, and Huggy met him with a drink. "Compliments of the pretty lady," Huggy said handing the drink to Hutch.

Hutch took the drink and smiled nervously at the young woman. "Is she . . . Huggy, did you see a ring?"

Huggy shook his head no. "Alls I saw was one beautiful knockout. Nada on the ring."

Starsky dug a dollar bill from his jeans and tucked it into Hutch's shirt pocket. "Go get her, Tiger."

Hutch looked at Starsky. "See you in the morning. This could take all night."

"Let's hope so," Starsky teased with a wink.

Hutch moved to the bar with drink in hand and sat down on the stool next to the girl. Huggy patted Starsky on the back. "Don't look so glum. Maybe she's got a sister."

"Miquel Michaels," the young lady answered as she sipped her drink.

"Beautiful name."

"Thank you. And what's yours?"

"Ken Hutchinson."

"You came out here to be a model?" Hutch asked as he sat down on Miquel's sofa. "Shouldn't be a problem for you. You certainly are beautiful enough."

He watched her move around her apartment as she placed her purse on a roll top desk and fastened the three locks on her door. "Thanks, Ken. I'm having some iced tea. Want some?"

"Did you make it yourself?"

"I always do."

"Then sure. I'll have some since you are."

She walked to the kitchen. He could see her from the sofa. "Made any contacts yet?"

"I've only been here a week and I already have a photo shoot for a swimsuit brochure,"

she said pouring the tea into glasses. "They like my portfolio."

"Can I see it?"

"Well . . . "

He took the glass of tea she offered him. "You know, you're pretty shy for a model-type. Are you sure that's your chosen profession?"

She pulled a portfolio from beneath her sofa. "Actually, I want to be an actress. Modeling will pay the bills until I get some parts, and that will take a while. I have to pay my dues."

She sat down next to him and opened her portfolio.

He covered her hand with his. "I know how some agents and producers will want you to pay your dues. You just be careful."

"Oh, I will." She looked down at his hand and slipped hers away from his.

He caught the nervous gesture. "Miquel . . . "

She sipped her tea and wouldn't look at him.

"Miquel, I sense you're . . . I'm not sure. Nervous? Afraid? Don't be. I won't hurt you. You're new here, and it's not always easy knowing who to trust. I sense . . . " But he stopped, because he didn't want to get too personal too soon.

He looked at her professional photos, all discreet, but all so very breathtaking. Shots of her on the beach, in the woods, on a houseboat, on a horse, under an umbrella table at a sidewalk café.

He couldn't see her doing what it took lots of young girls in California to do to break into modeling and acting. Doing photo shoots that compromised their morals just to break into the business, just to get some exposure or referrals. Sleazy porno movies just to make a dollar. Just to keep food on the table and their name on the dealmaker's lips.

"They're beautiful," he told her as he slipped a friendly arm around her. "I hope you get all you ever dreamed of."

She smiled, but then turned her head slightly as he moved close to kiss her.

"What's wrong, Miquel?"

"It's not you, I . . . "

She rose to her feet.

He looked up at her. "Then what?"

"I don't know what you expect, but . . . "

He rose to his feet and gently took her shoulders. "Hey . . . all I expect . . . is to get to know you tonight. That's all. If it's too fast, I apologize."

She moved away from him, picking up the portfolio and putting it back on her desk. "No, you shouldn't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong. It . . . it's me. I'm sorry."

"Miquel . . . "

She turned her back to him. "I'm sorry. Just go."

"Miquel . . . "

"Please. You're nice and everything, but . . . "

"Then what's the problem?"

"I just . . . I can't talk about it right now."

"Okay. Whatever it is. I won't force you to talk about anything you don't want to talk about."

He took a deep breath. "I just have one question."

Her back still to him, she nodded.

He took another deep breath. "Can I see you again?"

This time she turned and looked at him, and he saw a sadness in her eyes that he didn't understand.

"I don't know, Ken," she said softly. "I honestly don't know."

But he saw her again. The next morning.

He caught up to her just as they reached the health food store.

Her hair was clasped back in a ponytail, and even in gym shorts she looked appealing to Hutch.

"Hey," he panted as he slowed down to a walk beside her. "About last night. . . . I'm not sure what happened, but I'd like to start over if it's okay with you. I keep feeling like I did something wrong, and if it was me trying to kiss you . . . "

"No, Ken. I made you feel like you did something wrong, and I shouldn't have. You're the kindest person I've met in California so far."

Miquel stopped just outside the health food store. "I owe you an explanation for my behavior last night."

He stood listening.

She looked down. "I have a problem with men touching me. Getting too close. I know it sounds crazy, but . . . my father molested me when I was thirteen. And ever since . . . "

"That's nothing to apologize for," he told her as they indulged in a banana health shake in a booth at the window. "I can understand why you're reluctant. In my line of work, I've seen it before. Tragic . . . what one person . . . a father . . . can do to their own child." His hand reached out to cover hers, then drew back. "I'm sorry that happened to you. But, you

know, and maybe this is too easy for me to say, but, you shouldn't let that terrible experience color the rest of your life . . . deprive you of the beautiful experience of being in love or sharing physical, sexual love."

She smiled. "I didn't say I was a nun. I only said it was hard for me to get close. I keep thinking I'm so tainted, that if anyone ever knew the truth about me, then a man really couldn't love me, so I never got close enough to a man to let them into that part of me-"

He put a finger to her lips. "Miquel, please listen to me. There is nothing you could tell me-short of a confession to being an ax murderer- that would make me think this has tainted you. Hurt you, disturbed you, yes. But there is so much more to you than what he did to you."

Miquel swiped at her rolling tears. "He's dead. And the bad part is, he never understood how much he hurt me."

He handed her a handkerchief. "Honey, if he did, he wouldn't have done it to begin with."

"I never confronted him. I never got to tell him off. It was our dirty little secret. He said I enjoyed it, but I didn't. I was too afraid to tell. I felt so ashamed."

"Miquel, you were a little girl. You weren't responsible for what he did. He was a grown man. An adult. And he took advantage of your trust and innocence."

She dabbed the handkerchief at her nose. "I never dreamed I'd be telling any man about that part of my life."

"You know what? That makes me feel very good. That you would trust me with your deepest secret." He winked at her. "You must like me a little bit."

She smiled and settled back in her seat, looking relieved as she picked up her shake. "I can't believe that I told you and you're still here."

"I'll be here for as long as you'll let me."

She looked at her watch. "I have a photo session in an hour. Want to watch?"

"I'd love to, but duty calls. I have to be at the station in an hour."

"So you're really a cop? Can I see your badge?"

"My . . . " He laughed a little. "My badge? Sure." He pulled his shield from his hip pocket and showed it to her.

She fawned over it like a little girl. "Oh wow. I've never had breakfast with a cop before."

He returned his shield to his pocket. "You've never kissed a cop either. Although one tried last night."

Smiling mischievously, she looked around the health food store as if to make sure no one were watching, then leaned across the table and kissed him softly and tentatively on the lips. "Mmm," she smiled. "That was good."

"Mmm. It sure was."

"But duty calls," she said tapping her watch.

"Yes, it does."

They rose to their feet. "Hey," she asked, "will you buy me a muffin? I don't have my purse with me."

"A muffin? Sure. What kind?"

"Blueberry."

"Coming right up," he said as he walked to the counter to pay for their shakes and her blueberry muffin, not noticing the small medicine dropper she pulled from her sock, nor the clear drops she squeezed into his milkshake.

When Starsky entered the squad room, he saw that his partner was dozing at his desk atop folded arms. "Here, Sleeping Beauty," he said as he poured Hutch a cup of coffee and held it out to him. "Those all-nighters can be killers. You have to pace yourself."

Hutch raised his groggy head and took the coffee. "Man, I am wasted."

"At nine in the morning? I take it that's good?"

Hutch sipped his coffee. "No, nothing like that happened, Starsk. Miquel and I . . . we just talked."

"Miquel, huh?"

"Miquel Michaels."

Starsky sat down across from him. "What did you and Miquel talk about?"

"Well, she's a budding model who wants to be an actress."

"Wow. So she's not too shy, huh?"

"She's careful. With good reason. Her father molested her when she was thirteen, and kept on doing so for I-don't-know-how-long."

Starsky set his coffee down. "Damn."

Hutch looked into his coffee cup. "She thinks she's tainted."

"If anybody's tainted, it's her father."

"Who's dead."

"Good."

"I think she has a lot to work out. Work on. Guess I'll have to be patient."

"She worth the wait?"

"I think so."

Starsky considered his partner's drowsy eyes. "Sure you're okay?"

"Oh yeah. Just a bug or something. Tired and achy."

"Ready to roll?"

They rose from the desk, Hutch bringing his coffee. "Let's go."

The man with the cigar pulled Miquel onto his lap behind his mahogany desk and cupped her breast in one hand. "How's it coming, dear?"

Miquel laughed a little and kissed the man on the mouth. "He's a strapping young man, Walters. It'll take some time."

"Are you sure he doesn't suspect?"

"Nothing. You were right. He fell for the damsel in distress. Told him I was an aspiring actress who'd been sexually abused by her mean old daddy."

Walters puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. "Sucker."

She smiled as she nibbled at his ear. "It's almost a shame to waste him. He's a fine specimen of a man. And such a gentleman."

Walters clenched her throat in one hand. "Don't get any ideas of backing out on me. He's the reason I spent five years in a psychiatric hospital. You do him, and you do him the way we planned. No money until he's dead. And then maybe I'll get you a real acting part. I got a few S&M flicks in the works."

Miquel nodded wide-eyed fear into his bland face.

By noon Hutch was asleep in the passenger seat of the Torino while Starsky drove, arms folded across his chest, head leaning against the window.

Starsky pulled in front of Huggy's and shook Hutch's shoulder. "Hey, you hungry?"

Hutch stirred but didn't open his eyes. "No, go ahead. I'll just rest here."

"Hutch, look at me."

With effort, Hutch raised his head and looked at him, blinking owlishly. "What."

"You need a doctor?"

"No way. I told you. I'm just tired."

"What if . . . "

Hutch squinted at him. "What if what?"

"What if it's not just a bug? What if it's related to the virus you had?"

Hutch smiled sleepily. "Starsk, you worry too much."

Starsky tugged a little on his partner's sleeve. "We need to be one hundred percent on the street, buddy. Do me a favor and let a doctor check you out."

Hutch rubbed his face and stifled a yawn. "Okay, Doctor Starsky. I'll do it for you."

"Nothing alarming," Doctor Langdon said as he walked into the examining room where Hutch sat on the table. "You can get dressed, Ken. We did the CAT Scan, MRI, X-rays, EKG, EEG, you name it. Your diagnosis was correct. Just flu symptoms."

Hutch pulled on his shirt and looked at Starsky. "See? Told you."

Starsky grinned. "I got just the cure for you."

Hutch stared glumly at the cup of chicken soup that Huggy set before him at the bar.

"Drink up," Starsky told him.

"Do I have to?"

"Sooner the better."

"Starsk . . . "

"It'll cut right through that flu."

With hand to his stomach, Hutch turned the cup up and drank it all at once.

Huggy took the empty cup from him and winked at Starsky. "I don't allow souping and driving."

Hutch swiped his mouth with a napkin. "Think I need to chase that with a beer."

"Not while we're on duty," Starsky admonished sternly.

"I was just kidding, Starsk."

"My, my," Huggy said as he looked toward the front door. "Look who's here."

Starsky and Hutch both turned their heads to see Miquel breezing in with a bright smile on her face.

"Ken! Guess what! I got another shoot!"

He rose to his feet and held his hands up. "Sorry. I'd like to hug you but don't get too close. I have some kind of a bug and I don't want you catching it. But that's great news on your new job."

She felt his forehead. "You're hot."

"See what you do to me?"

Miquel glanced from Huggy to Starsky. "I hope you don't mind me dropping by for lunch. I was in the neighborhood, and boy am I starved."

"Not at all," Hutch said as he put an arm around Starsky's shoulders. "Miquel, I'd like you to meet my partner, David Starsky. And my silent partner, Huggy Bear."

"Oh yeah," Starsky teased. "Keep her at a safe distance but put your germs all over me." He put his hand out to her. "Nice to meet you, Miquel."

"Same here," Huggy said. "Except that we already met- but weren't formally introduced."

Miquel took a stool at the bar. "So, Ken, do you feel like eating?"

"Unfortunately I've already had my lunch. But I could use a cold drink."

"I'll buy," she offered. "Since you sprang for my breakfast this morning." She grinned at Starsky. "I'll buy yours too."

"You're my kind of girl."

"You guys get settled in a booth and I'll bring the drinks."

Huggy grinned. "Good help is hard to find."

Hutch gave her some change for the jukebox. "Play your favorites."

"Thanks."

Starsky followed Hutch to a booth, noticing the way his partner was trudging tiredly.

"Nothing goes with a good lunch date like the flu," Hutch griped as he dropped heavily into the seat.

"Through sickness and health," Starsky quipped as he sat across from Hutch.

Miquel brought a tray of drinks over and sat down next to Starsky. "Huggy said I could waitress for him if my modeling career fizzles out," she said handing Hutch a lemonade.

"No chance of that," Hutch told her. "Sounds like you're on your way up."

Miquel closed the passenger door of the Torino and kissed Hutch on the forehead. "Go home and get some rest. I'll drop by later."

He nodded.

Starsky waved to her, then eased the car away from the curb. "See ya, Miquel." He looked over at his partner, who was holding his head. "Hutch?"

"Just woozy."

"Why don't you crash in the backseat? I'll wake you up when we get to your place."

"I'm all right."

"You're not all right."

Hutch sat up straighter and rolled the window down, hoping the fresh air would revive him. "Now isn't Miquel an interesting girl? I think I'm in love."

"Gee, I couldn't tell."

The police radio spit static, and then, "Zebra 3, come in."

Hutch lifted the mike. "Three here."

"Three, see the hostage situation at 112 Wilmington Avenue. It's a domestic."

"Will do."

Starsky took the mike from Hutch's hand. "Negative, Dispatch. Hutch is sick and we are unable to respond to this call. Radio somebody else."

"You're the closest, Three."

"Damn it, did I stutter? I said we are not responding to this call."

"One moment, Three."

There was a moment of silence over the mike, and then, "Three, Dobey says get your tails over there on the double. Backup is en route."

Starsky threw the mike against the dash and stepped on the gas.

A crowd was already at the apartment building when Starsky screeched the Torino to a halt. Hutch fumbled at the door handle.

A male voice, hoarse with rage, sounded from an upstairs window. A woman's hysterical voice blended in, and the voices of their frightened children drifted down.

Starsky pulled his gun out. "Stay here."

Hutch pulled his gun out as well. "Backup's not here yet. And you know I negotiate better than you."

Starsky observed his partner's flushed face and perspiration-damp hair. "You couldn't negotiate your way out of a paper bag right now. You stay put or I'll shoot you myself." He got out of the car and ran toward the building. To the crowd: "Who is it?"

One of the bystanders pointed up at the window. "It's Rodriguez. He's a—"

"Cop," Starsky finished over his shoulder. "I know."

Hutch let his head fall back to the headrest and closed his eyes, holding the Magnum to his chest like a lethal security blanket. He could hear the domestic violence couple fighting through their third-floor window, the screaming of the wife, the crying of the children, and the ranting and raving of the husband.

"I'm coming," Hutch whispered as he opened the door and tumbled out.

In the stairwell, his gun still drawn, Starsky turned to see Hutch struggling up the stairs,

one hand clutching the Magnum, the other clutching the wrought-iron railing.

"Hutch," Starsky hissed at him. "I told you to stay in the car."

"Sshh. He'll hear you."

The voices of the Rodriguez family were loud, and echoed hollowly down the stairwell.

Starsky stopped on a step to listen to the commotion above. "Hell. Rodriguez. I knew he was gonna blow after she left him." He looked up the stairwell. "Rodriguez!"

Starsky went up a few more steps, then stopped on the second floor landing. "It's Dave Starsky! Let's talk!"

An Hispanic voice echoed down. "Back off, Starsky! I know what you want!"

"Good! This shouldn't take long then!"

"Back off!"

Hutch leaned against the railing. "Easy, Starsk."

Starsky gently pulled Hutch away from the railing and moved him against the wall. "I like you better over here."

Hutch ran the back of his gun-hand across his perspiring upper lip. "Hell. Is it hot or is it me?"

"It's you." He looked upward again. "Rodriguez! I'm coming up so we can talk!"

"No talk! I told her this would happen! She knew! I told her! But she kept messing around! She wouldn't listen! And she's not gonna make a fool out of me! So we're all goin' together! First her! Then the kids! Then me!"

Starsky crept up the stairs toward the third floor landing. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Hutch crawling up the steps on his hands and knees.

"Let the kids go! You don't need to involve them!"

"She involved them! She did! We're a family and we're going together! First them, then me!"

The screams grew more intense.

Starsky started up again.

"Don't go," Hutch panted. "Wait for backup."

"I can't. He's gonna kill 'em."

"Please, Starsk. Stall."

Starsky winced. "I can't."

Starsky flattened himself beside the open doorway of the Rodriguez apartment. Gripping his gun, he watched as Hutch made his clumsy way up the steps and onto the landing.

Starsky motioned for him to move to the side but he didn't. He was on all fours now. And Starsky knew Rodriguez would kill him if he saw him.

Starsky moved into the open doorway, arm stiff, gun leveled at Officer Rodriguez, who was still in uniform and had one arm locked around his wife's throat, the other holding a pistol to her head. Two toddlers were wailing and clinging to their mother's legs. All four were clenched in a sweating, screaming embrace. Hutch leaned against the doorframe, his gun down, his head down.

"Let her go," Starsky said.

Rodriguez saw Starsky and spoke between clenched teeth. "Stay back, man. I'll kill her."

Starsky didn't lower his gun. "I know you will. And you can kill yourself when you're done with her. Just don't shoot the kids." To the kids: "Come here, little ones. It's okay. Come here. I'm a policeman like your daddy. Except a better one."

"Shut up."

The kids started to leave their mother's side.

"Stay!" Rodriguez ordered them. "Don't you move! You do what Daddy says!"

Starsky held one hand out to the kids without taking his eyes off of the father. "Come here, babies." To the mother: "Tell them, mommy."

The mother's voice was desperate and warbly.

"Go. Go to him. Pronto."

Frightened, the toddlers ran toward Starsky. Rodriguez shot his wife, then turned the gun on himself. They fell together in a tangled heap on the floor. Starsky crouched to catch the toddlers as they slammed into his open arms.

"It'll be okay," he told the sobbing toddlers. "Mommy and Daddy can't do this in front of you anymore. They can't hurt each other anymore. Don't look."

Starsky rose with the two toddlers in his arms to see Hutch hugging the doorframe. "Danger's over, Tonto," he said taking Hutch's gun and holstering it under his jacket for him. "Let's go."

Starsky and Hutch stood before Captain Dobey's desk.

The captain slammed down a file. "I should have both your badges."

Starsky took his shield from his back pocket and threw it onto the desk. "Take it."

Dobey threw it back. "When IA gets through with you, you'll wish you'd cracked open our regulations manual once in a while."

"I told you the situation," Starsky said. "You sent me anyway."

Dobey looked at Hutch, but directed his remark to Starsky. "You said he was sick. You didn't say he had Typhoid Fever."

Hutch fumbled behind him for a chair and dropped into it.

Dobey, to Starsky: "And you didn't wait for backup."

"It was too hot."

"A good cop would have defused that situation."

"Unfortunately Hutch was a little under the weather at the time."

"That woman didn't have to die."

"She was dead before we got there, and so was he. My concern was for the kids."

"I want your report within the week. And you better justify every move you made."

"I'll have it to you in thirty minutes."

"Cap," Hutch said weakly. "He didn't do anything wrong."

Dobey looked at Hutch's droopy eyes and sweating face. "How would you know? Get the

hell out of my office. Both of you."

Starsky moved through the squad room and out into the hallway, Hutch lagging behind.

"Can you believe that?" Starsky asked incredulously. "Saved the lives of those kids and-"

Hutch bumped into a uniformed officer, who growled at him and nudged him aside.

Hutch stumbled and Starsky caught his arm, leaning him back against the wall.

"I'm okay," Hutch mumbled. "Just dizzy."

Starsky raised Hutch's eyelids. "You're burning up. You need a doctor."

Hutch's eyes rolled and he started sliding down the wall. "Get me one."

"He has a fever of 103," Langdon informed Starsky as they stood next to Hutch's bedside. "I'll release him as soon as soon as his temperature drops."

"Sure it's just the flu?" Starsky asked.

"I'm positive. I went back over his tests. Everything checks out. He'll just have to weather the storm." And he cast a critical eye toward his patient. "And follow doctor's orders of bed rest and medication. Which you didn't do. Am I correct?"

"Yes," Hutch managed hoarsely.

The three of them turned to see Miquel rushing into the room, a look of panicky fear on her face as she threw herself onto Hutch's chest. "Oh Ken. I've been so worried. I called the precinct to ask you about dinner tonight, and your captain said you were here. Oh honey . . . "

Hutch hugged her briefly, and then held her at arms' length. "I told you I don't want you getting whatever this is."

"I don't care about me. I care about you." She looked at Langdon. "When can he go home?"

"As soon as his fever's down. Are you going to stay with him?"

She looked at Hutch. "Can I?"

"Honey, I already said I didn't want you catch-"

She took his hot hand in both of hers. "Ken, please. It would mean so much to me. You've been so kind. Just let me repay you."

Hutch had to smile at her earnest persistence. "Actually it's the best offer I've had all day."

He winked at Starsky. "Except for the chicken soup."

"Here you go," Miquel said as she brought a glass of ice water to Hutch, where he lay on his sofa with a pillow and a sheet. "I know you're thirsty."

Starsky watched with worried eyes.

Propped on his elbow, Hutch drank thirstily, then handed the empty glass to her. "Thanks. I'm so tired. I think I'll just sleep for a while." He eased his head to the pillow and blinked groggily. "Just for a while, Starsk," he murmured exhaustedly. "Wake me up in a couple of hours, okay?"

"Since you're going to be here with him for a while," she said to Starsky, "I think I'll walk down to the store and pick up a few things he'll need. Like aspirin and orange juice."

Starsky reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, handing her a fifty. "And some more chicken soup."

"I want my money now," Miquel told Walters as he walked a treadmill in his office at the movie studio.

He bit lightly but firmly into his cigar. "Is he dead?"

"No, but I gave him the last of the bottle. And I'd rather not be around for the end."

Walters grinned. "You got a thing for him, don't you?"

"It's not like I kill a cop every day of my life."

He turned the treadmill off and pulled his money clip from his front pocket, peeling off several one-thousand-dollar bills. "My way or no way," he said fanning the money in her face. "You have to be there. It'll look suspicious if you disappear at the end of our tragedy."

She spun around and left, her long blonde hair bouncing sassily behind her.

The sound of Hutch's breathing roused Starsky from his restless slumber in the easy chair.

"Hutch?"

Hutch was unresponsive, wheezing for each breath, his eyes half-closed and fixed in a daze. His face, once damp with perspiration, was now dry and deep red.

"Oh my God," Starsky breathed as he jumped to the sofa, feeling the fever radiating from Hutch's body before he even got close enough to touch him.

And when he did touch his partner's cheek, he found it scorching.

"Hutch?"

Urgently Starsky patted his cheek, jostled his shoulder, then took his head in both hands.

"Hutch!"

But only Hutch's labored wheezing answered him.

"Hutch, wake up!"

A small cry behind him, and Starsky looked over his shoulder to see Miquel coming through the door with a bag of groceries.

"Oh my God," she gasped as she set the groceries on the coffee table.

"Call an ambulance," Starsky told her as he ran to the bathroom.

"David, what are you do—"

"Call one! I've gotta get his fever down! And bring some ice!"

Starsky ran the cold water full blast in the bathtub, then ran back into the living room where Miquel was taking Hutch's temperature under his arm.

"It's 107."

"Oh hell."

Starsky grabbed Hutch under the arms and pulled him to his feet, but Hutch was limp and Starsky couldn't carry him, so he struggled and pulled and dragged him all the way to the bathroom.

Miquel brought ice trays to the bathroom and dumped the cubes into the tub of cold water.

Starsky managed to move Hutch into the bathtub, and as soon as he hit the cold water, he started pawing and thrashing.

"Easy," Starsky told him. "I know it's cold, but we gotta get your fever down. Your head's goin' under. I won't hurt you."

Disoriented from the fever, Hutch shook his head no and made a feeble attempt to get out of the tub. "Cold," he whimpered as he reached for the floor.

Starsky pushed him back.

"I won't hurt you," Starsky repeated. "Hold your breath."

Starsky pushed his head under the water. Hutch's weakness allowed Starsky to have the upper hand as Hutch struggled vainly against him.

Starsky pulled him up for some air. Hutch was sputtering and shaking.

"See?" he said as he held his drenched partner under the arms. "It's okay. I'm coolin' you off."

Hutch gazed at him through feverish eyes and clung to Starsky's shoulders. "Hot."

"I know you're hot. You'll cool off. Just sit here in this nice cold water, okay? Can you

put your own head under the water now so I don't have to?"

Hutch shook his head no.

"Hutch, don't make me do that again."

Hutch shook his head no again.

"Okay," Starsky decided. "I'll turn the cold shower on. It'll keep your brain from cookin, okay? You don't want your brain to cook, do you?"

Hutch shook his head no again.

Starsky turned the cold shower on, then watched to make sure Hutch would sit still and allow the cold spray.

Hutch lay with his head in the corner of the tub, curling up with hands tucked under his chin as if to go to sleep, the cold spray covering his head.

"I'll be right back," Starsky told him, then stepped into the living room. "Miquel, you called an ambulance, didn't you?"

She stood in the middle of the living room floor, her back to him.

"Miquel," he stated more forcefully, "you called for an ambulance, didn't you?"

But her shoulders were shaking and he knew she was crying. He marched over to her, snatched her shoulders, and spun her around to see her face.

"You didn't call an ambulance for him?!"

She was sobbing and clutching a small medicine bottle to her breast.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Starsky scooped up the telephone and called an ambulance, then slammed the receiver down. "I don't know what the hell's goin' on here, but—"

The phone rang.

He lifted the receiver. "Speak fast."

"Easy, bro."

"Huggy," he said impatiently, "what is it? I got an ambulance on the way for Hutch. His

fever's 107."

"It's her, man."

"What?"

"It's Miquel. She's doing a job for Walters. Some bit player named Lisa workin' a funky pain movie for him came in here askin' for Hutch, said she had to warn him before Miquel finished the job. She's a model, all right. And an actress. But you won't see her posin' for Family Circle or starrin' in no Disney flick. And her father's alive and well and livin' in San Diego." Huggy paused to catch his breath. "It's poison, Starsk."

Starsky threw the phone down and lunged at Miquel, driving her against the wall and bringing his arm around to backhand her.

"Witch!"

She pleaded tearfully into his face. "I was going to tell you!"

He punched the wall beside her head. "When?! After he was dead?!"

She could only sob. "I can't finish it."

He pressed against her, pinning her to the wall. "Why the hell not? You're doing pretty good so far." He panted. "DID YOU SEE WHAT YOU DID TO HIM?!"

Her sobbing was reduced to sniffling. "I love him."

"You—" He snatched the small bottle from her hand.

"Don't!" Hutch's voice called weakly behind them. "Don't hurt her."

Starsky looked over his shoulder to see Hutch, dripping wet and glassy-eyed, clinging to the bathroom doorframe.

"She's not what you think, Hutch. She's the reason you're sick. She's been poisoning you."

Hutch shook his head no and sank to one knee, leaning his head tiredly against the wall. "No," he said wearily. "She wouldn't do that."

Starsky left Miquel to crouch beside Hutch, showing him the small medicine bottle. "In your food. In your drink."

Hutch gripped the front of Starsky's jacket and tried to shake him, but it had little effect. "You're wrong."

"Huggy told me."

"Then Huggy's wrong."

"She's no model. No actress. Well, let me take that back. She's one heck of an actress."

Hutch shoved him backward, stumbling with the effort. Starsky landed on his back, then climbed to his feet and held his hands out. "Don't, Hutch. I'm not gonna fight with you when you're sick."

Hutch, on his hands and knees, looked over at Miquel, sniffing. "Miquel?"

She pressed the back of her hand to her runny nose. "I'm sorry, Ken."

From sickness or heartache, Starsky couldn't tell which, Hutch lowered his forehead to the floor, his voice muffled. "You lied to me? Made that stuff up about your father? You just walk into my life and work me over like it's nothing?" He raised his head and looked at her again. "You want me dead?"

"Not me, Ken. It's Walters. He . . . " She looked away, her delicate Adams apple quivering. "He offered me a lot of money. A break in my career. But I wasn't going to finish it. I swear."

"You're under arrest," Starsky said as he took his handcuffs from his back pocket and walked over to her.

"David, I promise. I wasn't going to finish it."

"You didn't call an ambulance."

"I . . . "

Starsky turned her facing the wall and pulled her wrists behind her. "You didn't call an ambulance."

"Ken, please. Believe me."

Starsky grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. "You didn't call an ambulance!"

She wept but said no more.

Starsky shoved her handcuffed into a chair.

Hutch raised a hand toward his partner. "Starsk," he gasped as he held to the back of the sofa and tried pulling himself to his feet.

But he couldn't quite make it. "Starsk . . . "

Starsky hurried to catch him under the arms, sitting him on the sofa.

It seemed like an eternity before the wailing of the ambulance sounded outside. Starsky had to hold on to Hutch very tightly to keep from pummeling Miquel with his fists.

Gripping Hutch's hot hand in one of his, Starsky contacted Dobey from the back of the ambulance to tell him about Walters, but Dobey informed him Huggy had just called, and officers were already on the way to the producer's movie studio with a warrant.

Dr. Langdon entered Hutch's hospital room to find Starsky pacing at the foot of the bed. "He'll be fine, Dave. As soon as the poison gets out of his system. I don't think his body would have tolerated another dose."

Starsky looked at his partner, who lay pale and sleeping against the pillows.

The door opened and Dr. Chong, a young medical examiner Starsky knew very well, stepped inside, tossing the small medicine bottle to him. "I analyzed it like you wanted. Don't touch it, taste it, or smell it."

Starsky opened the bottle and pulled out the tiny medicine dropper.

Dr. Chong looked at the blond patient. "I don't know how he survived as long as he did. He must be made of lead. They used PC3."

"PC3?"

"Colorless, odorless, tasteless. Invisible in an autopsy. Produces flu-like symptoms in the beginning, but as the chemical lingers, it works on the central nervous system, leading

to—"

"I know."

Starsky shivered, remembering his own experience with poison (You've got 24 hours to live, pig. Count 'em.)—(Bellamy, the compound, Cheryl said it works on the central nervous system, lack of coordination, dizzy, can't see, swallow. How about muscle paralysis, Chong? How about gray vision, no concentration, not moving or walking, how about everything just slowing down and stopping like a run-down watch? How about your partner holding your head up because you can't hold it up yourself?)

"You don't have to tell me."

Hutch opened his eyes to find Starsky pacing beside his bed.

"Hey, Starsk. You going to wear a hole in the floor?"

Starsky turned toward the bed. Hutch saw relief wash across his face.

"Hutch, you scared me to death. I thought for sure . . . "

"Rip van Winkle, huh?"

"That's not funny."

"Then why are you smiling?"

Starsky fluffed the pillow that didn't need fluffing. "How you feelin'?"

"Better."

"You remember anything?"

Hutch looked at the clock, then back at Starsky. "I think I do. Miquel . . . " He closed his eyes. "Man, I was a fool. Why did I ever . . . "

Starsky gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Hey, you didn't know. She was good. She fooled everybody. Even me. And we all know your chivalrous nature can't resist a woman in distress."

"Walters is… who?"

"Remember the snuff producer who killed his girlfriend five years ago?"

"Oh yeah. Not guilty by reason of insanity. They sent him to a psych hospital instead of prison. How could I forget the machete stuck in her chest?"

"Gee, Hutch, give the guy a break. He said the voice of Jack the Ripper made him do it. It could happen to anybody."

Hutch laughed a little, then shot Starsky a serious look as something occurred to him. "Starsky, did you dunk my head under the water in my bathtub?"

"Uh . . . no, I think you just dreamed that."

"Uh . . . no, I think I remember that."

"What was I supposed to do with your brain broilin'?"

Hutch shook his head, exasperated.

"All right," Starsky told him, just as exasperated. "Next time I'll just throw you in your canal."

End

TWIST OF FATE

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What the hell is wrong with your car now?" Starsky asked peevishly as Hutch's car chugged to a stop in the middle of the two-lane country road. "We'll never get to your aunt Sarah's at this rate."

"Hold your horses," Hutch told him as he worked to unbuckle his seatbelt.

"A horse would be faster," Starsky muttered as he looked out the window.

Hutch still fought with the jammed seatbelt. "Good grief, Starsky. It's Sunday and we've got all day. I'll have us back on the road in no time."

"Nothin' like a leisurely drive in the country." He paused a moment for emphasis. "If you're in motion that is."

"Okay, smarty pants. One more crack like that and—"

They both saw the pickup truck barreling toward them at the same time.

It was going too fast to stop. It careened wildly out of control.

Starsky snatched at Hutch's seatbelt.

Hutch shoved him hard toward the passenger door.

"Go!"

But Starsky didn't. He was back fighting at the latch of the seatbelt.

Hutch shoved him again and tried to unfasten the restraint. "I said go!"

The truck slammed into the driver's side door with such force that the tan Ford almost toppled onto its side.

The driver of the truck was thrown into his own windshield, which shattered in places like cracked ice across its surface.

The driver held his lumpy but otherwise intact head and moaned.

"Oh man. What the hell?"

He shook his head to clear it and looked through a relatively unmarred section of the windshield, where he saw the tan Ford he'd crashed into.

"Damn," he breathed, as if awestruck.

That he was.

The driver's side door on the Ford had been smashed inward to a startling depth. No persons were visible from his vantage point.

He climbed creakily from the truck, his legs rubber, but managing to hold onto the beer bottle in his hand.

"Hey man," he slurred as he approached the driver's side door of the car. "Sorry 'bout that. But I's tryin' to hurry home 'fore the game start—oh wow."

He saw one person in the car, pinned half under the twisted steering wheel, half under the driver's door that jutted inward and on top of him. He was still fastened into his seatbelt. He saw a shock of blond hair, an unholstered Magnum in the floorboard, and the police radio.

The passenger door was wide open.

"No way," the truck driver whispered as he backed away from the car. "It's a cop."

He tromped back over to his truck "Sorry, buddy. No can do."

He climbed into the cab, then backed the truck away from the wrecked car and left the scene.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A hand lightly smacking his face.

"Can you hear me, young fella?"

An older, gravelly voice above him, and pain in his chest.

Difficulty breathing from cracked ribs.

Hutch opened his eyes and found himself lying on the front seat of his car.

"Ambulance is coming," an elderly farmer in bib overalls and a John Deere cap said. "I called from my house. I live right over yonder."

Hutch tried to move, but found he was wedged too tightly in the wreckage. His legs were crammed under the dash, the car door caved in on his side.

His bloody left hand moved across the seat, his voice a hoarse breath.

"Starsk?"

He sniffed at the blood dripping from his nose.

"Don't move," the old man said as he placed a gnarled, callused hand on Hutch's shoulder. "Somebody sure smacked dab into you, didn't they? But they fled the scene looks like. Big of 'em."

Hutch tried to call Starsky's name again, but the intake of air shot a bolt of pain across his chest.

(Starsky, are you okay? Where are you, the back seat?)

A small crowd of rural neighbors had gathered. Heads shook, tongues clucked.

"Biggest gun I ever saw," one farmer said as he bit down on a toothpick. "Betcha he's a Fed."

Hutch heard the siren of the approaching ambulance and tried to raise his head again.

"How long . . . Starsky. Where's my partner? He's . . . "

The old farmer patted his arm. "Whoa there. Ain't no partner here far's I can tell. You just take 'er easy."

A rescue vehicle approached as well, along with a small fire truck.

Hutch's head fell back onto the seat. "Starsk . . . " He winced and held his ribs. "Oh God," he breathed shakily. "Where is he? God, don't let him . . . "

He tried to remember exactly what happened, exactly what had happened to Starsky at the moment of impact, but the images- the seatbelt, the truck, the crash—came back in only a few fragmented mirror pieces.

"A truck. Too fast. I couldn't . . . Starsky tried to . . . I don't know. I don't know where he is."

"We'll look for him, boy. Just take 'er easy and let the rescue fellas get you out of here. We'll find Starchy for you."

Hutch closed his eyes, and fought to stay conscious, listening to the anxious voices of the rescue workers converging on his battered car with their tools and medical supplies, and all he could think about was how (is he under the car? is the car upright? is he over in the ditch somewhere? He'd call out if he could, come and help if he could, be here by my side if he were able, and he must be hurt, he must be hurt badly if he can't do that) theywere spending most of their manpower on him instead of his partner.

The farmer shook Hutch's shoulder. "Fella? Try to stay awake."

"He's out," one of the paramedics told him as he pulled Hutch's ID/shield from his pocket. "Cop from down-state. We'll have some people search the woods for this so-called partner. But I'll bet a dollar he's just talking out of his head." He turned to see an approaching deputy. "Want to organize some kind of a search party? Cop here says he had a partner with him, but we don't see any signs of one. I'll notify his precinct."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Where is he?" Hutch mumbled at the ceiling of the hospital as the paramedics wheeled him inside the emergency entrance. "Did you find him?"

Captain Dobey was at his side. It had taken four hours to cut Hutch out of his car, long enough for Dobey to make the drive in his own vehicle.

"We're looking for him, Hutch. You just hang in there."

Hutch's eyes blinked lazily at him. "Find him fast, Cap. He's no Daniel Boone. If he gets hungry . . . he doesn't know what's safe to eat."

Dobey smiled sadly. "You just worry as much about yourself as you do him and you'll be fine. We'll find him."

Hutch shook his head no and tried to raise up on the gurney.

"No, Cap. I have to find him."

"Hutch—"

Dobey tried to push him back down. Hutch knocked his hand away and rolled over, and would have fallen off the gurney if the paramedic hadn't grabbed him back.

"Combative!" the paramedic shouted to the hectic ER, and a doctor hustled over to help with the cloth restraints.

"Is that necessary?" Dobey snapped.

"It's that," the doctor said preparing an injection. "Or this."

Hutch saw the needle and fell instantly quiet.

"Okay, okay," he resigned weakly, unable to stop the chill from rippling through his body. "Okay."

He looked helplessly at Dobey. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you out looking for him?"

Dobey answered gruffly. "Do you think I've been sitting on my thumbs? I've got three county Sheriff's offices in the search. That's fifty men. We can spare one to make sure your head doesn't fall apart."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hours later Hutch awakened in his hospital room to find his head, chest, left hand, and left ankle bandaged. They had stripped him of his bloody clothes, bathed him, and left him in his white boxers. Dark bruising ran down his entire left side where the door and steering wheel had crushed him.

He looked to his right and saw Dobey asleep in a chair.

He looked to his left hoping to see Starsky lying in another bed, but it was empty.

The clock on the wall read 3:00 pm, but he didn't understand how that could be, since it was about 3:00 pm that the truck—

(oh hell, it hasn't been twenty-four hours, tell me it hasn't been twenty-four hours that I've been lying warm, safe, dry, and mending here in this hospital while Starsky is out there wandering around in the woods alone, probably wounded and disoriented, or worse, not wandering at all, but on the cold ground, unable to call for help, unable to get up, unable to move or breath or . . . no, not that, don't even think about that)

Hutch held his bandaged left hand against his chest and struggled to get out of bed, trying to contain the gasping and grunting his cracked ribs produced so as not to wake Dobey and have him attacking like a rabid dog.

But it didn't work. Police work having accustomed him to sleeping with one ear open, Dobey was attuned to the smallest sounds, and definitely heard the ones Hutch was trying to muffle into the back of his bandaged hand. He opened his eyes to see Hutch making his painfully laborious way across the floor, doubled over and holding his chest, limping on his twisted ankle.

"Hold it, Hutch," Dobey said as he moved from his chair and rounded the foot of the bed.

Hutch held his good hand up to ward him off. "Don't. I have to go."

Hutch's left ankle gave out and he started to go down, but Dobey caught him under the arms and sat him back on the bed.

"You're not going anywhere."

Hutch raised his head. "He needs me. I can't just sit here."

"I know you're frustrated, but there's nothing we can do but wait."

Hutch tried to remain sitting up, but a dark wave edged him down onto his side in the bed.

"Help him," Hutch whispered into the pillow as he succumbed to the endless waves

rolling over him. "Lord, help him. I can't."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The hippie driving the psychedelic van would have driven right past the hitchhiker if it hadn't been for his friend who was pulling on his fringed leather jacket sleeve. "Hey, dude. I know that guy. Go back."

The driver looked in his rearview mirror. "Who the hell is it?"

The hippie pulled a pistol from beneath his seat. "He's a cop I just happen to hate. Busted me for a monster load of horse last year."

"Gonna waste him?"

The passenger grinned. "Thinkin' about it."

The driver made a U-turn on the two-lane country road and started back. "What the hell's he doing out here, man?"

The passenger watched the dark-haired man trudging exhaustedly and unsteadily alongside the road.

"What's the deal?" the driver asked. "He's not tryin' to flag anybody down."

"Dude's out of his gourd. Where's his car?"

The driver chuckled and put a joint to his lips. "Maybe he's high."

"He's got a gun. And a partner. Somewhere."

The driver pulled over to the side of the road. The passenger, dressed in a tie-dye T-shirt and sandals, cocked his gun and got out of the van, walking toward Starsky with his gun raised and leveled at his head.

"Remember me, pig?" the hippie sneered.

Starsky looked at him dazedly, then walked on past as if he hadn't heard.

The hippie grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "I'm talkin' to you."

Starsky blinked at him. "What?"

The hippie chuckled. "Give me your gun."

"My . . . what?"

The hippie opened Starsky's jacket but saw that his holster was empty.

"Where'd it go?"

"I don't . . . "

The hippie looked into the van at the driver. "He doesn't know who the hell I am."

The driver laughed. "I don't think he even knows who the hell he is."

Starsky stood quietly as the hippie pulled his wallet from his pocket and searched its contents, then tucked it inside his braided belt. "Cool."

The driver lit a joint and took a hit. "What's your name, dude?"

Starsky looked around, disoriented, and it was then that the hippies saw the blood smeared on his right temple.

"You wreck your car, man?"

"Uh . . . "

The hippie took Starsky's arm. "Come on, dude," he said offering a serpentine smile. "We'll give you a ride."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Huggy stepped into Hutch's hospital room and looked at his lunch tray. "Bet you didn't expect to see me in this neck of the woods, did you?"

Hutch didn't answer. He lay like a mannequin against the pillows, still and expressionless, his eyes fixed out the window toward the sky.

"How's my favorite patient?"

Again Hutch was silent.

Huggy began to re-arrange the food on the tray. "Body's got to have food, Hutch."

An answer finally passed his lips, his voice small because his bandaged chest would only allow him to inhale a tiny bit of air. "Not hungry."

Huggy fingered the flower arrangements on the bedside table. "If you keep ignorin' your

visitors, pretty soon they'll get tired of the rejection and won't want to come at all."

"There's only one visitor I want to see."

Huggy eyed him a long moment, then nodded. "He's all over the news. A missing police officer is pretty big stuff."

"He's hurt," Hutch said quietly. "And each day that goes by without finding him . . ."

"I know. The chances of finding him alive are slim to none."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The hippie in the passenger seat passed his joint back to Starsky when he saw him rousing from his deep sleep in the rear of the van.

"Here, dude. This'll take the edge off."

Starsky sat up on the carpeted floor and held his thudding head. "No thanks," he mumbled with a wave of his hand.

The driver handed back a bottle of whiskey. "This more your speed?"

Starsky took a drink of the whiskey. Anything to make the pounding in his head go away. "Thanks for stoppin' back there. I don't know how long I was walkin'."

"Don't know who you are or where you're from?"

"I told you I don't." He took his jacket off and removed his empty shoulder holster. "And I'd like to know why I'm wearin' this."

"Let's just say you ain't no boy scout. Me and Barnes'll fill you in."

He looked back at the passenger hippie, swigging the whiskey again. "How well do we know each other?"

"We go way back. I'm Eddie. Worked a few jobs together. Don't you remember?"

"What the hell do you think?"

"Man, you must've wrecked your car or got yourself mugged. Hit your head pretty hard if you don't remember us."

"What's my name?"

"Dalton. At least that's what you go by."

"Where do I live?"

"How the hell should I know? I ain't seen you in almost a year."

Starsky looked out the window at the unfamiliar rural scenery passing by. "Where we headed?"

"We're on our way into Falmouth to do a job."

"What kind of job?"

Eddie toked his joint. "Wastin' the cop who put me away last year for sellin' the H. He came up here on vacation and landed himself in the hospital after a fender bender. Be like takin' candy from a baby. And as fate would have it, this might be your chance to get your hands on him yourself."

"Why would I want to do that?"

Eddie smiled. "He killed your lady."

Starsky's eyes clouded. "My . . ."

"Terry. Remember?"

Starsky put a hand to his forehead. "I don't . . . " A flash across his mind. Of an angelic face. A sweet smile. "I don't think I remember that."

He suddenly felt flushed and woozy.

"Shot her in the head when he arrested you. He said he was aimin' for you and got her instead, but everybody says he's a good shot, so you add it up."

Loving eyes. A tender touch.

A big slide.

(I love you that much)

(She's gone. It's over)

"She didn't die instantly, though. She lasted a little while."

The hospital. The graveside.

Starsky slumped against the door of the van and shaded his eyes with one hand, unable to understand the crushing weight on his heart or the tears welling up inside.

When he was sure he could speak without his voice breaking, he took his hand down.

"A cop killed her?"

Eddie nodded gravely.

"The one you're goin' after?"

He nodded again.

"Who is he?"

Eddie watched his face, especially his eyes, for a reaction.

"Ken Hutchinson."

Starsky was silent.

Eddie fingered the pistol in his lap.

"Remember him?"

But Starsky gave no indication that he did. He merely shook his head no.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

"Found 'em out in the woods when me and my dog was huntin'," the old farmer in the John Deere cap said as he handed Starsky's ID/shield and gun to Hutch. "Thought you'd want 'em."

Hutch lay pale and subdued against the pillows. He looked away from Starsky's (personal effects) belongings.

"No sign of anything else," the old man continued. "I'm a pretty good tracker. If he'da been out there, me and old Blue would've found him." He looked down, a bit uncomfortable. "I'll just lay 'em down here," he said as he placed the items on the bedside table. "Sorry."

The old farmer started to leave, but stopped when he reached the door and looked back. "The missus and I want you to drop by the house for home-made soup when you get on your feet . . . "

The farmer waited for a response.

" . . . if you feel up to it, that is . . . "

But he got nothing in return.

Hutch was still gazing out the window.

The old man opened the door.

"Thank you," Hutch managed weakly, but still kept his eyes averted. "For bringing his things."

"Welcome, young fella," he replied a touch sadly as he went on out. "Quite welcome."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky finished his soup and sandwich before Eddie and Barnes did. He squirmed restlessly at the diner's table. "Hurry up."

"What's your problem?" Barnes asked around a mouthful of cheeseburger.

"No sense waitin' around."

Eddie grinned at Barnes. "Chompin' at the bit, ain't he?"

"Look," Starsky said hotly. "I don't remember a hell of a lot, but I do recall that I loved a lady named Terry very much and that I had to bury her because some prick killed her. So he's dead. Cop or no cop."

Eddie looked at Starsky, impressed if not taken back by his intensity. "Just remember. I owe him too."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch lay in the shadowed hospital room, eyes on the clock. He couldn't sleep. He hadn't since the accident.

(Accident? No, I'll go ahead and call it what it really was. A hit and run. And the driver better find a one-way ticket to the outer limits, because if I EVER find out who it was, who was coward enough and low enough to ram head-on into somebody and then just drive away like they didn't see me jammed up in that twisted metal, like they didn't see whatever happened to Starsky either, like they didn't see that he needed help too, like they weren't responsible for his . . . for his dea . . . for his disappearance . . . )

He tried to rest. God knew he needed it. But whenever his eyes closed, that mental movie would start to play again, and again, and again, and (Go!) (Starsky fighting with the seatbelt as if it were his own) (No!) (He came right back) sleep would steal away fromhim again.

(You know what the problem is, Hutchinson. You're not out there looking for him. That's what it is. You're letting everyone else do what you should be doing. And you know very good and well that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. So the old man found his shield and his gun. So what? What does that mean? He didn't find a bod . . . he didn't find Starsky, did he? And until they do, until YOU do, you can't give up, you can't quit. He wouldn't lay back and let precious time slip away)

Hutch flung the cover aside and held his chest as he pushed himself up onto one elbow.

That's when he saw the shadowy figure coming into his darkened room.

The silhouette was unmistakable.

Hutch felt a surge of joy in spite of his achy ribs as he looked up at his partner, who was alive and well.

"Starsk?"

Hutch was unprepared for the fist that landed an efficient blow to his face and knocked him onto his back, and the knee in his stomach, and the pillow that was slammed over his face.

Hutch struggled, trying to punch or kick, but had no stamina. He wanted to call Starsky's name but could not draw a breath. (it's not Starsky, it just looks like him, it's dark and you haven't slept in days, so your mind's a little, oh well, fuzzy, and since you really WANTED it to be Starsky, your mind just played a nice little trick on you, Starsky wouldn't do this, he's never hit you for real in his life, never even wanted to, and he sure as hell wouldn't hold me down and smother me with a pillow, and . . . )

He stiffened, his lungs screaming for air, his brain exploding in white light. He wasn't aware of his physical body anymore, couldn't tell if he were moving or lying still, his thoughts jumbled like several radio stations playing at once.

Hutch's hands pawed madly at Starsky's jacket.

"Murderer," Starsky growled at the struggling figure he sat astride. "Die."

But the struggling waned bit by bit and (Starsky, help, it's not good here, I can feel my . . . I can't feel my . . . you wouldn't do this . . . you couldn't do this . . . where . . . Starsky,

please . . . I can't breathe . . . blacking out . . . not here anymore . . . where are you?) his body relaxed beneath him, his hands slipping from Starsky's jacket and falling away to the bed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The first thing Hutch was aware of was his cold body. He came to in the back of the van as Barnes drove through the dark countryside, wishing he had on more than just his white boxers and his bandages.

He was sitting on the floor, slumped sideways against the panel, his wrists tied above him to a bar. His chest was throbbing and he tried to move a little to relieve some of the pressure on his injured left wrist. He could feel his left ankle swelling tight against the bandage.

Even moving his head was painful. Struggling against Starsky and the pillow had left his neck sprained or strained, he didn't know which. But he raised his head to look at his partner, who was seated on a crate and observing him with glittering, hate-filled eyes. Hutch had seen his partner use those eyes on other people, but never him.

Hutch wanted to believe that it was an imposter who had attacked him, some twin, some fake. He didn't want to believe it was Starsky.

"He's comin' to," Eddie said, who was lounging on a beanbag chair.

But if Hutch had any doubts, they were extinguished when Starsky opened his mouth and spoke.

"I'm gonna kill you like you killed Terry."

"Kill . . . " Hutch looked at Eddie, who was coming at him with a wide strip of white tape. "Eddie, you mother-Starsk, don't listen-"

Eddie clamped the tape over Hutch's mouth. "Shut the hell up."

Hutch shook his head no and looked at Starsky, trying to communicate something, anything with his eyes that he would understand. Even if he had amnesia he could still listen to the truth and believe it. Eddie had taken advantage of Starsky's condition and was now amusing himself.

He had convinced Starsky that he'd killed Terry.

What else had Eddie convinced him of?

It wouldn't have been hard to do. Starsky obviously didn't remember much of anything.

He certainly didn't remember his partner. Only Terry. So Eddie could have put anything in his head.

Hutch kicked out at Eddie, surprising even himself when his foot connected with Eddie's chest.

Eddie toppled backward, then came up fuming like an enraged bull.

"You know," he seethed as he pulled a small cedar box from a toolbox, "I really don't want to waste my good horse on you, but we're gonna have to do somethin' to settle the score." He tossed the box to Starsky. "You do the honors."

Hutch watched Starsky raise the lid to the cedar box, then shook his head again when he saw Starsky taking out a vial and a syringe.

A plea came to Hutch's eyes: You're going to shoot me up? Get me addicted? What?

"Overdose," Starsky smiled, but when he moved closer to push the needle into Hutch's arm, he froze, blinking, remembering and alley—my God, he's a junkie-looking into blue eyes that looked back at him with, not anger, but love and forgiveness.

"Hutch?"

Barnes and Eddie reached for their guns, but Starsky was faster, diving for the one under the passenger seat and killing both, causing the van to swerve into a ditch.

Peeling the tape from Hutch's mouth, Starsky touched his partner's face, tears in his eyes.

"You okay?" they asked in the same voice.

End