Sacrifices

by Zebra 3 and Me

The partnership is tested in dramatic ways in these stories.

SACRIFICES

By TLR

Stories:

1. Bash-The partners are involved in a hate crime

2. Downtown-Taking Forest downtown to be booked

3. Home Again-S home after the Gunther shooting (Edited)

4. How Deep-How far will H go to protect his partner? (Edited)

5. How They Met-One version of how the partners may have met. (Edited)

6. Medicine Man-Is H's new gift a blessing or a curse? (Alternate Universe)

BASH

By TLR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky didn't expect it to be this hard.

The hard part was watching Terry slip through his fingers at the hospital, hearing her last breath, feeling her heart beat its last time.

Why was a year later just as hard?

This was a cold, impersonal cemetery he was standing in. Nothing of Terry here, really. Just her name on a headstone. Whatever was left of Terry was in his heart, not in the ground.

"You okay, Starsk?"

Starsky looked around.

He had come alone, but here was Hutch, walking up to him and putting an arm around his shoulders and saying, "I thought I'd find you here."

Starsky swiped at his eyes. He knew it was okay to cry at a cemetery. There were other people here visiting other graves, and some of them were crying too, yet somehow he had wanted it to be a little more private. He was just glad Hutch showed up when he did. It would make things a little easier.

"It's been a year," Starsky whispered, and he couldn't see Terry's name on the pinkish marble headstone for the tears in his eyes.

Her family let him choose the stone, and at first he didn't want to (God, how sick is it, picking out a headstone for her like you would a diamond ring?) (Gee, let's see, she always liked pink. How about pink?)

But now it didn't seem so sick. The pink stone stood out from the others, like she had stood out to him.

"I thought this would be easy," Starsky said with his head down. "So shook up I forgot to bring flowers."

Hutch stood with an easy, comforting arm around him.

"I remember with Gillian, Starsk. When it first happens, you're numb, you just focus on getting through. Now the shock has worn off and you're left with the bare realization that she's just not going to be here anymore. It'll get better with time."

"Hope, so," Starsky sniffed.

"Hey," Hutch said nudging his partner's side, then walking over to a rosebush full of blushing pink roses. "I think Terry would like these." He picked a couple of the roses off, whistling through his teeth when a thorn pricked his thumb, but smiling anyway.

"Don't let the groundskeeper catch you doin' that," Starsky smiled.

Hutch handed Starsky one of the flowers and they both knelt to place a fresh rose at the base of the headstone.

"Love you, Terry," Starsky whispered, his voice a quivering sigh. "I'll always love you."

Starsky bowed his head, and the cloudburst he had been holding in all day finally broke through.

Hutch put an arm around him again and pulled him close. "It's okay, buddy. Let it out."

People strolled by and a few looked, but Hutch didn't care.

"Take a picture" his glare said, and it was enough to make one particular man give him the finger while getting into his white Camaro.

"Take your time," Hutch told Starsky gently. "We'll go whenever you're ready."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They left in their separate cars, Starsky going home because he didn't feel up to working today, and Hutch going to the station to finish up some reports that Starsky was working on.

Hutch had noticed that the closer it got to the anniversary of Terry's death, the more distracted and quiet Starsky became.

Hutch didn't mind taking up the slack. Starsky had done it for him when Gillian died. Hadn't asked him if he'd wanted help (Because he'd have said no). He just went to the station after their regular working hours and on weekends and finished whatever reports Hutch had been working on so they'd be turned in on time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch pulled his tan Ford into the parking garage and got out, too pre-occupied to notice the white Camaro pulling in beside his car.

"Hey, queer!"

Hutch didn't notice who the statement was directed at, he merely turned to see who had shouted, and that's when the brick hit his face and three men descended on him in a flurry of punches and kicks, giving him no time to reach for his gun. Along with the relentless beating, not only with their fists and feet, but with bottles, rocks, and bricks, he heard their snarling, spitting voices-

"Keep it in the closet!"

"Faggot!"

"Queer!"

-and wondered what he had done to deserve such violence and hatred. Why someone he didn't even know, who didn't know him, would suddenly pulverize him as if he were less than a human being. Why? Simply because they saw him in a private moment consoling his best friend?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky suspected something was wrong the next morning when he pulled alongside Hutch's curb to pick him up and saw that his car was gone.

He went upstairs to check the apartment but found no sign of him, and no note.

"Where are you, Hutch?" he asked as he came back down the stairs and walked quickly to his car. "Where are you?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky careened the Torino into the precinct parking lot and jumped out, running to Hutch's car and looking inside, a wave of relief watching over him.

Good.

His car was here, so he had to be up in the squad room or Dobey's office.

Didn't he?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky moved through the squad room, his head swiveling to catch sight of his partner's blond head. But there was no blond head here.

"Anybody seen Hutch?" he asked quickly as he walked toward Dobey's office.

A grumble of negative answers and Starsky stepped inside his superior's office.

"Where's Hutch?"

Dobey was on the phone.

"How should I know? I'm not his babysitter. It's your job to keep tabs on him when you're on duty."

"And apparently when I'm off," Starsky said as he turned around and opened the door again. "He wasn't at his place and his car's down in the garage."

Dobey was obviously very harried this morning. What Starsky had just told him had barely registered.

"Well, keep looking," the captain grumbled hurriedly. "He'll turn up somewhere."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Have you seen him, Hug?"

Huggy leaned over the pool table to take a shot.

"Nope. But you know I can put a couple my officers on the case."

Starsky had to smile. "Couple officers, huh? And just who would they be-"

The door banging open made Huggy and Starsky raise their heads to see Hutch trudging in, stumbling, eyes wild and glassy, bleeding from a dozen places on his face, blood in his tousled hair, white shirt bloodstained and unbuttoned, one shirttail out, one in, his belt unbuckled and black pants unzipped.

"Oh my God," Starsky breathed softly, and rushed over to him.

The patrons stopped what they were doing to stare.

Hutch's dazed eyes tried to stay on Starsky as he sank toward the floor.

"Starsk," he murmured in a faraway voice on the way down.

Starsky caught him and eased him to the floor.

"I'll call an ambulance," Huggy said as he hurried behind the bar for a phone.

Starsky pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to the largest gash at his temple.

"They let me go," Hutch mumbled as he reached up for Starsky's arm. "I thought they were gonna kill me, but they let me go."

"Easy, boy."

"Where are we?"

"At Huggy's. What happened?"

Hutch's hand dropped to the floor.

"Three guys. White Camaro. Followed me from the cemetery." He sniffed through the blood in his nose. "Beat me up, didn't they?"

Starsky dabbed at the blood dripping from his mashed mouth.

Hutch groaned. "Threw a brick in my face."

Starsky stroked his hair and found it sticky with blood and sweat. "Took me to some . . . some bar . . . I don't know where . . . threw me through the window. . . a gay bar? I don't know where. People in the bar . . . they brought me here." He started to sob. "Starsky, I don't know where."

"Sshh. Take it easy. Don't worry about that right now. We'll get you to the hospital."

Huggy joined them, crouching beside Starsky to help block the crowd's view of Hutch.

Hutch reached for Huggy and found his sleeve. "Sorry about the floor, Hug. They threw bottles at me. I guess . . . some of them cut me . . . and the bar window . . . sorry about the blood."

"Hey, don't fret about that, Hutch."

Hutch's right hand fumbled for his zipper, his belt, but then stopped as it was too weak and uncoordinated to finish.

"Here," Huggy said as he closed, zipped, and buckled.

"Hutch," Starsky asked carefully as he and Huggy exchanged a look over him. "Did they . . . you know . . . "

"Nnnnn," he murmured. "No. Just wouldn't let-wouldn't let me zip 'em back up. Playin' around." Tried to raise his head. "Just let me up. I'm okay."

"Stay down," Starsky told him as he gently pushed Hutch back to the floor. "You're not goin' anywhere."

But Hutch didn't have to be told twice. His head dropped back as he passed out, but Huggy's hand caught it before it hit the floor.

"Who the-," Huggy grumbled as he started buttoning Hutch's shirt too. He stopped when he saw something written on Hutch's stomach in black marker. "What the-"

The words read: NO FAG COPS.

Starsky looked at Huggy. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, but I'm gonna wash it off."

"No, don't. Bad as I hate leavin' that on there, we need it for pictures."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dobey met with Starsky in the corridor just outside Hutch's hospital room.

"Well?" Starsky asked. "What about the car?"

"Starsky, do you know how many white Camaros there are? We need a license plate number."

"Hutch didn't see it."

"Don't give me that."

Starsky took a breath, and then exhaled.

"We need a description of the men," Dobey added. "We can get those guys easy. One, two, three. Just like that."

"He can't remember what they look like."

"He says he can't remember what they look like."

"Cap, they let him go. He saw them, can identify them, and they let him go. Now that tells me they threatened to kill him if he told."

"Starsky, your partner is a detective. A sergeant. And he's bungling his own-"

Starsky had lost patience. The anniversary of Terry's death, and Hutch's attack, was getting the best of him. And he didn't care.

"Well, let somebody beat the daylights out of you, hit you with bricks, throw bottles at you, degrade you, threaten to kill you if you said anything, and see how brave YOU are!"

Dobey stared at his detective.

Not because he was angry.

He'd seen that before.

But because he was crying.

Starsky pulled a Polaroid of the message on Hutch's stomach from his hip pocket and handed it to him, a little calmer now that he had vented some of his frustration. "He said they followed him from the cemetery. We were there for Terry I guess they saw . . . or wanted to see . . . somethin' they didn't like or understand. But man, why should they CARE? Me and Hutch are

like brothers. So what if he wants to give me a hug in broad daylight? They called him every name in the book, wrote that on his stomach, and beat him half to death, and he didn't do anything to them. I mean . . . he didn't do ANYTHING!"

Dobey frowned at the photo, then looked at Starsky.

"They want to make a social statement?" Starsky asked peevishly, his eyes jumping with color. "I'll make a social statement when I get my hands on 'em. 'Lay a hand on my partner and you pay for it.'"

XXXXXXXXX+

Starsky saw that Hutch lay peaked and solemn against his hospital pillow, and suddenly realized he must have heard his exchange with Dobey in the hall.

"Hey, Hutch."

Hutch was still, except for one hand that absently turned the hospital identification band on his wrist.

"Hey, Starsk."

Starsky didn't like it when Hutch wasn't looking at him. He couldn't read him as well without seeing his eyes. Especially since his face was covered with cuts, bruises, and bandages.

"Hutch, I know you're scared. But buddy, we can get those guys. All you have to do is give me their license plate number and descriptions. I know you saw them."

Hutch's eyes were on the bed railing. "I don't care," he said softly. "It's over. I just want it to go away."

"It won't, Hutch. Not until you do somethin' about it. Hey . . . " Starsky adjusted the sheet around his chest a little. "You sure they didn't . . . do more than what you said? Because if they did . . . "

"I'm sure," he answered quietly. "It's . . . not that I'm afraid for myself. They uh . . ."

Starsky waited.

"What, Hutch?"

Hutch shook his head. "Nothing. I just . . . I know what it's like now."

"Know what?"

Hutch still didn't look at him. "I know what it's like for them."

"What, victims? Well, yeah, when you go through somethin' like-"

"No, I mean . . . I don't know what I mean. I guess I mean I know what it's like being beaten up for . . . for being myself? For loving? That's an empty feeling, Starsk. It makes me feel cold inside. Because, you know? At the cemetery? We looked at each other . . . me and brickman. And I knew what he was thinking. I had my arm across your shoulder, and he was thinking 'Queers'. But still? I didn't take my arm down. And I paid for it. So I guess that's what I mean. I know what it's like now."

Starsky nodded. "So why won't you give me their license plate number and descriptions? They need to be in jail for what they did. We can't let 'em get away with it."

Starsky saw Hutch's throat move as he swallowed a sob.

"Hutch, what is it?"

Hutch finally looked at him. "They said they'd get my 'boyfriend' too if I told."

"Boyfriend?" Starsky ventured, trying to lighten Hutch's mood. "You got somebody on the side I don't know about?"

But it didn't work. Hutch's eyes were full of worry and doubt.

"I can't let them hurt you," Hutch whispered. "I'd turn around and walk off. . . pretend I never knew you . . . before I'd let that happen."

Starsky's heart sank. Hutch wasn't acting like a cop. He was acting like a victim.

"Hutch," he said laying a hand across his forehead. "I know you want to protect me, but you're confused. We've got the badge and gun. We've got control. We've got the law on our side. You're shook up because your attack had nothin' to do with us bein' cops. It wasn't about a case. It wasn't about revenge. It wasn't some two-bit hood tryin' to settle the score. It happened to Kenneth Hutchinson the person, not the cop. A hate crime. It happened because of who you are and who they think you are. And because somebody made our business their business. But you're still a cop, still my partner, still my friend, and they won't hurt me."

"DON'T SAY THAT!"

Hutch's sudden anger startled Starsky.

Hutch tried to raise his head from the pillow but only fell back from the exertion and exhaustion.

"If they want you," he finished in a quieter, weaker voice, "they'll get you. I learned that from Forest, Bellamy, Humphries, Marcus . . . "

"Hutch, you're right. Somebody could walk in here right now and blow us away. But we've always accepted the risk, we take every precaution we can, and we keep doing our job. Because we believe in it. It's worth it. Am I right?"

"I don't know anymore, Starsk. It used to be. The job . . . it takes a lot from us. I'm just . . . "

Starsky smoothed his hair. "You're just tired, Hutch. Sick. Sore. And tired. And worried about me. Just rest, huh? Give me the descriptions and the plate number and let me do my thing. You'll feel better once they're behind bars. Just give me what I need."

Hutch looked at him for a long time. He couldn't remember the last time he was this scared or confused. But it was times like this that he knew he could put his full trust in his co-pilot, and somehow he would bring the plane safely in.

So Hutch found himself opening his mouth and telling Starsky what he needed to know.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The day seemed to drag by. Hutch was left with his thoughts, and they were so despairing to him (people think they can do whatever they want to you when they think they're right and you're wrong) (what if they hate you and beat you because you have blond hair and blue eyes?) (hate crimes) (centuries old) (Christians to the lions) (blacks to the lynching tree) (Jews to the ovens) (gays to the violence) that he wanted to sleep just to get away from them, but was unable to do even that until Dobey posted an officer outside his door. And then he fell heavily and gratefully into a nap while Huggy was telling him about a new waitress he'd hired.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sometime later Hutch opened his eyes to find a nurse carrying in the largest bouquet of bright pink carnations he'd ever seen.

It was absolutely huge and beautiful. Dozens-maybe hundreds-of the happy flowers, bursting, overtaking the greenery and the wide-based vase they were seemingly stuffed into.

"Gorgeous, aren't they?" the nurse smiled as she set them on his dresser.

"Who . . ."

She handed him the card and left.

He opened it and read the message: Get Well Soon, Straight-Friends From Frenchie's Bar.

Hutch smiled, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

His friends at Frenchie's Bar.

(His attackers had carried him from the Camaro because he couldn't walk or move, had carried him over to the large window, had swung him back and forth for momentum, then pitched him, and he went crashing through)

(The men in the bar, dressed from scanty to conservative, some with mascara and eye shadow and some without, some wearing gaudy jewelry and some not, rushed over to the bloodied figure who'd crashed through the window and landed on the floor, moved him out of the glass, picked shards from his face, slid a mink stole under his head, used a silk scarf to apply pressure

to a gash in his temple, doctored his cuts and bruises, clucked sympathetically and tried to talk to

him to find out who he was and who had hurt him)

(He told them what happened, from the cemetery to the police parking garage, rambling from start to finish, fading in and out)

(He'd refused an ambulance)

(But told them to be careful, that there were nuts out there that would hurt them without blinking an eye)

(The owner of the bar, Frenchie, a plump man in a white chef's hat, had smiled sadly and said they already knew that)

("What do you want us to do, mon ami?" Frenchie had asked him)

("I want you to take me home")

(They wouldn't take him home. They said he needed to be with someone if he were going to be stubborn and refuse medical attention)

(They tried calling Starsky for him but got no answer)

("I'll go to Huggy's," he'd told them. "Just get me a cab")

(But they didn't get him a cab. They helped him to one of their own cars and drove him across town

to Huggy's, all the while urging him to get to an emergency room, stuffing a roll of money into his shirt pocket as his attackers had robbed him too, along with some of their phone numbers if he needed a sympathetic ear)

(He didn't want help to the door, even though he could barely pick up his feet to walk)

Friends From Frenchie's Bar.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky came to Hutch's hospital room to take him home, and found that he was dressed and packed, but in the adjoining bathroom standing at the sink.

"Hutch? You sick?"

Water was running in the basin and he was lathering up a white washcloth with a bar of soap.

Hutch glanced over his shoulder a bit self-consciously, then put a foot out behind him to close the door in his face.

"Sorry, Starsk," his voice came muffled from the other side of the door. "Be out in a sec."

Starsky opened the door and saw his partner standing with his shirt unbuttoned and washing his stomach with the soapy cloth.

"Hutch?"

Hutch looked at him in the mirror.

"It just won't come off."

Starsky had seen his bare, clear stomach during his hospital stay.

"Hutch, it's not there."

"Well, I know you can't see it, but there's a trace. I must have washed it a dozen times, but still-"

"Hutch, it's gone. Those words are on the inside of you. Not the outside."

Hutch rinsed the cloth out and wiped the soap from his stomach. "I don't know why it should even bother me. I'm not a 'fag cop'. It shouldn't mean a thing to me."

"'Cause nobody likes labels, Hutch. Whether they're accurate or inaccurate. Nobody likes 'em."

"So then. How do I get the words out of me?"

Starsky knew Hutch already knew the answer to that, and he knew Hutch wanted him to say it anyway.

"Talk to the department shrink. He'll help. You were attacked and humiliated, Hutch. Wasn't a mugging. Wasn't a random act. It was personal."

Hutch drained the water and buttoned his shirt. "Okay, Doctor Freud. If that's what it takes, that's what I'll do."

Starsky calmly watched Hutch as he left the bathroom and picked up his small bag of belongings,

but what he really wanted to do was heave the bed through the wall for the scarlet letter those

lowlifes had left on, and in, his partner.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The story-"Policeman Victim of Gay-Bashing"- was in the paper. Everything except his name (since he was plainclothes and undercover). But the news was all over the precinct, and there were mixed reactions from fellow officers.

Some gave him the cold shoulder. Strange looks. Whispers behind his back:

"He gay?"

"Does it matter?"

"They thought he was."

"That's why it happened."

"Mistaken identity."

"You never know."

While others were sympathetic and outraged, wanting to serve their own style of justice.

"White, black, gay, straight. What's the difference? A hate crime is a hate crime."

"Minorities have had it for years."

"Now they get you even if they THINK you're in a certain group?"

"Don't worry. Starsky'll find 'em. And if he don't, we will."

"You didn't deserve that, Hutch."

"Who does?"

"So, what are we saying? We stop violence with more violence?"

"Hutch didn't start it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky thought Hutch was handling the reactions fairly well-mostly ignoring the looks they'd get in the hallway, or looking the other way when someone made a provocative remark. Until he noticed that Hutch would do anything to avoid showering in the precinct locker room, and avoided the men's room altogether, would even go as far as using one down the street at a service station or a restaurant when necessary.

"I thought you were gonna talk to the shrink?" Starsky said as he caught Hutch's arm in the hallway after coming from the men's room himself.

Hutch pulled his arm away from Starsky's hand with noticeable suddenness.

"Just don't, okay?"

"Don't what?"

Hutch glanced around, then down. "Just keep your distance."

Starsky's eyes flashed as he looked around the empty hallway. "What is the matter with you?"

Hutch walked away.

Starsky took his arm again. "Come back here and talk to me."

Hutch spun, shaking free of his partner's arm again. "Okay, I'll talk to you. How about I don't want the same thing happening to you?"

"How about those guys can take a flyin' leap off a bridge? You cannot let them win, Hutch. It's their problem."

Hutch just looked at him. "They made it mine. And I will not allow it to be yours."

"So . . . " Starsk ran a frustrated hand through his hair and his voice raised in volume. "So you just

don't reach out anymore, right? You just bow to people's whims? That's not like you."

Hutch took a deep breath and started to launch into a tirade, but then he just deflated with a sigh. "Oh man, Starsk, I don't know what I'm doing."

"I do. You're scared, and you're gonna see the shrink. Right now."

Starsky took his arm and moved him down the hall, and this time Hutch didn't pull away.

"You're not comin' back to work until he says you can," Starsky told him. "Dobey told you to take a few days, but no, you had to come back and play bodyguard to me. You forget I can take care of myself?"

Hutch was too self-absorbed at the moment to be either hurt or amused.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky found the white Camaro parked outside Dennis-the brickman-Harper's house.

Sometimes running down a lowlife was just too easy. Run the license plate number through a computer, match the descriptions with the mug books, you get a name and address, and bingo, you're pulling up to the guy's house because the dunce was just so sure he had terrorized his victim into keeping his mouth shut by threatening to hurt his partner.

You didn't count on that partnership being stronger than any fear, silence, or threat, did you, smart criminal?

Starsky reached for the mike to call for backup, and that's when someone tapped on the roof of his car.

"I been lookin' for you," Dennis Harper said as he reached into his back pocket.

Not giving him time to say or do anything else, Starsky slammed the car door against his upper thighs and sent him onto his back in the street.

"No, boyfriend," he growled as he jumped onto the man and started punching, "I been lookin' for you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frenchie's Bar was bouncing with reggae music, and the aroma of Cajun food was in the air when Starsky and Hutch walked in.

"Sounds good," Hutch commented.

"Smells good," Starsky added.

The men in the bar smiled and waved at them, some calling out a hello, but most just stopping their conversations to see what Hutch was going to say or do.

The owner, Frenchie, a plump Frenchman in a chef's hat, came over to Hutch and shook his hand.

"How are you, Officer Hutchinson?"

"Better than the last time you saw me." Hutch winked. "Wanted to see what your place looked like from a vertical position."

Frenchie laughed. "We got the window replaced, mon ami. Did you notice my new sign?"

He pointed to a sign next to the replaced window which read: No Window Bashing Allowed.

Hutch smiled. "I wanted to thank you." He raised his voice to the entire bar. "All of you. For helping me out the other night. And for the flowers. And for the money."

The men raised their glasses to him.

"Some of us have been there, Straight," one of them said showing a scar on his throat.

The bar fell a little somber, and then Frenchie picked up the mood again by saying to his new patrons, "You're welcome to stay and have lunch."

Starsky sat down on a stool. "Got a menu?"

End

::

DOWNTOWN

By TLR

-Hutch-

We were taking Ben Forest downtown to be booked.

We could have radioed a black and white unit to transport him, and Starsky suggested we do that (so I wouldn't have to be around the sleaze who got me addicted to heroin, I'm sure), but I was too mad and stubborn to agree to that. I wanted to take that creep to jail personally.

Forest laughed when I stumbled on the way to the Torino.

"Look at you," he smirked. "Can't even walk."

Trying to ignore him, I got in the back seat while Starsky drove. And of course Forest was in the passenger seat with his hands cuffed behind him.

So smug. A sinister smile.

Reminded me of a snake.

He sat there so cool as Starsky drove, probably thinking of which dirty lawyer to call, how much it would take to pay the judge off, how prison bars would not diminish his position.

"You liked that stuff, didn't you, Hutchinson?"

The question was as sharp in the air as the needle he'd used on me.

It caught me off guard. I didn't know what to say. It left me feeling weak and vulnerable.

I was honestly surprised to find my hands shaking. I never thought he could get to me again.

Forest chuckled. "Must have liked it. You begged me for it."

"Shut up."

"Remember, Hutchinson? You wanted it real bad. You told me where Jeanie was just so you could have it."

"Shut up, Forest."

"I know where you can get some more. Wouldn't cost you a dime. They say once you get a taste . . . well, you know what I mean."

I kicked the back of his seat. "I said shut up!"

Not a hard kick. Too weak to do much.

Forest just laughed again.

I held my arms tightly and looked out the window, trying to block him out, trying not to recall the terrible pleasantry of the highs, and the monster ravaging of the withdrawal. It had turned me inside out. I felt weary and defeated to have survived, but Starsky said it would make me a stronger person and a better cop.

I didn't understand how that could be. I was just glad it was over. And I didn't really care what it made me. The only thing I didn't want it to make me was a junkie in my mind, and in Starsky's mind. God, why did he have to see me that way in the alley. High, beaten, weak. What did he think

of his supposedly strong, unbeatable, principled, untouchable partner at that moment? Even now?

It felt like I'd let him down. Like I wasn't the friend or partner he thought I was. It felt like I was suddenly tarnished in his eyes.

I'd always looked out for Starsky. From day one. And now he's the one who had to look out for me. It felt strange. Backward. I was always the strength, the giver, the helper. Especially for Starsky. I never needed anyone before. Never needed him like that. Not until then. And then, when it came, I never knew I needed him so badly. Never knew how much he'd help me. Or how much he'd give me, or be there for me. But when Forest happened, I found I couldn't make it without him. Couldn't have kicked it by myself. If he hadn't been there to hold onto in that bed, I might have jumped out the window just to get away from the pain. If he hadn't blocked the door when I'd wanted out, I'd have gone right out and scored some heroin, begged for it if necessary, and the thought of that makes me sick. He did more than save me from the heroin. He saved me from myself.

He was there the whole time, going through it right along with me.

You think you know someone until you see their real colors. Starsky's colors are always true blue and dependable. Always. Can't say the same for myself.

You think you know yourself until something like that happens. You think your world is just in perfect order. Then boom. You see yourself as you really are. No better than anybody else on the street. No better than the criminals you arrest. Not immune to addiction, or withdrawal, or craving, or blowing up at your loyal friend and wanting to hit him, when all he's done, all he's ever done, was help you.

"He forced you," Starsky had told me back at Huggy's apartment. "Wasn't your fault."

"That's kind of you, partner. But it doesn't make the craving any easier."

How deep does his love go? Am I there for him like he is for me? If I were keeping score . . .

Forest was chuckling to himself again in the front seat.

My words hadn't fazed him and I was too wiped out to say anymore.

So Starsky took over for me. Told him off when I couldn't. Told him exactly what I wanted to say. He knew me well enough to do that.

"You're a sociopath, Forest. It's all about you. You care about nobody's life except your own. Nobody cared about you when you were a baby gangster, so you don't know how to care about anybody else. Selfish is what you are. No guilt. No conscience. The world revolves around you and caters to you. How others benefit you. How the world relates to you. You're a user. People are disposable to you. Prison's not a punishment. Just a hiatus."

"You know, Detective, you're right. And while I'm on vacation, I'll decide just how and when and who I'm going to use to finish him off."

"So help me, if one of your boys lays a hand on him, you won't live long enough to make parole."

And here I sat, behind the one man whose name alone, whose voice alone, could chill my blood to zero and make me feel as scared as a kid afraid of the boogeyman.

I guess he was the boogeyman.

"You never loved Jeanie," the man's crisp murmur came. "Liked her maybe. Did her maybe. But you didn't love her like I did. You couldn't have. You gave her up too easily. What kind of a boyfriend are you anyway?"

Starsky grabbed the man's neck in one hand and shoved his head against the window, holding it there. "Shut up, Forest!"

But Forest kept chuckling as if he were enjoying himself. He couldn't move his head, but he made sure his cobra eyes slid to Starsky's when he spoke.

"Should have seen him, Starsky. Crawling and begging on the floor for more. Like a strung-out smack-head on the street. Pathetic, really."

"Shut your damn mouth, Forest!"

My hands were over my ears by that time. I didn't hear the rest of what he said. I didn't have to, because it played out in my memory like a movie reel, over and over.

(Give me some. Please give me some. Help me. Please help me).

Starsky swerved the Torino off to the side of the road and dragged Forest out the driver's side door.

I didn't look. I just sat there rubbing my arms. Chilling again. Sudden weakness. A sudden yearning-

Stop, I told myself. Don't think about it. You don't need it anymore. It's over.

But it was true. The only thing to satisfy this craving was the drug. It took the begging away. It met the need. Took you to a place where it didn't hurt. And I could taste it. Feel it.

(No, keep it away from me. I don't want it. Please).

(Forest, how could you do this to me?)

"Starsk?" I called weakly.

Where was he?

I looked around.

(God, don't let me have it. I don't want it).

"Starsk?"

The passenger door opened and Starsky shoved Forest inside, then came around to the driver's side and got in, pulling away from the curb as though nothing had happened.

Starsky's eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror and sent me a silent message:

Everything was going to be okay.

I don't know what Starsky told Forest, and I never asked, but the gangster with the dangerous eyes didn't say another word all the way to the police station.

It gave me time to settle down. Time for the pleading in my body to subside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky-

We finally got Forest downtown to book him.

"Stay in the car," I told Hutch.

"Why? I want to take him in too."

He wanted to be tough, but I said no. He didn't realize how bad he looked.

The cops would see him, ask questions. He wasn't as strong, physically or emotionally, as he thought he was.

(Just like he thought he could climb over that wall in the alley when he was running from Forest's men and couldn't). But I saw in the rearview mirror how he looked, how scared he was, how tired and fragile he was from fighting the Forest monster. I'd felt his weak kick on the back of the seat.

My brave buddy never knew how to give up.

It took a few guys with some dope to make him give up. Something he couldn't help. Something he

didn't want to admit to himself or could even understand. That he was only human. Not superman.

Not super cop. Not super strong.

But you couldn't tell Hutch that. He thought there was something he could have done, should have done, to prevent getting hooked.

He berated himself for not being stronger, for not holding out, for giving in.

I couldn't make him see that he was their victim and that it was his addicted body that gave in. Not his mind or his spirit.

"Hutch," I tried to reason with him, "it's no different than when someone is raped. They forced the addiction on you What could you have done?"

He spoke with his shadowy eyes cast downward. "I could've kept my mouth shut."

His wall was up. He had spoken. And I couldn't dissuade him.

Maybe later. Give him time.

Why, Hutch? Why do you have to be everybody's rock? Everybody's hero? What's so wrong with showing that you hurt too once n a while?

Sometimes I think I'm the only person he lets into his life. The only person allowed to see him hurt. He must trust me an awful lot. God, I don't want to ever misuse that trust. I don't want to ever betray it.

I led Forest into the police station. He held his head up high like some paparazzi was gonna take his picture.

He'd have it taken all right. While holding a nice little number to his chest.

::

When I came outside from booking him, Hutch wasn't in the Torino like I'd thought he'd be.

Oh God, Forest's men grabbed him again.

I started walking down the sidewalk, panting a little, and then panting a lot, and then walking faster, and then running, and then running so hard and fast I felt like a machine instead of a person, and I saw him, a flash of his blond hair where he stood in an alleyway.

I lurched to a stop and went back to him. He stood just inside the alleyway, his eyes on some winos and drug addicts lounging in the back by a dumpster, who were too busy swigging and shooting up to notice anyone was watching.

"Hutch?"

I took his arm but he wasn't going anywhere.

He stood watching them, for the longest time, lost in thought, a dazed look on his face.

What is it, Hutch? You want it that bad? You going to walk in there and take it from them?

I held my breath.

Forest, you monster. I should have killed you when I had the chance.

I could have kicked myself for thinking that he would actually take their dope and shoot it in his arm. Not now. Not after all this time. He was over it. Maybe a twinge of wanting it, or two, but he was over it.

I was sorry I ever thought that about him when he turned his vulnerable, spooked eyes to me.

"Starsky, I'm not one of them, am I?"

I shook my head no.

"I don't want to be one of them."

"You're not, Hutch. You're okay."

His hand groped up to my jacket and I covered it with mine. "Starsk, I didn't mean to be weak. I didn't mean to let you down. I wish you hadn't seen me like that. But . . . "

I rubbed his back. "Hutch, you got through it. You're the strongest person I know. All that was meant to keep you down. To destroy you. Kill you. But you beat it, and you survived. I'm proud of you."

His eyes lifted to mine. "Proud?"

"Yeah, proud."

He smiled a little. "I don't feel strong. I don't feel like I survived anything. But I do know . . . " He leaned his back against the brick wall. Exhausted again. "I couldn't have made it without you. You saw me at my weakest. My lowest. I didn't want to look bad in your eyes-"

God, I was bawling. Nobody could tug at my heart like this big blond baby in front of me. I pulled him into a crushing bear hug. "Shut up, Hutch. There's nothin' you could do or say that'd make me change the way I think about you. You know how much I look up to you? Man, you are the standard."

He cried on my shoulder, so weak I had to hold him up. "If you hadn't been there . . ."

"But I was, Hutch. I was. And I'll always be there. We're partners, right?"

"Right."

"Friends, right?"

"Right."

He was getting heavy. "Hey," I said pushing him back to look at him. "All this is playin' a number on your head. Got you doubting yourself. Wonderin' if this has changed how I see you. Give it time, Hutch. It'll get better. And just remember. Nothin' can touch us. Nothin' at all."

Hutch nodded, and I saw a little relief on his face, which was like a breath of fresh air to me.

"I never thanked you," he smiled as we walked away from the alley. "For all that you did for me."

"No thanks needed, buddy. We're in this together."

End.

:::::::::::

HOME AGAIN

By TR

XXXXStarskyXXXX

It was the last thing I expected. Feeling fear and dread at leaving the hospital after I'd recuperated from Gunther's bullets. Hell, I was sick of hospitals to the point of claustrophobia, and all I wanted to do was get a clean bill of health (well, clean enough to get released anyway) so I could go home.

The hospital had become my home, the doctors and nurses my friends. I was insulated and institutionalized. As much as I hated being there, it felt comfortable, and I didn't mind. And that's what was so wrong about it. I should have minded. So, as scared as I was, I decided I better get out of the hospital while I was in the mood. That mood went up and down. One day I'd want to go home, but the next I wouldn't. Didn't know what there was to be scared of. Gunther was in prison and he couldn't get me. Most of his men were caught. But still . . .

So when the day came for me to get discharged, Hutch showed up like he did every day, and he

must have known I needed time to get the nerve up to leave, because he just stalled around the hospital room looking at the movie magazines we'd both read a million times, straightening the furniture when it didn't need straightening, getting coffee for us, going to the bathroom, calling some people on the phone to tell them I was getting out (of a prison? Felt like it), to give me time to get mentally prepared.

I packed my belongings quickly like I couldn't wait to get out of there. Didn't want him to know how scared I was. He'd given so much of himself to me already. Sacrificed his time, his life, his health, just for me. (He didn't know I saw him one day in the mirror popping some pills in the bathroom, and when he went downstairs to the hospital cafeteria to bring us back some lunch, I looked at the prescription bottle and saw that they were painkillers). I asked him about them when he got back and he said it was nothing, just taking them for an occasional migraine.

But when I asked Huggy, he told me it was his back. That some days Hutch couldn't even make it to the precinct because his back was so bad, and that he'd actually seen Hutch walking bent over and holding onto things, and at its worst, immobilized on the sofa.

From lugging around on me.

But he always managed to get to the hospital to see me.

Every day.

He hid his pain from me so well that I didn't even notice. Or maybe my own pain and morphine fog wouldn't let me notice.

He hid it so I wouldn't worry, and so he could keep on helping me out, turning and lifting me in the bed, helping me out of it, holding me up so I could walk to the bathroom and use it like a man, helping me in and out of the wheelchair.

Gee, wonder how he got the bad back?

Because of me. And he didn't want me to know anything about it. Didn't want me to feel guilty.

Like always, he put me first. Didn't care what it was doing to him.

Hutch held my jacket open for me.

"Ready to go, Starsk?"

"Uh, sure," I told him with fake cheer as he slipped my jacket onto my shoulders. I wanted to bawl. For me, for Hutch, for our jobs, our partnership, our friendship, the whole damn situation Gunther had put us into. The bullets didn't hurt just me. They hurt Hutch too. "Let's get out of here."

Maybe our lives could start getting back to normal.

Hutch wouldn't have to lug around on me and I'd be in my home again.

XXX

Hutch-

Starsky was too quiet on the way home from the hospital. Just sat staring out his window.

"What's up, Starsk?"

Still too quiet. And a quiet Starsky always made me uneasy. A communicating Starsky I can handle. A mad Starsky I can handle. Even a pouting one. A hurting one. But not a quiet one. Because it represents a part of him that I'm not sure I can understand or know how to reach. His silence is a secret place, and it's sometimes about me, sometimes not, but always intense.

"When we get to my house," he said in his weak hospital voice, the one that that snake of a man James Gunther gave him, "I think you should just go on home."

I stared at him.

For so long that I nearly rear-ended a delivery van in front of me.

I slammed on the brakes, my arm thrusting out to keep him from hitting the dash.

"Damn," I swore under my breath.

I didn't understand. He was speaking from that silent, secret place again.

I wanted to yell, but I couldn't do that to him. He was too delicate for that right now. I wondered if he'd ever be strong enough to take me on again. I hoped so. Because I missed my old partner. His joking. His teasing. His temper. I couldn't stand seeing what those bullets had reduced him to: Half a Starsky.

Half a body. Half a soul. Half a person.

It's okay, Starsky. I'll fill in the gaps.

Thanks, Gunther. For murdering his spirit.

And mine too. You knew once Starsky was down, it was over for me too. You can kill Starsky with bullets. For me, it just takes killing Starsky.

"Why?" I asked as easily as I could. "I told you I was going to stay at your place for a while and help you out."

"Thanks, Hutch. But I don't need the help. I'll be okay."

"Starsky, if you think . . . buddy, you can't stay by yourself."

"I can get around pretty good. I've got the phone."

We arrived at his place, and I ignored everything he said as I got out of the car to help him up to his house, surprised to find Huggy inside.

"Hey," Starsky and I said together. "What are you doing here?"

He spread his arms out wide.

"I watch my two friends hurtin' like hell . . . Starsky all shot up . .. you killin' yourself over it . . . I couldn't take it no more. I'm here to help."

I shot him a glare. "He's my responsibility, Hug."

"Oh, I get it. I'm just a friend when it's convenient. You turn me off and on like a switch. If Starsky needs me, I'm there. If you want me, I'm there. When you want me to leave, I leave. When he tells me to go, I go. Well I'm NOT a switch, cop friend, and I CAN'T turn it off and on. And when I see BOTH of you hurtin' . . . did you ever think about what the shooting has done to me?"

"No," Starsky and I answered in the same voice.

No, I was ashamed to admit. I never thought about what the shooting had done to him. I was so focused on-

Huggy stood his ground clear-eyed. "No, you didn't, Hutch. You were so wrapped up in Starsky . . . and that's all right by me, don't get me wrong . . . that you didn't think about how it was for me. How it is for me right now. Let me step in to help, and it's tear-Huggy's-head-off time."

"Huggy, you know how much I value our friendship. You know what you mean to me. I never thought I had to say anything about that."

"Just keep it in perspective, man. Have I ever done anything to hurt you or Starsky?"

"No. Of course you haven't."

"And I'm not now. You go home and take care of Hutch, and I'll take care of Starsky. Drop over whenever you want to. Diane's got things under control at my place."

I looked at Starsk for his response, who said, "Perfect."

I looked back at Huggy. "You call me if he needs me."

"Roger that."

"You call me if you need me."

"You know I will."

I felt pressure on my arm as Starsky squeezed it. "Think I need to lie down."

I nodded, and then Huggy came over to help me get Starsky to the bed, and I let him.

"Thank you," I told our friend, and I meant it.

End

::

HOW DEEP

By TR

"Hutch? It's Jeanie. I need you."

A handful of words-a handful of stones, and the memories came flooding back. Of her, of heroin, of Forest.

I had put all that behind me. Including her. Forest was behind bars and there was nothing . . . well, little . . . to worry about as far as he was concerned.

Her voice. So real. And needy.

I could tell she was n trouble, but how deep, I didn't know.

(But why call me, Jeanie? Of all the men you must know, or care about . .. )

I hadn't thought about her, or cared about her, in long months. The heroin had snuffed out whatever caring there had been between us. Until now.

"Jeanie, what is it?"

She was sniffing and tearful on the line. "I'm sick, Hutch. And I need to talk to you."

Lost and alone too, from the sound of her. Probably calling from a phone booth or a restaurant.

"Jeanie . . . "

God, why did she have to call me?

Jeanie, how could you still care about me after I ratted you out to Forest? I gave you to him. Told him where he could find you. How could you pick up the phone? Do I really want to see you again? Even if it is for moral support? She said she was sick. Is this how you treat a sick person you once cared deeply about?

That she could still ask for my help . . .

"Okay, I'll be there," I told her. "Where are you?"

I left Starsky a note on my table. He was coming over for a spaghetti dinner.

Sorry, Starsk. But my guilty conscience calls.

XXXXXX

I was there in thirty minutes.

A huge white dog, Newfoundland by the looks of him, met me at the paint-chipped entrance.

"Hey, pally," I said petting the dog's head.

He backed away from me as if afraid.

"Hey, it's okay," I said crouching down to rub his head. He was large, but would have been fuller if fed properly. There were old scars on his muzzle and legs. From fights or from mistreatment, I couldn't be sure. I suspected the latter, from the way he shied away from my hand. He wore no collar.

"Come here, you," I said going back to my car.

He watched me with careful, sober eyes, then followed me.

Rummaging around in the back floorboard of my car, I found a half-eaten sandwich from lunch that day. He waited patiently for the morsel.

"Here," I said giving it to him and thumping his broad white side. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

The sandwich was gone in one swallow, but he nevertheless offered an appreciative wag of his tail.

He licked his chops, wanting more.

"I'll take you for a big burger when I'm done," I promised him.

He followed me up the stairs.

"What's your name anyway?" I asked the dog. "You look like a pile of snow to me. You like Snow?"

He didn't seem to mind.

"Okay. Snow it is."

The hotel was run-down. Dirty. Sleazy. Nobody at the front desk. Furniture looked like it came from the garbage dump. One or two guests (Charlie Manson rejects by the looks of them) and that was it. Why was she here? She deserved better than this.

Her room was last in the hall. Glancing in the rooms on the way to hers, I saw the same rickety furnishings.

I could hear her crying on the other side of the door.

"Jeanie?" I asked taking hold of the doorknob. "It's Hutch. Are you all right? I'm coming in."

She sat on the bed. But she wasn't sick. She was pregnant. Months along.

The look in her eyes said it all.

"Is the baby mine?" I asked. "Or Ben's."

"I'm sorry," she wept. "I had to do it for the baby. They said they'd kill both of us."

Snow went crazy barking and growling just outside the door.

Three goons busted in, reaching for their guns-Snow lunging and knocking one of them down-but I drew mine first, blasting each one back against the wall or out in the hall, blood and brain going everywhere.

Jeanie squealed and covered her ears, but when the noise died down, it was just the two of us.

Panting, I sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her close.

"It's all right, Jeanie. It's all right. I'll take care of you, sweetheart, and the baby."

She clung to me, her body relaxing more now that she was safe in my arms. Snow came close and nudged his big head under my arm.

"Hutch?" a voice out in the hall asked.

It was Starsky. He must have followed me after reading my note.

He had his gun out, his eyes scanning the room.

"You okay, Hutch?"

I nodded, and he holstered his bun.

One look at Jeanie, another look at me, a third at the big dog.

"Come on," he said helping both of us to our feet. "Let's get out of here."

The three of us left together, followed by Snow.

End

HOW THEY MET

By

TLR

I don't know why they picked on me. I was just mindin' my own business walking' down the street from the academy dorm to the local pizzeria for a bite to eat.

They see somethin' in me-I don't know what-a challenge, a fun time, an easy mark.

But I think it was the academy uniform. Some people just hate cops. Even cadets who aren't cops yet.

I was a cop-to-be. First day at the academy. Just wrapped up orientation with twenty other cadets. They were so zonked, most of them went back to their dorms to sleep. Even my new roommate. But me, I was still high, so full of myself. Walkin' on a cloud. Gonna be a cop like my pop.

I was on my way. Felt like a real man instead of an over-grown teenager. I was gonna do somethin' good with my life, even if life hadn't been too good to me. Either I take the world by the tail, or it gets me by mine. Ma would be proud, and Nicky could have a good brother to look up to. I'd put the bad guys in jail and help people who needed it. Pop told me it was the best feeling in the world.

Nothin' could stop me from reaching my dream.

Except maybe the four guys surrounding me who'd had way too much to drink, and way too much time on their hands.

Their breath was pretty foul with beer and whiskey. They were swinging and swigging their bottles around like it was a graduation party.

"Oh, looky here. We got a baby cop. A rookie rookie."

"Baby pig."

"Piglet."

I tried to ignore them, step around them. After all, they were drunk, and there were four of them.

Hey, I'm a good fighter. But four?

I decided to give them a break.

Plus I didn't have a gun. The academy lets you wear their uniform, but you're not allowed to carry your gun off academy grounds. That bought you a ticket to the next train home.

"Go home and sleep it off," I muttered as I moved around them.

But I didn't look down. I kept my eyes on their eyes, and I think that's what did it.

They saw I wasn't exactly scared of them, that I was choosing not to fight but would, and could, if I had to.

There's a difference.

They must've taken my straight stare as a threat, when all I was doing was letting them know I wasn't scared of them.

Well, okay, I was a little scared of them.

Especially when one breaks his whiskey bottle against the brick building and shoves it at my face, which backs me into a dead end alley.

I threw my arm up and knocked his away, then threw a punch to his stomach.

That sent him to his knees and he was bending over puking in the alley, so I thought that was the end of it because the other three were left staring at their fearless leader.

So I just walked off and started out of the alley, but the three stooges mustered up that crazy alcohol-inspired bravado and rushed at me.

And I'm not embarrassed to say it.

I ran.

My pop always said I ran like a deer.

Try impala, Pop.

But my speed was no match for that sharp pain as something went thump high in my back.

"Oh hell," I thought to myself as fire spread across my shoulder. "It's not a bullet. No sound went off. What the hell is it? Oh wow. A knife? Did he throw a knife at me?"

I was still debating this with myself as the knife drove me into the brick wall, where I bounced off and landed facedown in the alley.

"What a way to go," I thought to myself. "First day at the academy and you get knifed-killed-in a damn dirty alley."

They were coming to finish me off. I could hear their drunken whoops of delight and their drunken footsteps getting closer.

They probably didn't mean to take it this far. Too damn drunk to know what they were doing.

Hell, they'll wake up in the morning and realize they killed somebody.

Me.

It doesn't end this way, does it?

It can't.

Just get up and run. Move. Anything. Don't go out like this. Fight for your life.

But I can't. I can't move. Can't get up. The pain has me immobile. Everything seems to be fading, and far away. And they're coming. I can still hear them.

One of them-I don't know which one-YANKS the knife from my shoulder and I let out a yell so loud it shocked even myself. The pain was blinding. I honestly couldn't see anything but a white flash for a second or two.

Pop. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to end this way. I wanted you to be proud of me. I'd have made you proud. I'm sorry. I'd be the best cop you ever saw. Didn't mean to let you down. Didn't mean . . .

But there was someone else in the alley. In my pain and fuzzy state I wasn't sure if it was some kind of angel with a blond halo over his head or what, but I blinked to focus my eyes and saw that it was the classmate-cadet- assigned roommate I'd seen in orientation today. He'd been very engrossed in the training, taking notes, asking questions, ANSWERING the questions like he'd written the manual himself, volunteering for some of the training exercises, and was so good with some of his fighting techniques that the trainer used him as an assistant. He stood out in class, just like he was standing out now with that blond halo and those eyes that could go from angelic to venomous in a second.

But there was no right punch on this night. He was leveling a 357 Magnum at the guys standing over me.

"Just back off," he whispered.

That's all it took.

The guys stepped back with their hands in the air.

"Hands on the wall," he said just a trace louder. "This is a citizen's arrest."

He wasn't blinking. Didn't look like he was breathing. He was so focused on what he was doing. What they were doing. When he gets mad like that, or protective of me, he sort of reminds me of a blond cobra. All hissing and poisonous. And you better not mess with him when he's like that.

They put their hands on the wall.

Then he walked over to me, all the while keeping his eyes on the Fab Four, and reached down to me.

I wasn't sure why. I knew he wouldn't hurt me. God knows how I knew that. He could have blown my head off with that big gun of his. For all I knew he could've been some psycho. But he had an easy way about him. Easy and dangerous at the same time.

I tried to raise my head to say something, to talk to him. I was still lying facedown but couldn't move my arms to get up. My body was just paralyzed with pain. That is hard to describe. You want to get up. You try. But nothing happens. So you just lay there and hope that the blond knight standing over you is friendly. I was at his feet, and at his mercy.

"Easy," he whispered, and touched my arm. "I'll be right back."

He pulled my handcuffs (we could carry baton, mace, cuffs, radios, the whole bit, except for a freakin' gun) from my back pocket, then his from his pocket, and walked over to the four men. They stared non-stop at the Magnum and gave no complaints while he cuffed them to each other, then led them out of the alley and cuffed them to the door handle of a car parked along the curb.

He yelled at somebody to get an ambulance, then he came back to me, laying his gun on the ground.

"Hey," I tried to say. I didn't really want to talk. I was just too scared not to. Afraid that if I stopped talking, I'd die. "Hey."

"Scum," he said gently but evenly as he knelt next to me and pressed his hand hard against my shoulder to stop the bleeding. That itself made me want to pass out from the pain.

"Damn," he said, and that told me I must have been bleeding pretty bad.

"Knife," I forced my voice in a gasp.

"Don't panic," he said quietly. "Think about your favorite place, and let your mind wander there."

I laughed a little. "Are you kid . . . " But it had to be better than the pain, so I thought about flying kites with my pop in the park when I was a kid, and how nice it was, and how those days seemed like a hundred hours long. Endless summer days with Pop.

"Starsky? Still with me?"

He knew my name.

I didn't know his.

I groaned a yes to him.

He knew I couldn't talk, but he still kept saying things to me, as if he knew I needed to hear a nice voice. I was really scared. I'd never been knifed before. I didn't know the pain would clamp all your muscles down to being useless.

He took his jacket off and laid it across my back to prevent me from going into shock.

But I was almost there and I think he knew it.

"How'd you get yourself into this kind of mess anyway?"

Me and Pop. In the park. Flying kites. It was very good. It didn't hurt so much there.

I felt his hands under my head, lifting, sliding his bunched-up shirt under my cheek.

"Ambulance will be here soon. Just hang on."

"Uh . . . " I wanted to say thank you. My God, he walked into this alley like the Lone Ranger . . . how? He just happened by? The right place at the right time? He could've walked on by like it was none of his concern. Even a police cadet would have avoided a confrontation that might have put him on probation or gotten himself kicked out. And he was waving that gun around like Dirty Harry. If the academy brass knew this . . . but he didn't seem to care that he could get into trouble over it. He was doing it to help me. Risking his place at the academy. "Gun," was all I could get out.

Thank God he had a gun.

Like he read my mind, he smiled and picked up the Magnum. "This old thing? I know. We aren't supposed to have one yet. But hell. I never go anywhere without my gun."

He pointed it in the direction of the car where the four thugs were cuffed. All four cringed and closed their eyes.

He smiled at them like a big kid and said, "Boo."

They all fell back against the car like they'd been shot.

I laughed even though I hurt like hell. And the laughing caused a coughing fit that hurt almost as bad as the knife.

His hand gripped my arm in concern, like his touch could make me stop coughing, or like he wanted to take it away from me.

"Hey . . . " I said with my weak voice. "I don't remember your name. What is it?"

"Hutchinson," he said calmly.

I tried to raise my head. I wanted to really look at him. No matter what happened-whether I went to the hospital or bled to death in the alley, or never got to be a cop at all, I wanted to see his face, know his name, and thank him from the bottom of my heart for saving my life.

"Hutch," I was finally able to say. "Hutch, listen. You didn't have to come in here and help me. They could kick you out for that gun of yours. And you knew that. So . . . and you saved my life, so . . . I want to say thanks."

I raised up on one shaky elbow (the good one, not the bad one) and saw a kindness in his eyes, totally different from that blue glacier look he gave The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse a few minutes ago.

We never discussed being friends or being partners. Just knew we would be. We're friends first, partners second. He'd die for me and I'd die for him.

A friendship made in heaven.

End

::::::::::

MEDICINE MAN

By TR

"Hutch, look at that. I bet they're doin' a movie or somethin'."

Hutch carried Starsky's lunch of hotdogs from the take-out window to the driver's side of the Torino. "Who?"

Starsky took the lunch and nodded toward a family of Gypsies, an elderly man, his adult daughter, and a small granddaughter, arrayed in beautiful clothing and lively jewelry as they made their way down the sidewalk. They were pushing a cart of fruits and vegetables across the street.

Hutch rolled his eyes. "Starsky, they're not doing a movie. They're real people."

"How do you know?"

"I don't know. I just know."

Starsky took a bite of his hotdog. "Go ask 'em."

"Go ask 'em? Yeah, I'm going to walk over there and say, 'Excuse me, but are you real Gypsies or are you doing a movie?' You go ask 'em."

The blaring horn and frightened gasps of some pedestrians made Hutch look around to

see the delivery truck bearing down on the Gypsies.

No time for a warning.

Hutch racing across the street, the Gypsies barely crossing to the safety of the sidewalk when their little girl tripped over an untied shoelace and sprawled into the path of the oncoming truck.

The old man, his weathered face as wrinkled as an autumn apple, started back for the little girl, but Hutch was already there, scooping her into his arms and plunging with her toward the sidewalk just as the truck driver slammed on his brakes.

The truck screeched to a halt, and for a moment the sound of the screaming tires mingled with the sound of the screaming mother as she ran to her child.

Traffic stopped.

Hutch's momentum propelled him through the glass door of a pawn shop, where he crashed through to the floor inside, landing on his side, the girl still coddled safely in his arms.

"My little girl! My little girl!"

The owners of the pawn shop, a Korean couple, started yelling and swearing about the damage to their shop.

"Calling the cops!" the woman threatened.

"An ambulance too!" a by-stander added as he poked his head through the open doorway where glass used to be.

The old Gypsy and Starsky reached Hutch and the little girl at the same time.

Blood.

Bright, red, and so much of it. Splashed across the countless dangerous pieces of glass on the floor. Running through the blond hair, turning it red. Soaking through his white shirt. Turning it red too.

The little girl was safe. Crying but safe.

"Gran!" she cried reaching for the old man. "The blood!"

But it was her mother who lifted the blond man's motionless, bleeding arm, from around her, freeing her daughter from its secure embrace.

"Emily!"

The girl was unscathed. Not a scratch. She clung to her mother's neck, who whisked her away shushing and petting from the sight of the blood.

"Don't cry, Emily. You're fine. Don't worry. The nice man saved you."

Numb, Starsky crouched in the glass and the blood, his hand a shaking spasm as it moved toward Hutch's still shoulder.

(If you were moving, or making a sound, I'd know there was a chance, but this silence isn't good, it's not right, you should be getting up, groaning, coughing, cussing, reaching for me, something, anything)

(too much blood)

(everywhere)

"Hutch?"

Starsky pressed the heel of his hand hard into the worst gash, the one in the side of his throat.

(fight, Hutch, why aren't you fighting?)

The Korean couple had stopped yelling and cursing and were now standing and staring with brooms in their hands.

"We called an ambulance," the woman said quietly.

Starsky stepped over Hutch and crouched in front of him so he could see his face.

And he was sorry he did.

He saw something-life, soul, spirit, light-leaving Hutch's glassy blue eyes.

He was too quiet.

"Hutch?"

Hutch made no move, no sound. His eyes gazed emptily. Starsky felt his pulse fading under his hand with each heartbeat.

"No," Starsky whispered. "Hutch, please. Stay here. Don't go."

One of Hutch's hands finally inched through the chips of glass.

Starsky squeezed the bloody hand tightly. "Feel that, Hutch? I'm here. Don't let go. Ambulance is

comin'. Keep breathin', okay? Don't stop breathin'. Take another breath for me."

But Starsky's words were only for himself. Hutch wasn't hearing them, and wasn't responding.

(Oh God, don't do this, Hutch, I can't handle this, it's too much)

Starsky slid his arm under the back of Hutch's neck and lifted him up into the crook of his arm.

"Don't pick him up," the Korean man advised.

But Starsky didn't hear him.

"Here I am," he whispered, and put his hand on Hutch's chest. "You don't have to do this alone, Hutch. I'm right here with you, okay? So don't be scared. I want you to stay here. But if you can't . . . if you can't . . .I understand, and I'll be okay."

(Liar, you liar)

(why don't you tell him the truth?)

(he knows you're lying, you know you're lying)

(I won't be okay, I'll never be okay, I'll always walk around with a hole in my heart that used to be you)

(but who'd say anything different?)

(what else are you supposed to say when your best friend is draining away?)

Hutch's eyes flickered a bit as they gazed upward at his partner's face.

No words.

No words.

Don't need words.

Starsky is here and everything is okay. He's helping me. Helping me leave. Helping me let go. Telling me it's all right to let go. Is that what best friends are for? To help you cross that chilly tide? Starsky always said he didn't want to be around when I go. He said he'd be too scared. Said he wouldn't know what to say.

Starsk, you don't have to say anything. Nothing at all. You're here. That's saying everything.

Starsky looked down at the faint flicker of light that brightened Hutch's eyes, and thought he saw a

faint smile there.

"It's okay," Starsky whispered to him. "Go on. I'm right here."

"A gift," the old Gypsy said.

Starsky was too distraught to wonder why the old man was still there, and why he had entered their private moment uninvited.

"You saved Emily," the old man said as he placed a gnarled, apple-old hand on Hutch's cheek. "For that I give you a gift." His eyes were tearful and sincere. "A gift."

And then the old man was gone, making room for the ambulance that Starsky was unaware of.

XXXXXX+2XXXXXX++

"I think he's going to be all right," one of the paramedics told Starsky in the back of the ambulance. "His pulse is stronger. He's breathing better."

(And he's not bleeding all over the place)

(You got the bleeding stopped)

(You forgot that part)

Starsky squeezed Hutch's hand. "Come on, Hutch."

(First you tell him to go, now you tell him to stay)

"If there's a chance . . . "

Hutch's eyes slowly blinked open, and they looked at him. Actually saw him this time.

Starsky's heart swelled with joy in his chest and it came out in a bright, tearful smile.

"Hey, buddy. You're back."

Hutch gave Starsky's hand a small squeeze. Made no attempt to talk, but that was all right. He was coming around.

(I love you, Hutch. I'm glad you're here)

Starsky laughed a little. "When you bust through a door, you bust through a door. Don't be surprised if those shopkeepers send you a bill."

Hutch squeezed his hand again.

Starsky squeezed back. "Little girl's fine. Her name's Emily. Forgot to ask 'em if they were doin' a movie, didn't you?"

This time Hutch smiled.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"He lost a lot of blood," Doctor Morgan, an older black man with a grandfatherly way about him, told the pacing Starsky in the waiting room.

(No kidding. It was all over him, all over the floor, and all over me)

"He had several hundred stitches all together. He'll have some terrible scarring to deal with, but it looks like he's going to make it."

Starsky nodded. "I heard you guys talking about him needing blood earlier. If he needs more, cops at the precinct'd be glad to-"

"Not necessary," Doctor Morgan told him. "He's coming along quite nicely."

"Coming along quite nicely? Doc, you don't know how much blood he lost. I was there. I saw it."

The kindly older gentleman patted his shoulder. "You were under duress. I'm sure it wasn't as bad as what it looked like." He started for the door. "I'm upping him from critical to stable. The hardest adjustment will be psychological. Scarring like his can do lasting damage to the psyche. You know. Self-image. Self-worth. That type of thing. Wouldn't hurt for him to see someone about that when the time comes."

Starsky nodded again.

"You can see him if you'd like," Doctor Morgan offered. "Room 330. He'll be here a couple of weeks." He glanced at Starsky's left hand. "And I think you should let one of the nurses take a look at your hand. I noticed your nasty cut earlier."

Starsky looked at cut on the palm of his hand. But it wasn't nasty anymore. It had closed together and was healing "quite nicely" as Doctor Morgan would put it.

"Uh . . . "

(But it shouldn't be healing THIS nicely. It was already a dry scab. It would be a week or more before the cut was healed THIS nicely)

"Yeah," Starsky answered absently as he gazed down at his palm.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky expected Hutch to be stitched, not bandaged from head to foot like a mummy. Two blue eyes twinkled at him between the white wrapping, his voice a weak whisper.

"Hey, Starsk."

Starsky walked to the bed. "Hey yourself."

(God, so alive. Fading one minute, talking to me the next. Life's so fragile. So strong) "You scared me, Hutch. I thought you were a goner."

Hutch reached for his hand. "You were with me, weren't you?"

Starsky squeezed his hand. "Where else would I be, the laundromat?"

"Thanks."

"Well, you're welcome. I guess."

Hutch's hand slid down his bandaged chest. "Guess I'm pretty cut up, huh?"

Starsky gave his hand a small squeeze again. "But you're gonna be okay. That's the main thing. You don't know how close you came to . . . "

"Yes," he whispered. "I do know. And you were there. It made a difference. I don't want to die alone."

Starsky put a hand across his bandaged forehead. "You won't have to. Not as long as I'm around."

"You . . . " Hutch paused as if to regain strength and breath. "Easy, Hutch. I think you're talkin' too much. Just rest."

"Mmm," Hutch murmured, and closed his eyes.

Starsky sat down in a chair next to the bed. Hutch was blinking at him groggily between the chrome hand railings.

"That's it," Starsky told him gently. "Just close your eyes and go to sleep. I'll be right here."

"You sleep too," Hutch told him.

Starsky settled back in the chair and put his feet up on the arm of another chair.

"Deal," he said resting his head back and closing his eyes. "I'll sleep if you sleep."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Captain Dobey and Huggy stood in Hutch's hospital room watching him sleep.

"My God," Dobey grumbled gruffly to Starsky. "Is that Hutch underneath all those bandages?"

Starsky sat up in the chair and rubbed his eyes. "He's lucky to be alive, Cap. He won't have an easy time adjusting, but he'll find a way to keep going ."

"Oh no," came Hutch's soft murmur in his sleep. "It's okay. You don't owe me anything. Just doing my job."

Starsky had to grin. "Modest to a fault, even in his dreams." He looked at Dobey. "I'm surprised he recalls that. I'd totally forgotten about it myself."

Dobey frowned. "Forgotten what?"

"The old man said he was gonna give Hutch a gift for saving his granddaughter's life. I don't know how Hutch heard that, or how he can even remember."

Hutch stirred as if to wake up, then he settled again and resumed his quiet breathing.

Huggy stepped closer to the bed.

"He's okay," Starsky whispered. "Just talkin' in his sleep."

Dobey looked at his watch. "Guess I'll get back to the precinct."

Starsky grinned. "Place falls apart without me and Hutch there, huh?"

"Don't flatter yourselves," Dobey grunted as he walked to the door. "Place falls apart without me there."

After Dobey left, Huggy fished around in his pants pocket for some change.

"I'm getting a cup of Java. Want one?"

Starsky stood up and pulled some coins from his own pocket, then handed it over. "Two," he said, and when the change tumbled from his hand and into Huggy's, he noticed that the scratch on his palm was gone.

No scab. No scar. No redness.

"Oh man," he mumbled tiredly as he held his hand up for a closer look. "I must be so sleep-deprived I'm hallucinatin'."

Huggy gave him a strange look. "What's your problem now?"

Starsky shook his head as if to clear it. "Uh . . . nothin', Hug. Forget it. Couple cups of coffee'll set me straight. I'll go with you. Change of scenery'll do me good."

But before he left, he took a magic marker from his pocket and wrote a message on the bandage of Hutch's left hand: Went for coffee. Back in a flash

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I said," Hutch was insisting to a nurse when Huggy and Starsky returned with three cups of coffee, "I want you to take my bandages off."

Hutch was sitting up and holding a mirror in his lap.

"But, Detective Hutchinson, there's plenty of time for-"

Hutch looked at Starsky when he entered the room. "Starsky? Will you talk to this woman?"

"Sorry, Hutch," he said as he set the coffee on the bedside table. "In this place the nurse is always right."

"Thank you," she said to Starsky as she left the room.

When the nurse was gone, Starsky looked at Hutch, who appeared to be extremely unhappy.

"Hutch, it's not good for you to be upset like this."

"I just want to see how bad I look. I know it's bad. I just want to see."

"You want to see hundreds of stitches?"

Hutch looked at him. "I want you and Huggy to leave me alone for a few minutes."

"So you can take your bandages off yourself? No way."

"Fine, Kreskin," Hutch said as he reached for the layers of white around his head. "I don't care if you see me. Go ahead and look. But I'm going to take these off."

Starsky grasped his wrist. "Hutch, wait. It's not time. Give yourself a couple of weeks to heal up. You'll look a hundred percent better by then."

Hutch twisted his wrist from Starsky's grip. "You can stay or go. But I'm going to see what I look like."

"Hutch, you should be resting. You shouldn't be up like-"

Hutch started pulling at the layers around his face, but Starsky held his hands up.

"Wait. Let me help."

Huggy stood shaking his head as Starsky pulled a pocketknife from his front pocket.

"Huggy," Starsky directed him. "Guard the door."

Huggy stepped outside the door, then closed it.

"Stubborn is what you are," Starsky muttered to Hutch as he carefully cut the bandages away from his face. "Ever think that thick skull of yours might need time to adjust to the shock of seeing yourself in a mirror?"

Hutch held the mirror in his lap but didn't look in it as Starsky unwound the bandages.

Hutch watched Starsky's face as more and more of the wrappings fell away from his face and neck.

Starsky stopped unwinding and could only stare.

Hutch closed his eyes. "It's bad, isn't it? I look like Frankenstein, don't I? I knew it."

"Uh . . . Hutch . . . "

Hutch didn't open his eyes.

"Hutch, I don't know how to say this, but . . . "

(He didn't need any extra blood, his heart got stronger, his lungs got stronger, he's sitting up, active, physically stronger, talking, arguing, he wants to see what he looks like, he wants to see how bad it is, but Hutch, if I tell you, how do I tell you this)

Starsky looked down at his left palm again. The one that should have had a cut but didn't.

And then looked back at Hutch's face. The face that should have been littered with cuts but wasn't.

The skin beneath the stitching was clear and smooth.

No cuts. No scars. No redness.

"Your face is okay."

"My . . ." Hutch growled through clenched teeth. "Don't lie me. This is hard enough as it is."

Starsky held the mirror up. "I wouldn't lie to you. Open your eyes."

Hutch opened his eyes and looked in the mirror.

"Oh my God," came his whisper. Then he looked at Starsky. "What is this? They stitch my face when it doesn't need it? Am I dreaming this? What is this?"

Starsky looked down at the handful of bandages, then back at Hutch's face. "Hutch, your face is cut . . . was cut . . . all over. And your neck. And your . . ." He cut the bandages along Hutch's stomach and arms. "Oh my God."

It looked the same as his face. Stitches but no cuts. The cuts were gone.

Hutch held his arms out and looked at them, then down at his chest and stomach.

"Hutch, how do you feel?"

"I feel . . . huh?"

"How do you feel?"

"I feel fine. Why?"

"That's the problem. You shouldn't feel fine. Last night you were almost dead. Today you're . . . better. Much better. Overnight."

Hutch threw the sheet aside. "Well, miracles do happen, I guess. I'm getting out of here."

Starsky pushed him back onto the pillow. "Over my dead body. You're staying here until the doctor says you can go."

"I'm fine, Starsky. Look at me. Do I look sick to you?"

Starsky looked down at his palm again. "It happened to me too."

Hutch frowned at him. "What happened to you too?"

"I cut myself on some glass when I was with you in the pawn shop. But now . . ." He showed Hutch his palm. "It's gone."

Hutch looked around the room as if to make sure it was a real room and not a dream.

"I don't get it, Starsky. Things like this just don't happen. I mean, sure, I guess I believe in miracles but-"

"Do you believe in healing?"

Hutch stared at him. "In what?"

"Healing."

"Yeah. People heal all the time. In hospitals. But we don't heal this fast." He ran a hand through his hair. "Do we? Do you believe in supernatural healing?"

"Well, I didn't until now. But how else can you explain it? I mean, some people know things are going to happen before they happen. Some people get stigmata on Good Friday. Medical recoveries happen all the time that you can't explain. So . . . "

"A gift," Hutch said quietly. "He gave me a gift."

Starsky considered it for a long time. "It fits, Hutch. The old man healed you. That was the gift. And . . ." He stopped talking because his eyes were drawn to his hand again. "It explains how you were healed. But . . . " And he looked at Hutch again. "It doesn't explain how I was."

XXXXXX+3XXXXXX++

Hutch picked up the loose bandages. "Here," he said trying to wind the bandages back on. "Help me. I don't want anyone to know."

Starsky helped wind the bandages around his head. "We need more. This ain't gonna work. How long do you think you can keep something like this a-"

Huggy's voice: "Sorry, Starsk. He insisted on coming in. It's his hospital, y'know."

Starsky and Hutch both looked up to see Doctor Morgan standing there, gaping at Hutch as if he were one of the Wonders of the World, his clipboard clattering to the floor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Doctor Morgan couldn't help but touch Hutch's face as he examined it. And his throat. And his arms, chest, stomach, legs.

Hutch sat impatiently and self-consciously on the examining table.

"I've never seen anything like this," Morgan breathed. "I've seen rapid healing, yes, but not this rapid."

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other, both silently agreeing to keep their mouths shut about the old Gypsy.

"Has anything like this ever happened to you before, Detective Hutchinson?"

"No."

"Have you experienced other miracles in your life?"

"Well," he said wryly, "LIFE itself is a miracle, isn't it? What are you talking about?."

"Forgive me. But this is so amazing. Don't you see? If we could find out what this is . . . WHY this is . . . I'd like for you to stay on at the hospital, Ken. I'd like to run some tests on you . . . EEG, MRI, CAT and PETscans. Do you mind?"

Hutch ogled at him. "Do I mind? Yes, I mind. I mind very much. I'm not some laboratory animal you can poke and prod."

He tossed aside the sheet and got out of bed. "It's a fluke, all right? An aberration. It won't happen again in a million years."

"Detective, I really think you should stay and let us . . . "

Hutch pulled the hospital gown off and reached for the clothes Starsky had brought him. "And let you do what? I'm well. There's no need for me to stay here."

"Ken, what if we find something that would help other people heal as rapidly as you?"

Hutch froze with one leg in his pants, the other out.

Starsky glared at the doctor. "Now wait. Don't go layin' a guilt trip on him. He didn't ask for this. He can't help it. Nobody says he belongs to the medical profession just because he was . . . God, I can't even say it. Healed? Then what? He'll belong to the world religions? And to-God help us-the philosophers? And the parapsychologists? And whatever other mindsuckers are out there-"

"I'll pay you," Morgan told Hutch. "The research department will compensate you. We have grant money for this sort of thing-"

"HE'S NOT FOR SALE!" Starsky roared at him.

Hutch held a hand up. "Starsky, I can fight for myself." He looked at Morgan. "I'm not for sale." He finished pulling on his pants and looked at Starsky. "Just think of all the publicity this hospital

would get, Starsk. Especially the research department. And are those dollar signs I see in Doctor Morgan's eyes?"

"I beg your pardon," the doctor objected. "I'm not thinking about the money. I'm thinking about the children."

"Children?" Hutch asked looking around. "I don't see any children."

"What if we found a chemical, or a gene, or even one cell, Detective Hutchinson, in your body, that we could extract, study, duplicate, grow, use to fight disease . . . wouldn't that be worth the few weeks you'd be inconvenienced by the tests? You think I'm interested in the money?"

The old doctor's eyes suddenly teared up and he looked away at a growth chart on the wall. "My daughter has bone cancer. She's a . . . WAS . . . a phys ed teacher. You think I wouldn't give you a million dollars right now to find out how your body did what it did so that I could possibly give it to her? Two million? Three? I'll sign a contract with you right now that I wouldn't earn a penny off this research." He looked back at Hutch. "You have the miracle of healing in your body and you want to hide it?"

The doctor turned and stormed out.

Leaving Hutch looking down at the floor.

Starsky put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't let him get to you, Hutch. Do what you want to do. It's your life. And, well . . . they could study you for two years, and who's to say they'd find anything at all? What that Gypsy did . . . would it show up anyway? Is that something you can find under a microscope? In your bloodstream? Inside your brain?"

Hutch raised his uncertain eyes. "But what if it could help somebody, Starsk?"

"And what if it couldn't?"

"What if he's right?"

"What if he's wrong?"

Hutch rubbed his face. "God, I don't know what to do."

"You don't have to do anything except go home and go back to work tomorrow and get on with your life."

Hutch reached for his shirt and pulled it on.

"Something tells me it isn't going to be that simple."

XXXXXX+4XXXXXX++

"We agree on one thing?" Hutch asked Starsky as he buttoned his shirt in the examining room.

"What's that?"

"We don't tell anybody about the Gypsy. If I get this much hassle over receiving this . . . this gift . . . how much would he get over giving it? Let the poor man have some peace, huh? We don't tell anyone where this comes from."

"Don't worry. Nobody's gonna believe it anyway. I'm not sure I believe it, and I was there. I heard him say it."

Hutch thought about it. "Think he knew what he was doing?"

"Oh, he knew. He was one grateful old dude, let me tell you." He smiled. "And so am I. So no matter what happens, Hutch, you're alive because of that old man, and we gotta be glad about that."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The news was all over the hospital. Hutch was trying to sign himself out at the front desk without notice, but it was too late. Doctors and nurses and patients were coming to catch a look at him. A few reporters were trickling in.

Hutch looked around at Doctor Morgan, throwing him an accusatory look. But the older physician stood with arms folded across his chest and offered no look or sign of apology.

Starsky gave the doctor the finger.

The reporters' questions:

"Detective Hutchinson, how do you feel?"

"Are you sure it's safe to leave the hospital?"

"Somebody said you were near death. How do you explain your miraculous healing?"

"Do you believe in God? Do you pray? Have you prayed for anyone else?"

"Can you explain it?"

"Is it a sign of the times?"

"How did you do this?"

"Can anyone do it?"

"What's the secret?"

"Where does this come from?"

"I'm sorry," Hutch said quietly as he walked past everyone and started for the front exit of the hospital. "I can't answer your questions."

Doctor Morgan followed them out.

"Detective, there's something you need to know."

Hutch kept on walking. Starsky pointed to the Torino across the parking lot. "There it is, Hutch. See it?"

Morgan took Hutch's arm. "Detective, this is very important."

Hutch pulled his arm free and kept going. "What's that, Doctor? Another play on my sympathy?"

"The arthritis in my knee is gone."

Hutch didn't slow. "Good for you. Why don't you study that in your research department and see what you come up-"

"And your nurse's diabetes is gone."

Hutch stopped and looked at him as if he were crazy. "Why are you telling me this? What does that have to do with me? You think there's a healing epidemic going on around here or something?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"You're the healer, Detective. You touched me. I've had arthritis in my knee since college football. Your nurse doesn't know how to explain her diabetes suddenly leaving. She's been praying a long time for this. She hasn't put it together yet, and I haven't told her. But it will get out. You can deny your own healing if you want to, but you can't deny mine. Or hers."

"You're nuts."

Hutch turned again and walked toward the Torino.

"You have a gift, Detective Hutchinson," Doctor Morgan called after him. "And I have a terminally

ill daughter."

When Hutch kept walking, the doctor, overcome with emotion, went back inside the hospital.

Hutch stood by the passenger door of the Torino, waiting for Starsky to unlock the driver's side door.

And although Starsky was standing by the driver's side door, unlocking it was the farthest thing from his mind. He was looking down at his palm.

"Hutch?"

Hutch looked across the top of the car at him. "Oh come on, Starsk. Not you too."

Starsky raised his eyes to his partner's. "What if it's real, Hutch?"

"Hey, if you're not going to unlock the door, give me the keys and I'll do it."

Starsky didn't move. "What if you're real?"

"What if I'm real? Am I a freaking ghost?"

"I mean, what if your healing is real? What if you can do it?"

Hutch came around the car and took his arm. "Want me to prove to you that I can't do what you and Morgan think I can do?"

"Hey," Starsky said angrily. "Don't lump me in with him. All I'm sayin' is that I had a cut on my hand, and I held your hand, and then my cut healed real fast. Quite nicely as Morgan likes to put it. That's all I'm sayin'."

Hutch led him back toward the hospital. "Come on. I'll prove to you how human I am."

"Hutch, come on. I didn't mean it like-"

"Yes, you did. But I'll show you. I'm a mere mortal like everybody else."

"Hutch, whatever this is, you don't have to prove nothin' to me. I don't care if you can heal or not. It'd be great, yeah. Who wouldn't want a gift like that? But if you do or don't, it doesn't matter to me. If you say you can't, you can't."

"No, Starsky, I'm going to prove it to you. You're the only one I need to prove it to. Everybody else can go take a hike."

Starsky looked at his partner's face as he was forcefully hustled toward the hospital's side entrance.

"Know what, Hutch?"

Hutch was busy hustling. "What."

"I think you need to prove it to yourself."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They crept like two cat burglars down the corridor of the cancer ward on the fifth floor, stopping when they came to a door which bore the name Beverly Morgan.

Starsky and Hutch looked in at the forty-year-old patient lying in the bed and thought she was probably the most pitiful sight they'd ever seen. Obviously in the advanced stages of cancer-death at her door, near-skeletal under a white sheet. Thin skin stretched over kindling bones, a skull too well-defined, her half-lidded, flat eyes, and mouth agape as a baby bird awaiting a bit of food or a drop of water.

They stepped into the room.

Hutch slowly approached the bed, looking as nervous as a little boy about to snatch from a cookie jar as he slowly reached his hand out to touch her cold bony foot.

XXXXXX+5XXXXXX++

The next morning Doctor Morgan was in his office and was just slipping on his white coat to make rounds when a knock came at his door.

"Yes?" he said opening it.

Hutch stood in his doorway looking sheepish.

"Uh . . . I came to apologize about your daughter. I uh . . . I'm sorry she's sick. I didn't mean to be insensitive last night."

Doctor Morgan smiled and shook his hand. "Quite understandable. Something out of the ordinary is happening here-"

A gaggle of voices outside in the hall interrupted them.

Hutch stepped aside to let Morgan out, and when he did, the physician saw a handful of doctors, nurses, and patients parading behind a vibrant, dancing female in a gaping hospital gown.

Morgan's eyes widened.

"Beverly!"

She ran to her father and nearly knocked him down with the force of her embrace.

"Dad!"

Her face was full, not thin, her eyes lively and laughing, not vague and distant.

"Oh my God," he whispered into her neck. "Oh dear God, Beverly. What happened?"

She pulled back and looked at him. "I'm not sure. A man . . . an angel . . . a human angel," she explained urgently. "In my room last night. He touched me. Dad, he touched me. It was like . . . I felt warmth traveling up by body. So sweet and warm. Like honey. And . . . "

She saw Hutch in the doorway and pointed, nearly screaming with joy.

"There he is! He's the one!"

Face radiant, she ran to him and clutched his shirt.

"Thank you! Thank God for you!"

Her voice dissolved into jabbers as she buried her face into his chest.

"I thought I saw you," she told him. "I wasn't sure who you were or what you were doing . . . "

Hutch looked around at all the people who had gathered to stare.

"Beverly Morgan?" he asked in a hushed voice, trying to see the dying skeleton he had touched last night, but that Beverly no longer existed.

"Thank you, baby doll! Bless you, honey!"

In her ecstasy she pulled Hutch halfway to the floor.

He tried to hold her. "Ma'am. . . "

He tried to pull her back up, tried to pull her talon-like grip from his clothes.

"Ken?" Doctor Morgan asked in a voice tinged with mild shock and disbelief.

Even though he'd wanted it, even though he'd asked-no, BEGGED-for it. His heart of hearts never expected it. He was a doctor, had arranged for his daughter to have every cancer treatment available, the best care possible, no matter how futile the gesture. He would have payed ten million dollars, if he'd had it, to see her well. To see her in remission. To give her six more months. Six

weeks. Six minutes. He'd have slit his own throat to give her life. But as hard as he'd prayed for a miracle, for time, for pain-free sleep, he never really REALLY expected it to happen. Saying it and believing it . . . and SEEING it . . . were three different things.

(Healing? Miracles? Biblical. The real thing. Not some phony TV holy clown like Calvin Rivers. Is this what it was like when Christ ministered and healed? God, to have been there. To have seen it. Like this. Like now. Who was this man? Why did he have this gift? So many questions.)

"Ken," Morgan struggled with his voice as he looked at the young blond man. "You touched her, didn't you?"

Hutch saw it in his eyes-something akin to worship-and he didn't like it.

"I . .. I touched her, yes, but . . . "

That set everyone abuzz. They were all walking toward him, smiling, oohing, and ahhing, wanting to talk to him, touch him, see him.

He tried harder to pull her hands from his shirt, so he could leave. He had to get out of here. He was beginning to feel light-headed and strange.

"Ma'am . . . "

She was dragging him to the floor with him, sobbing her thanks. "Bless you, baby. Bless you. How can I ever repay you? What can I give you? This is so wonderful. You gave me health. You gave me life. Oh, sweet Jesus, I can't believe it . . . " The rest of her sobs were unintelligible.

"Ma'am, please . . . "

The voices grew louder, the crowd, the patients, their hands-everyone's hands, reaching-

"Ken!"

"Touch me!"

"Help me!"

He stumbled back as they crowded in upon him.

Reporters spilling from the elevators, cameras and microphones and expressions of awe-no professional objectivity here. Shoving toward him.

"Detective!"

"Are you for real?"

"Did you heal this woman?"

"Do you work for Calvin Rivers?"

"Have you been on his TV show?"

"Are you a preacher?"

"Have you done this before?"

The crowd. Pleading, reaching, touching.

The patients. Begging.

"Please!"

"Heal me!"

"Touch me!"

"Help me!"

They crowded him against the wall. He looked around for help, holding his hands up as if to ward them off. Some of them were scratching him in their effort to grab him and hold on. Some didn't want to let go. He was pulled left and right, tugged this way and that, pushed so hard against the wall it almost knocked the breath from him.

It felt violent. Not unlike the time he'd been attacked with rocks, bricks, and bottles in the precinct parking garage one day. Except that these people didn't want to hurt him. They all wanted to adore him.

"How did you do it?"

"Was she really sick?"

"Is this a hoax?"

And then Starsky was there, tossing people left and right, grabbing his shirt collar and jerking him down the hall toward the elevator.

"Run!"

Hutch ran, glancing over his shoulder at the pursuing crowd.

"Don't look, Hutch! Run!"

They ran to the stairwell, threw the door open, and plummeted down the four flights of stairs as fast as they could.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky drove.

In the sudden tranquility of the Torino, Hutch found he could only look at his hands.

He was a frightful sight. His hair mussed, his shirt torn, scratches on his face. He was shaking.

"Hey," Starsky said as he reached over and smoothed down Hutch's hair. "It'll be okay."

But Hutch spoke as if he hadn't heard.

"What is this?" he whispered to his hands. "I don't understand."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was only a small gathering in front of Hutch's apartment when Starsky pulled the Torino up alongside the curb, but it was getting bigger by the moment.

"Want me to keep driving?" Starsky asked him. "I can find a hotel somewhere."

"No. They're not going to drive me away from my own home. This will blow over soon. And until it does I'm staying right here."

Starsky and Hutch got out of the car.

TV news vans lined the streets, reporters already interviewing neighbors. People milling around as if waiting for the guest of honor. Some snacking on chips, pizza, and soft drinks as if waiting for a drive-in movie to begin.

"Looks like a bloody garden party," Starsky grumbled as he and Hutch made their way through the reporters.

The voices rose:

"Look!"

"He's here!"

"Ken!"

"Mr. Hutchinson!"

"Is it true?

"Did she have cancer?"

"Is she in remission?"

"Do you take credit for the miracle?"

Hutch kept his head down as he passed through the crowd, who kept pushing toward him, crying now, reaching for him and calling his name.

"Detective!"

"Are you for real?"

"Can you help me?"

"Please touch me."

Sickness. Disease. Crutches. Wheelchairs. Pain. Suffering. Sorrow. All around. And more people coming.

Hutch shielded his eyes from their misery, their eyes too much to look at.

(If I look at you, we'll connect, and I'll want to help you, all of you, if this is real I would want to help every single one of you, and if I do, then you wouldn't leave me alone, because once I start, if I help one, I have to help all, and how can one man do that, how can one man choose between so many, you'll drain me dry)

"Help me, Ken!"

"You're a miracle!"

"An angel!"

"A healer!"

He could have been a movie star the way they mobbed him.

But there was no elation on his face. Only a shy uncertainty. And grim thought.

His expressive eyes conveyed this so easily through the television cameras. Childlike vulnerability.

Sincerity.

The viewing audience saw, not an attention-seeking showman, not a TV faith healer, but a young, troubled man trying to get inside his home away from the spotlight.

The reporters:

"Give us something, Detective."

"Jerk."

"Can you do it or not?"

"Phony."

"Like the others, huh?"

"The Pope calls you a mystery. He's non-committal until he meets with you. Are you going to see him?"

"Who are you to play God? You can heal and you choose to turn us away? Jesus didn't do that. He helped everybody. He had compassion. How can you be so selfish?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered with his head down, close to tears, but the sound was lost in all the voices.

Starsky did some pushing of his own, trying to clear a path to the door.

"Back off," he growled to the people, but for the most part they ignored him and he had to muscle his way through.

A news helicopter circled overhead.

Starsky looked up to see "LATV" in bold red letters on the underside of the chopper.

The crowd had their hands on Hutch again, pawing, tugging, stroking. His hair, his clothes, his body.

Bewildered, Hutch looked around.

"Starsky?"

"ENOUGH!" Starsky yelled as he fired his gun into the air.

The noise stopped.

"Press conference is over, people!"

Cameras still clicked and panned in the silence, and everyone waited.

For a word, a statement, a gesture, a confirmation, a denial, anything.

But none came.

Starsky took Hutch's arm and steered him toward the apartment. He had to, because Hutch's eyes were riveted to a young mother in a business suit cradling a baby in her arms.

Unlike the others, who were clawing and begging for a touch, she stood in poised despair, clutching her offspring to her bosom. And hadn't uttered a word.

Hutch's eyes fastened onto hers.

He started toward her but Starsky pulled him inside the apartment while he could.

XXXXXX+6XXXXXX++

The phone was ringing when they stepped into the apartment.

Starsky picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

He listened, eyes on Hutch.

"Sorry," Starsky told the caller. "He's not takin' any calls." And hung up.

The phone immediately rang again. Starsky disconnected the line.

"Oh yeah," Hutch said as he paced the floor, his hands still shaking so badly that he was sloshing the glass of whiskey Starsky had given him. "What a gift. What a gift, huh? Where is that old man? I've got to find him and make him take it back."

Starsky looked out the window at the ever-growing crowd. "We'll never find him. How do you find a Gypsy? And what if he can't take it back?"

Hutch set the glass on the kitchen table. "He has to. I can't live like this. I've only had this . . . THING . . . one day. And look what it's doing. Wreaking havoc in my otherwise simple life. I mean, I'm a cop for God's sake. I never asked for this. Why didn't he give it to somebody who'd really appreciate it? Like Mother Teresa, or Billy Graham, or the Pope, or, God help me . . . even Calvin Rivers? What am I supposed to do now? What am I supposed to do with it? Why didn't the old man

ask me, Starsk?"

When Starsky didn't answer, Hutch looked at him.

"Huh, Starsk? Why didn't he ask me if I wanted this . . . so-called gift?"

"Well . . . if he'da asked me . . . I'd have said yes. 'cause. . . " He glanced away briefly. "It kept you from dyin' on me. And it kept you from bein' cut to pieces . . . " He was still looking away. "It's not a bad thing, Hutch. It's a good thing. You just have to find a way to . . . "

"To what? Use it? Open a healing clinic? Sick people lining up for miles and miles to see me? And where does God fit into all of this? Maybe He's a little ticked that I'm moving in on His territory. Have you thought of that? Maybe people are supposed to be sick in this world. That's the way it's always been. Maybe we're not supposed to mess with the scheme of things. Maybe what the Gypsy gave me is a curse and not a blessing."

Starsky was saying more in his silence than Hutch wanted to hear.

"Okay, Starsk. Say what's on your mind."

Starsky offered a small shrug. "I just think . . . things happen for a reason. I'm not so sure it's a fluke anymore. If you can do it . . . how many people can do that, Hutch? Yeah, it's scary, sure. But it's real. And how many times have I seen you risk your life for other people? For me? Just to keep them safe and well? How many times have you wished you could help some little kid with a broken arm, or some woman who'd just been pulverized by her husband? Or somebody that got hurt in a car crash? Or had a disability? How many times have I seen you reach out to hurting people?"

Hutch looked at him. "About as many times as you have. I'm not special. I'm not different. Nobody wants to see suffering. Who wouldn't want to help people?"

"Then why are you complaining? You can do what everybody dreams of doing. You have what everybody wants. The Gypsy, or God, or whoever gave this to you . . . placed it in good hands. Not in Mother Teresa's. Not in the Pope's. Not in Calvin Rivers'."

"Starsky, they act like I'm . . . like . . . "

He trailed off, because Starsky had turned the TV on, and the afternoon soap operas had been interrupted by an "unconfirmed story" of a young detective with the ability to heal.

Starsky flipped through the channels.

"Wow. You must be big if you knocked the soaps off the air."

"That's not funny."

"Yes, it is."

Different slants on the same story.

Snatches of interviews and conversations:

"A fake. Out to deceive everyone and make a mint."

"A miracle worker."

"End-time prophet."

"Anti-christ foretold in Revelation. Lying signs and wonders. Seeks to glorify himself and Satan."

Click, click, click.

Interview after interview:

"Have you seen him?"

"He's so cute."

"I saw him."

"I touched him."

"My diabetes is gone."

"My arthritis disappeared."

"He healed my terminally ill daughter."

"I volunteer in the hospital. I picked up his towel, and now, no more high blood pressure."

"The end is near."

"He's a sign."

"A burst of psychic energy."

"Even the devil can appear as an angel of light."

Many words passed many lips:

"Saint."

"Lunatic."

"Good."

"Fraud."

"Evil."

"Cult leader."

"Wolf in sheep's clothing."

"Satan worshipper."

"Messiah."

Hutch threw his glass across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

"MESSIAH?!"

Starsky switched the TV off.

Hutch sank onto the sofa and leaned forward with his hands in his hair, his eyes on the floor, rocking back and forth, trying to think.

"God," he whispered. "I wish Dad were here."

Hutch was silent for so long that Starsky wondered if he'd fallen asleep.

"Hutch?"

"I don't have to use it, Starsky. Just because I can do it . . . it doesn't mean I have to."

"I don't know that you have much choice, Hutch. You don't have to touch people for it to work. They touch you. It's in you. You are what all those phonies try to be."

"But . . . " He shook his head no. "I don't want it. Don't they get it? I don't want it." He stood up and started to pace. "Maybe it'll go away. Maybe tomorrow it'll be gone."

Hutch sighed and looked out the window and down at the crowd. "How long are those people going to be here?"

"How long would you wait for a miracle?" Starsky asked as he looked out the window too. "Hey, look. Dobey and some uniforms are here. They're gonna escort you out."

The sound of scuffling footsteps on the stairs as people came up, their voices getting louder as they got closer to the door.

"Ken!" came the pleadings and poundings at the door. "We need you! Please help us!"

Voices escalating from pleas to angry sounds as the uniformed officers were forcibly removing them away from his door.

"Move along now!"

"Give him a break!"

"You can't do this to us!"

"He's in there!"

Hutch shook his head. "God, I don't believe this."

One voice, Dobey's, was unmistakable as it boomed above the others: "Starsky! Hutch! Get your tails out here while you can!"

Starsky took Hutch's shirtsleeve. "Come on. Safest place will be the precinct."

"Oh yeah? He'll have to put me behind bars to keep people from getting to me."

Starsky pulled him toward the door. "That's not such a bad idea."

"I can leave the country."

"Oh yeah? Where you gonna go where they won't recognize you?"

"I'll get cosmetic surgery to change my looks."

"That won't change what's inside you. It'd be only a matter of time before people figured out it was you. Then you'd have to go through this all over again. And again. And again."

Hutch started to counter that too, but knew it would be a waste of energy.

Starsky was right.

Like it or not, the gift was inescapable.

What would he have to do for privacy, for a life of his own? Live like a hermit rock star behind security gates? Being escorted by bodyguards everywhere he went? And what about his job? How

would he work now without jeopardizing every case in some way? And what about a social life?

And what about those poor, sick people? How many?

Starsky was right about that too. They would always be here. Always be looking for him. Always wanting him.

What was he supposed to do?

"I have to help her," he mumbled as Starsky moved him out the door and into the ring of safety provided by Dobey and a few uniformed officers. "I have to help her baby."

XXXXXX+7XXXXXX++

More uniformed officers herded the crowd back to create some room as Hutch emerged from his apartment.

He nudged through the pack an inch at a time.

Microphones bobbed around his face. Hands-male, female, ringed, gloved, manicured, clean, dirty-touched and handled him, his hair, his face, his arms, his back, his shoulders, straining through whatever gaps the uniformed barrier allowed.

"Ken!"

"Here!"

"Detective Hutchinson!"

"Over here!"

"Touch me!"

Hutch looked around for the young mother (God, why are you looking for her? Don't you know this will start an avalanche?) (Yes, but you're also a human being, and if you DIDN'T have this ability, you'd still do what you could to help her if she asked you, even if it were only to hear her out, hold her hand, refer her to a specialist, a priest, a pastor, a Rabbi) (And she's asking you now that you CAN do something about it) (What's the difference?) (So what are you going to do, Hutchinson? How can you walk away?) (What if somebody like you had walked away from Starsky when he was full of Bellamy's poison in the twenty-fourth hour?) (What if you hadn't found the antidote and Starsky's time was up?) (How would you feel if a healer turned his back on you after you'd asked him to help Starsky?) with the newborn, and spotted her.

"Wait," he said to the officers as he stepped over to her.

The crowd grew still as it watched him walk over to the woman.

The hush was soft and swollen with anticipation, their eyes devouring every move he made.

"Can I hold him?" Hutch asked the mother.

The mother gulped her thanks and placed the baby in his arms.

"His heart," she whispered, her business eyes puffy from countless sleepless nights, and having the same shade of blue under them that tinged her ill infant's lips.

The cameras zoomed in on Hutch's quiet, sensitive face as he parted the blue blanket and looked down at the baby.

"What's his name?"

"Perry. He doesn't look like an eleven-month-old, does he?"

Hutch noted that the sleeping baby was frail, and tiny for his age. No rosy cheeks, no bright eyes or cute giggles, only the sallow old-man look in his eyes.

"The doctors say he wouldn't survive a transplant."

Hutch was unaware that he was gently bouncing the baby, but the TV cameras weren't. The lenses caught his every move. The compassion on his face, how he seemed to listen with his eyes as though the mother were the only person in the crowd that mattered.

All eyes were on him. The crowd held its collective breath. They were hoping for the baby.

"I can't promise anything," he told her as he carefully handed the baby back.

She nodded. "I understand. At least . . . you came back. You tried."

Hutch looked around at the people.

"Give me time," he told them quietly. "I need time to figure this out."

And it seemed to work.

The crowd, almost as a single entity, backed up and quieted down, giving him room to move and breathe.

(They know)

(They know this is boggling my mind)

(For once, they're putting themselves in my place)

"Detective Hutchinson," came a reporter's tentative voice across the stillness. "Will you sit down with LATV for an interview?"

A deep voice thundered behind them-

"MEDICINE MAN!"

- making Hutch look around.

Hutch turned to see Calvin Rivers, the forceful, energetic TV faith healer, a thatch of black hair in his fierce black eyes, a sheen of sweat on his ruddy cheeks.

On a good day he looked as intimidating as a prize fighter.

On this day he was menacing.

He muscled through the people like a football player, his hair disheveled, tie askance, looking to be in the throes of one of his hellfire sermons.

"CHARLATAN!"

Cameras zoomed in to pick up on Rivers' crazed expression.

"WICKED!"

The uniformed officers pulled their weapons out but Hutch motioned at them.

"I'll handle this," he told them.

Starsky looked at his partner, who nodded reassurance.

"I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, KENNETH HUTCHINSON! FRAUD! UNDERMINING MY MINISTRY WITH YOUR SMOKE AND MIRROR SHOW! I'LL EXPOSE YOU FOR THE SNAKE YOU ARE!"

"Mr. Rivers, I assure you, I'm just as confused about this as-"

"HEALER? YOU CAN'T HEAL."

The crowd murmured their distaste and disapproval.

To the crowd, quieter: "You think this . . . this PUNK is your hero? A healer?"

The reporters and cameramen were foaming with glee. They couldn't get better footage if they'd staged it.

Rivers jerked a hunting knife from his pocket and flicked it open.

The crowd gasped in fear and backed up, while the uniformed officers raised their guns to the man.

Starsky raised his arm, aiming his gun at Rivers' head. "Hutch, just say the word."

"Let him talk," Hutch said. "Let his 'followers' see who he really-"

"SILENCE!"

Rivers gave the knife a vicious swipe at the air, his eyes sweeping the crowd, but settling on Hutch again.

"Talk?" Rivers seethed with hot breath. "We'll talk. We'll talk about healing and what a fake you are, what a DEMON you must be to have such a power, and how God is so DISPLEASED with what you're doing, and how He told me that the anti-christ must be destroyed. But I'm not worried about you." He took one step closer, and Hutch took one step back. "You know why?"

Another menacing step.

"I don't think you can heal."

Another swipe in the air.

"You think you can? Nobody can heal. I can't even do that."

More mumblings from the crowd.

Hutch put his hand out.

"Mr. Rivers, put the knife down. You-"

"Heal this," the TV faith healer hissed as he dug the serrated edge across one of his own wrists, and then the other. "Heal THIS!"

Blood fountained from his wrists and sprayed toward the crowd, which recoiled in fear and disgust.

Rivers danced obscenely around in front of the crowd, the knife clinking to the street.

"Heal this, you mother-" His voice garbled into noises as he flailed his arms around like a rotund

ballet dancer-"Can't do it!"-screeching and violently shaking his head. "Can't do it, can you?" Eyes wild, possessed. "Can't heal me, can you, Medicine Man, CAN'T DO IT AT ALL!"

He sank to his knees and babbled as if speaking in tongues, holding his wrists out to the crowd as if pleading with them.

"He can't do it," the man sobbed to the people as he rocked and swayed on his haunches. "I told you. I told you he couldn't do it. Nobody can."

Shrugging off the hands of the uniformed cops, Hutch stepped forward and gripped Rivers' wrists in his hands. Not for a show. Not necessarily to heal. Only to stop the bleeding. Out of habit. Instinct. What he would do for anyone else in the same situation.

Rivers was still prattling crazily.

"Call an ambulance!" Hutch shouted with urgency as he squeezed pressure to the man's bloody wrists.

The cameras were, of course, angling in for a better shot.

"Devil!" Rivers wailed as he wrenched his wrists away from Hutch's hands. "Take your hands off me! You can't heal! It's not real . . . it's . . . it's . . . " He trailed off, looking down at his wrists, where the bleeding had already stopped and the gashes had closed and were beginning to heal over.

The sight of his mending wrists sent him into another chorus of senseless jabbering, and he sat there rocking and speaking in tongues until the ambulance came.

The ambulance had a difficult time moving through the crowd until the sea of people parted to let it through.

"Get him out of here," Dobey said approaching the paramedics. "Take him to a psychiatric hospital."

"Which one?" one of the paramedics asked him.

"I don't care which one. Just get him out of here."

The paramedics nodded and drove away with Calvin Rivers in the back.

The crowd, who had mobbed Hutch earlier, was now in mute awe of the young detective, who stood with his bloody hands held out from his sides in the middle of the street.

Dobey stared at him.

Even Starsky stared at him.

Hutch had just healed a man on national TV, before the eyes of the world.

And the young businesswoman was now rushing forward, crying uncontrollably, carrying a cooing, bright-eyed baby on her hip who was feeling so frisky he was trying to get down from his mother's arms.

Hutch saw this and took a stumbling step backward, and would have fallen if Starsky hadn't grabbed his arm.

"You okay, Hutch?" he asked in a distant voice himself.

Dazed, Hutch shook his head no.

"Get me out of here, Starsk," he whispered. "Get me out of here."

XXXXXX+8XXXXXX++

Hutch sat numbly in Dobey's office while the captain and Starsky spoke in low tones in the corner.

Dobey: "Can he do it or not?"

Starsky: "Oh, he can do it all right."

Dobey: "Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

Starsky looked at his partner. "Can I tell him?"

Hutch nodded without looking at him.

Starsky looked back at the captain. "Remember the old gypsy?"

Dobey nodded. "What about him?"

Starsky shrugged. "Well . . . it's him. He did it. He gave it to Hutch."

"Gave what to Hutch?"

"You know. The gift. Of healing people."

Dobey looked at Hutch. "Is that true?"

"Would we make it up?"

"I don't know. Would you?"

Hutch jumped to his feet. "Why would I? You think I like this? You think I understand anymore than you do what's going on with me?"

Starsky held his hand out. "Easy, Hutch. Huggy's workin' on findin' the old guy, see if we can get some answers. I told him the little girl's name is Emily. He's fishin' around."

"I want it gone," Hutch said running his hand through his hair. He stepped over to the window and looked down at yet another crowd that had gathered. "I want it to disappear. This isn't normal. It's not right."

"Well, it's a good-"

Hutch held his hand up. "No, Starsky. It's not such a good thing. It looks good on the outside, yeah, but underneath?" He looked at Dobey, then back at Starsky. "I just don't know." He looked out the window and down at the throng again.

"You're the biggest thing since Jesus but-"

Hutch stared at him. "I can't believe you just said that."

"Why not? It's true."

Hutch started for the door and threw an icy look at Starsky. "I thought you were with me in this."

Starsky watched him leave. "Hey, I didn't mean-"

Hutch went out and slammed the door.

When he was gone, Starsky looked at Dobey. "What'd I say?"

Hutch slammed back into the office. "Who am I kidding? I can't leave. They'll mob me. You leave."

Starsky stared at him. "Me leave? You're the one that's mad. You leave."

Hutch folded his arms across his chest and sighed. Glancing away briefly: "Sorry for what I said."

"Hey," Starsky smiled. "You got a lot on your mind, God."

The phone rang and Dobey answered it. "Dobey here."

Hutch looked at Starsky, half-glowering, half-smiling, not sure he heard correctly. "What'd you just call me?"

"I said you got a lot on your mind, Doc."

Dobey spoke into the receiver. "Huggy, what'd you find out?"

The captain listened for a moment, then handed the receiver to Starsky.

Starsky put the phone to his ear and listened, Hutch watching his face. The sound of the crowd outside was getting louder. Hutch looked out to see uniformed officers moving the people back from the police station. Traffic was blocked, and insistent car horns were honking. The street was filling steadily. Some were trying to make their way inside the building, but made it no farther than the front door.

"If they get rowdier," Hutch said worriedly, "so will the cops. I don't want people-most of them sick already- hurt on my account."

"Hutch, they chose to be here. If they don't back off it's hard telling what will happen."

Starsky put the phone down and started for the door. "Huggy's got the old gypsy at his place. He'll keep him till I get there."

"What did Huggy do," Dobey asked gruffly, "kidnap him?"

Hutch followed his partner to the door. "Wait for me."

"No," Starsky said stopping in the doorway. "Safest place for you is right here. I'll talk to the old dude and get back to you."

"Starsky-"

Starsky stood firm. "You think Calvin Rivers is the only nut out there?" Gently: "I insist." He patted Hutch on the arm. "I know what to ask the old man. Be right back."

"Be careful."

"Will do."

Hutch watched him leave.

"Here," Dobey said pouring the blond detective a cup of coffee. "Relax. Hopefully the gypsy can take it back as easily as he gave it."

Hutch was about to close the door when a pretty young reporter he recognized from LATV approached him.

"Detective Hutchinson?"

He was as enchanted to meet the dark-haired girl as she was to meet him. "Val Williams?" he asked

as he clasped her hand.

She couldn't help but look at his hand as it held hers, as if she would see the secret on it, or feel it in his touch.

"Uh . . . " He smiled softly, for a moment forgetting that she was there because of his newfound talent. Forgetting the crowd outside. The events of the last day or so. "I see you on TV all the time. You're one of my favorites. And my partner reads your celebrity column every day."

She smiled at his shy flattery and would swear he was blushing slightly.

"How did you get past the watchdogs?" he asked her.

"I was already here doing a story on the domestic violence unit. So when the story broke . . . and I heard this was your precinct . . . I sort of blended in the background. Took notes, did some collateral interviews. Background information. This must be . . . " She shook her dark head. "I don't know. Overwhelming to you?"

"You have no idea."

She smiled. "I don't suppose you'd care to sit down with me for an interview? I know it's the last thing you want. I know you're trying to sort this out and you don't understand it all. . . none of us do. . . but it might help keep some of the crowds down. The oglers anyway. Dilute some of the mystery."

He laughed, and realized it was for the first time since this all started. "I wish I could SOLVE some of the mystery."

"So, what's it gonna be, Detective Hutchinson? Will you give me a TV interview?"

"Well, since it's you, and since I've seen your interviews and like your style-"

"Hutch," Dobey said from inside his office. "Telephone."

Hutch spoke over his shoulder: "Who is it?"

"He says he's an old Bluebird acquaintance."

"An old . . . " He looked at Val Williams and saw her cameraman approaching behind her. "Let me take this call first." He pointed to the squad room desk he and his partner shared. "Have a seat and I'll be right with you."

She nodded, and she and her cameraman went to the desk as he had instructed.

Hutch went into Dobey's office and took the receiver from him.

"Hello?"

"Ah, my young defender," a hearty voice answered him. "It's good to know you're in one piece."

"Who is this? Can I help you?"

"You helped me once. I'd like to return the favor, if you'll allow me."

Sudden recognition: "Frank Leone?"

"I didn't properly thank you for saving my life that fateful night, Detective Hutchinson. I owe you."

"Mr. Leone, as I explained to you back at the restaurant, I was just doing my job."

"I realize that. And I also realize you've been indisposed by the media AND your . . . fans. And being a busy, private man myself, I know how you must feel without even a home to go to. I certainly won't allow you to reside in one of your own jail cells."

Although Hutch knew the man could have anyone in the country killed with a single phone call, there was something a bit paternal . . . something that reminded him a bit of his father . . . in his voice. "I would be honored, young man, if you would allow me to open one of my homes to you."

"Mr. Leone, that is too much to-"

"Nonsense. It is small change compared to what you did for me at the Bluebird. I have three homes in the area, so it would not inconvenience me at all. My homes have security gates, monitors, alarms, seclusion. Things you need right now. There is a car or two in the garage. You'll have the house to yourself. Time to collect yourself. No one will know you're there unless you tell them."

"Mr. Leone, we both know your reputation . . . but then again, I do need a place to lay my head."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes. I just need to give an interview before I leave." He pulled a notepad across the desk and drew a pen from Dobey's pencil cup. "Give me your address."

"Very good. I'll have a car pick you up at the police station in two hours."

Hutch hung up and handed Dobey the address of Frank Leone. "Give this to Starsky when he gets back. Tell him to meet me there."

XXXXXX+9XXXXXX++

Starsky almost didn't make it to the patrol car he had to borrow from a fellow officer.

The crowds were beginning to focus as much on him as they did on Hutch, asking him to put in a good word with "The Healer", giving him handkerchiefs for his partner to touch so they could be returned, saturated with the gift.

And what could Starsky say? How could he say no?

If a bona fide healer had been around when Hutch had been suffering with the plague, Starsky knew he'd be the first in line for help. He'd have kidnapped the guy if necessary.

Starsky tried to pocket the handkerchiefs as he made his way to the black and white, but there were too many.

An elderly woman emptied her large paper shopping bag and helped him put the handkerchiefs- hundreds of them-cotton, silk, lace, wrinkled, clean, dirty, striped, plaid, paisley, plain-into it.

It was stuffed to overflowing.

"I'll see what I can do," he said kindly, and put the bag of handkerchiefs in the passenger seat beside him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"It's a wonderful gift and all," Starsky told the gypsy as the three of them-Starsky, the old man, and Huggy-sat at the kitchen table in Huggy's upstairs apartment. "But he just wants you to take it back."

The old man's eyes were lively yet secretive, as if they had seen and delighted in many peculiar things. "I use the gift sparingly, secretly. I keep to myself. Mostly with my family. The gypsy life affords me the luxury of anonymity. I admit . . . passing the gift on to your friend was somewhat impulsive . . . perhaps rude . . . but better to save his life than to lose it, yes?"

Starsky nodded. "Yes."

"I certainly didn't mean him any harm. I only wanted to save his life."

"I know. Don't apologize for that. He's grateful . . . I'M grateful . . . that you saved him. But you must've known what it would do to his life if he-"

"Nuh nuh, my young friend. You're assuming I gave him the gift to heal others. I didn't. I only expected it to heal HIM. I have healed a few people in my two hundred years, but none of them have gone on to heal anyone else."

Starsky stared at him. "Two . . ."

He rose from the table and smiled down at Starsky. "I will try to take the gift back, young man. I don't know if or when it will leave him, but I will try."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky caught part of Hutch's interview over the car radio on his way to the police station:

"-and I don't know what it means, or what this means for me and my life now, but I want people to know . . . I don't mean to sound selfish and keep this away from them. I just need to understand it, try to think about it . . . "

"What does it feel like to heal someone, Detective?"

A long pause.

"Well, honestly, I've been so wrapped in all this, I haven't really thought about it. It's a shock, you know? And strange. But I guess it's a good feeling."

"You don't want to heal people?"

"Well, the way you worded your question . . . of course I want to see people heal. Who doesn't? But do I want to be the one? No, not really. I am-or was-pretty content with my life the way it was."

"But now that you ARE the one . . . "

Another long silence. "I don't know. I still want it to go away."

"What if it doesn't?"

"Well . . . "

"What if it's here to stay, Detective?"

"Well . . . "

"You'll help people, won't you?"

"Don't worry, Doc," Starsky told the radio. "I'm workin' on that."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Wicked," came the hissing whisper.

From his bed at Hillcrest Hall, a private, expensive psychiatric hospital, a restrained Calvin Rivers was watching the interview on a TV mounted on the wall:

"Detective Hutchinson," Val Williams asked Hutch as they sat in the privacy of an interrogation room, "what do you think it means?"

She was enamored with her interviewee, but tried hard not to show it. The interview of a lifetime, and it was hers.

Hutch's blue eyes portrayed awe, confusion, and humility. "I wish I knew. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. Maybe it just happened."

Incensed, Rivers wrestled with his restraints.

"Anti-christ!" he shouted at the TV. "That's what it means! God won't allow it! Wicked! Wicked! Wicked!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Val Williams smiled at Hutch in the interrogation room. "The whole world is after you, Ken. The religions want to use you to promote God. The medical field wants to study you. The media wants to feature you. The people want you to help them. Bigger than a celebrity. You have something for everyone. And as humble as you may be, I don't have to tell you that you can write your own ticket from here on out. Your career as a policeman is over. You could live off the interviews alone for the rest of your life. Books, movies, TV, donations from those you help . . . "

"No," Hutch said shaking his head. "I wouldn't take any money for this."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The staff at Hillcrest Hall didn't notice Rivers' raving voice, nor his thrashing. He was in his room and his ramblings blended in with all the other rantings in the hospital.

Nor did they notice that the robust reverend had snapped his restraints and was now capering toward the laundry room to shed his hospital gown in favor of a white T-shirt, white pants, and a white jacket.

He startled when the door was opened by a nurse carrying a box of medical supplies.

"Reverend Rivers, what in the world-"

Rivers delivered a powerful karate chop to the back of the woman's neck-a trick he'd honed in Vietnam.

The nurse dropped as heavily as a bag of laundry.

"Oh yes," Rivers whispered to himself as he crouched and removed her keyring from her belt, then

scooped supplies-pills, liquids, vials, syringes, needles, ampoules-into the large pockets of his white coat. "I will help God destroy that false christ. That imposter. That wicked charlatan. God is on my side and I will not fail."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The interview was over and Hutch had left for Leone's estate by the time Starsky nudged the black and white through the packed crowds in front of the police station.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"How'd you get him out of here?" Starsky asked Dobey in his office.

"Put him in a prison uniform, handcuffed him, threw a coat over his head, and escorted him down to Leone's limousine personally. Nobody was the wiser."

"Hope you gave him the key to the cuffs."

Dobey chuckled. "I did." He handed Starsky a slip of paper. "There's the address. He said for you to meet him there."

"I will," he said putting the address in his pocket. "But I gotta go home and shower and get some clothes first." Starsky started for the door. "Hey, did you hear Hutch on the radio?"

"Radio? I saw him on TV. People went nuts."

Starsky grinned. "At this point he could recite the alphabet and they'd go nuts." He winked at Dobey. "Well, guess I'll be back to work when things quiet down. Till then . . .

just have to slum around Leone's mansion I s'ppose. Try out his pool. Check out the fridge. See if he left a Playboy bunny or two in the rec room." He sighed with exaggerated fatigue. "Bein' a celebrity has its drawbacks."

The captain threw a paper wad at him. "Get out of here."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Inside the white limousine, Hutch sat in the back seat, hidden by tinted windows.

"Wow," the driver said into the rearview mirror as he watched Hutch unlocking the handcuffs and stripping off the red prison coveralls. "This stuff is far out. They're on you like a rock star. You know, my cousin is a daytime soap star. His fans follow him around, but nothing like this. Hey . . . " He reached in his breast pocket for a pen. "Can I have your autograph? Right here on my cuff?"

Hutch stared from the driver to the pen as he smoothed his hair down and settled back against the seat. "What?"

"Hey, dude, you are very large. The world at your feet. Fame, respect. Another Elvis. No, way bigger than Elvis. Elvis can't heal anybody. You got something PRICELESS to give people. Don't fight it, man. Make it work for you, 'cause you got it whether you want it or not. Publicity and attention? Can't help it. Comes with the territory. But you got to get a handle on it, baby. You got to control it, like Leone. Or it controls you. Get yourself a couple good bodyguards. Leone goes wherever he wants to. No hassle."

"You think I want sick people pushed around by a bunch of bodyguards?"

"Hey, you ever read the Bible, man? Jesus had crowds followin' him around just like this. His disciples tried to screen 'em, keep some of 'em out. He couldn't go anywhere without somebody wantin' somehin'. Not that you could blame 'em, though. I mean, if you had the Son of God in your town, wouldn't you go see him?"

"I wish people would stop comparing me to Jesus Christ."

"Well, the comparison is easy to make, friend. You forget Calvin Rivers? What if some other fanatic like him comes after you? Religious men tried to kill Jesus all the time. Finally did too. When it was His time. But He finally had to cast off on a boat to get some time to Himself." He grinned. "Sorta what you're doin', ain't it?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"CALVIN RIVERS ESCAPED?" Dobey bellowed into the telephone. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE ESCAPED?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Frank Leone, remote control in hand, came down the stone walk to meet Hutch and the driver at the front gate.

"Ah, my young Detective friend," Leone beamed as the black, wrought-iron gate slid open. He extended his hand. "So good to see you again."

Hutch shook his hand. "I appreciate your kindness."

"Where is your partner?"

"On his way. Stopped for some clothes."

Leone took his arm and walked him inside the gate, which slid closed with a click of the remote. "Saw your interview today. I say the 60 Minutes crowd are gnawing their tongues with envy about now." He gestured toward the razor wire looping the top of the gate. "Secure enough? No photographers will be climbing over that. We have security cameras. You can see your visitors on

monitors inside the house. The gate is controlled by this remote, inside or outside. You should feel quiet safe."

Hutch surveyed the tall trees lining the stone walk, the five-acre lawn, the unique combination waterfall/goldfish pond to his right, where reflections of the gold fish were shimmering through the water. The stone walk led through a rose garden that had been landscaped into a tunnel through which they passed, and then led to the rear stone patio with sliding glass doors.

The pool was marble. A sauna, hot-tub, and exercise room were to the left.

The house itself was a white, three-story Southern-style mansion with columns, trellises, and balconies.

"Beautiful," Hutch admired as he looked around. "Even though I know how you got this place."

Leone didn't appear offended. "I expected you to say something like that, Kenneth. That's why I respect you. You're honest." He smiled. "If anyone else had said it . . . but then, 'anyone else' didn't protect me from a bullet in my favorite restaurant, did they? You could have warned me that night with a phone call. But you did more. You became personally involved and were prepared to go to any lengths to prevent my murder. I have men under me-family-that wouldn't do that for me."

Hutch had to laugh a little. "You ever read that story about the mouse that pulls the thorn from the lion's paw?"

Leone's brow creased. "Excuse me?"

"Forget it."

"I'll be going now. The house is yours for as long as you need it. My driver, Johnny, will be in the guest house if you need anything or can't find something. He's a good bodyguard. You can borrow him for a while if you want. If not, he won't be under foot. Likes to watch TV." Leone handed him two sets of car keys. "My toys are in the garage. Make sure your partner puts them away when he's finished playing with them."

XXXXXX+10XXXXXX++

Starsky emerged from the shower and toweled off, then quickly dressed in fresh jeans and a new white shirt, whistling happily as he pulled on red socks and his sneakers.

"On my way," he said as he slid his wallet into his hip pocket.

He took one step from the bathroom and into the barrel of his own gun.

Rivers' hands were bloody where he'd climbed the razor wire at Hillcrest Hall.

Before Starsky could move or speak, Calvin Rivers put the gun to his chest and backed him against the wall where he could go no farther.

"Now," the man seethed, his greasy black hair hanging in his wild, out-of-this-world eyes. "I'm going to ask you one time to tell me where the up and coming anti-christ is so he can be destroyed. And if you don't tell me, I'm going to kill you."

Starsky looked into his eyes and saw no room.

"I won't tell you where he is," he whispered, and realized his legs were trembling.

The reverend looked down at Starsky's trembling legs, then back up at his face.

"Well, I guess there's only one thing left to do," he said, and pulled the trigger.

The blast echoed as far as the bathroom tiles.

Rivers watched as Starsky slowly slid down the wall to a sitting position, leaving a smear of blood behind him on his way down, his head dropping forward to his chest, hands lying lifeless in his lap.

The reverend waited to make sure he was dead, and when a faint sound came from the dying detective, he leaned over to listen, hoping for an address, but all he heard was one whisper-"Hutch"- and Rivers shot him a second time. And a third. And a fourth. And the fifth time he put the gun in his own mouth.

And even after the fourth bullet Starsky was moving, his hand reaching for someone that wasn't there, mouthing the name of the truest friend he had in the whole world, dying for the one person who would die for him.

XXXXXX+11XXXXXX++

Dobey was putting on his overcoat and getting to leave his office when the phone rang.

"Yes?" he asked as he lifted the receiver. "Talk fast because I'm on my way out the door."

"It's me, Cap."

"What is it, Hutchinson?"

"Could you stop by Starsky's on your way home and tell him to get his behind over here? I tried calling, but I just know he's ignoring it because of the press. I'd go check on him myself, but you know how it is when you're a superstar healer."

"No," Dobey said sarcastically. "I don't know how it is."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Doctor Fairchild?" Val Williams asked as she followed the hospital director across the parking lot to the main entrance of the building. "How did Calvin Rivers escape? Wasn't he under maximum security? How did he get off the grounds?"

"He broke his restraints, Miss Williams. And stole a nurse's keys. And then he climbed over the razor wire. You want to tell your audience something? Tell them Calvin Rivers is on the loose and he's on a mission from God."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch was reaching for the phone in Leone's kitchen when it rang.

"Starsk?" he panted as he put the receiver to his ear. "I've been waiting all day. Is everything-"

"It's me," Dobey said quietly. "I'm at Starsky's. You need to get over here."

Hutch gripped the phone hard. "Cap, what is it? What hap-"

"Just get over here, Hutch."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"STARSKY!"

Hutch burst through Starsky's front door and looked around. "Starsk?" he asked as he quickly crossed the living room.

And then he saw Dobey, crouching next to . . . and blood on the wall. And blood on the floor. And Calvin Rivers. The back of his head blown away.

And Starsky.

Sprawled on his back, blood all over his chest and stomach.

"Oh my God," Hutch whispered, and ran to him, crouching on one knee beside him, grabbing him under the arms and pulling him to a sitting position. "Starsk?"

Starsky's head drooped to one side.

Dobey pressed a closed fist to his mustache. "Too late, Hutch."

Hutch's voice came out in a squeak. "Starsky? What happened?"

"He's gone," Dobey told him. "I've called the coroner. Let him go."

Hutch shook his head no and slid both arms around his partner, rocking him a little. "No way. He's not gone. He'll be okay. Just get the ambulance here. Or . . . or . . . "

Dobey's hand squeezed his shoulder. "Lay him down."

Hutch shook his head no and sobbed into Starsky's neck. "He's cold, Cap. Get a blanket for him, okay? He's cold."

Dobey placed his other hand on Starsky's shoulder. "Let me have him."

"I can't. If I let go . . . "

"I know. He'll be gone. But you have to."

"No, I don't," he said in a trembling whisper. "Sshh. It's okay, Starsk. I'm right here."

"For God's sake," Dobey growled. "You're just making it harder on yourself."

"Where's the ambulance, Cap?" Hutch asked. "Huh? He needs an ambulance."

Hutch's voice dissolved into wretched sobs. "Please, Starsk. Don't do this. Please."

"Put him down, Hutch. You know he's-"

Starsky groaned into Hutch's shoulder.

Hutch stopped rocking him. "Starsk?"

Starsky groaned again, and stirred weakly in Hutch's arms.

Hutch felt Starsky's heart beating against his chest, and there was a small gasp as he took a breath.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked without releasing his hold on his partner. He felt Starsky's body temperature warming, degree by degree, felt the barest movement of muscle, the slightest expansion of his chest, the smallest of breaths against his neck. Imperceptible to the eye, but not to Hutch's body. "Oh my God." His eyes slid to Dobey's. "He's . . . is he . . ?" Gently and carefully Hutch pushed Starsky back to hold him at arms' length, eyes scanning up and down.

Starsky made a tiny sound with his head down, his voice a faint breath.

"Hutch?"

Dobey passed a hand over his face. "Dear God."

Blinking lazily, Starsky forced his eyes open and raised his head. "Hey, Hutch."

Sniffing, eyes big and round, Hutch stared at his partner, a smile crossing his face. "Starsk?"

Dobey sat down hard on the floor and put his head in his hands.

"You okay?" Hutch asked his partner as he poked and prodded at his chest and stomach, searching the wounds that were already closed and healing.

Four bullets were on the floor behind him, but only Dobey saw those. Hutch was too busy examining the person in front of him to see them.

Starsky blinked at him and held a weak grip on his shirtsleeves. "Where am I?"

he asked hoarsely as he looked around.

Hutch pulled him to his feet. "Are you alive?"

Starsky looked down at Rivers, then down at his own chest and stomach, passing a hand over his red, sticky, blood-stained shirt, then looked at Hutch again.

"Am I dead?" he asked with glassy eyes, looking very drunk or high.

He tried to step away from him but Hutch wasn't about to let him go.

"Starsk, it's okay. It's me. You're okay."

"What did you do to me?"

"Do? I didn't do anything to you. He-he shot you. I-"

Starsky yanked free and stumbled away, mumbling and tripping over the body of Calvin Rivers. "Don't touch me."

Hutch caught him and held him up. "Starsk, I didn't know it would happen. I thought you were dead. I thought-"

"No," he said pulling away from his hand. "Let go of me."

Hutch wouldn't let go. "Starsky, you're all right." Looking at Dobey: "Thirty minutes, Cap. That's all it was."

Starsky stepped sideways and reached for the ground as if he'd found a good place to take a nap.

"Thirty," he murmured. "So tired. Cold. Gonna be sick."

Hutch helped him into the bathroom, where he retched into the commode.

"Better?" Hutch asked him as he wiped his face with a towel and walked him back into the living room, and past Dobey, who was still sitting in the floor.

"Cap?" Hutch asked reaching down to him. "Need a hand?"

Dobey was only able to shake his head no as he gave Hutch's hand a wary look and climbed to his feet on his own.

Starsky stood groggily in the middle of the floor. "What the hell happened?" he muttered.

Hutch took his light tan leather jacket off and put it around his partner, then helped him to the front door. "You know where we'll be, Cap."

Dobey's eyes followed them. "I've got to call Rivers' suicide in. What am I supposed to tell people, Hutchinson?"

Hutch looked at Starsky, then back at the captain. "The truth. He shot Starsky four times, then himself. Beyond that, I don't think you have to tell people anything. The rest is between us."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I don't want to be dead," Starsky mumbled as Hutch helped him to the passenger side of Leone's Rolls Royce. "I'm not dead, am I? What'd you do to me, Hutch? I was dead, wasn't I? Huh?"

Starsky was becoming more distraught, not fully alert, as though waking from a nightmare.

Hutch slid under the wheel, started the engine, then pulled away from the curb.

Starsky leaned against the door, turning his head away from his partner.

Hutch felt his forehead. "You have a fever."

Starsky knocked his hand away. "Not anymore."

"I'm trying to help you, Starsky. What's wrong with you?"

"Oh, nothin'. I was just a little bit dead, that's all."

"Starsk-"

"Only thirty minutes. Not long, granted. But dead is dead, right? Thirty minutes, thirty days, thirty years. What makes the difference?"

"Starsky!"

"But not dead anymore. Thanks to the medicine man."

"And you're complaining that you're alive?"

"It's not natural."

"No kidding."

"I feel dirty, Hutch. Wrong."

"YOU THINK I KNEW THAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN?"

"DON'T YELL AT ME, OKAY? IT'S NOT MY FAULT!"

Hutch gripped the steering wheel and made himself calm down. "Starsky, if you feel dirty or wrong, that's too bad. But, you know something? You're alive, and I'm not going to feel bad about that. You've been given another chance. And I . . . " He looked out the windshield, suddenly overcome. "I lost you. You don't know what that feels like." He hit the steering wheel. "You do NOT know what that feels like!"

As equally angry as Hutch but lacking the stamina to express it, Starsky ripped his blood-stained shirt off and flung it to the floorboard. "It's disgusting. I'm a freak. Lazarus. Look at me. I feel pretty good to have been shot four-" He recoiled in a violent shudder from the memory and clutched Hutch's jacket in a crushing hug. "Oh God," he choked. "Hutch-" He closed his eyes and sobbed into the jacket. "Four times."

Hutch put his hand on Starsky's shoulder. "Don't worry, buddy. I'm keeping my hand right here until I'm sure you're okay. You talked to the gypsy, right? I don't know how long this thing will last, so I want to make sure you're okay before he takes it away."

"He killed me," Starsky's muffled voice sounded into the jacket. His eyes were still shut and his body tensed into itself. "I died."

Hutch's voice was nearly a whisper. "I know, buddy. It's okay. You're okay now. That's what matters. You're still here."

(Too much, this is too much, this isn't good, this isn't God, it can't be God, it has to be evil, the evilest thing in the world, to bring someone back to life, to take something out of God's hands, oh King of Kings and Lord of Lords, I am very sorry, please forgive me, I'm thankful he's alive, but please forgive me for stepping on your toes)

Starsky closed his eyes and was drifting off to sleep with his head against the passenger window,

holding Hutch's jacket to his chest like a security blanket. "Old man said he didn't know if he can take it back," he murmured tiredly. "From the looks of things, I don't think he can."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky lay clean and sleeping in the bed while Hutch, worried more about his partner's emotional well-being than his physical, lounged in a nearby chair to keep a drowsy eye on him.

(It's not natural, Hutch)

(No kidding)

(I feel wrong. Dirty)

(So do I, Starsk. So do I. But not because you're alive, because THAT, my friend, IS a gift, and I thank God you're still with me)

(But because I can do it)

(Why me?)

(It shouldn't be me)

"Now," Starsky's quiet mumble came while he slept. "I'm going to ask you one time to tell me where the up and coming anti-christ is so he can be destroyed. And if you don't tell me, I'm going to kill you."

Hutch leaned forward in the chair, listening, his heart breaking with pain and love.

"I won't tell you where he is," Starsky murmured.

Hutch found himself on one knee next to the bed, staring at him.

"Then," Starsky finished, "I guess there's only one thing left to do."

He jerked as if being shot. Once, twice. Three times. Four times.

Hutch lowered his head.

(It was over me. Rivers killed him because of me. He died protecting me)

"Thank you, God," he whispered. "For this friend. For giving him back to me."

Hutch was silent a moment, then continued.

"God, this healing thing . . . if it's from You, I'll use it. If that's what You want. But if it's not, then please . . . take it away. I don't know who else to go to with this. I need a sign. Something. I need to know."

Still clasping Hutch's jacket to his chest, Starsky stirred, mumbled something, and then quieted again.

Hutch waited until he was settled, then moved back into the chair to get some rest.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(STARSKY!)

(Too late, Hutch. He's gone)

(No)

(It was Rivers, Hutch. He was after you)

(Don't tell me that)

(He was after you but Starsky wouldn't tell him where you were)

(I need to see him)

(You don't want to go in there, Hutch)

(But he did. He did go in there, and the sickly sweet smell of the flowers assaulted him, and that horrible music that was supposed to soothe, and that horrible hush in the room, and those chairs, where you sit, and you look, and you cry, and you try to say goodbye)

(don't look, Hutchinson)

(don't cry)

(don't say goodbye)

(closer

(closer now)

(his feet taking him where he doesn't want to go)

(across the whispery carpet, past the whispery mourners, the syrupy flowers, up to the casket polished and waxed to an incredible sheen, to make it acceptable, more bearable, all right, like pretty furniture)

(don't walk up there, Hutchinson)

(you don't want to see him)

(not like this)

(because it's not acceptable, it's not bearable, and it's not all right)

(he's never like this)

(not this quiet, not this still, not this gone, not this final)

(looking, but not seeing him)

(not seeing the brand new suit, not seeing every hair in place, more like a department store mannequin than a person, not seeing the eternal stillness of his face, not seeing his eyes forever closed)

(turning and walking, turning and walking, turning and walking away)

(away from the casket, away from Starsky)

(it's not him, he's not there, he's somewhere else, in my heart, in my soul, in my memories, but not in that too-quilted, too-satin, too-plush, too-polished, too-small box)

(STARSKY!)

(he's gone, Hutch)

(STARSKY, COME HERE!)

(let him go, Hutch)

(I can't)

(I'll never let him go)

(not for as long as I live)

(he-)

A sound.

A sound nudging through his dream, trying to wake him up.

What was it?

"Oh my God."

Hutch was out of the chair, one knee on the edge of the bed, grabbing Starsky's shoulders.

"Starsky!"

Starsky was white and gasping for breath, his eyes fixed in a half-lidded daze. Blood everywhere. Soaking through his shirt and the tan jacket and the white sheet that covered him. Hutch jerked the sheet back and pulled his shirt up, stumbling backward when he saw that the four bullet wounds had opened again, appearing fresh.

It was then that he realized with fascinated horror that the gift of healing had been removed.

Revoked. Recalled.

"Oh God," Hutch sobbed as he fumbled for the bedside phone. "Oh my God."

He kept one hand on Starsky's chest while he dialed with the other.

"Please, God. Please help him. Please save him."

Starsky's breaths came far apart, and when they did come, they were in tiny gasps.

"AMBULANCE!" Hutch screamed into the receiver.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Word leaked of Hutch being at the hospital, and while he paced in the waiting room, people gathered outside in the hallway.

Hospital security did their best to keep the crowds out, but they couldn't keep everyone out.

Dobey watched Hutch pace.

"Hutch, you're going to have to calm down. The doctors are working on him."

"Calm down?" Hutch asked as he picked up the telephone and dialed Information. "Yes, Operator. Get me LATV." He paced and looked at Dobey, then spoke into the receiver. "Val Williams please."

He waited. Dobey watched curiously, not sure what was on his detective's mind.

Into the receiver: "You want another story, Val? How about 'Healer Loses All Power'? How about

'Everyone Can Leave Him Alone Now'?"

He paused, listening.

"How do I know it's gone? Because I'm here at the hospital with my partner who's dying from four bullet wounds. Didn't work this time, Val. All gone. Excitement's over. Superstar's just taken a major nose-dive. You tell them that. You tell them that that DEVIL Calvin Rivers killed him because of my WONDERFUL GIFT! That he's dead because of ME!"

Dobey took the receiver from him and hung up.

Hutch went to a corner bookcase and yanked out one book after another, heaving each against the wall.

"Gone!"

SLAM!

"All gone!"

SLAM!

"No more healing!"

SLAM!

"No more Starsky!"

SLAM!

"Thanks to me!"

"Hutch-"

Hutch stormed from the waiting room and into the midst of the crowd, who looked astonished by his outburst.

"All gone!" he shouted to them, half-laughing, half-crying as he stalked in circles in front of them. "All gone now!"

He went to the crowd and grabbed somebody by the shoulders.

"All gone," he said as he moved to the next person. "See? I can't do it."

On to the next person.

"Want me to touch you?"

On to the next.

"Won't work."

On to the next.

"It left. Gone. You'll have to go home now. There's nothing here."

He held his hands up for them to see.

"See? No more magic, people. Can't do it anymore."

If a TV camera had been on him, the viewing audience would have likened it to the tirade had by Calvin Rivers.

The crowd was hushed and staring except for a little girl who was crying and holding a doll tightly to her.

That seemed to reel him in.

He knelt in front of her and tenderly took her shoulders. "Whatever it is you want, honey, I can't give it to you. You'll have to look somewhere else."

Hutch rose to his feet and walked a few steps away, turning away from all the people who had pinned their hopes on him.

"Do you think my partner would be in there fighting for his life if I could still heal?"

He leaned his shoulder against the wall and was very quiet.

The crowd slowly began to disperse, the people murmuring confusion and disappointment to one another, some crying.

Only one stayed behind.

"Detective Hutchinson?"

Hutch heard the solitary voice and looked over his shoulder.

The young businesswoman whose baby had been healed. She held her healthy child on her hip. "When I heard about your friend . . . I had to come. I wondered if. . . I can't heal of course, but I'd

like to pray for him. You were so kind to me and Perry." She touched his back. "Do you mind?"

He turned, releasing pent-up anxiety in a long, heavy sigh. "No, I don't mind. I've been doing some pretty heavy praying myself."

She took his arm. "Let's go to the chapel."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch, the young woman, and her baby sat together on the front pew of the chapel. They were looking at some photographs of her family she had in her purse.

"And this one's of Perry on Easter Sunday. We dressed him up in a brand new outfit."

Perry reached for the photo and jabbered happily at it.

But Hutch didn't seem to be paying much attention, and the woman knew it.

She finally took his hand and squeezed.

He didn't even notice the door opening and Doctor Morgan's head poking in. She had to nudge him to draw his attention to it.

"Ken?" the older physician said quietly. "He's out of surgery and in ICU now. Doing quite nicely. You can see him for a few minutes if you want to."

Hutch stood up. "If I want to?" he smiled. "Well, I was going to change the oil in my car, but since I'm here, might as well."

Morgan shook his head. "Everybody's a comedian."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch gingerly moved between the machines that were keeping his partner alive and squeezed his hand.

"Hey, buddy. You're looking better than the last time I saw you."

Starsky blinked groggily from anesthesia and tried to keep his eyes open.

"You're going to be okay," Hutch told him quietly. "Guess I don't have to tell you I can't heal anymore. Looks like you'll have to recover the old fashioned way."

Starsky tried to whisper something and Hutch bent his head down to hear.

"What's that, Lazarus? I mean . . . Starsk?"

Starsky's words were mouthed rather than spoken, but Hutch thought he understood what he was saying.

"Worst part is, you didn't get to drive Leone's car?"

Starsky gave a weak smile in response.

Hutch smiled back and ruffled his hair. "Morgan's right. Everybody's a comedian."

End