Boys in Blue and Azure

by Zebra 3 and Me

Dramatic, sometimes dark, sometimes light stories.

BOYS IN BLUE and AZURE

By TLR

Stories-

1. Death Camp-A What If story set in 1943.

2. Cap-S&H are there for their captain.

3. Father Figure-The partners help a baby.

4. Kiko's Choice (Running Missing Scene).

5. Revisited (Death Camp II)-S&H protect a Jewish professor.

6. To Honor and Cherish-The partners battle a different kind of enemy.

7. Thanks II-Another Thanksgiving.

8. The Winter Inn Murders-H's birthday present has a dark history.

9. To Honor and Cherish (Blue Christmas)-Without Hutch.

10. The Accident II—(Based on the "Blindfold" episode)-S&H help a blind girl find independence.

11. Collandra-H turns to a psychic for help. Based on The Psychic episode.

12. Boo-A Halloween story for the young at heart.

:::

DEATH CAMP

By TLR

+S+

Poland, 1943:

"Raus! Raus!"

They spoke German, but I understood what they were saying-"Out! Out!"-because the German border, and the German life, was so physically close to us, that we knew some of the language.

Living in a small Polish town was all it took for me to be ripped from my sleeping bed like a common criminal.

That, plus being a Jew. Most of all, being a Jew.

"Schnell! Schnell!"

(Fast! Fast!)

They didn't ask me my name. They already knew it.

I kept a gun under my pillow because there'd been talk-rumors-for the past few years now-that

this would happen here. That the Nazis would invade even our little town, little shops, and schools.

I should have been ready for this when I saw the first "No Jews" sign on the door of my favorite dance hall. I'd been too stubborn to mind the sign. I walked in, and was quickly tossed out. It was the law of the land. If you were a Jew and weren't welcome, they could push you around and people looked the other way.

I went to the authorities. They looked the other way too.

But when all you hear are half-truths, exaggerations, gossip, you get caught up in that opiate syndrome of "It can't happen to us."

But it did.

Hitler ruled. He had more power than the leader of his country. His furor trickled down through the ranks, and ended up on our doorsteps and in our bedrooms.

"Nein!"

The end of a rifle cracked across my face and that was the end of my idea for getting my pistol. I saw stars in front of my eyes when they pulled me out of the bed. I couldn't stand up, so they pushed me toward my bedroom door, through it, across the living room, and outside.

I let my guard down. Didn't get out of my town, my country, and I was paying for it.

Too stubborn I guess.

But mostly I was paying for having Jewish blood in my veins.

I wasn't the only one to be forced from my home. We all were. And the soldiers weren't satisfied with just rounding us up. They had to crash and loot everything too. All the shops. Our homes. Windows smashed, belongings stolen or destroyed. Burned as if being sterilized. The homes left standing were marked with a Star of David. My coin collection, my stamp collection.

"To the train!" was their order over and over. "To the train!"

I looked around, not sure if I were awake or still dreaming. Neighbors who I'd never even seen in nightclothes before were herded nude onto cattle cars like, well, like so much cattle- some having been stripped by some of the soldiers.

I at least had on a work shirt and some dungarees. I'd been driving my truck, making deliveries all day, and when I got home I was so tired I couldn't even eat, let alone change out of my clothes.

No dignity. Ladies trying to cover up. Little ones crying. The men yelling and cursing and being beaten for it. Trying to protect their families. Some ran, and were shot on the spot.

This created more panic and fear. Total silence and obedience seized everyone. Except me. I tried to fight some of the soldiers. Not that I could win unarmed. But to show them that they weren't going to take me with my hands raised.

The Nazi soldiers, in their crisp uniforms and high polished boots, had their rifles in my face, but I still put up a fight, for me and the people in my town. I was willing to die right then and there for my freedom, and stand against what they were doing to us as individuals, and as a people.

Some of the soldiers were on horseback rounding us up, corralling us toward the long train.

So many bodies in our streets. Too many. Accidentally stepping on them. People I knew. Shop owners, druggists, teachers, factory workers.

Shot, stabbed through with bayonets, trampled.

"Nazi pig!" I yelled at one who was dragging a little boy through a mud puddle. The kid was screaming, crying for his mother. "Let the ladies and little ones go!"

"They are not ladies! They are not children! Jew whores! Jew sperm!"

He spat.

I spat back.

Smashed in the face again by the elbow of another soldier.

"Schweinhundjude!"

(Jew pig!)

Two grabbed my arms and pushed me onto a cattle car. I stood crowded against the wall, trying to stay conscious, trying to figure out what to do, how to get away.

A young lady was shivering beside me, her arms folded against her breasts to hide her nakedness.

Her name was Ruthie, and she was a dark-haired beauty.

"You're hurt, David. Your face is bleeding."

I delivered milk to her and her mother. I'd seen her hanging clothes on a clothesline out in the backyard, I'd seen her tending to her small flower garden, but I'd never seen her standing so shameful and frightened.

"Here," I said as I took my shirt off and wrapped it around her. The shirttails were long enough to

cover her thighs halfway.

"A dress," she smiled at me, and gave me a thank you kiss on the cheek.

My numb cheek didn't feel it. I felt myself sliding down, but more people were crowded into the train car, their bodies pushing against me and holding me up even when I couldn't stand.

"Ready! Ready!" the soldiers were saying, and I heard the loud clanging and chugging of the train as it started up, the bursts of steam, felt it all lurch forward, heard the frightened sounds of my friends and neighbors-"Where are we going? What are they doing?"

"CAN'T!" I found strength to yell at the top of my lungs. My head was splitting and it was hard to breathe in all the crushing bodies, but I didn't care. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO US! WE'RE HUMAN BE-"

And then the sounds of their crying and moaning faded out like the end of a song as I finally lost consciousness.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

I never saw Ruthie again. Talk in town said she had a female lover. And, lesbians, I later learned, were on Hitler's list of the unfit. Along with the handicapped, the mentally retarded, and the chronically or terminally ill. His solution to the unfit: Euthanasia, he called it.

And Jews. Don't forget Jews. We were, for some unfathomable reason, a threat to his power, out to take over the world. A little people who didn't even have a homeland to call our own anymore.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

I came to, just as they were stopping the train, and heard bits of talk:

"Processed."

"Deportations."

"Invasions."

"Raids."

"Fires."

"Bombs."

"SS."

"Bloodshed."

"Massacre."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Concentration camps. Labor camps. Political prisoners. Surrounded by electrified barbed wire, armed guards, attack dogs, observation towers.

Auschwitz.

The very young and the very old and the very sick were already dead and didn't even know it.

The rest of us-their workforce-we stood in rows like recruits at basic training as they looked us over, felt our muscles, checked our teeth, talked about us but not to us, like we were livestock.

One man with pneumonia, a mechanic in our town, who would have been, I was sure, useful to them because of his skill, was escorted away by two men with guns.

"Krank!" I called after them, using a German word so they'd understand that he was only sick, not dying, and could be healthy again. "What did he do? He didn't do anything. He's sick!"

They took him behind a building, and then we heard a gunshot.

I watched in a daze as bodies around me were being stripped.

They motioned for me to strip, but I just stood there.

"Now!" a soldier barked at me.

They were running out of patience for me. I saw two looking at each other, deciding whether to keep me or kill me.

When I just stood there glaring at the one who had yelled at me (I don't know how menacing I looked with my face all banged up, but I hoped I at least looked stubborn), he raised the rifle and pointed it right in my face.

He looked like an angelic but deadly school boy. With sea-blue eyes that were clear and direct. A clean profile. A little aloof. A little haughty. But at the same time, innocent. Youthful but fierce. A blond glow.

Hitler's perfect specimen.

I swallowed hard and kept my head up.

(Do it. I dare you)

"Relax," an older man-(but not too old-old in a camp was about thirty-five)-told me. "It's just labor. We'll give them their free labor, then we'll go home in a few weeks."

Freedom.

That's what I wanted.

My old life back.

The life I'd taken for granted.

I wanted to take it for granted again. I wanted to be sleeping in my own bed, wearing what I wanted to wear, going where I wanted to go without a rifle in my face.

So I took off my clothes, my eyes drilling into the soldier's.

I'd show no shame or disgrace.

I'd hold out for as long as I could, till I could get home again.

They were the animals, not me.

Once we were standing naked, they came around to shave our heads.

"To prevent lice," they explained.

"I don't have li-"

"Everyone must be disinfected."

But my hair was already closely-cut, so the soldier whose rifle was in my face said to skip over me, and they went on to the men whose hair was longer than mine.

Skipping over me was also a way to mark The Troublemaker: The one with the hair.

As we stood there, we were issued wooden shoes, and a striped uniform with a yellow star on the chest.

"Why stripes?" I asked the man next to me.

He shrugged. "I guess we're prisoners."

His shrug. So easy. So carefree. We had no idea what this place was. None of us did. Forced labor

was all we'd heard.

Along with our clothes, we were given a bowl, a cup, and a spoon.

"Hold onto it," we were told. "If you don't have it in your possession, you will not eat. It's the only one you will get."

I never doubted it for a second.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

The camp guards removed the weak and sick.

Our barracks were crowded. Three or four to a bed. Sometimes six. No blankets. And it was cold out. Some of the men would get sick and die. Some would be shot when they became too sick to work.

For the first time in my life, I thanked God for my health.

We were forced to work in factories, cut stones, lay bricks, shovel coal, and did other hard labor.

They wouldn't let me work in the weapons factory, even though there was no danger of me getting my hands on any ammunition.

Wonder why?

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

My job duties changed, I guess, because of what I did one cold morning.

The guard, Hitler's master specimen, was just minding his business, sitting alone on a wagon out behind the barracks and cleaning his weapon, but wasn't as alert as he should have been. His blond head was bent studiously over his task, whistling a little, his high black boots gleaming, his uniform pressed and perfect.

I saw the looks on the faces of my fellow-prisoners: (A sitting duck. Easy prey. Even if we die, we should make a stand, take one of their lives for the thousands, maybe millions, of ours. Balance the scales. Release some outrage)

So they carried their big stones over to where he sat with his gun all apart, and at first he looked up like he expected them to ask permission for something, and then he looked like he knew he was in trouble, and his frantic hands were trying to piece his disassembled rifle back together. Realizing he'd been too careless, his hand reached for the Luger at his side.

But he was too late, too slow, and my Jewish friends attacked him like a pack of wild barbarians

with their blunt stones, pounding, cursing, spitting, crying.

I wanted to look away from what my friends had become-from the monsters this place had made them. Turn my head and let it happen. But I couldn't, and I didn't. Instinct propelled me to the small mob and I was pulling them off, shoving, yelling, begging them to stop.

It's not that I wanted to save a Nazi. I hated them as much as my friends did for what they were doing to us. They had killed so many. We were nothing more than flies to them. They paced around the camp with their rifle and shot at us like we were clay pigeons. Our lives were meaningless. We were sub-human.

But when I saw what my neighbors were doing to the camp guard, I had to do something. I hated seeing my friends resorting to cold-blooded murder. We could not be reduced to their level, even out of rage or revenge. I just couldn't be a witness to it without doing something. I believe saving a life is better than taking one. My father taught me that before he died, and my upbringing was still with me, even in the camp. I didn't want to treat the guard with compassion, but neither did I want to leave my heart outside the gates of the camp.

It didn't take long before other soldiers came to solve the problem. They pulled my friends off of the guard and shot them one by one.

I waited my turn, the only man left standing. Five rifles were in my face.

But the camp guard, bloody and disheveled, his uniform torn and mussed, his boots scuffed and dirty, pushed himself to a sitting position on the wagon and gasped, "Nein."

And that's all it took for the rifles to lower.

The guard ran a sleeve under his bleeding nose, panting and sweating, trying to sit upright.

"He is meine," he said simply.

Mercy?

There was mercy in a place like this?

From people like him?

Why?

The soldiers ordered some prisoners to dispose of the bodies of my friends.

I turned to go back to the stone pile, but the guard said, "Nein. You have a new job. The stables."

Some of my friends said my "easy jobs" came because I saved the soldier's life. Some saw me as a

traitor. Siding with the enemy.

The horses were used for labor, and were also ridden by the soldiers, so somebody had to take care of them. A good job for one or two reasons: I was in the stable a lot, I could slip a few people inside to get warmed up, I could sleep on the hay sometimes and even cover up with it, and I got to eat some of what the horses were eating, oats and apples, sometimes carrots, which was a lot better than what the rest of the men were getting: Bread for breakfast, soup for lunch, maybe bread again for dinner, plus some water. Being a stable boy was a luxury. But it was also a way to help some of my friends out. I felt like I owed them something. I had to show them I really wasn't a traitor at heart.

We worked every day from sunrise to sunset. When I wasn't in the stable, I was assigned to clean the barracks. Not a fun chore, but easier than most of the others had it.

Hitler's highest left his gloves in the barn one day, and when I tried to give them back, he said, "I have another pair."

Sometimes I felt guilty for having such "easy" jobs. Easy compared to everybody else's. I would get jealous looks. But it wasn't my fault. I couldn't help it. I wondered why I was given such a "soft" job by a man whose job was to weed out the sick from the strong. I was disliked and mistrusted, so why would the soldier give me special treatment? There was no such mercy in this place. It felt like a trap. It never felt safer to me. I was still trapped behind the wire, just like everyone else.

We were slave labor, pure and simple.

No different than the Africans taken to America to work the plantations.

No different than being slaves under Pharoah in Egypt building the pyramids.

We all thought we could go along with it, though. With the flimsy pretense of work. But we were deluding ourselves just to get through the day, the week, the month. We were all cold and hungry. We were all losing weight. We were all doomed to die.

They milled around like dead men, starving, hollow-cheeked, their collarbones and ribs-every bone protruding.

My striped uniform didn't fit me anymore. Even though I got more to eat than most, thanks to my job, I was still too thin. The dungarees I wore when driving my milk truck wouldn't fit me now.

Reality was settling in.

This wasn't a labor camp.

It was a death camp.

Gas chambers were disguised as showers. There was a hole in the door so the Nazis could watch the mass death and make sure it was carried out without a hitch.

Crematoriums. The chimneys. The smoke. Ashes.

Ashes from the ovens. Piles of ashes.

Burning the bodies. Shoveling coal for the fires.

The lines of people going in for a simple shower, and not coming out alive.

I watched one of my friends smother his weak relative with a pillow to keep him from being burned in the crematorium.

An inhumane place makes people do inhumane things: Steal food, hide food, bargain with sexual favors to sleep in the middle of the bed to stay warmer, pass around a forbidden page of the Torah, plot murder.

A man was shot and killed in public view when he refused to stop praying out loud.

There were suicides: Cutting their wrists, throwing themselves on the electric fence (we never knew when it was turned on or turned off-for the soldier's amusement I guess), escaping with the purpose of being shot and killed in the field.

The smell of death all around.

Despair had a smell too.

Like hopelessness. And gloom.

To some, the thought of death was better than the way were living.

Death was the ultimate escape.

A way out.

Relief.

A place of eternal warmth, food, and family.

But I didn't dream of death.

I dreamed of freedom, of laughter, of girls.

Escape was always on my mind. Not a suicidal escape, in hopes of getting shot. But escape to live.

I thought I would die in that place.

And would have if it hadn't been for Hitler's finest example.

Because he had spared my life, he was in the same boat I was in. Murmured about. Spurned.

A Jew-lover.

Germans were not happy with Jew-lovers.

But because he was an officer's son, he was excused.

Tolerated might be a better word.

How much leniency they would give him, nobody knew.

+H+

I was part of the Kill Squad, the soldiers who rode through town extracting the Jews from their homes.

But when my job in the Polish towns were finished, I was assigned to Auschwitz, one of our better camps, one that Dr. Mengele, our Angel of Death, himself supported.

My first job was in Selektion, choosing which of the Jews would work, and which would be referred to Dr. Mengele.

Selecting the fittest for work, and for existence itself.

I was then assigned to be a camp guard.

We were given the task to say who lived and who died.

Hitler's criteria was clear. His goals were clear.

As the work went on and the men wore down, I saw the change in them. They first arrived with the expectation that they would be leaving, that their stay would be short-term-that they could hold out. A mistake, if you will. A delusion. It was not real to them. They kept wanting to go home.

That is what kept some of them going. Walking skeletons. Making plans for an anniversary, a birthday, a Jewish holy day.

I saw hope and life shed away like snakeskin on their faces, layer by layer, pound by pound, day by day.

But there was one prisoner that seemed to thrive regardless of what happened around him. He never lost innocence, hope, or enthusiasm for life.

He was invincible. A reservoir of courage, stubbornness, and heart.

I first saw it when we ordered them to change into their work uniforms, and it never stopped.

The way he held his chin up when I pointed the rifle in his face, daring me to shoot him.

The way he said he didn't have lice.

I told them to leave his hair alone. It would mark him for easy killing later.

I would have some fun with him. Cat and mouse. Some entertainment. A Jew toy.

I followed him around while he worked, with my rifle pointed at his back.

"We've found the final solution to the Jewish problem," I told him. I wanted him to understand why he was here. I wanted him to see them as they really were. "Your race is extinct. Scattered abroad. Your Judaism a lie. Trying to monopolize the world. Your very genes are polluted. Ethnic cleansing is in order."

He thought I was trying to get a rise out of him. I wasn't. I was just telling the truth.

He would make a retort every time.

I watched him. How he gave some of his soup to the sick to keep them going, even though they knew, he knew, we all knew, it was futile, that a few spoonful's of soup would not nurse an invalid back to health and I would soon order them to be taken away and exterminated.

"Schnell! Schnell!" I ordered him as he lay brick for a new building, even when he was working far faster than the other men. I would push him down and he would get back up. He called me a bully. For fun I would take my tall glass of milk and pour it onto the ground. They would kill for a glass of milk. They would scratch and claw for an extra morsel of bread.

But not David.

He would give his to whoever lost theirs to thievery the day before.

He was popular in the camp. Given quiet respect. He helped the weak do their brick-laying, even if it prolonged their lives by only a day or so.

He despised us. They all despised us. But he was the only one that showed it to our faces.

That's why I was surprised that one cold morning when he saved my life.

One minute I was cleaning my rifle while the prisoners were working, and the next they were pounding rocks into my body trying to kill me.

I thought I was a dead man.

I yelled for help, but couldn't be heard over the yelling of the mob that was pulverizing me with stones.

Those Jew prisoners were killing me.

And then he was there, yelling at them, pulling them off, and I couldn't understand why. He should have been helping them. Hadn't he craved an opportunity just like this?

I ordered all five prisoners to be shot, and they were.

He was left alone to meet his fate, which was entirely up to me.

Every day I made decisions about who lived or died, how much food they would get, how hard they worked, how much longer we would put up with a sick worker, who needed to be put out of their misery.

This day, I spared a life for the first time.

I was frowned upon. Whispered about. Reported no doubt.

But I was an officer's son. Not much would happen. At worst I would be transferred to guard another camp.

"Arrogant," they said. "Smug. Pompous. God complex."

It's not that I had any feelings about sparing his life. He was a Jew. But different from the rest.

Quality. Integrity. If a Jew could have such a thing, he had it.

He looked as if he could faint with relief when I told them to get their rifles out of his face.

"He is mine," I told them, and they retreated.

My property. My personal belonging. I could dispose of him whenever and however I saw fit.

And then he turned around and walked back to his brick pile as if nothing happened.

"Nein," I said, stopping him in his tracks. "You will have a new job. In the stables."

Warmth. Privacy. Soft hay. Extra bits of food.

"Oh," one of my comrades winked to me when he passed by the stable, "I see how it is with the two of you."

"You don't see anything," I told him.

"Of course I don't. You would be turned over to the authorities."

What was meant to be an act of gratitude on my part, worked against him. His fellow prisoners scorned him, rejected him, accused him of being a traitor. But they didn't turn down the horses' apples he smuggled in for them, nor the oats.

One day I caught him in the barn loading his pockets with carrots and apples to take to his friends.

"Is it worth it?" I asked him as I pushed my Luger under his chin and backed him against the wooden stall.

He was trying to control his fear. I could see a trace in his jeweled blue eyes.

"If you're going to kill me," he said, "do it now."

But I didn't.

I let him go. He was curious to behold.

He walked from the barn with his bulging pockets, looking at me over his shoulder as he went.

He was one that would try to escape. Too full of fight not to.

And many were the days I saw him standing by the fence with that lusty look in his eyes, just gazing out toward that lush green forest that was so insanely close, yet so painfully far away.

What was he thinking when he was looking out there?

Always escape?

I was surprised that he hadn't tried by now.

But I was sure he had a plan.

+S+

The enchanted forest, I called it.

Safety. Freedom.

Across a field and into the woods was where I wanted to go.

I'd heard that a few Jews had escaped other camps and had fled to the mountains and marshes, where they were living like quarry.

But at least they were free.

And that's what I wanted.

It seemed greener and closer every day. I could make it, if I could just get through the fence. I knew I could.

I tried to escape, and I had to try while I was still strong enough, while I was working in the stables.

I dug out the old German uniform I'd buried in the corner of the barn (the one Hitler's master race discarded in the trash after being pulverized by the stones), and I patched it up enough to put it on and pass through the front gate with other soldiers who were leaving with a wagon-full of emaciated corpses. I pulled on long dark socks as a desperate disguise for knee-high boots. I pulled the hat down low over my forehead, trying to hide my face.

My mistake was that I started to run too soon. Guess I was just so happy to be outside the fence that I couldn't stop myself, and I ran.

"Kill him!"

I glanced over my shoulder to see the soldiers raising their rifles to fire.

I could see it. Just up ahead. The forest. So big, so many hiding places they would never find me.

My hope was to meet up with some escapees that were already there.

"I'll get him," Hitler's best said as he jumped on his horse and came after me.

I was fast, but no match for his horse.

He gained on me and snared me by the collar of my uniform, jerking me off my feet.

"Why do you run? Don't you know I can kill you with one bullet?"

I was kicking and fighting so hard it almost pulled him off the saddle. The horse had a hard time standing still. It was stomping and snorting steam in the January air.

I tried to pull him off. I wanted to fight him.

"If only you were German," he told me as he shook me around. "You would make a fine soldier.

Quick. Resourceful. Determined. Kind. Scharf-"

The shot rang out, and he let go of me and slumped sideways, blood pouring from a bullet wound in the side of his neck.

"Jew-lover!" the call came as more horses galloped across the field toward us.

My God.

I had no idea the hating of us was so relentless. That sympathy toward one of us was so despicable.

I'd heard things in the camp-rumors I thought, about the signs that the Nazis had put up everywhere in the towns: Anyone caught helping a Jew would be put to death.

Hung, shot, right along with the Jews.

No excuses. No mercy.

He'd been living on borrowed time. It was by the grace of God they had let him live as long as they did. If he hadn't been an officer's son, he'd have been killed the day he kept me from those five rifles. But now, officer's son or no officer's son, he would pay the penalty.

I had no idea it was this bad.

No idea the sacrifice he had made.

But he did.

He knew the risk.

From the beginning.

They were after him as much as they were after me.

Since I had saved his life, he was willing to die for mine.

He didn't have to give me an easier job. He could have turned me in for smuggling food to my friends. He could have killed me himself. And by all Nazi rights, should have.

I caught him as he collapsed, and pulled him from the horse to lay him in the grass.

"You pigs!" I screamed at them as I ran blindly toward their rifles. "You kill your own! You kill mercy!"

Another gunshot cracked in the air, and I was knocked down into the grass beside him.

A shoulder wound. I would live, if the soldiers let me. But my Nazi wouldn't. Blood was pumping from his neck with each pulse, and his eyes were blue glass as his hand moved through the grass toward me.

Why?

Why would he help me?

What did I mean to him?

Why did I mean so much?

I didn't know what to do. In his dying, he was reaching for me. The soldiers stood over us with their rifles trained on us. "Danke," he gasped. "For saving my life the other day." "Danke," I whispered back. "For the better job. Verboten." (Forbidden)

(Both actions were forbidden)

He was still reaching for me.

I had no choice but to clasp his hand.

They shot him again, and this time he was silent.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

I was numb as they carried me back to the camp.

The only ray of light in that dismal place. The only shred of humanity. And he was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

They're going to hang me in the morning.

I'm spared the night.

So that I can be executed in front of my friends.

"Look at your hero," they taunted when they brought me back into the camp and shoved me onto the barracks floor. "Let him be an example to you."

I won't sleep tonight.

I believe I was spared to write this letter.

I need to tell about this place, about the atrocities, and about him.

A place like this should never be forgotten.

Someone like him should never be forgotten.

I'll bury it in the barn along with the letter he left about me.

End

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

CAP

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

I don't remember at just what point the heart attack began, but I do remember the two of them briefing me in my office on a strangulation case and wisecracking about the three suspects they had so far. And then a crushing pain in my chest-like an elephant sitting on it-pushed out everything else, and I was falling sideways out of my chair. Their hands were there catching me before I even hit the floor. I couldn't see them crowding in to help. My eyes were clamped too tight for that. But I could hear them-talking in that shorthand kind of way they had with each other-Starsky loosening my tie, Hutch feeling my neck for a pulse.

"Airway."

"CPR."

"Hang in there, Cap. We're gonna help."

"SOMEBODY CALL AN AMBULANCE!"

The pain was paralyzing. Too much to take. It just sucked me down into a black hole I didn't think I'd be getting out of again.

I saw a collage of my life-my poor parents struggling to earn a wage in a factory. Momma cooking

and sewing. Poppa helping us with our homework with his work-greasy fingernails. No matter how clean his hands were, the telltale signs of hard-working family man were there. My life as a boy, taking care of my younger brother and sisters while Momma and Poppa worked. Living in a small white house by the railroad tracks, always keeping an eye on the young ones to make sure they weren't playing on the tracks. Graduation from high school and the police academy, taking the bigotry just to get through those doors. My last thoughts were of my wife, and son, and daughter. Good Edith. Decent Cal. Sweet Rosie. Who would take care of them if I should. . .

The hand across my forehead-(I don't know which one it belonged to and it didn't matter)-and their voices-"Don't worry, Cap. We'll be here."-"You fight."-"But if anything happens . . "- "We'll take care of Edith and the kids"-made riding out on that dark train a little easier to do.

XXXXXXXXX+

Consciousness came to me a little at a time, like small bits of reception on a TV.

I could feel my dear wife's hand on mine, hear my son's worried voice, feel my small daughter's kisses on my cheek.

"He's waking up, Momma. Daddy's waking up."

And then later, at another time, the doctors' voices hovered around my bed as they explained things to my family.

-"Heart attack."

-"Very lucky."

-"Saved his life."

That's all I heard as I drifted off to sleep again. Under so many medications it was hard to know when I was awake and when I was asleep, what was real and what was a dream.

Saved my life.

At some point later, morning I suppose, there they stood. My two tough street cops whose quick actions and cool-headedness saved my life, who were now looking as lost as two kids in a department store as they both stood on the left side of my bed-Hutch watching my face carefully for any movement or change. Alert and attentive as usual. And Starsky-heart on his sleeve as usual- gripping the silver guard rail of the bed as if he were the one having chest pains instead of me.

Although they both took it harder than I thought they ever would, I believe Starsky took it the hardest. He'd already lost his father, and had been close to losing Hutch in a hospital bed when he was ill with the plague . . . and now me. He was putting on a brave front for me, but his red eyes

told me something else.

Hutch, like always, knew that long before I did, and that was why he stood with a hand squeezing Starsky's shoulder through the whole visit.

"You'd do anything to keep from going on your new diet, wouldn't you?" Starsky cracked to me.

I wanted to return the remark, but I was too tired and weak. The heart attack had drawn-like a leech drawing blood-every ounce of strength from me. I didn't know that could be possible. What a helpless feeling. I was a captain, had men under me, position, clout, telling people to do this and that, solving crimes, taking the heat, and now I was reduced to a patient in a hospital bed wondering if a nurse or a volunteer would even bring me the morning paper.

I must have been leaking a tear or two, because it was Hutch who took my hand in both of his and patted it, saying, "It'll be okay, Cap. You made it. Everything will be all right."

"Edith and the kids are okay," Starsky added to that. "They're getting a bite of breakfast in the cafeteria."

All the tubes and machines around my bed made me feel claustrophobic.

I nodded to them. I wanted to say more, but couldn't. Pain and tears-and pride-wouldn't let me. They'd seen enough of me in my broken-down state already. Time to buck up and be their fearless leader again.

They would never know.

Those brazen pups would never know how grateful I was to them.

They would go their merry way busting this crook and that crook, go off half-cocked from my office most of the time, give me grief about my diets, slam my door, sit on my desk, take my lunch, drink all my coffee, and play practical jokes until the cows come home, but when I looked at them, I would think about the urgency in their hands, the tremble in their voices, and the tears in their eyes as they worked furiously to save my life.

End

FATHER FIGURE

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"Oh my God, Hutch. A baby."

Starsky bounded up the stairs toward the crying at his front door, quicker with each step.

I was right behind him.

The baby's sound was frightened and lonesome, like it was really in trouble.

No blanket, no bottle, no diaper, just a baby in a cardboard box at his doorstep, screaming his lungs out-a chubby thing with blond curly hair and big blue eyes. About three months old I guess. Like one of Raphael's cherubs. His biracial complexion was a beautiful creamed-coffee color.

"Oh my God," he gasped as he reached down for the box.

"Wait," I told him, "he may be hurt."

But he was already taking his jacket off and wrapping the baby in it.

"A note," I said as I leaned over and picked up a scrap of paper.

The baby quieted the second Starsky held it against his chest and bobbed it gently up and down.

"Dave," I read the note out loud, "please take care of my baby. I know you'll love him. Always, Sunny."

Starsky looked at me, the memory of Sunny, the little-girl prostitute with the lady-size crush on him, passing across his face.

"Oh man," he whispered with wide eyes as he looked back down at the bundle.

I ran down the steps-"Sunny!"- looking across the street, up and down the curb, hoping to catch sight of her long white-blond hair.

"LIKE SHE'S GONNA COME BACK!" he yelled.

The baby cried louder, which made Starsky hold the baby closer.

I thought I heard a catch in his voice, a tear, but he was already inside the house.

I went up the stairs and inside the house. Starsky cradled the baby in one arm, while sorting through the refrigerator with the other.

The baby wasn't as fussy as he'd been earlier.

"Starsk, we need to take him to the doctor and get him checked out."

"Doctor?" he asked as he opened a pint of strawberry milk. "He's not sick. Just hungry."

"You don't know for sure."

He carried the baby over to me. "You could help, y'know."

"Help?" I said as the warm weight settled into my arms.

The baby's eyes turned up to me-big and frightened. Starsky washed his hands vigorously at the kitchen sink with soap and water, then brought the milk over, dipping his forefinger into it and sticking the tip in the baby's mouth.

The baby suckled hungrily, holding desperately to his hand with its tiny ones.

When Starsky removed his finger to dip it into the carton a second time, the baby started crying again.

"Okay," he said quietly as he took the baby back. "He could be dehydrated. Tummy ache. Somethin'. We should have 'em look him over just to make sure he's all right. You drive. I'll keep feedin' him."

"How about a diaper first?"

"Huh?"

"You don't want him to pee all over your jacket, do you?"

I pulled one of his kitchen drawers open and fished around.

"I wouldn't care," he murmured into the baby's ringlets. Almost kissed them, but didn't. I knew my partner, and I knew what he was thinking. He didn't want to get too close.

I finally found a dishtowel. "Think this'll do?"

"We got no pins."

"Who needs pins?" I asked as I opened the folds of the jacket and slipped the dishtowel beneath him and tied the ends where safety pins should be. "See?"

Starsky still fed him fingertips-full of pink milk. The baby was growing more settled and satisfied, a few drops at a time.

"What if cow's milk hurts his belly?" I asked.

"Why would it?"

"Because it's from a cow, Dr. Spock. He needs baby milk."

"I don't have anything like that."

"The hospital will have some formula. And we can't take him out with no clothes on."

"I don't have anything to fit him."

"Yeah you do."

I went to his bedroom, Starsky bringing the baby along. With his tummy somewhat fuller, the baby watched contentedly from the warmth of Starsky's jacket while I sifted through the dresser drawers.

"Ah hah," I said as I pulled out a red T-shirt.

"Hey," Starsky said in an astonished squeak, "that's my brand new shirt."

I slipped the T-shirt over the baby's head. "Not anymore."

It made the baby cry. I pulled the shirt down. It was well past his feet, so I knew he'd be warm enough.

Starsky carried him back into the kitchen, and I followed.

"I don't get it," I said to the baby as I shook my head. "First you're happy as a clam. Now you're fussy again." I winked at Starsky. "I don't know anybody like that, do you?"

"It's okay, curly," Starsky soothed as he put the baby up on his shoulder and patted his back. "He never means what he says."

With his new diaper and nightshirt on, we were ready to go.

"Grab the milk," Starsky instructed, and I did.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"Got no baby seat," Starsky said as we went down to the Torino.

"Not much we can do about it right now," I said as I opened the passenger door for him. "Just hold him real tight."

Starsky settled into the seat with the baby, and I buckled the seatbelt.

"Drive careful, huh?" he asked.

"I will."

The baby's head was lying on Starsky's shoulder and he looked to be getting drowsy, so I closed the door as quietly as I could.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

The drive to the hospital was quiet. I found the closest thing to a lullaby I could-an old Dean Martin song-"Return To Me"- that seemed to lull the baby to sleep.

Starsky sat quite contented himself, holding him protectively to his chest. His quiet gaze out at the traffic spoke more than any words he might say. The way he patted the sleeping bundle. The way he hummed the song to the baby.

"We have to find her, Starsk. To see what's going on."

"She doesn't want him. She's just fourteen. She knows she can't raise him."

"Well, I know, but . . . "

"She left him to me. Her family's unfit."

"Starsky, this isn't some puppy you're taking-"

He turned sharp eyes on me. "I know that. I know what it is."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The nurses at the emergency room gave us curious looks when we brought the baby in.

They'd seen us there before, with various fender benders, but never with an infant.

"Hi," a nurse with her name, Candy, pinned to her uniform, said as we walked in. "What's the problem, guys?"

"Hiya," Starsky said as he coddled the baby still wrapped in his jacket. "We found this baby on my doorstep and-"

She grinned and winked. "Good one, Starsk."

"No, really," I told her. "We just want him checked out."

"Parents?"

"Whereabouts unknown," I told her. "But she's under-age, and there's no immediate family, so-"

"So we'll call Child Welfare-"

"-so we'll take him into protective custody," I corrected.

She gave me a long look, then she gave Starsky a long look, then she pulled a clipboard from a tray and started a form. "Name?"

Starsky looked at me. "Well?"

I looked at him. "Well? I don't know. What do you think his name is?"

"Um . . . "

"John Doe?" Candy asked as she began to write the name.

"No," Starsky said urgently. "Don't write that. It's not John Doe. It's . . . " He looked at me again. "Help me here?"

"Uh . . . " I looked at the sleeping baby. "Moses."

Starsky made a face. "Moses?"

I shrugged. "We found him in a basket, didn't we?"

He shook his head, then looked down at the form. "Just write Buddy."

It was my turn to make a face. "Buddy?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"It sounds like a dog's name."

"It does not. What about Buddy Rich? Buddy Hackett? My buddy Hutch? It's cute."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh yeah. Cute."

"Well, what else can you come up with besides Moses?"

I looked at the baby again, trying to think.

"Got it," Starsky said.

"What is it?"

"Benjamin."

I raised an eyebrow. "Benjamin?"

"Yeah. You know. After Benjamin Spock."

Candy tapped her pencil impatiently. "Is it settled?"

Starsky nodded. "It is. Benjamin."

"Benji for short," I added.

"Hey," Starsky smiled, "how'd you know I was gonna say that?"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Benji checked out just fine. Healthy. Developmentally right on target for his age.

"Somebody sure has been taking good care of him," the doctor remarked.

"Well," Starsky replied modestly, "it was just a little bit of strawberry milk."

"He means since birth," I told him.

"I knew that."

Starsky took a wide-awake Benji from Candy. "Ready to go, pal?"

Candy handed me a big diaper bag. "Something me and the girls fixed up for you."

I looked in and saw a load of baby supplies: Diapers, bottles, formula, bibs, sleepers, footies, even a wind-up musical tiger.

"Looks like we're all set," I said to Candy and the other nurses. "Thanks."

"Call us anytime," Candy smiled.

I carried the diaper bag while Starsky carried the baby.

"What do we do now?" I asked. "It's almost midnight. We going to look for Sunny?"

"Not tonight. Baby needs his sleep. We can call Dobey and Huggy to get some people looking, but I'm not gonna till morning."

"I'll call Dobey and Huggy for you. You get some sleep."

"Thanks."

XXXXXXXXX++

So I left them both asleep on the sofa, with Starsky on the outside, and Benji tucked safely on the inside, sleeping comfortably in a fresh real diaper, but still wearing the red T-shirt. Starsky had a pacifier and all the baby stuff lined up on the coffee table, within arm's reach. Prepared bottles in the fridge. A pan of water already on the stove for heating them.

(Partner, we need to talk)

(You can't keep the baby)

Those thought tumbled around inside my head, but I didn't have the heart to say them out loud.

Not yet anyway.

Starsky was acting from his heart again. Which is one of the things I loved about him, but one of the things that drove me crazy.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

In the morning I found both of them sleeping blissfully away on the sofa, Benji corked safely in the nook of my partner's arm.

"Zebra 3," I said leaning over them, "Come in please."

Starsky's eyes worked open, and so did Benji's.

"Called Dobey late last night," I told him. "Huggy too. They said they'd see if they could find out where Sunny is, see what's going on. Huggy seemed to think she was staying at some cheap hotel, but he didn't know anything about a baby. So, what if it's not even hers? See why we have to keep digging?"

"Yeah, yeah," Starsky said as ruffled the blond curls. "Gotta dig."

And the kid actually smiled for the first time. Sort of a gooey, drippy smile while he kicked his arms and legs at the same time.

"Here," I said tossing Starsky a bib. "He's drooling."

Starsky sat up, and the baby reached for small fists of my partner's hair, and when he had it, he pulled his head down to goo into it.

"Ow! That hurts, kid!"

I grinned. "I think he likes you."

"Distract him. Get him a bottle."

I warmed a bottle on the stove, then took it over. Starsky corked the nipple into Benji's mouth, and the baby fed happily, his hands still twining, though not so viciously now, in Starsky's hair.

Benji was already giving Starsky that starry-eyed worshipping look that babies reserve for the ones they adore.

"Gotta get some baby food today," he said as he pulled a sleeper with cowboy hats on it from the diaper bag.

I sat down on the coffee table. "Partner, I really admire what you're doing-"

"I know. Going out on a limb like I did with Sharman."

Damn. He knew what I was going to say even before I said it.

"But this is different," he said. "Sharman was a grown woman. Benji's . . . he's just a baby. All alone in the world. He doesn't have anybody, Hutch. Sunny put him in my hands."

"I know. And he couldn't be in better hands. But fatherhood . . . it's a lifelong commitment, Starsk. Not something you do out of good will, or guilt. I'm not trying to invalidate what you're doing, but I think you really need to think about this."

"Thanks, buddy. But when I need a lecture, I'll call my ma."

I sighed, wondering how in the world I was going to get through to him. I didn't want him making a mistake.

"You could be the baby's godfather," I said. "See him whenever you want to."

"It's not the same. I feel like . . . I've been given a responsibility. And I can't dishonor that."

"Starsk, finding Benji a good home would not be shirking your responsibility, or dishonoring it. It would be exercising it. It would be one of the best things you could do for him."

He was going to say something else, but the phone interrupted our conversation.

I answered on the second ring.

It was Dobey.

"Yeah, Captain?"

"Hutch, I have some news about Sunny, and it's pretty bad. You better get over to the Lionheart Hotel."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

We left in a hurry, left Benji with Diane, who said she'd take him for a walk to the park.

Starsky was pretty shaken about Sunny, but he said he was going with me anyway.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sunny.

Dead at fourteen.

Throat slashed in a hotel room she shared with an older hooker.

All the blood from her body now on the sheets.

So young.

Not street-hard like most. Still held a little-girl innocence about her, like she'd just stepped off the bus from Kansas.

Starsky and I had tried to get her off the streets many times. We put her in foster care and she'd run away. Then we'd put her there again, then she'd run away again.

She never saw her worth.

But Clarence, her pimp, did.

She had a thing for Starsky, a school-girl crush, and she let everybody know it. Every time she tried to flirt with him, he'd steer her in the direction of a young, decent boy.

But she was so used to men, that boys were just . . . well . . . boys, to her.

Starsky and I just stared at her dead body in the bed while the crime lab and police photographer did their thing.

He didn't say anything, but I knew what was going through his mind:

(Just a kid)

(Innocent)

(Never had a chance)

(Sexually abused by her father)

(Betrayed by her mother)

(Her daddy's case never went to trial)

(Not enough evidence)

(How much do you need?)

(The girl recanted)

(They usually do)

(Typical of sexually abused girls, but disastrous for juries)

(Mother upheld him all the way)

(Why no, Officer, my husband and I have a normal sex life)

(We have regular relations)

(No, I've never seen him in her room at night)

(But she does sleep at the foot of our bed sometimes)

("To keep him out of my room, Mommy")

("So Mommy will hear if he comes in and tries something")

("So she'll wake up and stop him")

("You don't want to send your daddy to jail, do you, sweetie?")

("You don't want to tear our family apart with your lies, do you?")

No trial.

No jail.

No case.

("No, I'm sorry, Officers. I mean-he didn't do anything. I mean-I made it up. I was mad at him. At Mommy too. He didn't do anything. Really. He didn't do anything. He didn't do anything.")

She'd changed her story.

The family remained intact.

Along with the secrets.

And Sunny was left to protect herself the only way she knew how: By running away.

Once she was on the street and had a taste of "freedom", she didn't want to go back.

But if she could only see what Starsky tried so hard to tell her: That she was running to the same kind of men. The same kind of affection. The same kind of world.

-"Detective Hutchinson?"

I blinked and looked around the hotel room.

The voice repeated itself:

-"Detective Hutchinson? Are you all right?"

The coroner's team had loaded Sunny's small body onto a stretcher and were covering her up. I looked at the rookie who'd spoken to me, nodding vaguely. Then I looked around for my partner, who was slouched in a corner of the room by himself pretending to be taking some notes.

I walked over to him. As I suspected, he had written nothing on his notepad.

I didn't take it from him.

"Starsk . . . "

"Don't," he whispered hoarsely, his head lowered, his eyes on his notepad. "Don't say anything, Hutch. Okay?"

I watched him a moment, then nodded and stepped away, giving him some room and time.

Captain Dobey approached me, and I suddenly realized I didn't know when he'd come in or how long he'd been there.

He glanced Starsky's way, then pulled me aside. "I'll give it to Garcia and Moran."

I nodded.

"Any suspects?" he asked me.

"Anybody? Everybody?"

I hadn't meant the words to come out as bitter as they sounded. But once they were out, I really didn't care.

I gave Starsky some time alone while I briefed Garcia and Moran on what I knew about Sunny, and then I went to him and nodded for him to leave with me.

He slipped his notepad into his pocket, nodded, then followed me out.

On my way out, I looked over my shoulder at Garcia. "Don't rule out Clarence. And see if you can verify with a hospital that she had a baby."

Garcia had his notepad out. "Clarence?"

"Her pimp."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky was quiet as I drove the Torino to Huggy's.

"Feel like a drink?" I asked him as I pulled up alongside the curb.

"I feel like a lot of drinks," he said glumly as he sat with his hand on the door handle. "What was she into, Hutch? Who'd kill her? What's with the baby? Somebody after her? Some john kill her? She left him on my doorstep, Hutch. Nobody else's. She trusted me. She always knew I wanted the best for her. How many times did I try to get her off the street, huh? She remembered that." His gaze turned away from me, and I saw the hitch in his throat. "I just wish I could've saved her too."

"Hey," I said gently as I tugged on his jacket collar, "you tried. It got through to her, buddy. Why else would she leave him with you? She didn't leave him with me. She didn't leave him at the police station. Or foster care. Or a bus stop."

He spoke to the glass: "I don't think it was a john, Hutch. I think somebody was after her, and she knew it, and that's why she left the baby with me. And so help me, Hutch. If Garcia and Moran don't find her killer . . . "

I kept watching him, our thoughts dovetailing like they did so often.

"You think it's Clarence, don't you?"

"I do. You need to tell Garcia and Moran."

"Already did, partner. Let them handle it."

"Fine. But if they won't, I will."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

We got out of the car and started into Huggy's, but Diane's hysterical screaming down the street stopped us.

She ran toward us holding a bleeding shoulder.

"The baby!"

Starsky caught her and leaned her against the Torino while I checked the slash in her upper arm.

She shook hard, from shock and fear.

I applied pressure to her arm. Huggy heard her screaming.

"Diane!"

I heard his running footsteps.

When he appeared in the doorway, I said over my shoulder to him, "Ambulance," and he disappeared inside again.

Diane tried to choke her words out: "Kuh-Kuh-Ken! He-"

"What happened?" Starsky asked as he grabbed her head between his hands to look at her.

She gripped his shirt with her good hand, which was covered in blood from where she'd held her sliced arm.

"He-he took the baby!"

"WHO?"

"He said-the father-Clarence!"

"Where'd he go? Where'd he take him?"

"I don't know! He got into-I don't know-a black Caddy I think!" she dissolved into a pool of hysteria again. "Oh my God! I'm sorry, Dave! I tried to stop him!"

"I know," I said calmly. "I know. What else can you tell us?"

She just shook her head no.

"Where does he stay?"

She shook her head no again.

Huggy joined us at the Torino.

"Here, Hug," I said placing his hand over Diane's shoulder wound. "Sit her down till the ambulance comes. He took the baby."

"Who?"

"Clarence."

"Mother fuh-" His glance at Diane curbed the expletive.

He moved her to the bumper of the next car and sat her down, keeping his arm around her.

Starsky and I jumped in the Torino, Starsky driving. I grabbed the mike as we started for the Lionheart Hotel and said, "Control One, I need Dobey."

A few seconds later, Dobey's voice was over the mike: "Captain Dobey."

"Cap, Clarence took Sunny's baby. What the hell are Garcia and Moran doing on the case? Have they questioned him?"

"They can't even find him."

"They talk to Sunny's roommate?"

"Can't find her either. But her name's Rhonda."

I cracked the mike against the dash. "Damn it, can't you light a fire under those cops? We're talking about a little girl who was murdered."

"Stop banging the radio, Hutchinson! You know I gave the case to them because Starsky's too close to it."

"Maybe somebody needs to be."

Starsky shook his head no. "Just a murdered hooker to them, Hutch. Ask him if we can have it."

I spoke into the mike again. "Can we have it?"

"No. I already assigned it to Garcia and Moran."

"What? They're probably out having a leisurely lunch while Clarence is out there with that BABY somewhere!"

"ALL RIGHT, DAMN IT! TAKE IT!"

I tossed the mike into the floorboard and collapsed back into the seat with a sigh of relief.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

We didn't have to go looking very hard for Rhonda, the hooker that Sunny had shared a room with.

She met us at the front door of the Lionheart with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. Even half-drunk she was a knockout. She weaved in the doorway. Normally she wasn't a drinker, but I guess she had good reason to today.

"Hiding out?" I asked as Starsky and I approached her.

"From that rattlesnake Clarence? Why wouldn't I? I'm the one who hid Sunny out from him. She finally left him. After she had the baby."

Starsky looked at me, but decided to let her talk since she was in the mood.

"She never wanted him to know about little Davey. Yeah, sweetheart, she named him after you. She wanted to cut clean from Clarence. Start a new life. I took her and the baby in. He'd always threatened to kill her if she left. But she said she couldn't let Davey grow up in that kind of life. She went back to school, I watched the baby till she got home in the afternoons. She quit turning tricks. She quit everything. Tried to get me to. Somehow . . . I don't know how . . . he found out about the baby. He put the word out that she was already a dead little…if he ever found her. And he wanted his baby. She said she had to put him somewhere safe. She knew she was dead."

It was Starsky that needed steadied. I took his arm and he looked into my face, wanting to say so much, but not quite knowing how to say it.

"He's got the baby," Starsky said quietly. "Where can we find him?"

"You won't find him. He never stays in one place. Uses different names. Always wired on PCP."

"He's jacked," Starsky said. "Killing Sunny. Taking the baby. He knows we're after him."

Rhonda ran a finger under her pixie-like nose. "Last place I saw him was Watson Rooms. Got some girls there. Rat-trap apartment building. But he's probably on the run."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Watson Rooms was only a few blocks away. The black and white and gathering crowd outside the two-story apartment building told us something was already wrong.

The building had been evacuated. Everyone was looking up at an open second-story window. Garcia and Moran were on the scene, behind their patrol car and aiming their guns up at the window. Captain Dobey was also there, and so was a SWAT team.

We could see Clarence as he paced back and forth in front of the window. He held a pistol in one hand, Benji's ankle in the other, waving him around in the air as if he were a toy doll.

I heard Starsky's "Damn it-" as he started to run for the building, but I clamped my hand over his mouth and pulled him back.

"Don't," I hissed into his ear as I held him from behind. "Please."

He went weak with shock while the baby screamed bloody murder, his little body so paralyzed with fright it could only quiver in its stiffness.

"BACK OFF!" Clarence screamed as he waved the pistol outside the window.

It was a stand-off.

"Just shoot him," Garcia told Dobey. "He'll drop the baby. We'll take our chances-"

"Stuff it," Starsky growled at him as he tried to muscle away from me.

"Easy," I said as I held him still and slowly moved in front of him, wanting him to see me, and nobody else. "Starsky, you know how volatile this situation is. He's a murder/suicide begging for a trigger. He's not the friendliest toward you because of Sunny. Buddy, you love that baby too much to charge in there. And I love you too much to let you go."

Starsky's eyes never blinked, though they were full of tears for Benji. They tested me, trusted me.

"Let me do it," I whispered.

It was a long time in coming, but he finally nodded.

Clarence shot into the air, making Benji scream even louder.

"NO GOOD COPS BETTER GET OUTA HERE! I AIN'T GOIN' DOWN FOR KILLIN' NO LITTLE HOOKER!"

Dobey was talking to Garcia, Moran, and the SWAT team when I approached. "Captain!" I shouted, loud enough for Clarence to hear. "Get SWAT out of here!" Dobey turned on me like a bull. "Who the hell do you think you are, Hutchinson?" "YOU WANT ME TO KILL THE KID?" Clarence screamed. "HUH? WANT ME TO?"

Benji screamed louder, a shrill sound that pierced my heart like an arrow.

"We've got a negotiator on the way," Dobey said. "Won't work," I said. "The baby's as good as dead."

"You think you can do any better?"

"He knows me." I looked toward the window. "He doesn't like me. But he knows me. We have a link . . . Sunny . . . I think it's our only chance."

Dobey looked at the other detectives, at Starsky, SWAT, and then at me. "It's all yours."

I looked around at the show of force.

"Get out of here," I told them. "Put your guns away, get in your vehicles, and get out of here."

They all looked at Dobey, who nodded approval.

While everyone except the crowd was leaving, I walked over to Starsky, whose eyes were fastened onto the baby.

"You too, partner," I said gently. "You might be the trigger he's looking for."

His head moved in a negative motion-(I can't leave)-

"You have to." I squeezed his arm. "For Benji."

Dobey came over and escorted him to his sedan.

When they were all gone, I took my gun out and placed it on the hood of the Torino, then walked across the dusty lot with my hands raised chest-level. I looked up at the window.

"I sent them away so we can talk."

It had been enough to show him that I was in control of the situation and was in a position to "help" him with that control, not overpower him with it.

He aimed his gun at me, away from the baby.

"You remember me, Clarence?"

The man's dark forehead gleamed with perspiration, his eyes wild with drugs and fear.

He laughed-a high, nervous sound-unlike his usual relaxed self.

"You better get outa here, cop."

He was so stoned and out of control, I wondered if he really DID remember me.

"I asked you a question, Clarence. Do you remember me?"

He stared at me for a long time, and then laughed-this time a sound closer to the laugh he usually carried-a short, carefree cackle-I knew that he did.

"How could I forget the fuzz who shot his own partner? My lucky break, man. For real."

I nodded, trying to keep my eyes off the baby and on his face.

Benji was losing steam. His loud, strong cry was now a hoarse, weak whimper.

He wasn't fighting anymore. Wasn't even trembling. His eyes were dazed.

"Clarence," I said calmly, keeping my hands open, "we can talk about everything. You, Sunny, your baby . . . but he's sick, and he's scared, and you need to let him go to a doctor." I licked my lips. "We can't help Sunny now, but we can help the baby."

"She didn't tell me," he said. "She didn't tell me I had a kid."

"I know, Clarence."

I forced my hands to freeze chest-high. They wanted to reach up for the baby. He was only about twelve feet away from me.

"Clarence, let me have him, and we'll talk. Don't use him as a shield. There's nobody here to hurt you. You don't need him for that anymore. Come on."

"No. I give you the baby, you'll kill me."

I shook my head. "No. That's not why I'm here. I don't want to kill you. I want to help you." I opened my jacket. "See? No gun. Now just . . . just let me have him. Gently. Let him go."

"No, man. I killed her."

"Because you loved her."

He ran a shaky gun-hand across his perspiring upper lip. "She didn't understand. I took her in. I loved her. I was her daddy. I'm the only one who ever took care of her. And she loved me back."

"Clarence, I know she loved you. She told me she did. So that's something you can feel good about."

"No, man. If she loved me, she wouldn't leave me. She wouldn't take my kid."

"Listen. If . . . if you bring the baby down, I'll see what I can do about a lighter sentence."

"Ain't doin' no time, man."

"Clarence, listen to me. I sent the other cops away for you, didn't I?"

He looked around, as if noticing their absence for the first time. He was out of it. A live grenade. He nodded his head yes.

"I didn't let SWAT storm into the building after you, did I?"

He shook his head no.

"Then you've got to believe me when I say I'm on your side. We'll make a deal. You'll have to do some time-"

"I ain't doin' no time-"

"But I'll talk to the prosecutor about an easier stretch. I'll tell them you cooperated with me. I'll tell them you saved the baby."

"Oh, man . . . " He rubbed his gun-hand across his sweating brow.

If his sweaty hand slipped . . . if he stumbled . . .

Benji was coming around again. He saw me, and seemed to know who I was, because his cry picked up and he started waving his arms around again.

"Clarence, if you won't bring him down, then just let go of him."

Clarence was getting nervous.

Decision-making time.

To trust, or not to trust.

"Clarence . . . you remember my name?"

"Hutchinson."

"Right. And I've been doing police work for some time now. And I think if you talk to anybody I've dealt with, they'll tell you I'm fair. I may be hard, but I'm fair. And I'm offering you a fair deal."

He snorted laughter. "Sunny said you were a knight in shining armor. Man, she never talked about nobody the way she talked about you and what's his-"

(God, don't say his name, don't get off on a subject that will set you off)

"I'm a man of my word too, Clarence. If I say I'll help you, I'll help you. I don't do it very often. But when something like this baby's life is at stake . . . I think you know where I'm coming from." I looked around at the crowd, who was as intrigued as an audience at outdoor theatre. And, I guess, that's what it was. "Could you people do this baby a favor and leave? Just leave, okay?"

I thought I'd have to get surly with them, but to my surprise, they left right away.

When it was just me standing there, I looked back up at Clarence. "I can get you something to drink. Or a smoke. Or a bite of food. We can talk some more, about your options. But first I'd like it if you let me have the baby. Then you can come down, or I can come up. And it'll be just me and you till we can get this worked out. You can walk calmly and safely to the police car, and ride with me down to the station. You can write your confession. You can tell me about Sunny. I'll hook you up with a good attorney. You'll go to one of the better joints. I'll see to it. Maybe even a psych hospital where you can get some help."

"All that for . . . " He regarded the baby as if he were an object. "Just for this little runt?"

I nodded, my hands moving up a little higher. "He deserves a chance, Clarence. He'll be well cared for. Have a good home. Sunny would want that. Don't you? You're not a heartless man, are you? They say you can find good in everyone."

He licked his dry lips. "No deal, man."

My heart turned to sawdust. "What do you mean?"

"Told you I ain't goin' to no jail. Here's the deal: I walk. You let me walk, I let him go."

I looked up at the baby's face. His eyes were closing again. Coughing weakly.

"Okay, Clarence," I said finally, my arms going a little higher. "Walk. Get out of here. Just let me have him."

He let go of Benji's ankle, and I caught him in my arms when he fell like a limp bundle of blankets.

"Thank you," I said as I looked up at him, then turned and walked toward the Torino, holding the small body inside my jacket to warm him, not looking back to see where Clarence was or what he was doing, and not caring.

"Hutchinson!"

I heard his voice and turned, seeing his pistol aimed at me.

"Nobody takes my baby," he said.

I grabbed my gun off the hood of the Torino and ducked behind it just as the gunshot sounded and the bullet whizzed over my head.

To my relief and amazement, Starsky was already crouching there, and he rose up to return fire, the slug hitting his head and chipping out a good portion of the left side.

The pistol fell from Clarence's hand and he slumped forward, dead over the windowsill, blood and brain smattering two-stories down to the ground.

Starsky and I still crouched behind the car. He put his gun away and put his arms around the both of us and pulled us close. "You two okay?"

"I'm fine," I said when I finally found my voice. "But Benji needs a hospital."

Now that it was over, I was drained, void of any physical or emotional strength. A moment ago I could have scaled the side of that apartment building to get the baby. Now I couldn't even stand up.

"Here, buddy," he said as he helped me up. "You did it, huh?"

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Dehydrated. Exhausted. A little shaken," the doctor told us. "But he's strong. He'll be fine."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky and I stood in the nursery of the pediatric ward. The nurses said we couldn't hold Benji yet, and he was sound asleep in the little crib, but that didn't stop us from sticking a finger into his little fists for him to hang onto.

Starsky had gotten a wind-up musical lamb and placed it in the crib near him.

"Why'd you come back after I told you to leave?" I whispered to him across the baby bed.

He gave a small shrug. "I'll always be your back-up, Hutch."

I put my hand out across the crib to him. "Thanks, partner."

He gripped my hand and smiled. "My pleasure."

XXXXXXXXX++

We made sure Benji was his usual bouncy self before we left the hospital, then took him straight to a hamburger stand where Starsky and I fed him some banana milkshake at a picnic table. He still had a nasty bruise around his ankle, but Starsky held him and kissed it over and over and over, until the baby was giggling and pulling handfuls of his hair again.

"Doesn't he have a baby carrier to lay in?" a lady asked us sternly as she walked by, pushing her own baby in a stroller.

"Well, um," Starsky told her, "we like carryin' him instead."

"He'll get spoiled that way."

"Good. We want to spoil him."

She made a "hmpf" sound and went on her way.

Starsky grinned at me, then cooed at Benji and handed him a ring of plastic, colored car keys to play with.

"Rhonda will be here soon," I said as I dipped the straw into the shake, then let Benji suckle off the end of it.

Starsky shaded Benji's face with his hand. "I know."

"And you know who's coming with her."

"Yep."

"So, you know, what do you think?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. She helped Sunny raise him. But unless she reforms . . . and unless this new guy of hers is a saint . . ."

"Okay. Rhonda has her faults. But she's giving up the lifestyle, Starsk. She wants to adopt Benji. Getting married to that airline pilot she's been seeing. He can't have kids. Neither do drugs. Don't smoke. Healthy as horses. They'll live nearby. You could visit Benji anytime you want to."

"I don't know . . . "

"I think we should give them a chance."

"To screw up?"

"To make it. We'll let them have visits, see how it goes. If they look like a good couple, we'll get the legal papers drawn up."

"Right now he's in my custody."

"I know. And nobody can take him from you."

"The judge said his placement's up to me."

"Right. He did say that."

"So that means I can raise him, or someone I deem as fit."

"Yes. That's what that means."

"And don't think I didn't have Rhonda and her new man checked out."

"I don't doubt it for a minute."

We heard the important clicking of high heels and turned to see Rhonda coming our way, her short, slinky dress discarded in favor of flowery summer one. Still a knockout. She was pushing a stroller, with her fiancée, a young fresh-faced guy in a trim haircut and polo shirt, in tow.

"Ken, Dave, I want you to meet Mark Henry."

I shook his hand first. Starsky did too, finally.

Rhonda leaned over Benji, who shook his car keys at her and laughed happily.

"Hi, sweetie," she said as she held her hands out to him.

The baby kicked and waved like he always did when he was excited about seeing someone he liked.

"At least he's not cringing in fear," Starsky grumbled as he grudgingly placed Benji in her arms.

"No way," she said as she smooched his cheek. "Davey knows me, don't you, Davey?"

He bounced in excitement and fingered her earrings.

"We call him Benjie," Starsky said grumpily.

"Benji. Davey. Either one."

Starsky looked at the pilot. "This is just a visit, get it? To see how it goes."

"Oh, I understand. We'll do everything by your terms."

"Not all at once."

"Yes. Gradual. Like you said. Lots of weekend visits."

"And if I don't like you, for whatever reason . . . no more visits."

"Oh, sure. I understand. We'll cooperate in any way you want."

"And I want to see your house."

"Of course."

"And I want to meet your family."

"Yes. I'll arrange that."

"And I can make surprise visits whenever I want to, just to make sure things are goin' okay."

"Yes, we're agreeable to that." He drew Rhonda to his side and kissed her, then touched his finger to the baby's nose. "Hi, guy."

Starsky studied him, like he really wanted to find a reason not to like him. He was cautious, but we needed to be that way.

Rhonda started to put him in the stroller, but Starsky leaned over and kissed Benji on the cheek. "Love ya, baby."

Benji grabbed fistfuls of his hair again and put his open, banana shake mouth on Starsky's cheek in a sloppy baby kiss.

Rhonda uncurled the baby's hands from his hair and settled him into the stroller. "Come on, Davey. Let's go for a walk."

"Be back in one hour," Starsky told them.

"We'll be sure of it," Mark said tapping his watch. "Thanks."

I noticed a tear in Starsky's eye as he watched them go down the street.

"It's going to be okay, Starsk," I told him as I patted his back. "I think Sunny would be happy about the way things turned out, don't you?"

End

KIKO'S CHOICE (Running Missing Scene)

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch put on his sunglasses, then I watched him go to his car and leave with Starsky.

When they were gone, my friends came back over to talk to me.

"Get rid of him, Kiko?" one of them asked me.

I still sat on the wooden planks and picked around at my shoestring. "Sure," I answered back with a shrug, trying to toughen up my voice. "Just a cop, you know?"

One of my friends lit a cigarette. "Yeah, man. Can't hang around cops. Gives us a bad name." He held a cigarette out to me. "Want a smoke?"

I looked around like Hutch was still there. Feeling pretty guilty. But so what? I was with my friends every single day. Hutch came around only once in a while. Sometimes he'd bring my mom a box of groceries, sometimes he'd stick some money into a greeting card.

"Oh, no, Detective Hutchinson," she'd say, her pride wanting to give it back. She wanted to make it on her own so bad. But with my father gone, we were even poorer than we were before he left. "That's too much. Kiko and I will get along fine."

But he'd just smile and leave it inside the box of groceries on his way out.

After he was gone, I heard her say "Gracias" as she kissed the card and looked heavenward. "For sending that nice policeman our way."

Mom felt bad having to take it. My father was in jail and couldn't help out. She felt guilty and ashamed.

Hutch's police department had a Big Brother program for "at risk kids", and I lived in Hutch's neighborhood, so that's how we got hooked up. But even before that, Hutch knew me and was friendly. It was when my father went to jail that he became my official Big Brother.

Whenever Hutch gave us something and my mother protested, it was Starsky who said, "It's okay, Ma'am. It's for the kid," to sort of make it easier for mom to take it.

Starsky was something else.

One minute telling Hutch they couldn't stay long at our house because they had to get back to the station, and the next sticking one of his candy bars in my shirt pocket.

And he always eyed me like he had me figured out, long before I had myself figured out.

Starsky and I were alike in some ways-upbringing and such. Raised mostly by a mom. Not so much money to spare.

I took the cigarette from my friend and lit up.

They laughed when I started coughing. It was my first time.

I laughed, wondering why I even cared what Hutch would think.

We walked to my house, and I left my mother a note saying I was going to spend a few days at my friends' house. She worked nights as a cleaning lady in a big hotel, so she didn't mind that I had somebody to stay with. It beat staying by myself at nights.

For the next few days, me and my friends hung out on the street. Their parents didn't care where they were or what they were doing. We spent time smoking, trying beer, listening to music, dodging dope pushers and junkies in alleyways-"Want to shoot up, kiddo?"

I was too embarrassed to say that an ex-cop friend of mine made me swear never to touch the stuff.

"No, man. Stuff makes me puke."

Like I'd tried it.

I'd rather lie than just tell them I didn't want to let Hutch down. I'd never forget the look on his face when he told me to stay away from drugs-a sound-angry love-in his voice . . . almost like he knew for real what it was like.

But he couldn't know for real. He was a cop, and cops didn't take drugs. At least, not good cops like Hutch. So I knew he was just trying to scare me real good.

Starsky's M.O. was more direct: "Touch that stuff and I'll kick your ass."

Me and my friends dodged perverts too. Offers to be in movies. Offers of money if we'd take a ride in some fancy cars.

My friends wanted to go. They'd never ridden in a Lincoln Continental before.

"Man, it's easy money."

"Are you serious?" I said as I pulled my friend back onto the sidewalk. "Hutch told me to keep away from people like this, that all they want to do is hurt you and kill you."

My friends looked at me like I was nuts. "You kiddin, Kiko? Turn down money? You ain't no richer than us."

But I must've gotten through to them, because they finally just walked away from the fancy car, which took off in a hurry after we turned them down.

I followed them down the sidewalk.

They were walking in a different direction from our normal route, and talking secretly to each other like they were mad at me and were leaving me out of things.

"What's up?" I asked as I walked faster to keep up.

"Initiation," one of them said. "We don't think you really want to be with us, so you're gonna have to prove your loyalty."

"Markie . . . Bobby . . . I've done everything with you guys. You know you're my friends."

They kept walking, and I kept following.

"Initiation," Markie repeated.

"Just name it. I'll do it."

They cut across some streets, took a few turns, until we were at the police station where Hutch and Starsky worked.

The Torino was parked at the front door. Markie put a knife in my hand. "Cut his tires."

I looked at the knife in my hand, then the tires. It was hard telling how much those cool tires cost,

and cops didn't make a lot of money. Plus, I knew how much Starsky loved that car. It was his baby.

I looked at the faces of my friends.

"You like cops?" Markie asked. "You want to be one when you grow up? You're actin' like one."

I looked at the tires again.

Starsky would never find out.

I could slash them in a second and we'd be gone.

Hutch would never know about it.

And my friends would see that I was one of them.

I could get away with it.

I could.

But I didn't want to.

I couldn't do that to Hutch's friend. Cop or no cop.

Friends or no friends.

I handed the knife back.

"No way," I said, feeling sort of bad that I was losing my friends, but sort of good that I still had Hutch. "I can't do that to Hutch's friend."

"Chicken," Markie said as he tucked the knife away. "Should've known you were a cop lover. Geek."

So I didn't know what else to do as I stood there and watched my so-called friends walk away.

I felt sort of lonesome, but knew I was right doing the right thing.

I wondered if this was what Hutch meant about making good choices.

Sometimes good choices were the hardest to make.

I went home to my mother, who was cooking dinner for me and pacing at the same time, her hands wringing out her apron.

"Kiko!" she cried as she threw her arms around me. "Bambino, I've been so worried about you."

I patted her back. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

She pulled a chair out for me and began dishing out a plate of baked beans and franks and a salad.

Hutch had gotten Mom hooked on salads.

"We just have a few minutes before I go back to work," she said as she poured some iced tea from a pitcher into our glasses. "Hutch stopped by to see you. He said to tell you hello, and that you should drop by when you get the chance."

Really?

After I didn't want him to be my Big Brother anymore?

After I picked my friends over him?

"Can I go to his house?" I asked her.

"After you eat."

My mother kept looking at me. She knew I'd picked my friends over Hutch. She's the one that told Hutch I didn't want him for a Big Brother anymore.

I ate my meal in silence, thinking about my ex-friends, and Hutch, wondering if he'd even want to talk to me, wondering how to say what I needed to say. And maybe I wouldn't say it all: How it wasn't my buddies who showed me what friendship was all about. It was Hutch and Starsky. How they stood by each other no matter what. Thick and thin. They wouldn't let each other go down. Not without a fight. They held each other up.

And that's the kind of friend Hutch was to me. Except that it wasn't something he'd come right out and say. Finding out who my real friends were, was something I had to learn on my own.

Lessons you learn all by yourself are the ones that mean the most.

So, when I finally got up the nerve, I started for his cottage.

End

REVISITED (Death Camp II)

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky and Hutch stepped over the yellow police tape that cordoned off the crime scene at the delicatessen.

"What is it?" the dark-haired detective asked a uniform as he and Hutch walked into the deli.

"Owner and his wife," the uniform answered. "Steinbergs."

Hutch looked at Starsky. "Jewish? Again?"

The uniform's eyes lit up. "Pattern?"

"Reachin'," Starsky answered as he glimpsed the red-stained apron of the deli owner and his wife behind the counter.

The police photographer stepped up to get some shots, while the crime lab dusted for fingerprints.

Hutch looked at the cash register, then back at the rookie. "Robbery?"

"Money's still in the drawer."

Hutch glanced at Starsky again. "Still reaching?"

"Too soon to be assuming what you're assuming."

"We have to assume everything." Hutch looked at the uniform's older partner. "Witnesses?"

He pointed to a young teenage couple wearing spiked colored hair and studded leather clothes that were with a reporter.

"Great," Starsky muttered as they walked toward the cameraman. "The TV audience get the scoop before we do." He covered the lens with his hand while Hutch steered the young couple aside.

"Want fifteen minutes of fame?" the blond asked. "Solve this crime. What did you see?"

The newsman turned his camera toward them, and Starsky pulled his badge. "You can be a help or a hindrance. Your choice."

The cameraman skulked away to tape another bystander. The punker ran his gloved hand through blue glitter hair. Both he and his girlfriend spoke in heavy Cockney accent. "Me and Macey were back there getting' some munchies, y'see, when we hear those freaks comin' in all hyped up on their camouflage and machine guns."

The girl bit down on a purple fingernail. "We thought it was the bleedin' National Guard."

"What did they say?" Hutch asked.

"They said they were goin' to finish the job."

Macey nibbled on her purple nail. "That's it."

"Hear any names?" Starsky asked.

"Afraid not."

"See their faces?"

"Not behind all that camo paint."

Hutch slid an agitated hand through his hair. "Did they see you?"

"Of course they saw us. They told us to get on the floor. So we did."

Macey nodded. "You don't argue with the National Guard, now do you?"

Hutch knocked a display of canned food onto the floor. "They're not the damn National Guard. Could they recognize you again?"

"We're a blinkin' beacon, what with our hair and all. 'Course they could recognize us again."

"They threaten you?" Starsky asked.

"No."

"Aim the gun in your direction?"

"No. Look, why are you so hung up on US?"

Hutch lowered his voice. "We're as interested in who DIDN'T get murdered as we are in who did." He turned and left the teenagers standing, elbowing through the cops and reporters.

"Hutch," Starsky said following him, "I know what you're thinkin'."

"Good. Why aren't you thinking it too?" He walked outside and stepped over the yellow tape, starting for the Torino.

"Because I don't want to jump to conclusions, light a fuse that may not be there."

Hutch spun on him. "How many more victims, Starsky, with the name Feldman or Weinberg or Feinstein have to die before you wake up?"

"Come on. Dobey doesn't even think there's a thread."

"I do now," Dobey said behind them.

They turned to see their superior approaching. "I just got off the phone with the Commissioner, who's compiling reports from all over the state, if not the country, about these new ARIAN group activities. He says it should be high priority, and to not rule out hate crimes in this case."

Hutch gave Starsky a satisfied smirk. "Thank you, Captain."

"Which leads to why I'm here," Dobey continued. "I'm turning the Steinberg case over to Beasley and Howe. I have a special assignment for you, which is relevant to the ARIAN movement we've been talking about."

"Why don't you just say 'ARIAN crimes', Captain?" Hutch asked. "Because that's what they are. Not a movement. That sounds like a college campus rally."

"Call it whatever you want. They're growing and getting stronger. Money, arms, organization. In response to the recent deaths-"

"Massacres."

"-in the Jewish communities, ALL of our community leaders are banding together to make the public more aware of the problem. Our best politicians, writers, educators, and spiritual leaders are spreading ARIAN-awareness messages. But Professor Meyers-"

Hutch's eyebrows went up. "Yale."

"Yes. He's going even one step farther with his message. He advocates-"

"Peace," Hutch supplied. "Non-violence. Forgiveness. Acceptance of all. Non-hatred. He speaks . . ."

Looking at Starsky: " . . . not just for the Jewish people, but for blacks, women, gays, the disenfranchised. He stands for political and religious freedoms of all kinds. A total lack of discrimination, if you can find such a thing. If there were ever a man to put on a pedestal, it's him."

Starsky smiled. "You all done?"

Hutch smiled back, for the first time that day.

"So," Starsky asked the captain, "what's our special assignment got to do with Professor Meyers?"

"He IS your special assignment. Tomorrow he's giving a speech on the UCLA campus, in light of recent hate crimes. The governor tried to get him to postpone it until after the ruckus died down, but he insisted this was the time. He said peace couldn't wait that long."

"And?"

"And he's going ahead with it. The governor has asked the commissioner, who has asked me, to assign two men for his protection while he's speaking. We don't expect any trouble, but if these groups show up . . . this will be the first time he's ever had bodyguards. The deans wouldn't allow the speech otherwise. Meyers is a humble man. All the fuss makes him uncomfortable."

"So will a bullet if somebody wants to get to him," Starsky said.

"Interesting," Hutch said. "I'm up for it. You, Starsk?"

"Sure. Be neat to meet somebody like that."

"We offered to put him up at the Gallante Hotel, but he insisted on a modest room." He handed Hutch a slip of paper bearing an address. "Like I said, Beasley and Howe can take over the Steinberg investigation until Meyers leaves town."

Hutch read the address, then put it in his pocket. "So, we're finished here?"

"For now. Get out of here."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"Ah, my bodyguards," the gentle old professor with the long, wise beard said as he opened his hotel room door. "May I see some identifica-"

Starsky and Hutch produced their badge and ID wallet, even while the old man stared at them.

Hutch gave him a curious look. "I'm Detective Hutchinson. This is-"

"David," the professor said as he took his round spectacles from the breast pocket of his worn pinstriped suit and slipped them on. He examined Starsky closely, the way one would examine a painting to see if it were real or a forgery. Every inch of his face. Deep into his eyes.

"David Starsky," Starsky finished. "Hutch told me all about you."

Hutch folded his wallet and slipped it back inside his hip pocket. "Something wrong, Professor?"

The old man's stare moved to Hutch.

"Oh," he said with a hand reaching for a chair next to the dresser.

Hutch helped him sit down. "Are you all right? You look faint."

Starsky went for the bathroom for a Dixie cup of water and brought it back. "Here," he said putting it in the old man's arthritic-knobbed hand. "It's a little warm in here." He fanned the man with a Life magazine he got from atop the dresser. "Maybe you're more spooked about tomorrow than you realized. After what Hutch told me, and after we see what happens to visionaries in our country, you have a right to be a little nervous."

"I . . . " Meyers merely held the water. When it began to slosh in his hand, Starsky took it and set it on the dresser.

Hutch walked around the room looking behind the pictures, pulling out drawers, checking closets. "Looking for wires," he explained calmly. "Notice anyone following you? Do you have a gun? We have a bullet-proof vest for you down in the car."

The old professor was still staring, his eyes lingering on Hutch now-using all of his senses, even smell, to assess him.

"If you want to reschedule your speech for another place," Starsky told him, "another time, with all these Arian crazies runnin' around, everyone will understand . . . "

The old man's eyes settled on Starsky again, who crouched on one knee as if at the throne of a king. "David . . . "

Professor Meyers clamped a hand over Starsky's forearm, causing Hutch to watch closely, and when he did, it was then that Starsky looked down and saw the faint tattooed numbers on his wrist.

"Auschwitz," the old man said softly, when he saw them looking, and reached for his water. He took a small sip.

Hutch approached the professor. "Are you all right?"

The eyes of many old years looked up at him. "I buried them both," he said quietly. . "After they killed him. And . . . the camp guard."

They waited to see if he would finish.

Professor Meyers grasped Starsky's wrist and looked at it, searching for numbers. "David . . . "

Starsky didn't pull his wrist back. Instead, he looked up at Hutch from his crouched position.

"He brought me extra food," the old man finally said. "All the time."

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a look of sympathy-(Confusion from the heat)-their eyes exchanged. (He's old. Worried about tomorrow. Revisiting some of the old memories)

Starsky asked carefully, "Do you need us to call somebody? A doctor? Family?"

Meyers removed his glasses, folded them, and put them away. Then his fingers massaged his forehead. "No, no, I'm fine, young ones. Don't worry about me. I'm fine."

"Maybe we should go out to an air-conditioned restaurant," Hutch suggested.

"Our treat," Starsky told him. "You can tell us what it's like being so famous."

For the first time since their arrival, the old man relaxed, and gave them a small smile. "It is nice seeing the two of you again."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Soothing music and good-smelling food surrounded them in the restaurant. They sat at a back table where the detectives could watch the door.

"How did you get out of the camp?" Starsky asked as he cut into his steak. "If you don't mind me askin'. Escape?"

"No," the professor replied pulling off a bit of roll. "The rest of us were liberated." He sipped his wine. "But I would rather talk about you. Detective Sergeant First-Class. Captain Dobey sent his best, yes?"

"Depends on who you ask," Hutch said with a grin.

"You are partners?"

"Yes."

"Friends?"

"Yes."

The old man set his wine glass down. "How did you find each other?"

Hutch gave the man another curious look, then glanced at Starsky. "Why all the questions, Professor?"

"I am nosey, no?"

"It's okay," Starsky told him. "We're nosey all the time."

Meyers looked at Hutch again, with a hint of persistence in his tone as he asked, "How did you find each other?"

"Well, see," Starsky answered, "we met in Vietnam. He was a field medic."

"Actually, he saved my life there," Hutch told him. "We kept in touch. Joined the academy together."

Starsky smiled. "Good partners are hard to find."

Meyers raised his glass. "To partners."

Starsky and Hutch raised their glasses to toast. "To partners."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The auditorium was packed with an eager audience the next day.

Professor Meyers stood onstage behind the podium in another pin-striped suit, Starsky at his left elbow, Hutch at his right, both in black suits and ties. The detectives' eyes scanned the faces, the movements, the expressions, for the slightest ruffle of disturbance.

The old man slipped his glasses on and opened his notes.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I came here today to speak for peace. For a world of forgiveness. A world where . . . " He squeezed the back of Hutch's neck with one hand, the back of Starsky's with the other. "Where we see no differences."

End

TO HONOR AND CHERISH

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

I knew Hutch was sick, and he did too. We thought it was some kind of nasty virus-(no, don't say that word plague)-(don't think it)-but it didn't seem to get any better.

He looked peaked and tired.

"All-nighter with Maureen, huh?" I kidded him one day in the squad room.

He just smiled from his desk and shook his head.

I poured him a cup of coffee. "Takin' your vitamins?"

"Every day."

"Iron?"

"Every day."

"Health drinks?"

He gave a lame shrug. "When I'm hungry."

"I noticed that you don't even eat half your sandwiches."

"That's because you eat the other half."

"Hey, come on. Don't avoid the subject. Gonna see the doctor?"

"Nah. It'll pass."

Big boy. Stoic.

As he sat there passing a hand down his pale face.

Things changed. He got paler and weaker.

Dobey asked him at least every other day if he felt all right, and of course Hutch told him he did.

I took over the driving every day, with picking him up for work, and, for a change, HE was the one who was sleeping late. Usually I'd tease him about somethin' like that, but this time I couldn't. Something just didn't seem right. Some mornings I'd have to pull him out of bed and wash his face off with a cold, wet cloth just to get him out the door.

I'd steady him at the door-"Hutch, you okay?"

"Fine."

-steady him at the car-"Hutch, what's the matter?"

"Just a bug, Starsk."

-steady him at Huggy's-cover for him on the street, doing most of the talking, interviewing, arresting.

I covered for him at the station too. Typed all the reports, took and made all the phone calls, took all the complaints. Not that I minded it. Of course I didn't. It just told me how sick he really was,

because there was no way he'd let me carry all the load otherwise.

One day I saw him sleeping at the squad room desk. Gently I shook his shoulder. "Hutch, why are you here?"

He raised his head and blinked at me. "Huh?"

"You should be home in bed. Or better, at the doctor. Come on. I'll go with you."

"Starsk, don't start that with me. I'm just tired."

He put his head back down.

I fought the urge to give him a shake. He looked like he'd fall to pieces if I did. Hutch didn't even bother to raise his head when Dobey stepped out of his office. "Starsky," he asked as he waggled a pencil in his hand. "Come with me." I followed him out into the hall.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"Well, you damn well better be finding out. He looks like something the cat dragged in."

"Cap, I tried. He won't-"

"Just do it. He's no good to you on the street in his condition."

Cap was right. As tough as Hutch was, me working with a sick partner was dangerous. For him.

Me. Both of us.

When I turned to go back into the squad room, he took my arm. "And report back to me. Got it?" I looked at him.

(That in the rule book, Cap? Thought you weren't supposed to get personal with your underlings?)

"Okay," I smiled. "I'll report back."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

"Hutch," I said when I went back in and sat down in my chair across from him at our desk, "Cap says get your tail to a doctor."

Hutch didn't answer. He just got up and made his wobbly way out the door.

Slam.

I'd bugged him about a doctor one too many times.

I waited a few minutes, knowing he couldn't have gone far on foot, and wasn't up to driving, but he didn't come back.

So I went looking for him, and found him standing in the men's room, just leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.

"Hutch?" I asked quietly as I approached him.

God, he was asleep on his feet. Didn't even hear my question. He just slid down the wall.

"Hutch!"

I caught him under the arms and eased him to a sitting position against the wall, then crouched to talk to him. "Hutch, I'm callin' an ambulance. I don't care what you say."

He moved his head no.

"You can't go on like this. Somethin's bad wrong. I don't know what it is, but you have to-"

"Cancer," he whispered with his head down.

The silence in the men's room weighed a ton. I was so stunned I couldn't say anything.

"I didn't," he whispered again. Talking was such an effort for him. Even a few words. "I didn't want you to know."

My face flushed hot and deep, my guts fell to my feet. I jumped up and kicked the stall doors, making a lot of racket.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?"

He put his hand to his eyes.

Oh God. I had to pull it back in. I couldn't do this to him. He couldn't even sit up. He was sinking onto his side and closing his eyes, his hand inching toward me on the floor.

Of course I knew why he didn't tell me. He didn't want me to worry. He didn't want it to change things-with the job, me, him, anything. He wanted, dear God, to protect me from it. He wanted to keep things the way they were, for as long as he could.

I dove to sit him up.

"Hutch?"

A tentative question. Afraid to ask. Afraid to know.

"Hutch, I'm sorry. Forget what I said. I know why you didn't tell me. You weren't ready. You wanted to keep me from hurting. But buddy, you can't hide it anymore. Look at you. It's okay. You can let go. Give it to me, okay? Okay? Let me have some of it."

And he started bawlin' right there, defenses down, too weak to stop or care. Cryin', in my opinion, more from relief than from pain.

A couple of uniforms came in.

"OUT!" I yelled over my shoulder, and they went out.

XXXXXXXXX++

I had to call an ambulance for him.

His doctor, Ronald Reed, a guy who looked too old to be a doctor but seemed to know what he was doing, the one who had diagnosed him weeks before and was treating him, met with me in the hall outside Hutch's hospital room.

"I don't know what keeps the man on his feet," he said with a sad smile. He looked like Cary Grant in his old years, with the white hair and sturdy black glasses.

"Hutch is the strongest person I know," I told him, and I didn't tone down the pride in my voice. "He's got a lot of vitamins and health food and meditation and positive energy to see him through this."

Dr. Reed shook his head. "I'm sorry, Detective Starsky. But it's going to take a little more than that. And there are no guarantees."

I got quiet. In my head, I knew he was being honest. But in my heart, I wanted him to be wrong.

"We never rule out miracles," Reed said.

"Right," I told him. "They have new treatments now. Chemotherapy. Drugs. Patients can even go into remission. You'll see. You'll see the Hutch I'm talkin' about."

I wanted to feel hope, not desperation. I wanted a happy ending, not a bad one.

"His chemotherapy will start tomorrow," he told me.

"See? You wait, Doc. He's pulled through a lot of bad stuff."

I could tick them off to him on my fingers if I'd wanted to-the addiction Forest forced on him, trapped under a car in the canyon, the plague, a bullet near the heart from a teenage girl-Hutch had pulled through it all-but it was none of the doc's business.

If he didn't have faith in his own patient, how could he expect Hutch to have any?

"Maybe we need a second opinion," I said.

Reed patted my arm, his demeanor always gentle but firm.

"Tomorrow morning," he said again.

XXXXXXXXX++

I stepped into Hutch's hospital room and slammed the door.

He was sitting up in the bed, as pale as his white hospital gown.

"All right," I said pulling his clothes from the closet and tossing them onto his lap. "Come on. We're gettin out of here."

He stared at me like I was nuts. "Starsky, I just can't leave the hospital. I'm scheduled for chemotherapy in the-"

"DON'T SAY THAT WORD!"

"Starsk-"

I went to the bed and lowered the handrail. "Come on. These quacks don't know what they're talkin' about. They got all kinds of alternative treatments comin' out. Herbs. Health food. Home remedies. Crystals. Potions. Charms. Hell. Even voodoo or that bloodless surgery might work, huh?. All kinds of newfangled-"

He snatched my wrist with a moment of the Hutchlike strength I was used to and admired.

"Starsk," he said trying to pin me with his eyes. "Look at me."

I didn't. He had my wrist and I was trying to pry out of his grip.

"Starsky!"

I looked at him, and saw the weight he was carrying in his eyes, and in his whisper: "All we can do is chemotherapy."

I finally jerked my wrist free, sick at his too-weak grip. "So what," I said with a swallow as I lowered my voice to match his. "We just quit? This is it?"

"I'm not quitting," he said. "I'm going to take my treatments. But we have to face the possibility-"

"No way," I said walking toward the door. "You face it."

Too heavy. Too much.

I shouldn't have said it. I know.

I know I should have stayed with him. I know.

But I couldn't.

His voice behind me, weak: "Starsk, I think I need you here in the morning . . . "

But I went on out.

I had to go.

I could feel his eyes on me, even when I walked outside the hospital and down the street.

I didn't have to look to know he was watching me out the window, to see if I was okay.

But my feet couldn't just walk.

Nor my mind.

I had to run.

Fast and hard.

And as far away from the hospital, and Reed, and cancer, and Hutch's eyes, as I could.

But I couldn't run away from myself.

Cancer. Chemotherapy. Terminal.

Those words and Hutch did not compute.

This was Hutch we were talkin' about. A hundred pushups a day. A runner. Health conscious. Lover of life. A giver. Strong. Compassionate. Talented.

Why?

Why be on this earth if somethin' like cancer is just gonna rob it all?

Why get close to someone if all they're gonna do is die on you before their time?

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A drink.

A nice long one.

A nice strong one.

Well, actually, a bottle.

Diane gave it to me at Huggy's. She didn't want to. I insisted. And loudly too. And with Huggy not around to protest, there was nothin' she could do about it except give it to me.

"Starsk," she said laying a tender hand on my forearm, "Hug told me about Hutch. I'm sorry. But don't you think you need-"

"Shut up. You don't know what I need, so just back off."

She did, retreating behind the bar to cry over a menu like I couldn't see her.

Cad. I didn't console her. I drank some more. And then some more.

Until my mind was a blur. Until I was falling off the stool and busting my eye open on the way down to the floor.

"Hey, man!" Huggy growled as he jerked me to my feet. "What gives with you, huh? You come here and get smashed so I can talk some sense into that crazy head of yours?"

"Man with the plan," I muttered as I tried to stumble away.

Huggy dragged me through the bar, with everyone looking, and into the back alley by the trashcans.

"What you pullin', dude? Look at you. Hutch is gonna start treatments tomorrow. He needs you. And look at you. Some chump friend you are. He'd be there with you."

"Oh yeah!" I cried into his face. "Lay it on me, Huggy! Let me have it!"

And he did.

I didn't see his punch comin', but I did see an explosion of white color in my head, and I figured it was him.

XXXXXXXXX++

The hospital staff gave me the eye when I trudged in the next morning in the same clothes I'd had on the day before. Except today my shirt sported the smell of liquor and some bloodstains where I'd fallen off the barstool like a common wino and Huggy had to punch my lights out.

Battle scars.

David Starsky at war with cancer.

At war with the death of his best friend.

And with himself.

I didn't feel like I could win the first two, but I could the last one, and I was here to prove it.

Hutch was waiting for me in his wheelchair in the hallway outside of the chemotherapy room. He'd told them not to start the treatments without me.

"See?" he said as he looked up smugly at Reed. "Told you he'd come."

He knew I'd be there, even when I didn't know myself.

"You okay, Starsk?"

"Had a disagreement with a bar. And then a bartender."

He raised an arm to me from the wheelchair and pulled me down, liquor smell, bloodstained shirt, war wounds and all.

"Glad you're here," he said into my shirt collar. "God, I'm scared."

I blinked back scalding tears.

I almost blew it.

If there were ever a time Hutch needed me . . . and what did I do? I wimped out and walked off.

I took his head in my hands and looked into his scared eyes.

"Never again, Hutch. I'll never leave you again."

I looked over my shoulder to see Cap and Huggy coming down the hall.

"We'll be here when you come out," Cap said shaking his hand.

"Yeah," Huggy added, "keep your chin up."

And he did. Literally.

Cancer was a thief and a killer, but Hutch wasn't going to surrender without a fight.

No white flag.

"We can beat this, Hutch," I whispered into his ear. "We can. You gotta believe that."

He nodded, and the nurse wheeled him down the hall, me walking beside them with my hand on the back of Hutch's neck.

"Trying to kill the growth of the cancer cells," Dr. Reed explained in the cold white room. Hutch was chilling. I moved next to him to give him some body heat. "Keep them from multiplying and spreading."

Spreading.

I hated that word too.

Spreading like wildfire.

Spreading like rumors.

Spreading like germs.

Spreading like a plague.

Like . . .

Into his bones.

His muscles.

His tissues.

Invasion.

Killing him, cell by cell, minute by minute.

Unless the chemotherapy could stop it. Stall it. Stunt it. Retard it.

He was already weak, and the radiation treatments only seemed to make him weaker and sicker.

I didn't understand it, but they assured me it was the right thing to do.

They sent him home after each trip, like he asked.

Even though the doctors explained how chemotherapy worked, it didn't make it any easier when I had to hold his head while he heaved his guts into the commode.

He made jokes about it, laughing and crying at the same time while he spit into the toilet.

"This is supposed to help, right, Starsk?"

Or:

"I bet it was that taco you made me try."

I'd laugh just to keep from cryin' myself, and sling his arm around my neck to walk him back to bed.

"God, this sucks, Starsk," he'd say listlessly as his head bobbed against my shoulder on our way to the bed.

I helped him into bed and covered him.

That was the routine after the chemotherapy. Until it took more and more from him. Until he couldn't stand up anymore after throwing up. So limp afterward I had to push him back to the bed in his wheelchair.

I got him into the bed, realizing with each trip that he was getting lighter and lighter. He'd be so cold, and tired, and weak. His color was gone. Washed out. His lips pale.

He was looking less and less like the Hutch I knew. My mind tried hard to adjust, but sometimes he didn't look like Hutch at all. More like some kind of scarecrow. The bones of his face too well-defined. Clothes not fitting him. Lethargic. His hair . . .

There came a day when strands of his hair ended up in my hand when I stroked his head.

More came out with each treatment.

Huggy must've thought I'd lost it, callin' him like a thief in the night.

"What's up, man?" came his sleep-slurry voice. "Hutch okay?"

I didn't know if I could get the words out. I was standing there by the bed with the receiver in one hand, Hutch's downy hair in my other one. "Huh . . . Hug? Could you bring your hair clippers over tomorrow?"

He didn't ask what for. Guess he knew.

"Gonna do your do up right," Huggy said brightly as he helped Hutch into the wheelchair. "Not much we can do with it, so I figure we just get rid of all of it. Go for the Kojak look, huh?"

And Hutch didn't seem to care. He just sat there in his white pajamas. Too sick to care.

But I did.

Seeing Hutch's hair all over the floor made me cry.

It was more than yellow hair.

It was his signature. What the ladies liked. What people noticed first about him. What people commented most about when they first met him. They mentioned his hair before they even mentioned his eyes or his smile. He, naturally, never gave it another thought, unless someone brought it up.

Huggy tied a big bandana around his head, pirate style, and then swept the hair up into a dustpan.

Huggy didn't say anything, but I think he was feelin' what I was about the hair, because he wouldn't look at me while the blond swirls slid from the dustpan and into the trashcan.

XXXXXXXXX++

"I'm putting him on extended sick leave," Cap told me quietly one day as he stood next to Hutch's bed and watched him sleep. "You too. I don't know what else to do."

nodded.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

I stayed at Hutch's more than I stayed at my place.

I went out less and less. Mostly to the pharmacy, or to the store, or to take Hutch to the hospital for radiation.

I didn't want to leave him alone. I wanted to spend every minute I could with him.

"Sorry I can't drive," he said on our way back from one of his treatments.

"Don't worry, Hutch. Won't be long till you're able to drive again. Once those bad cells get zapped- "

He put his hand palm-up in the seat between us, without looking at me, and I grasped his invitation and squeezed it.

"It's not getting better, Starsk. It's getting worse. It's in my bones. All through my body. A human can only take so much radiation . . . "

I kept driving. Sometimes, these days, it was easier to talk when we were riding.

"That what they told you today?" I asked him.

He didn't nod or anything.

"They said no more treatments," he said. "They've done all they can do."

"No way. You believe that? They just start it up again, right? Isn't that what they do? Start another round?"

He shook his head no.

Not knowing what to do or say, I parked the Torino in front of his place.

"Godforsaken bone cancer," I mumbled under my breath.

Hutch didn't hear me.

"Huh?"

I said it louder.

"Godforsaken bone cancer!"

And louder.

"GODFORSAKEN NO GOOD-I HATE IT!"

I tore out of the car and grabbed what was handy-some baseball bat a kid'd left on the sidewalk along with a skateboard.

I picked up the bat and swung it against the car, over and over, denting it and cracking windows, until I was crying, until Hutch tumbled out and grabbed me in both scarecrow arms.

He wasn't strong anymore, though I guess he didn't know that.

I stopped my tirade because I didn't want to hurt Hutch.

Even as sick as he was, he was still trying to help me.

We just held onto each other as tight as we could. We were in our terrified state together. All we had was each other.

I felt his legs buckling as he struggled to stand on his feet.

"Let's go in, huh, Starsk?"

I pulled myself together for the hundredth time and helped him toward the door to Venice Place, neither of us realizing it was to be the last time he'd walk up those stairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

The pain steadily grew worse.

He didn't tell me about it at first. He'd just take his pills with some water and go to sleep.

But one night I got up from the couch to use the john, and I heard some faint sounds from his bedroom.

Figured he was having a dream, so I went in to see what I could do, and I saw that it wasn't a dream at all. He was just lyin' there huggin' his pillow and cryin' into it.

"Hey," I whispered as I knelt by the bed.

My hand moved to his head, like always, but found the soft white knitted cap Edith had made for him.

"Starsk, I'm hurtin'."

"I know, buddy. What can I do? You want a hospital?"

He moved his head no, his sick eyes pleading with me, his face damp with sweat.

"Starsk, I don't want . . . I don't want to die in a hospital."

"Hutch, stop talkin' like that. You're not gonna . . . " I reached for the bedside phone. "I'm callin' Reed. He said to call him if the pain gets bad. He said he'd bring somethin' stronger."

His clammy hand settled on my arm. "Don't."

I kept dialing. "We talked about this, Hutch. It's the best way. It's the only way."

"But I don't want that stuff. Ever again."

I gripped his hand and held it to my chest, right over my heart. "Hutch, this time it's our choice. We regulate it. Only what you need. No more, no less. And nobody's gonna force you. And nobody's gonna keep it from you when you need it. There will never, ever, I promise you, never, be withdrawal."

His poor eyes. Hot. Sparkling. Scared.

"Promise, Starsk?"

"Promise. It'll help you, not hurt you."

"I'm not-" -twining out, kicking his foot in the bed. "I'm not a junkie."

"No, Hutch, you're not. You're in pain, and it'll help you. I know how long you've been puttin' it off, and I know why, but now's the time, buddy. Trust me. I'll get him over here. And I'll sit right here with you when he gives it to you. I won't let anything happen. I'll sit here the whole night. And then the nurses can start comin' over to check it every day. And then . . . are you sure you don't want to go to a hospital?"

He knew what I was asking.

Where to die, Hutch?

Here or a hospital?

(God, please no)

He held my hand tighter, moved closer to me, to the edge of the bed. "I want to stay here," he said, his upper lip a sheen of sweat.

I nodded.

He had never looked so vulnerable or boyish.

Depending on me for everything.

For water.

For the bathroom.

For coolness.

Warmth.

Comfort.

Company.

Survival.

Even death.

I felt the tables turning. Physically. My turn to be helper, giver, friend.

He helped me after Gunther.

I owed him my life.

(I won't, Hutch)

(I won't ever make light of it)

(I won't ever take it lightly)

(Or take you for granted)

(Your life is in my hands)

(It's always been in my hands)

(I honor it and cherish it)

"Then you'll stay here," I whispered as I squeezed a spongeful of water into a pan and patted down his forehead, cheeks, and neck.

I heard the doctor pick up on the other end.

"Hey, Doc? It's me. Dave Starsky? You said to call you when the . . . " My throat was jamming up. Hutch squeezed my hand. "When the pain got really bad. So I think you need to bring something."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch didn't try to get up and say hello to Dr. Reed when he arrived. He was beyond that now. All he was able to do was move his eyes in the doctor's direction, in so much pain he was trembling.

(God, Hutch, how long have you been hurting like this?)

(You should have told me hours ago)

"Morphine," the old man said softly.

Hutch looked at me.

I knelt one knee in the bed and pulled Hutch onto my lap, an odd deja-vu feeling of that night so long ago when I'd held him through the worst of his heroin withdrawal.

I kept my hand on his white cap while Reed put a tourniquet around his arm.

Hutch stiffened against me, and I held him closer.

"It's okay," I murmured softly. "Remember all the things I told you."

I held him through the first injection.

His muscles were tense at first, and then, as the morphine spread through his veins and the pain was snuffed out, he closed his eyes and let go of a low, soft moan. Not of resignation, or acceptance, but of realization that this would mark the turning point.

As far as I was concerned, the morphine entering his body was the beginning of the end, and that was when my mourning actually began.

That he had to have it just to exist . . .

That's when I really started losing him.

Because in the few short days and weeks that followed, he was in a twilight state most of the time, and seemed to shrink smaller day by day in the bed, losing so much weight all I could do was cry about it.

I placed soft pillows between his knees. Kept ice chips by his bed. Huggy brought health shakes by, but he was too weak to drink them through a straw.

I sat by his bed and strummed his guitar for him, humming a song now and then.

And the nurses came every day. They told me to go out for a walk, get some fresh air, but I didn't. Every minute was precious. They didn't understand that I couldn't leave his side. And I didn't. I was

in their way, I told them how to do their job, I took my anger at death out on them like they were the ones to blame because they couldn't stop it, but I didn't care.

I'd lean over the bed to dab his brow with a cool sponge, and he was oblivious to the nurses as they tended to him. Oblivious to every voice but mine.

When he heard me, he would move his hand-without even looking-knowing mine would be close by.

The days melted into one long span of time.

Hutch couldn't even answer me now. He couldn't even look at me. Too far gone. He stared in a morphine daze. I could only hope and believe that he could hear me. The nurses said that hearing was the last sense to leave a dying person. So I talked to him. Just like old times. About girls, cars, our old cases. Never knowing for sure if he could hear me or not. But acting like he could.

When Dr. Reed increased the morphine, Hutch would talk out of his head in his sleep, and mumble stuff like "Hey, you run that guy through the computer?" or "Starsk, hand me that walkie-talkie, will you?"- just like we were still working.

He wouldn't know what he was saying. I just sat with him and rubbed his arm.

Sometimes he'd reach for me in the middle of the night and lay his cool hand on my arm, and I'd always be there, always take it. I don't think he even realized when he was doing it. Just some kind of residual habit, instinct, from when he was okay. He spoke less and less each day, moved less and less. His breathing slowed down until it looked like he wasn't breathing at all. His color turned gray.

My mind played on the 'Do Not Resuscitate' papers he'd signed at the hospital. The ones in his desk drawer.

(Do not resuscitate? Do not try to save his life? Do not try to put air and life into his lungs? Do not do chest compressions to keep his heart beating?)

"No artificial means, Starsk."

That's what he'd said.

I had to respect his wishes. I had to keep my eyes off the telephone. My mind off an ambulance.

And that wasn't easy to do. Because everything in me wanted to save his life. Wanted him to live.

And then the night came when his energy seemed to pick up just a bit. He even looked at me, and tried to smile.

I crouched by the bed and took his hand.

"Hi, buddy."

"I see you," came his old-man whisper.

"I know," I smiled back. "I see you too."

"Still here."

"Yeah, I'm still here."

His eyes closed again. "Think I could go out to the greenhouse? Fresh air?"

"Whatever you want, Hutch."

This small burst of energy wasn't good. I'd read about it in the hospice book I got from the library.

This boost was only meant to carry him over the last hurdle.

I slipped my arms under him, and found he was so light I could carry him. For the first time in my life, I was able to carry him when he needed it.

So, fighting the hot tears down, trying to stay focused on him instead of myself, I carefully took him out to the greenhouse where I settled him in front of me on the chaise lounge. He rested back against me and looked at his greenery. The night breeze was cool and clear, the wind chimes were tinkling softly, and there was something special about all of it. Special in the way that I knew it meant something to him, being his final time and all.

"Starsk . . . " His hand groped for mine.

There was such a long time between each breath. His body was cold against me. I hugged him close to try to warm him. I took his hand and held it, my other arm wrapped around him and held him against me. His capped head rested against my shoulder.

Instead of thinking about all the other times I'd been there for Hutch, I thought about all the times he'd been there for me: In the restaurant-("If he needs me, you call me")- The poison-("I'm here, buddy. I'm here.")- Marcus. Rosie. Terrie. Gunther.

"My heart's goin' with you, Hutch. It's okay. You can let go. This is a good place. It's just us. I'm here with you, and we'll do this together. I'll be okay. It won't be easy, but I'll be okay. I'll see you again someday. Just wait for me. I'll find you."

And that was it.

He wanted to hear it from me before he let go. He had to hear I'd be okay.

Well, not okay. But as okay as you can be with half a heart.

With a long sigh, his last breath, and my goodbye kiss pressed to the top of his cap, he was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Dobey and Huggy found us in the greenhouse a couple of hours later.

I didn't say anything to them.

Dobey had to take Hutch from my arms.

"Let me have him, Dave."

I didn't want to let him go. But I had to. And Huggy was there to hold me while I cried so hard I thought my chest was going to cave in.

"He's not hurtin' anymore," Huggy said over and over to me as he rubbed my hair. "He's not hurtin' anymore."

End

THANKS II

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

I parked the Torino alongside the curb in front of the diner where Mickey the snitch liked to hang out, then me and Hutch got out and walked back through the alley to meet him. He said he had some important information for us, but wouldn't say what it was.

"Where the hell is he?" I asked as I threw my hands up in the air. "It's Thanksgiving for cryin' out loud. We're supposed to be at the Dobeys' eating turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and sweet potatoes and-"

"Just calm down. They'll save us some."

"Won't be the same. People are supposed to be eating Thanksgiving together, as a gathering, like a family."

"Well, if we miss it, I'll buy you a turkey club at Huggy's and we'll eat it together."

"Very funny."

We walked through the wind-swept alley, past the litter, broken crates, garbage cans, stray cats.

"Where is he?" Hutch asked as his head swiveled around.

"Home eating turkey with the other little Mickies, where else?"

We passed a dumpster and stopped short. There sitting in the back doorway of the diner was Elijah, the old wino that roamed the streets with his buddy Charles.

Usually Elijah and Charles took care of themselves, or each other. One was never far away from the other. But this time, things just looked . . . well, different. He looked like he'd been alone for a while. The old bum was sitting in his long overcoat and eating bread and gravy from a hubcap with a broken plastic spoon. The bread looked stale and there were only smears of gravy on it. No doubt he'd rummaged them from one of the garbage cans the diner had set out.

Hutch crouched in front of him, the sight of the old man softening his eyes and his heart. "Hey, Lijah. This any way for you and Charles to spend Thanksgiving?"

The rheumy old, rummy old eyes squinted up at Hutch through the gray hair blowing across his face. "Charles is dead, my friend."

Hutch looked up at me, beginning to get visibly flustered. "Oh? Wuh-well, when? How? I mean . . . "

"His heart," he said as he lifted a spoonful of gravy. "He died in my arms three months ago."

The old man's stubbly beard quivered.

"Sorry, Lij," I offered. "Hadn't heard."

"Wouldn't you rather spend the holiday at the Mission?" Hutch asked him. "I'm sure they'd have a nice turkey dinner for you."

Elijah sighed wearily. "I know. But it's not the same without Charles."

Hutch looked at me and we had the same idea at the same time. I nodded that it was okay.

"Elijah," Hutch said as he took the hubcap from the wrinkled old lap, "Starsky and I would like to invite you to have Thanksgiving dinner with us today."

"Oh no," he said reaching for the hubcap again. "I couldn't impose."

Hutch held tight to the hubcap. "No imposition. You can spend the day with us, tell us some old

stories about you and Charles. Weren't you in the war together? We'll have a real turkey at my place, and pumpkin pie, and cranberry sauce. The works."

The old man stared down at his holey shoes a moment, then brought a dirty hand up to cover his eyes. Dusty and worn, he reminded me of an old classic book somebody'd forgotten on a shelf for years and years.

"Forgive my tears," he sniffed. "It's been so long since . . . "

Since a lot of things, I'd imagine.

Hutch put an arm around the slumped shoulders and helped him to his feet. "Come on." Then he passed a wink to me. "You've never ridden in that circus wagon of Starsky's before, have you?"

"Oh, my, no."

I took his other arm and escorted him from the alley.

"I'd need to get cleaned up first," Elijah said touching the lapels of his rumpled overcoat. "This is a special occasion."

"Sure," I told him. "We'll get you some spiffy clothes."

He smiled. "Throwaways would be just fine."

"Kiddin' me? Why would I want you to wear somethin' I wouldn't wear? We're talkin' brand new duds."

His gnarly hand tried to smooth the age-old wrinkles from his topcoat. "Well, I could use something new, I suppose."

Hutch opened the passenger door and got in the backseat so Elija's weary old bones wouldn't have to bend so much.

"My, my," Elijah said as his hand ran along the red mirror shine of the Torino. "Riding in style."

I closed the door once the old man was settled in, then went around the front of the car, and just as I did, I caught sight of Mickey standing in the doorway of the diner, looking out and watching us. Then he disappeared real quick like he didn't want us to see.

Set up.

We were set up.

He wanted us to come down here and find Elijah. He knew we'd do something. He knew we hadn't

heard about Charles.

Who did he think we were, Mothers of Mercy? Bold of him to think he knew us that well. Huh. Who was he to manipulate us like that?

Hutch must have seen a look on my face, because he said, "What is it?" when I slid under the wheel.

"Nothin'," I said starting the car. I looked over at Elijah's contented face and felt some of my irritation for Mickey melt away. "Let's go have Thanksgiving."

I pulled away from the curb and looked in my rearview mirror to see Mickey sneaking another peek through the window curtains of the diner again.

Okay, Mickey.

You got us this time.

End

THE WINTER INN MURDERS

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky watched with anticipation as Hutch opened the manila envelope that his father had sent him. It was his birthday, but even a nice steak dinner to celebrate it last night hadn't lifted his spirits. Gillian had been dead three weeks, and Starsky didn't know what else to do for him except be with him.

"Birthday present?" he asked with wide eyes.

Hutch turned his back to Starsky to open the envelope in private, and pulled out two keys folded into a letter.

Starsky heard the jingle of keys in Hutch's hand and tiptoed to read the letter over his left shoulder. "New car? I hope?"

Hutch smiled absently and handed the keys over his shoulder to him. "Vacation house in Minnesota," he said with his eyes still roving over the words. "Inn, actually. The Winter Inn. One of his favorite hotels he says, and he's giving it to me."

He showed Starsky a few photos that Richard had enclosed with the letter and keys.

Starsky grinned as he sifted through the pictures. "Hey, a whole HOTEL for your birthday? Your dad's swell. And perfect timing too, with our vacation startin' tomorrow."

Hutch turned an arched eyebrow to him. "'Our' vacation?"

"Yeah, you know."

"You said you weren't going with me this year."

"I said I wasn't goin' with you if you were goin' CAMPING this year. This is different. We're talkin' rest and relaxation, not sleeping bags full of snails and lizards. What say we head out there?"

Hutch smiled and took the keys back. "What say we do."

Starsky grinned. "I help you pack, you help me pack," he said, and headed off whistling to Hutch's bedroom, leaving the blond shaking his head.

XXXXXXXXX++

When Hutch's four suitcases were packed and ready to go, Starsky went around turning off lights while Hutch watered his plants.

The ringing phone caused them to look at each other.

"Don't get that," Starsky said.

"What if it's Dobey?"

"We're on vacation."

Hutch lifted the receiver anyway, giving an apologetic shrug in Starsky's direction.

"Oh, hi, Mom," Hutch said into the phone.

Starsky breathed a sigh of relief, then hefted up two of the suitcases.

"What are you talking about, Mom?" Hutch said giving another shrug in Starsky's direction. "Dad gave it to me, for Pete's sake. It has to be a great place."

Hutch listened a few moments longer, then Starsky set the two suitcases down and put his ear to the receiver so he could hear the conversation.

"I don't like that inn, Kenneth," is what he heard in the receiver.

"Why not?" Hutch asked. "Dad sent pictures. It's beautiful."

"Richard loves it, but I don't. There was a family murder there a few months ago. The ones who managed it for him? The Trents? We couldn't understand what drove Ted to do something so heinous. Murdering his wife and two children in the driveway? And then himself? I never liked it. Always felt so chilly when I was in there, even in the summer. Don't get me wrong. It's lovely. All your father's hotels are. I just don't understand why it was his favorite. It certainly isn't as big or as elegant as the others. It's more . . . quaint than anything. I suppose he liked the personal touches. It was smaller. Homier than the rest. He picked some of the furnishings out himself. I think it reminded him of the farmhouse he was raised in. He wants to keep the inn in the family, but I don't think it's a good idea. There have been one too many tragedies there to suit me. Accidents, suicides, murders. Part of the local mystique, I suppose. All the stories. People kept coming back to it. But after the Trent tragedy-people he actually knew-who worked for him no less-he said he just can't keep it open for business. I do respect him for that. The deaths preyed on his mind. He felt somehow responsible. Felt he should have known the man's character better. Seen it coming. Prevented it. It was the wife, and especially the children, that bothered him the most. He said, 'If the man wanted to kill himself, that's his business, but why take the children with him? He will burn in hell for what he did to those little ones.'"

Starsky, fully engrossed in the story, gave his head a sympathetic shake.

"Mom," Hutch said with calm reason, "lots of stories are attached to old hotels and inns. It makes for interesting history, curious folklore, but it's just not true."

"The Trents are true, Ken."

"Oh, I know. But if you're talking about ghosts or something . . . or a house being haunted . . . you know I don't buy that sort of thing."

Starsky scowled at him and gouged him in the ribs with his elbow.

"Your father doesn't buy that sort of thing either," she sighed. "But even so, I still want you and David to be careful."

Hutch grinned. "Oh, we will. We'll bring our holy water with us."

Starsky stomped on his foot, then took the receiver from his hand. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hutchinson. We'll be very careful. We'll call you if there's any trouble. At least, I will."

"Oh, David. Yes. That would be wonderful. You would make my Ken a fine brother. Thank you."

Starsky smiled bashfully. "My pleasure, Ma'am."

When he hung up, he found his partner looking at him with his arms folded across his chest.

"What?" Starsky asked innocently.

"You know what," Hutch griped as he picked up two of the suitcases. "You got my mother wrapped around your little finger," he said, and carried them out the door.

Starsky followed behind with the other two. "Runs in the family," he smiled under his breath.

Hutch glowered over his shoulder. "What was that?"

Starsky grinned. "Uh, I said I really like your family."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

"A whole inn," Starsky said when they were on their way to Minnesota. He sat in the passenger seat while Hutch drove the tan Ford down the highway. "That's cool."

"With its mysterious reputation," Hutch nodded, "I could open it as a tourist attraction."

"Or you could just keep it as a vacation house for us."

"I could."

Starsky reached across the short distance to place his hand on Hutch's shoulder. "I think this is your dad's way of sayin' he's sorry about Gillian."

Hutch nodded, then, overcome with powerful tears, pulled the car to the side of the road and bowed his head over the steering wheel.

Starsky put an around him and pulled him close. "S'okay, buddy. Let me drive for a while."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

The Winter Inn was cozy and inviting in spite of its three stories and twenty acres, reminding Hutch more of a large New England home (no matter how big those houses are, they still look intimate) than a Minnesota hotel. There were balconies, trellises, porches, columns, shutters, flower boxes, wind chimes. A coat of sober beige colored the wood. White shutters. White and gray stones ran along the base. Rocking chairs on the front porch. A porch swing on the back. The back yard overlooked a quiet valley below.

It certainly didn't show any signs of a recent murder/suicide, nor an investigation. Not one footprint in the grass or a snippet of yellow police tape or stain of blood was left behind.

"I can see why Dad likes this place," Hutch said as he took the key from his pocket and climbed the porch step, his hand brushing along an old rocker.

The wind chimes tinkled delicately. Silver rings of different sizes suspended from silk threads were making the musical sound.

Starsky saw a barbecue grill at one end of the porch. "Hey, you can show me how to grill somethin', huh?"

"Sure. Sounds good."

He opened the front door and they stepped inside.

Their eyes took in the living room: All the rich, polished woods, the hardwood floors, rugs with intricate designs, the antique furnishings, mostly Victorian, an old Victrola, an upright piano, a fireplace. Deep carvings in the banister, oil paintings on the wall, candles, oil lamps, an old rolltop desk, a grandfather clock, a huge world globe made of solid cherry wood on a sturdy pedestal.

"Very pleasant to the eye," Hutch commented on the warm, comfortable colors of deep reds, burgundies, golds, beiges, forest green.

No sign that a manager or a manager's family had ever lived . . . or died . . . here.

Hutch pointed to the wall above the mantle where an antique sword, pure silver by the especially bright look of it, was displayed.

"Check that out, Starsk."

Hutch took the sword down to admire it. "Probably sixteenth century," he announced.

"How do you know?"

"See the way the handle's curved this way? And the engraving along the entire blade? This particular pattern is unique to that period. Belonged to royalty, I bet. I'd say Dad picked this out himself." He looked around the spacious living room. "I see Dad all around this house."

Hutch walked down a hall, looking in different rooms. "Hey, Starsk, a library. Come and look."

"I don't have to see a library to know what one looks like. I'd rather see the kitchen."

Starsky walked to the kitchen of chrome, black, and white. To his delight, he found that the Hutchinsons had stocked the chrome refrigerator with good food. So were the chrome cabinets. The walls were a blinding white. In the wall next to the cooking stove he saw a door with a latch and a bolt lock, and opened it to find steps leading down to a cellar.

Flipping on the light, he looked down the steps and saw that it was a wine cellar. The walls were painted white too. The floor swept, the corners cobweb-free. Shelves of wine lined one wall of the dark room. As clean and orderly as it was, he still elected to stand at the top of the stairs in the bright light of the kitchen.

"Hey, Hutch! Come here! You think your dad would mind if we tried a bottle of that wine?"

When he got no answer, he turned, bumping into Hutch's chest.

"Oh, sorry. Did you hear me?"

Hutch shut the cellar door. "I heard you."

"Well? Think we could try a bottle later?"

"Sure," he said crossing the kitchen, which led to the back door of the house. "Oh my God," he said in childlike awe. "Take a look at this."

Starsky joined him at the back door, then they stepped out onto the back porch where they got a generous view of the valley below.

"No wonder Dad wants to keep it," Hutch breathed. "Hell. I want to keep it."

"Even though the murders happened here?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, they were all murdered in the driveway, not the house."

"Yeah, but what about those other 'tragedies' your mother talked about?"

Hutch smiled. "Hear the wind chimes? It could put me right to sleep."

Starsky listened hard but didn't hear the chimes this time.

"Might as well go upstairs, huh? See where we're gonna sleep?"

They went upstairs and found bedrooms lining both sides of a hallway, each decorated with rich fabrics and deep-shine wood.

At the end of the hall was a door, which Starsky opened. Inside were a narrow set of stairs leading up, and a narrow set of stairs leading down.

"Attic?" Starsky asked. "And cellar?"

"Looks like."

They climbed up.

The attic was as clean and organized as the rest of the house. No cobwebs, no dust. Nothing out of place. Full of old furniture-a settee, a china cabinet, floor lamps, a gossip bench, a podium, some statues, collections of old knives, records, coins, dueling pistols.

Hutch opened a large trunk to find piles of old photographs, scrapbooks, and letters, then settled down on the floor Indian fashion to go through it.

"Starsky," he said leafing through the photos, "what if there's something in here that makes sense of all those deaths? There's a lot of history here. It has to tell a story."

Starsky smiled, seeing how the contents of the trunk appealed to his partner's sense of curiosity, research, and investigation.

"Too bad it's not full of jewels, huh?"

"Yeah, but it's a treasure just the same. The possibilities are endless. With all the stuff that's here, I could put together an exhibit for a historical museum or something. Once I got a handle on the history, that is. Hell, I could turn the place itself into a historical museum, or even an antique shop."

"Sure. There are lots of things you could do with this place and the stuff in it." He looked at his watch. "Gettin hungry yet?"

"Yeah, but I'd rather stay up here and look at some of this stuff."

"Homemade pizza sound okay?"

"Sure, thanks."

"Comin' right up. I gotta try out that kitchen."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

When Starsky returned to the attic with a dishtowel over his right shoulder, he found that Hutch had fallen asleep on the floor amongst his newfound treasure.

"Hey," he said crouching to shake Hutch's shoulder, "you can't study the Ninth Wonder of The World fast asleep."

Hutch stirred and opened his eyes. "Oh, hey," he said sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Sorry. What time is it?"

"Been downstairs an hour and a half."

"Pizza done?"

"Yeah. Veggies on your side. Let's go."

Hutch put his hand out for assistance. "Why don't we try that wine with the pizza?"

Starsky helped him up. "Now you're talkin'."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch set the table and started slicing the pizza.

Starsky went to the wine cellar for a bottle, noticing that all the dark green bottles and antique-yellow labels were the same, and bore the name Reverof in delicate writing.

He tried to read the rest of the label to see where the wine was made, but it wasn't in English.

He took the bottle upstairs to the kitchen and used a corkscrew to open it. He poured two glasses, but one drink was all he needed to decide he didn't like it.

Hutch saw him wrinkling his nose. "What's wrong?"

"Bitter."

"Oh yeah?" Hutch asked as he tested it. "Tastes fruity to me. Sort of sweet."

"Good. You can have the whole bottle."

Starsky ate pizza and kept up the conversation while Hutch sat exhaustedly at the table, drinking the wine and trying to stay awake. He didn't touch the pizza. It appeared that the drive, and the weight of Gillian, had drained him.

"Hutch, you need to eat somethin'. Just a little, huh?"

Hutch shook his head no. He was slumping farther down in the chair, his chin almost on his chest.

Starsky finally set the pizza aside "Come on, buddy," he said taking his arm. "You need some sleep. It's almost midnight. Why don't you come in the other room, let me crank up that Victrola, and then we'll crank up a fire in the fireplace."

"Fire? I'm not cold."

"You kiddin'? I'm freezin' to death. Your mom's right. This is the coldest house I've ever been in."

"You must be coming down with something. There's all kinds of blankets around."

"Why use blankets when we have a fireplace? Come on. You know you want to. And you can tell me all about that sword."

Hutch allowed Starsky to lead him into the living room. But there was no story about the sword. He was asleep, sprawled on the sofa before Starsky even had the fire going.

He took the wine bottle from Hutch's hand and set it on the heavily-carved coffee table, then covered him with a velour blanket he found draped across the back of the rocking chair.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky lay awake in the big bed, glad the mattress was fitted with flannel sheets.

It was difficult getting to sleep. He couldn't erase from his mind the picture of Hutch finding Gillian dead on the floor three weeks ago, the fight he and Hutch had over her. He tossed and turned an hour before finally drifting into an uneasy sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

When Starsky came downstairs the next morning he found Hutch sitting in the rocking chair near the fireplace and looking through a stack of photographs and letters.

The wine bottle and a half-empty glass of it were on the coffee table beside him.

"Morning, Starsk. Still cold?"

"A little. Sleep okay?"

"Yeah, except for some dreams I had."

"About what?"

He shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know."

"About Gillian?"

"Yeah, well . . . man, this is some interesting stuff. Mom was right. A string of deaths. Accidents, suicides, homicides."

"Hey," Starsky said with a wink, "sounds like something for a good cop to investigate."

"I mean, in all these articles, not one of them explore a reason for why all these things happened."

"Why does there have to be a reason?"

"Because there's a reason for everything, isn't there? That's what investigating is all about, right? To find out who, what, why, how . . . "

"Gee, Hutch, I'm proud to have a partner as inquisitive as you are." He looked at his watch. "Want some breakfast?"

"No, you go ahead."

"Not fasting, are you?"

"Nope. I have the wine. Fine for now."

"You call your mother? Tell her we made it okay?"

"Not yet."

"Well, I'd say your mom would want to hear from you. She's worried about you, what with Gillian and all. Your dad too."

Hutch didn't comment. He was taking notes now.

"Hey." Starsky pulled the footstool over in front of him and sat down. "It's probably easier to look at this stuff than talk about her . . . " He gently took the notepad and pen from his hands and set them aside on the coffee table.

Hutch looked from his empty hands up to his partner's face. "You think I want this vacation to be about Gillian? I'm trying my best to get over her, not-

"Your parents want to see you," Starsky said softly. "They want you to be with them."

Hutch nodded, then rose to his feet. "Well, if it makes you feel any better."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

But their visit to the Hutchinsons was one-sided. Hutch stayed to himself in a living room chair while Starsky carried on conversation about the inn at the dining room table.

Hutch even turned down a drink with his father, and seemed to barely notice when his mother walked in and placed the back of her hand against his forehead.

"Darling, you have a fever. Let me call Doctor-"

"No," he said leaning his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. "I'll be all right."

The older blond exchanged a look with Starsky over the chair.

"Son," Mr. Hutchinson said carefully, "have you talked to someone about her. . . "

Hutch didn't answer.

"It's just death," Hutch sighed tiredly. "Happens every day."

Mrs. Hutchinson pressed the back of a worried hand against her lips, then left the room.

"I'll take him back to the inn," Starsky said as he took Hutch's arm and helped him to his feet. "I think he's had a little too much of that wine."

Mr. Hutchinson's hand moved out to assist, then drew back.

"David," he said after them, "call me if . . . "

Starsky nodded over his shoulder.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Starsky led him up the steps to the hotel, then inside and up the flight of stairs that led to all the bedrooms.

"Look here, buddy. Any room you want. You want to rest a while?"

Hutch nodded while Starsky walked him into a bedroom with ornately-scrolled bureaus, bed, and wardrobe. The bedspread pattern was a tapestry of deep autumn colors.

Starsky helped him lie down, crouched to pull his shoes off, then gently pushed him back onto the bed and covered him with the spread.

"You're wiped out. Fever too. Get some rest, huh?"

Hutch nodded into the pillow, asleep before Starsky even turned the light out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch slept the rest of the day without waking, and then through the night.

His stillness worried Starsky so much that he actually felt his throat, as if for a pulse, and felt silly when his fingers found it steady and strong.

(He's just exhausted)

(From the trip)

(And Gillian)

(And the fever)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The next morning Starsky found him sitting in the swing on the back porch, looking out over the peaceful valley. The wine bottle was in his hand. No glass. A box of attic photos beside him. The wind chimes jingled above his head.

Hutch spoke to him even though his approach had been silent.

"So many things I wish I could do over," he said quietly, and without looking away from his view. "Why didn't I know what she was? Why did I take it out on you?"

"Hutch, don't."

Hutch shook his head, his gaze still on the valley. "You won't even let me apologize."

"No need. You were just-"

"True blue, aren't you?"

"Wha-"

Hutch got out of the swing and stepped around him on his way inside.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Was it the wine talking? The grief?

Starsky sat in the doorway for another hour, then went inside.

In spite of his fever, Hutch looked relaxed and content in the rocking chair, the glass of warm red wine lax in his hand, his eyes fascinated by the fire in the fireplace.

Starsky felt his forehead and found it still hot.

"Don't you think you've had enough of that, Hutch?"

Hutch looked up at him, then kept on sipping.

"Hutch? I know you're thinkin' about her. You want to take a walk or somethin'? And we can talk?"

The wineglass slipped a little in his hand. Starsky put his hand on the glass to take it, gently, but Hutch ever-so-subtly tightened his fingers and took a sip without taking his eyes from the fireplace.

Starsky rubbed his arms. Standing in front of the fireplace didn't seem to take the chill off. "We could talk about somethin' else, Hutch. Work. Or campin'. Or women. Or anything. Whatever you want."

Hutch didn't answer.

"Or we could go to town and let a doctor check you out. Fever feels pretty high."

Hutch blinked sleepily. "Can't I just have a bad day without you being in on it?"

"Well, um . . . " Starsky looked down, then gave a half-shrug. "Yeah. Guess I'll go for a drive or somethin'."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When he came down from the bathroom after his shower, Starsky saw him sprawled asleep on the sofa, photographs from the trunk scattered along his chest and on the coffee table where he'd been poring over them.

Curious, Starsky picked one up and looked at it.

Nothing distinctive. Nothing unordinary. Just a man and his wife posed in the field by their old tractor.

He picked up another. This one an autographed glossy of Marilyn Monroe.

Another, one of the Kennedys.

Another of Mafia figures Frank Leone, Thomas Callandar, Joe Durniak, and the up and coming John Gotti, all gathered on the back porch of The Winter Inn with drinks in hand.

Starsky put the picture back on the coffee table and looked at the bottle of wine. Only a little consumed, by the weight of the smoky green bottle in his hand.

"Hutch? Want me to get you somethin' to eat before I go to bed?"

Hutch stirred and turned onto his side, the photos sliding from his chest and onto the floor.

"Hutch?"

Hutch murmured something but didn't wake.

Starsky picked the bottle up and sniffed it. Tasted it. For the second time.

It still tasted bitter to him. Something he couldn't put his finger on. Like persimmon. And not a taste of alcohol.

He looked at the simple beige label. Old. A script-some foreign language-he didn't recognize:

Reverof.

He made a mental note to ask Hutch about the wording when he woke up. He would know.

The weight of the bottle, nor the amount of the wine inside, ever seemed to change, no matter how much Hutch drank.

"Forever," Hutch murmured in his sleep.

Starsky looked down at him. "What?"

Hutch's drowsy eyes blinked up at him.

"The label. Says Forever."

Even though his eyes were open, Starsky wasn't sure if Hutch were awake or asleep. He still looked feverish.

"What language is that, Russian? German or somethin'?"

"English."

Starsky looked down at the label again. "English?"

"Backward," he mumbled, then fell asleep again.

Starsky set the bottle down, then climbed the stairs to go to bed.

This night it wasn't Hutch who was on his mind. It was the inn.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

It was 3 a.m. Starsky found him crying in the bathroom. Just sitting on the edge of the tub and leaning forward with his face in his hands.

"God, Hutch, what the hell is it? I heard you all the way down the hall. Are you-"

Hutch didn't raise his head. His voice was thin as tissue paper.

"I had another dream."

Starsky watched his bowed head. "Gonna tell me about it now?"

Hutch shook his head no.

"Was it about Gillian?"

He shook his head no again. "It was about you. I dreamed . . . God, I can't even say it. I don't want to think about it."

"Hey, it can't be that terrible. People have weird dreams all the time. You're feverish. Here-" He turned the faucet on and wet a wash cloth, then dabbed it across his forehead and cheeks. "Let's get you cooled off, huh?"

Hutch slowly raised his head, and Starsky saw his face pale to white beneath his fever, saw a real fear in his eyes.

"Starsk," he whispered. "I dreamed I killed you."

Starsky smiled and shook his head. "Do I look dead to you? Look at me. I'm right here. Fit as a fiddle."

Hutch lowered his head again, both hands in his hair, pushing it back.

"God, it was so real. You know how dreams can be."

He shuddered so hard he almost came off the edge of the tub.

Starsky knelt and steadied his arms. "Hey-"

Hutch shook his head no again. "I just want to be alone."

(You're already alone, Hutch. You've seemed alone for the past few nights now)

"You sure? We could go sit on the porch . . . listen to those chimes . . . "

"No, it's okay. Thanks anyway."

Starsky watched him a moment longer, until his shoulders relaxed, head came up, and color started to return to his face.

"Okay, Hutch. But if you need me . . . " He moved his thumb in the direction of his room down the

hall. "Just give a yell."

Hutch nodded and rose to his feet. "Thanks, Starsk. I think I'll take a cool shower and go back to bed."

Starsky watched him turn the shower on, then went downstairs to the kitchen and dialed the Hutchinsons' phone number.

Mrs. Hutchinson answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Ma'am . . . I'm sorry . . . I know it's three in the morning . . . . "

"He's not all right, is he, David?"

"No, he's not."

"Would it help, do you think, if I come out to the inn to talk to him? Or Richard?"

He shook his head no, even though she couldn't see it over the line.

"Mrs. Hutchinson . . . " (God, how do I ask you this? What is it about the inn you don't like? Because I don't like it either). "Those pictures in the attic . . . the letters . . . newspaper articles . . .famous people . . . what's that all about?"

"Well . . . I'm not sure. Those things are so old. Accumulated over the years . . . the guests . . . the managers . . . the Trents-especially Ted-was intrigued by the history. A man built it for his wife for their first wedding anniversary, and on their first night there, he butchered her. Rumor had it that he found out about an affair she was having. Trent was going to write a book about the tragedies, over his wife's objections . . . but of course he was the tragedy, and the book was never written." Her winter-rain voice was quiet with concern. "Why all the questions?"

"I don't know. (A book? What about Hutch's investigation? His exhibit?) It's hard to put into words."

Her voice picked up a bit. "You don't like it either, do you?"

He shook his head no, even though she couldn't see the gesture, looking around the room as he did so. "It's beautiful and all but . . . "

"It's okay, David. Not everyone likes it. Some people won't even stay in it."

"Why not? Because of all the deaths or . . . "

"Yes. And then there are some people who fall in love with it and never want to leave."

Starsky felt a sudden urge to check on Hutch, get him to a doctor, get him away from the wine, and maybe even the inn itself.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky didn't hear the shower in Hutch's bathroom as he neared the door.

"Hey, Hutch?" he asked as he knocked on it. "Okay in there?"

Hutch opened the door and stepped out, but although he looked more settled than he had before the shower, he still passed by Starsky in the hall without looking at him.

Before Hutch went into his room, Starsky said, "Hey, partner?"

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Yeah?" he asked with his head still bent slightly at the door.

"This place is givin' me the creeps. All those murders and such? How about we get outa here tomorrow?"

Hutch went on into his room without answering.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

It was the faint smell of cigar in the air, not unpleasant or strong, but a rich, woodsy aroma, maybe of cherry, which woke Starsky during the night, along with the old scratchy song on the Victrola.

"What the hell are you doin' now, Hutch?" he mumbled as he got out of bed and went to investigate.

He went down the hall to Hutch's room and found him sound asleep, then moved to the other bedrooms, turning on the light in each one and looking around.

But the cigar smell, and the music, was coming from downstairs, so he quietly went down, stopping on each step to listen.

(Anybody there?) he wanted to ask. But he felt too silly asking it out loud, because he knew no one was there.

Like a cat burglar he crept down the hall toward the library, half-expecting to see Leone, Callandar, Durniak, a young and eager Gotti, all lounging on the plush red velvet sofas and sharing a drink, a cigar, and a plan, while listening to the old Victrola.

He paused at the closed door, his hand on the brass doorknob, sure it had always been opened

before.

His own breath was now noticeably loud in his own ears.

And with all the bravery of a ten-year-old boy hearing sounds in the darkest of woods, he retreated a step and turned and walked back upstairs.

Unable to sleep, he lay in bed considering the tragedies that had occurred here over the years. What would make someone snap, go over the edge, commit the unthinkable? What would it take for someone to grab a shotgun and kill your wife and two kids, and then yourself? What frame of mind would you have to be in for that to happen?

And what frame of mind was he in that he suddenly wished he'd brought his gun in from the trunk of the car?

He and Hutch were the only two in this place. What was so spooky about that?

Hutch was acting a little off, but it was probably just the wine, and the fever, and grieving Gillian, and Starsky felt beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had nothing to fear from Hutch.

Too many Vincent Price movies, he thought, and, starting to feel more shame than fear now, slippedquietly from the bed and stepped out into the hall.

The car keys were on the coffee table. All he had to do was go downstairs and get them, then go out to the trunk and bring his gun in.

He always felt so ill-prepared without it.

"Starsk?"

Hutch's voice. Behind him in the darkened hallway.

Hand on the banister, Starsky looked over his shoulder.

"Hey, Hutch."

"Hey, Starsk."

Hutch came down the hall in his white undershirt and white sweatpants, something long and thin at his side. It was hard to see in the shadows.

"Where you going, buddy?"

"Um . . . " He looked over the banister and down toward the coffee table in the living room, seeing that the car keys were gone. "Outside."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I um . . . I need some fresh air."

Hutch stepped into the glow that the fireplace cast up the stairs, and when he did, Starsky saw the antique sword at his side glinting silver like a star in the golden light.

It looked fitting there, but deadly. Starsky could see him as a single-minded knight, or soldier, on a mission, determined not to fail, determined to do an excellent job.

"Fresh air, huh?"

"Uh . . . yeah."

Hutch stepped toward him. "You were never a good liar."

"Yeah, well, I try."

Hutch took another step toward him. "Why don't you tell me why you're really going outside?"

Starsky glanced at the sword again. "I want my gun."

Hutch stopped walking and stood still for a moment. "Your gun? Why would you want your gun, Starsk? It's just me and you. Why do you feel like you need your gun? You think somebody will break in? Try to rob the place?"

"Something is happening to you, Hutch. I don't know what it is. I don't know how to explain it. But . . . "

"But what?"

"But . . . you're changing."

"Changing?"

"You know . . . different."

"You mean I'm not Kenneth Hutchinson?"

"No. I mean . . . I don't know what I mean. I mean . . . you sleep more and more . . . and . . . drinkin' that weird wine . . . and you got a fever . . ."

Hutch took a step toward him. "And?"

Starsky took a step back.

"And . . . you don't give a damn."

"Oh, Clark Gable. I see. Well, what is it I don't care about? You?"

"Wuh . . . well . . . yeah. I guess you care about me, but . . . "

"You guess?"

Hutch crowded into him, making him back up a step. "You guess?"

Starsky stumbled back, closer to the stairs, but righted himself by grabbing the banister. "Hutch-"

"Hutch what? You guess I care about you?"

Hutch pushed him back a little. "Huh?"

Starsky stumbled back, but this time he had to grab the front of Hutch's shirt to keep from falling down the stairs. "I mean-I know you do. But-"

Hutch pried his hands off. "But I didn't care about you when we were on the rooftop with Bellamy?"

Starsky turned so that his back would be against the wall and not the flight of stairs. "Yes, you did. But-"

"But I didn't care about you when Marcus had you?"

"Yes, you did. But-"

Another step.

Another retreat.

"BUT WHAT, STARSKY?"

"But I don't think you do right now."

Starsky's back was to the wall. Hutch drew the sword with a thin silver sound and held the point to Starsky's throat.

Any other day, any other time, Starsky would have bet a million dollars that Hutch would never hurt him.

Intentionally.

But now . . .

He moved down a few steps on the staircase, his back to the wall.

Hutch moved with him, the tip of the sword still under his chin.

Since the box of photos, letters, documents . . .

The wind chimes . . .

The wine . . .

The fireplace . . .

The sleeping . . .

The dreams . . .

The fever . . .

He wasn't so sure he could win that bet.

(He punched you over Gillian, didn't he?)

(Yes, but he was hurting, and he just lashed out, he didn't mean it)

(He lost control)

(He was hurting)

(Is he hurting now?)

(He is)

(Gillian)

(So many regrets)

(So many doubts)

(So much unresolved)

(Things said)

(Unsaid)

(He's hurting all right)

(How bad?)

(Enough to punch you again?)

(Hurt you?)

(Ki . . )

(No, don't consider that. No matter how bad he's hurting, he would never-)

(As Hutch, no. Not by himself. But there's the inn to consider. Worming its way, weaving its way, inside of him. Somehow)

(What does he see in his dreams? In the fireplace? The photos? What does the wine carry to his mind? The chimes? The fever?)

(And most of all, what is it all saying to him about David Michael Starsky?)

Starsky moved down a few more steps.

"What do you want, Hutch?"

Hutch moved with him. They were now in the living room. "I want you to get in the cellar."

"The . . . " His eyes slid to the cellar door in the kitchen. He could see if from where he stood. A plain white one with a little latch and a bolt lock. "Why?"

"Get in there."

Starsky shook his head no and took a step aside, toward the front door. "No, I'm not gonna do that."

"Starsky, don't make me put you in there."

"But I don't-"

"Understand? Then let me 'explain' it to you."

Starsky took another sidestep toward the door. But Hutch went with him, the tip of the blade still at his throat.

"You see, Starsky, I know what you're trying to do."

Starsky stared at him. "What are you talkin' about?"

Hutch was gently steering him, with the point of the sword, toward the kitchen. "I've found something here . . . a project. . . the exhibit . . . an interest . . . that doesn't concern you. A mystery . . . not just a who-done-it, but why-did-they-do-it. . . and you're jealous."

Backing carefully, Starsky squinted at him. "What?"

"It has nothing to do with you, or us, or police work . . . and you know it could lead to something bigger and better for me. And you want to interfere. You want us to leave before I really sink my teeth into it. Because you're afraid it'll come between us."

"Hutch . . . "

"Maybe I'll leave the force. Maybe I'll have to travel. And you'd be left behind."

"Hutch-"

"Maybe it's already come between us."

Starsky just looked at him.

They were still moving across the room, a slow step at a time.

"I understand, Starsk. Really I do. But I can't . . . and I won't . . . let you stop me."

"Hutch, you know me better than that. You know I want the best for you. I'd want your project to make it. I wouldn't try to hold you back, or make you feel like you had to stay on the force for me or . . . "

"Oh, you say that. That's what you say. Those are the right words. But that's not how you feel."

"You don't know how I feel." They were in the kitchen doorway, within a few feet of the cellar door. "Not now, I mean."

"You don't want me doing an exhibit."

"Yeah, but only because it's . . . this place . . . is getting to you, and I want it to stop."

"Getting to me? I'll tell you what's getting to me." He tapped the sword on Starsky's chest. "You're getting to me. And until this is over . . . until you can come to an understanding of what I'm trying to do . . . I can't let you leave." He tapped his chest again. "And I want you in the cellar."

There was a slight negative movement of Starsky's head.

Hutch took the doorknob in his hand and turned it. "Just for a while."

"No."

"Just to make sure I have time to finish my research without you interfering."

"Hutch, listen to me. A lot people have died here at this inn. I don't want anything to happen to you. That's why I want us to leave. For your safety. Not because of some damn proj-"

Hutch's eyes flattened. "Oh, it's a damn project now?"

"And dangerous."

"Oh, dangerous, is it?"

"Yeah, it is. There's somethin' . . . the photographs . . . the fireplace . . . the mystery . . . the wine never goes down in the bottle, Hutch. Did you notice that?"

"Oh, so it's haunted, is that it? Their spirits are walking around? I don't see any ghosts, I don't hear any bumps in the night, no chains rattling, no wailing . . . but you're scared to death, aren't you? You're scared of something that doesn't even exist."

"No," Starsky said as he touched his own face, as if he knew how pale he must look. "It's you I'm scared of. Of what this place is doing to you. Something got into that Trent man."

"Yes, Starsky, and I want to find out why, if it's the last thing I do."

"This place killed 'em, Hutch. They weren't murders, or suicides, or accidents. This place got to them, like it's getting to you. They never saw it, and you're not seeing it. That's why I want you- us-to leave."

"I'm not leaving."

"Hutch, come on. Who do you think you're talkin' to? Do you hear yourself? This inn isn't that important. But you are. Let's go home. Let's get away from here. It's not good for you. Or anybody. Your dad should've taken a match and burned the place dow-"

"DON'T YOU BRING MY FATHER INTO THIS!"

"Hutch, he was attracted to it, just like you are. I don't think he knew how bad this place was. What it could do. Like you, he couldn't let it go. But your mom . . . she senses it, just like me."

"I like it here."

"I know you do."

"I may move here."

"God . . . let's just go. You can do your research from home. A real investigation. I'll help you. We'll send some uniforms to come and pack up all this stuff and we'll see what we can piece together . . . "

"You don't mean that. You just want me out of here."

"Yes! I'm afraid for you, Hutch! I'm afraid this place is gonna kill you!"

Hutch snatched the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. "It's MY place, and it's NOT going to kill me. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"Your mom said your dad couldn't part with this place. All those murders . . . tragedies . . . we're the next one." Starsky pulled away from him and started for the phone on the wall. "If I have to call the cops to get you out of here. . . " He lifted the receiver.

Hutch watched while Starsky dialed.

But Starsky stopped halfway through and stared at him.

Hutch smiled a little.

"You cut the line?"

Hutch didn't reply.

The receiver slipped-"Hutch, you cut the line?"-from his hand.

The sword was raised high in the air.

Starsky bolted for the door as Hutch swung the sword sideways like a baseball bat, so viciously hard that the blade lodged into the wood and refused to come out.

"Damn it!" Hutch yelled as he ran after him, catching the collar of his red football shirt and slamming him face-first against the wall. He grabbed his left wrist and bent his arm up behind him.

"I sugared the tank," he panted in a low voice at his ear. "You're not going anywhere."

"Hutch . . . "

"I told you, no interference."

"Hutch, damn it, listen to me. Can't you see what you're doin'? What's happenin' to-"

Hutch pushed his arm up into his back at a painful angle, making Starsky flinch and cry out.

Pressed against the wall, he couldn't move at all, and was having difficulty breathing.

"Shut up, Starsky. Now let's do this the easy way: Get in the cellar."

Starsky gave his head a stubborn shake. "No. I can't help you if I'm in the cellar. Just hear me out about-"

Hutch pushed his arm higher into his back, seething through clenched teeth. "You want to do it the hard way?"

Starsky answered in a half-growl, half-sob of pain. Sweat suddenly dampened his face. "Hutch, don't."

One hard shove and a snapping sound caused a yelp of pain. Starsky's face went white, his eyes rolled back, and his knees buckled as he passed out.

"Big baby," Hutch muttered as he caught his collapsing body and carried him to the cellar door.

"Hutch?" Starsky's weak voice mumbled as he started to come to. He tried lifting his crooked arm, but it dropped heavily toward the floor again.

"Hutch?" he groaned. "What're you doin? You broke my arm."

"Sshh," Hutch said as he hooked his foot in the crack of the cellar door and swung it open. "I'm going to put you in here where you'll be no trouble."

"Trouble?" Starsky murmured dazedly. "I won't be any trouble. Don't put me in here, huh? I can't help you if . . . if . . ." His voice trailed off, too distracted by pain to finish.

Hutch sat him on the second step and leaned him against the wall, then, as an afterthought, lifted his arm gently onto his lap. The right one he cuffed to the handrail.

Starsky's eyes were blue glitter as they searched his partner's face. "Hutch, don't leave me here. I feel sick."

Noting that Starsky was shivering, Hutch went to the living room for a knitted throw and came back with it, draping it around his shoulders, his voice almost sympathetic. "I know it's cold and it's dark. But I'll be back."

"Hutch, my arm hurts. Can't you do somethin'?"

"It'll just be for a while, Starsk. I promise. I just need to finish gathering the information."

Hutch rose to his feet and went up the two steps.

Unable to hold his head up, Starsky let it fall sideways against the wall. "You're not comin' back to get me, are you?"

Hutch stood in the bright kitchen looking down at the dark cellar steps.

"Sure, Starsk," he said in a gentle voice as he closed the door and slid the bolt closed on the lock. "Soon as I get done with my research."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch paced the floor in front of the fireplace, a wine bottle in one hand, a yellowed, musty letter in the other.

"'Dear Richard, this is my third approach to you about selling The Winter Inn. I realize how fond you are of it, and may I be so forward as to say I am just as fond of it as you are. My stay at the inn .. . I cannot get it out of my mind, and I won't have peace until I own it. I am asking you to name your price. I have plans to turn it into a poet's retreat, a place where the dreamers can come to relax, be inspired, share their work . . . it is the perfect place for it. Or for anything for that matter. I hope to hear from you within the month. I am eager to close the deal, under the terms of your choosing. Cordially, Howard Hughes.'"

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

In the darkness Starsky fought to stay conscious while Hutch read aloud more letters, some addressed to Richard, some to previous owners, some dating as far back as the 1800's:

One from Harry Houdini.

One from a Kennedy.

Marilyn Monroe.

All offering compliments about the inn.

All wanting to buy. All wanting an explanation: How could such a beautiful place be the site of so much tragedy? Why did it attract them so?

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

A sound came from deeper in the cellar, and Starsky identified the unmistakable squeaking of rats.

"Hutch!" he tried to call, but didn't think he'd said it loud enough.

Since his right arm was cuffed to the handrail, and his left hung useless at his side, the only

pounding he could do was with a foot, so he struggled to stand up and began kicking the door.

The rats were so big he could actually HEAR them approaching, the heavy soft sliding sound of their heavy bodies herding along the wall-how many? Two? Three?

"Hutch! Let me out! Don't leave me in the dark! There are RATS down here!"

Squeaking again. More whispery sounds of their furry, thick bodies.

"Hutch!"

A sudden sharpness pierced his ankle.

A cry of pain.

"HUTCH!"

Stumbling on the stairs.

He kicked his foot but the rat's teeth were in his ankle.

"HUTCH! HELP ME!"

Another rat on his other ankle-squeaking, their tiny saber-teeth locked in.

He stomped and kicked furiously.

"HUTCH!"

He was amazed at the fear and panic in his own voice.

He jerked on the handcuffs even though he knew it was pointless. There was no way he could . . .

"Key!" he panted into the darkness. "The key!"

Nearly sobbing with relief, he turned so that the fingers of his cuffed hand could slide into his hip pocket.

"Don't drop it," he whispered to himself. "Don't drop-OH HELL! GET OFF ME!"

More rats, the sound of their heavy bodies meshing together, crowding-he didn't want to see how many. But since he could hear them . . . there had to be a few dozen. And by the weight of them, they were as big as puppies.

Their squealing was that of desperately hungry piglets.

He was sweating, trying to ignore that they were biting him, and he could only knock a few of them off.

Keys.

He couldn't use his broken arm, so he held tight to the handcuff keys with his right, praying for a firm grip as he worked the key into the lock.

(Don't bite my hand, don't bite my hand, don't bite my)

"DAMN IT!"

It bit his hand. He jerked it back, so shocked when it came free of the cuffs that his momentum sent him tumbling down the steps.

He climbed to his feet and ran, favoring his left arm against his stomach.

His brain scrambled for a weapon. Anything would do, but the cellar was so damn clean . . . bare except for the racks of wine-

In a growl of anger he grabbed a wall-size shelf and pulled it over. The bottles went crashing and spilling to the floor, the fragrance (fruity to Hutch, bitter to me) in the air.

"There, you son of a-!"

(Now why would you start talking to this place as if it were a person?)

(Wood, glass, stones, and mortar can't think, move, plan, hunt, kill, destroy)

The Trents.

The others.

Dorothy senses.

(I can't help but think that that house was responsible for the tragedies. The deaths)

("It preyed on his mind")

She can't understand or explain it, but she knows.

(A curse, a spell, a haunting)

(More than that, Dorothy. Those are playground notions compared to this)

(This is insidious, invisible, subtle-until it's too late-and tailor-made to the individual- personalized)

(If you're a powerful Kennedy, it provides privacy for you and your lover)

(If you're Howard Hughes, it provides seclusion and peace)

(If you're Houdini, it provides mystery and challenge)

(If you're Marilyn Monroe, it provides a haven where your fantasy is realized)

(If you're a mobster, it provides the secrecy and confidence to plan)

(If you're a possessive husband with a cheating wife, it provides the urgings of hatred and murder)

(If you like music it plays beautiful wind chimes for you)

(If you're a nosy detective it provides a mystery)

(If you're grieving over a lost love, it provides a personal wine that intensifies your guilt, shortcomings, insecurities, your doubts, your fears)

(If you're looking for a way to make amends with yourself, it becomes so irresistible to you that you must have it)

(If you have a bond with your best friend that is stronger than love and death, it knows that it would take a fever and wine and grief to confuse and weaken it)

Hutch knows too, but he knows in a different way. He knows there's a connection to this inn and the people who died here. A thread. A bond if you will. And that bond begins with a fascination, from human to house, from house to human, a love affair that leads, like some love affairs lead, to possessiveness, a jealousy if you will. It needs adoration to survive, but it also needs proof of that adoration-a living sacrifice-(If you love me, prove it)

(How far would it go?)

A jealous lover.

(It starts to drain you, use you, vacuum you)

(If I can't have you, no one will)

(I'll give you what you want, but in return, you're mine forever)

(But the inn gives nothing in return, Hutch. It takes, like it took from all those people. The Trents. The others. It steals, kills, and destroys. Death gives it life. It requires the soul. It's a parasite. It will eat you alive)

And if anyone tries to end it . . .

(It locks them in the cellar and turns the rats loose)

How can you end it? What is stronger than death? What is stronger than this?

He started to turn another shelf over, and his hand fell on a fist-sized candle in a saucer and a box of matches.

"Bingo," he whispered as he struck a long match against the wall.

The small candle glow was enough, but maybe too much. It allowed for a nasty view of the plump rats scurrying to find places to hide. A few brave ones were scrambling over the fallen shelves, but he kicked and stomped and crushed them with his feet in the sloshy wine and broken glass.

He stuck the box of matches in his hip pocket and moved the candle to his right. The light played on a small door that was almost obscured by the shelving.

With a grunt of effort and trying to be as quiet as possible, he scooted the shelf aside, making enough room for him to squeeze behind it.

The door opened with a small creak, and revealed a small narrow staircase that he assumed was the same one he found when he first arrived, the one that led to the attic as well.

He moved into the narrow staircase and shut the door just as one brave rat was closing in.

Trying to keep the candle from trembling in his hand, he made his way up the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall and wishing the throbbing in his arm, and the fiery pain in his legs and good hand, would go away. His head ached and it was becoming more difficult to make the climb.

"Just rest a minute," he panted, and sat down on a step, suddenly weary. The staircase was cold. He leaned over the candle to feel the warmth.

(That's what they want you to do-sleep. So you can't help Hutch. Get the hell up and get out of here)

A look above him told him he had many more steps to go, so he rose up on shaky legs again.

But the more steps he climbed, the more there seemed to be.

He was halfway up when he saw a door to his left. Probably the one that led out into the hall.

He tried it and found it locked. And fought the urge to kick it. He had to be as quiet as possible, so Hutch wouldn't hear.

He went on up, toward the attic. If Hutch was still . . . upset . . .a weapon might be in order. For self-defense, of course. Not for offense. He would kill himself before he would kill Hutch.

(But it's not Hutch, is it?)

(Would Hutch break your arm?)

(Would he?)

(Well . . . )

(He's lost his temper a time or two)

(He slugged you over Gillian, didn't he?)

(He locked you in the cellar, didn't he?)

Starsky opened the door to the attic and stepped in, his eyes skimming the contents until they found what he was looking for: Antique knives, displayed on a nice velvet tray beneath a glass dome.

Blowing the candle out and setting the candle aside on a desk, he lifted the dome and looked at the knives. All old, but in perfect condition. Some had pearl handles, some had detailed carvings on the handles, some of the blades bore pictures, and some blades had serrated edges.

He closed the lid and stepped away.

No way.

Not a knife.

A knife isn't like a gun.

Guns are cold and impersonal. You can distance yourself from the person you're shooting by as many feet as you want. Knives, on the other hand, are intimate. They require physical contact. They require using your hand. Viciously.

(You think you could do that to Hutch? Use your hands against him? Even in self-defense?)

Could you do it if it meant getting him out of here?

He picked up the jagged-edged knife, slipped it into its sheath, and slid it between his belt and

waistband of his jeans.

"And you are getting out of here, Hutch," he said as he walked toward the door. "One way or another."

A hand on his shoulder.

"You'd use a knife on me?"

Hutch's voice behind him.

Starsky spun, smashing his elbow into Hutch's face.

Hutch staggered backward, one hand catching the blood spurting from his nose, the other reaching for the Magnum he must have gotten from the car. He still wasn't down-only stumbling backward, so Starsky punched him again, and this time he hit the wall and dropped to the floor.

Starsky pulled the matches from his back pocket, struck one, then tossed it into a box of clothes.

Instant blaze.

He then bent down for the Magnum, straightening and sticking it inside his belt, then reached down for Hutch's shirt collar to pull him across the floor, not an easy task with one hand.

"Come on, buddy," he grunted as he tugged at him with noticeable effort. "God, you're heavier than you look."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky sat under the tree alongside the road, leaning his head back against it, his good arm around an unconscious Hutch, watching the fire consume the remains of the inn.

He had called an ambulance, but no fire department.

A paramedic approached and crouched to examine them. "I think the two of you should get to a hospital."

"Good idea," Starsky said wearily.

"Anybody in there?"

He answered without looking up at him. "Not anymore."

End

To Honor and Cherish II (Blue Christmas)

By TR

(For anyone who may be missing a loved one this Christmas)

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

I put the lighted angel on top of Starsky's Christmas tree and stepped back to admire my handiwork.

"I could do this on the side," I said as I adjusted a string of twinkie lights. "Make me some decent bread. Huggy's Holiday Happenin's."

Starsky sat on a stool by his living room window where he'd been watchin' the night-time traffic go by, and he turned a halfhearted smile to me.

God, he was tryin'. But somethin' blond was missin', and all the decorations in the world couldn't bring it back.

First Christmas without Hutch.

We'd lost him back in the summer, and though Thanksgiving had brought Starsk some sadness (he spent it with his mother and brother back in New York), nothin' compared to a Christmas with no Hutch. How can you be prepared for those blockbuster feelings of missing someone who would never come back?

He didn't feel like goin' to New York, he said, even though his mother begged him. She said he needed to spend it with his family.

He moped around like a lost puppy, and Christmas shopping for Rosey Dobey didn't help. Whenever we walked through the aisles in the stores, he'd pick up a book or a classical music album and say, "Hutch'd like this, wouldn't he, Hug?"

And I'd say, as gentle as I could, "Yeah, Starsk, I believe he would."

Edith Dobey baked him brownies and made him some eggnog, but he never touched it.

His new partner Meredith couldn't bring him out of it, so she gave up and went to spend the holiday with her boyfriend and his folks in Chicago.

Can't say I blame her. Holidays are supposed to be happy, not sad.

But what about the ones like me and Starsk, when the happy time rolls around and we're not ready?

What are we supposed to do, pretend like we're all joyful when we're not?

I mean, for sure, Christmas was one of those things between the two of them . . . one of those things where Hutch teased Starsk without mercy, but Starsk loved it. Sometimes teasin' was Hutch's way of sayin' he loved Starsk.

So how was Starsk supposed to get by without Mr. Scrooge this year? Just wasn't the same.

"You gonna put your tree up?" I asked as I barged into his house wearin' my cool green elf hat with the bell on the end.

"Nah," he said glumly from his stool by the window. "No tree."

"What you talkin'? You got to have a tree. You just sit tight and let Santa's best elf do his thing. I'll have your tree lookin' like it came right outa Santa's own workshop."

Nothin'.

Nada.

Wasn't charmin' him at all. But I went on with my plan of puttin' the tree up, cause it was easier than watchin' him moon outside the window like he was waitin' for Hutch to show up. The sight of it pecked at my heart like some kinda bird.

"I miss him too, bro," I said with a squeeze to his shoulder. "If I could give you one present this year . . . "

He nodded, and didn't even watch while I strung lights, hung ornaments, and draped silver icicles on the branches.

He hadn't bought any presents yet, hadn't mailed any cards, hadn't made any special trip to the orphanages to take some toys and candy like he and Hutch used to do.

Hell, I even had to go buy the damn tree.

Without Hutch, Christmas didn't mean anything to him.

All I could do was just keep him company. Diane had asked me to go to a party with her to get my mind offa things, but I said no. The Dobeys invited me and Starsk over for dinner, but I told him we'd best spend it by ourselves this time, and he said he definitely understood.

Tell you the truth, that tree looked sadder with its lights on than off. No presents from Hutch under it, even it was just a Pocket Guide To Better Camping. No wisecracks from Blondie about how Christmas was all about merchandise and commercialism. No ice coolers full of snow he'd driven all the way to Northern California to bring back just for Starsk. No beautiful singing of White

Christmas that, in my book, gave Bing a run for his money. No stockings full of fruit and nuts, no homemade health-nog.

Nothing.

Just memories, and a Starsky that was hurtin' so bad I could see him bleedin' on the inside.

"Almost midnight," he sighed at the windowpane.

The decoration lights on the house across the street played warm colors on his face.

"Hutch," he whispered. "Terry."

I stepped over to the window and rubbed his arm, noticing that he was wearin' one of Hutch's flannel shirts over his own T-shirt. To feel him close I guess.

He tried to give me a smile again, but it didn't work. He slowly got off the stool and went to the corner of the room to pick up the guitar he hadn't touched since the summer.

Then he sat down on the sofa and settled back to move his thumb thoughtfully down the strings.

Hutch's guitar. He'd kept a few of his things, the things that meant the most to him, like his guitar, necklace, pocket watch, and that worn out flannel shirt.

"Can't play like Hutch," he whispered.

I sat down next to him on the sofa and settled back myself, waiting for the Christmas tree lights to perk my spirits up, but they never did.

Not that Christmas.

And you know, they never did seem as bright after Hutch died.

Me and Starsk spent that Christmas together, and we spent it missing Hutch, with our sad Christmas tree, and our sad song of Blue Christmas.

Next year would be better. The next year he rounded up some presents and took them to the orphanages in Hutch's name. The kids kept asking where "the blond policeman" was, and Starsk patted his heart and said, "Right here, kiddos. He's right here."

But this year . . . we just let it be.

End

THE ACCIDENT II—(Based on the "Blindfold" episode).

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

It was a beautiful sunny day, and Dobey gave us a drug case.

Business as usual. We were waiting on a park bench for Huggy to come along with some information on a drug shipment that was supposed to be brought in by a gang of teenagers.

Smart move.

Teenagers would only do minor time in a juvenile facility. If anyone fell, they wouldn't fall hard. Unless one of the juveniles gave out a big name. And most of the kids were loyal to their boss, with

promise of bigger fish to fry, a place to live, money to spend, and all the drugs they could want when they got out of juvenile hall. So loyalty ran strong among them. Just a junior version of prostitution if you ask me.

Starsky looked at his watch. "Lunchtime. Getting hungry?"

"I could eat."

"We will, soon as Huggy comes. I can't work on an empty stomach."

"Your stomach is never empty, so how would you know?"

He started to give me a smart answer but stopped with his mouth half-open.

I followed his gaze to see what he was looking at.

Figured it was a girl. And it was.

She stood under the tree in the park, her white cane in her hand. She looked lost, but maintained a stubborn lift to her chin. Her sunglasses were like small black windows, almost like a shield against the world. She had no guide dog with her, and no companion.

Starsky rose halfway to his feet. "Maybe she needs help."

I took his arm. "Maybe she doesn't want help."

Starsky sat back down, but still watched her. "She looks lost."

"She should know where she wants to go. Maybe she's waiting for someone. If she wants help, she'll ask for it."

Starsky rose to his feet. "I can see that you didn't take your Boy Scout pill today. I'm gonna help her." He winked at me. "And she's cute, in a Sally Fields kinda way."

I didn't go with him. I just watched from the bench, and I was well within earshot of their conversation.

"Excuse me," he said in his polite, I'm-working-up-to-asking-you-out voice, "I hate to bother you, but, well, do you need any help?"

She wasn't smiling. She tapped her cane in the direction of his voice and poked him a little in the stomach. "Do I look like I need help?"

"Well, um, actually, yeah. You do."

"Well, um, actually, it's none of your business."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help. If you need me to tell you where you are, or get you to the corner of the street . . . "

She turned away from him and started walking, even though it was clear she didn't have her bearings. Starsk took her arm before she bumped into a wastepaper basket.

"Hey, hold on there, Miss. You don't have to leave. What's your name?"

She took her arm away from him. "Why would you want to know?"

"Well, I . . . why wouldn't I? I'm just tryin' to be nice. Me and my

partner-we're cops, see-are sittin' on a bench over there, and I saw you, and I thought I might ask you out."

"I don't even know where the hell I am, why would I want to go with someone I don't even know? And don't touch me unless I say you can touch me."

He took his hand down. "I didn't mean . . . "

"What, you feel sorry for me? Want to show how sympathetic you can be? You think I need that?"

"Well-"

"What the hell would you know about it?"

"Well . . . "

You don't have to tell her anything, Starsk. Walk away.

"Answer me," she said. "What would a cop know about it?"

Well, sweetie, if you only knew, he accidentally blinded a young woman a lot like yourself, and was knee-deep in her pain as well as his own.

If she could have seen his face. He shied away like a wounded pup.

"Sorry," he said quietly, and backed away. "Sorry I said anything."

He went to stand by the Torino.

I'd had enough of her attitude. I walked over to her and took her arm.

"Listen, girlie. My partner was only being nice to you. Now you can take you bitter blind-girl routine somewhere else. He's had personal experience with a girl much like yourself. You want to take it out on everybody else? Fine. You want to hate the world? Do it. You think your disability gives you a right to tear everybody down? You think no one will say anything to you because you're blind? It doesn't give you a license to act like an ass."

I walked over to Starsky and patted his arm. "It's okay, Starsk. Her loss, not yours. Come on, I'll buy you lunch."

He rounded the Torino to get in, but the girl started forward, her cane tapping away.

"Wait," she said nervously. "I . . . I'm sorry. Whoever you are. That's probably the most honest thing anyone's ever said to me. I . . . I was selfish. If . . . "

Starsky looked at her over the hood of the Torino. "Apology accepted. You want to go out or not? Hutch is buyin'."

She grinned. "An offer I can't refuse."

I opened the passenger door and helped her in. To Starsky I said, "Guess we'll catch up with Huggy at his place, huh?"

"Yeah. Hope he's got the special warmed up."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Beth Matthews was her name.

We shared a booth, and a large pizza, at Huggy's.

Starsky sat next to her, his arm across the back of the seat.

I noticed how hard it was for him not to help her with her drink and food. His hands would move toward her, but then pull back at the last second.

Not that she needed the help. She didn't spill a drop, and it was only the white cane that spoke of her blindness at all.

She seemed to be enjoying her meal, and laughed a lot at Starsky's impressions, identifying each one by sound rather than facial expression.

"I should take you to the movies," she told him.

"You go to movies?"

"Why not? I get most of it by hearing. It's the silent ones I have trouble with."

He laughed with her.

"Needless to say," she said, "I like movies with lots of good dialogue."

She reached for the salt shaker, and Starsky resisted the urge to hand it to her.

"How'd you know where that was?" I asked her.

She smiled and set the shaker back down. "That's where Dave put it after he used it." She leaned toward me. "Did you know," she said in a confidential tone, "I can hear grains of salt falling onto the food?"

I wasn't sure she was joking or not. "Oh . . . well, I never thought about it, but I guess you would be able to do that."

"And my sensitive hands . . . " She smiled coyly, but it was more cute than seductive. "Well . . . you can use your imagination."

Starsky cleared his throat. "Um . .. have you ever been motorcycle riding?"

"Sure I have."

"On the back, I bet."

"Of course on the back."

Starsky winked at me. "Not on the front, all by yourself?"

She put her fork down and sat back in the seat, settling against his arm as if she liked it. "You're kidding. All by myself?"

"Or how about scuba diving?"

"You mean, under the water? Not just waiting in the boat?"

"I mean under."

"Well, no, as a matter of fact, I haven't. But that would be a blast. I try lots of things, you know, but

only what Barry will let me do."

"Who's Barry?" Starsky asked. "And what do you mean, 'let'? You're a grown woman. If you want to do somethin . . . "

She squirmed a bit uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." Her forefinger traced over the face of her Braille wristwatch. "It's time for me to get back home."

It was almost like she was having such a good time that she forgot about "Barry."

She moved to get out, thinking Starsky would get up for her, but he sat still.

"Who's Barry?" he asked.

She gripped her white cane. "My boyfriend. I live with him. He takes me places, helps me out, looks after me. I really owe him a lot, you know? And I really have to go. He'll be home soon and I need to fix his dinner."

I saw her hand rubbing nervously on the cane.

Starsky saw it too and looked at me.

"Is he nice to you?"

"We have our arguments but-"

"Define 'arguments'."

"You know. He gets mad if I don't do things the way he expects, like if I scorch the toast a little or get the coffee a little too hot. Just fights. Doesn't everybody get into it now and then? Isn't that part of a relationship?"

She was getting defensive again, like she'd been in the park when we first saw her.

Starsky took her shaking hand and looked at it. "Beth, you can't see your hand, but has anybody ever told you that you have little scars all over it?"

She took her hand away and put it under the table, suddenly putting her head down. "Scars are what's left behind when you're hurt, right? Isn't that what they are? I wasn't sure. I mean, I haven't really seen one before, but that's what I've been told they are." I saw a tear drip onto her napkin. "Just let me out."

"What did he do to your hand?" I asked her.

She looked like a frightened rabbit in a trap.

"He bites me," she whispered. "Digs his fingernails in. Burns me with matches sometimes. But if I could just learn to do things the way he wants . . . did more . . . pleased him . . . it wouldn't give him a reason to do it."

She was sobbing into her hand now. "It's all right, Dave. Really."

I thought Starsky was going to cry. He turned in the seat so no one could see her. "You're one tough little girl, areen't you?" he asked in a shaky voice. "You think you can't get along in the world without Barry. Some boyfriend. So you endure that abuse from him."

"He's good to me."

Starsky's hand banged down onto the table, making the silverware, salt shaker, and Beth, jump. "He's not good to you. He hurts you."

"He loves me."

"That's not love. Love is . . . " He took her balled fist from her lap, uncurled her tension-white fingers, and kissed them. "Like this."

She kept crying silently. I got the feeling Barry had never allowed her to cry out loud.

"How did you lose your sight?" Starsky asked her.

She moved again to get out of the booth, but he didn't budge.

"That's none of your business, Officer. Now let me out."

"Was it Barry?"

"No."

"Then how-"

"Who."

"Okay. Who?"

Her lower lip trembled. "My father. I was five. He got mad at me when I was doing the laundry. I put my red blouse in with his white T-shirts and turned them all pink. And he . . . he got mad and he . . . threw bleach in my face."

Starsky looked as stunned as I felt.

"Most of it," she said quietly, "went in my eyes. He was a dad with a temper. It just made him mad. Normally he was nice, but the stress of Mom dying of cancer, and nobody to really take care of the house anymore but me, it was just too much for him."

"No," Starsky growled in a low voice as he grabbed her hand and pulled her from the booth.

Still sobbing, she dropped her cane.

"Starsk," I said getting out of the booth and picking up her cane. "You're scaring her."

Anger and compassion would burn my partner up inside if he didn't let it out.

He pulled her out the back door, where we stood together in the alley.

"You, dear Beth," he said taking her head in his hands, "are not responsible for what he did. It wasn't anything you did. What he did was cruel. And you deserve better than a boyfriend who treats you just like your daddy did."

There went the stubborn lift of her chin again, between his hands. "I don't care. I get by."

"'Getting by' isn't the same as living," I told her. "You don't have to take his abuse."

"He takes care of me."

"You can take care of yourself."

She stood very still, listening, breathing, smelling, thinking.

"That's why you were out there alone, wasn't it?" Starsky asked. "You were tryin' it on your own, to see what independence felt like. To see what leaving him might be like. See how far you could get on your own."

She swallowed, her voice a breathy whisper. "I liked it."

"That's why you came with us," I said. "Once you knew we were cops."

"They said I'd never make it by myself," she said quietly. "First my dad. Then Barry. They said I couldn't do anything. And maybe I can't."

"You can," Starsky told her. "You can get a job, get a guide dog, your own apartment."

"He'll come after me."

"We'll put you somewhere safe."

"I'm . . . I'm scared. I've never been alone before. I don't know how."

Starsky pulled her against him and stroked the back of her hair. "I'll help you. We'll help you. A brand new start, huh? New home, new friends, new outlook on life. Hands like yours . . . " He kissed them again. "Should never be treated that way."

She was smiling a little, but it was a scared smile.

"I don't guess there'd ever be a chance," she said timidly but hopefully, "that I'd be able to get a few things out of the house?"

Starsky smiled too. "You kidding? You can get whatever you damn well please out of that house. We're goin' with you."

"Oh but-you don't understand. He's going to be furious. He says I belong to him and that if I ever leave . . . he'd make me sorry. He said he wouldn't go on, that he couldn't go on, without me."

He kissed her lips, to shush her, calm her down, let her know we cared and would take care of it. "Beth," he whispered. "We're cops. We do this for a living. We'll get you out, into a shelter, you'll get a restraining order, and if he violates it he goes to jail."

"And when he gets out, he'll be twice as mad, and he'll kill me like he said."

"I'll teach you to use a gun."

"I could never shoot anyone."

"Even in self-defense?"

She half-laughed and half-cried. "Dave, I'm blind! How am I supposed to use a gun?"

"You can do it. If you know when and where I put the salt shaker down, you'll know when and where to shoot."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"What does Barry drive?" Starsky asked as we pulled up alongside Beth's house.

"Black Trans Am," she said biting a fingernail.

She sat between us, hunched down against my side.

"I don't see one," Starsky told her.

I put my arm around her. "Don't worry. It'll be okay. I don't think he's even here."

"I don't want you or Dave to get hurt."

I drew my Magnum. "Hold your hand out. I want to show you something."

She held her hand out and I wrapped it around the handle. "If he's in there, and if he starts something, we'll be all right."

"It's heavy."

"It'll do the job."

Starsky parked in front of the house.

"Do I have to go in?" she asked us.

"Honey," I reasoned with her. "He's not even home. You'll be with us."

For the first time she felt around for a hand. I gave her mine.

The three of us got out of the Torino. Starsky pulled his gun out before we even got to the door, then knocked.

Beth's voice was quiet. "I can hear the radio playing low."

We just stared at her. We couldn't hear it, but she could.

"Barry!" I shouted. "Police! You in there?"

We waited for an answer. Magnum in my hand, I pulled Beth to stand beside the door with us, just in case he was waiting on the other side with a shotgun.

"Come on," Starsky said opening the door. "Let's go in so you can get some things."

We walked inside and looked around. I noticed she had no pictures on the walls, and no flower arrangements or plants. Sparse furniture. What little color or design that existed was mismatched.

(Barry sure isn't into decorating, and Beth has never known what it looks like)

One Braille book was on the coffee table. A recipe book.

(The only book he'd let you read? Doesn't want you too enlightened, does he, Beth? You could wise up and figure out that life isn't supposed to be this way. That there's something better out there than him)

"He's not here," Beth said. "I don't smell his beer."

Starsky and I looked in all the rooms and saw no signs that anyone was home.

"Go ahead," he told her. "Get your stuff."

She made her smooth, catlike way into her bedroom, pulling a suitcase from the closet and putting in some clothes, obviously more familiar in her own home where she knew where everything was.

"Ready," she said lifting it off the bed.

I took it from her. "That's all?"

"That's all I have. Plus Willie."

"Willie?"

She reached for a tan Teddy bear propped on her pillow. "Willie," she said hugging him close. "And I need my Braille Bible. On the couch."

"I'll get it," Starsky said as the three of us walked back into the living room. He found the Bible and we went out the door.

"It seems so easy to leave," she said as she held to my hand again. "But it's not."

"I know. The most dangerous time for a battered woman is when she decides to leave. But we'll take you to a Safe House until we make sure he's out of your life."

"He won't leave me alone."

"Nope," Starsky assured her. "You got that wrong. It's us that won't leave him alone."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

I drove to the Open Arms, a crisis shelter, so Starsky and Beth could talk. She held Willie against her while trying to find something in the Bible with her fingers.

"What are you looking for?" Starsky asked her.

"Well, I'm not sure. It's in the New Testament. Something about love."

"I know what you're looking for," I told him. "Want me to tell you?"

Starsky smiled. "Let's hear it, Kreskin."

I smiled too "Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not, love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil. Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth it the truth. Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Love never fails."

She closed the Bible. "That's it."

He put his arm around Beth. "See? Love ain't supposed to hurt. It's supposed to feel good."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky and I went with Beth to help her file a restraining order. Barry tried to talk to her as she was leaving the courtroom, but he tried only once. Starsky and I hustled him into the men's room and privately threatened him within an inch of his life if he touched her or came near her or tried to contact her again.

Unorthodox? Yes.

Did he understand?

The wet spot on the front of his trousers told us it appeared that he did.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Beth participated in some counseling sessions for domestic violence, and the counselors helped her see that the cycle of abuse had to be broken, and that no one else could do it but her.

When it looked safe enough for Beth to come out of the shelter, Starsky took her to the Independence Institute, where the staff taught her to use a guide dog, helped her get into secretarial school (her typing skills were excellent), and promised to help her find a job and learn to use the public transportation system.

She and Starsky dated a while, he taught her to use a gun, taught her some self-defense, they went to some movies, and then she up and tells him one day that she's met someone at the Institute, and that she really thought of Starsky as a friend and not a boyfriend. Starsky wasn't all that hurt. He was happy for her, and they remained good friends after that. They ended on good terms.

Today Beth works at the Independence Institute herself, as a Braille teacher. She volunteers a couple of days a week at the women's shelter too, and she helps arrange the group sessions they have there. Once she understood she'd been in a trap, almost like design, she was able to help others understand it too, and get out of it.

As I sit here writing this, I look over and see my partner laughing away at some old black and white comedy, and it makes my heart swell that he is who he is.

My partner.

Full of Boy Scout pills.

End

Collandra

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Starsky was missing, and I knew what Hutchinson wanted when he came through the front door of my diner.

I didn't have to be psychic to know the man was under duress. The scarcely-contained panic in his eyes, sheen of sweat on his upper lip, and walk that was threatening to be a run at any second, told it all. But my gift-or curse-of second sight, told me just how much duress he was under.

It was a physical thing. His love as strong as death. I could feel it radiating off of him like a fever.

I'd felt it off of Starsky once before, miles away (like a nuclear explosion!) when he was going after those goons who had shot Hutchinson through a window when some kidnappers saw cops in front of a place when there weren't supposed to be any cops. Finding the kidnapped girl, with my feelers, was painful enough for me. Those images don't just flash across my mind like a slide projector. I live whatever's coming through my filter. Starsky's love almost killed me. It seized me behind the counter when I was turning the radio off. The music had been distracting me. I'd been concentrating on helping them find the kidnapped girl. And I didn't want the music to cloud my reception.

The images of the girl-the feelings of her-where she was-what had happened to her-were bad enough, draining enough-but when the goons shot Hutch through the glass, the impact of Starsky's emotion slammed into me harder than the bullet had slammed into his partner's chest. So hard I landed on the floor behind the counter clutching my chest. Paralyzed. Felt like I was having a heart attack. I couldn't get up for ten minutes. Starsky's voice as he pushed through the crowd to get to Hutchinson (MOVE OUT OF THE WAY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!) was pounding in my head like a sledgehammer. And then, when he realized his partner was unharmed (I thought you were dead), I could finally breathe again, move again, and get off the floor. Somebody had called an ambulance for me. And I'm glad they did, because I'd never felt anything like that before or since.

Until now.

I don't know what it was with those two. How they seemed to read each other like I read everybody. When one was hurt, the other got stronger. When one was down, the other took over, compensated, took up the slack.

"Collandra," he said coming through my door pushing a hand through his hair and taking my arm.

It was when he took my arm that I felt (grief)-(deadly)-(seething)-(implosion)-(dangerous)- (murderous)-the full effect of what he was feeling. Physical contact always sharpens the images, the moods, and the details of what I'm getting. And to add to that, when I concentrate hard, really focus in on something, it gets even stronger.

I tried to jerk my arm away from his grip. "Hutchinson, I can't focus on what you're saying when you touch me. It's too much."

Instantly.

He let go.

(Whatever you say, Joe)

(Whatever it takes to get you to help me)

(To find Starsky for me)

"He's been gone three days," I said.

It wasn't a question. I could read it from him.

"And," I went on, looking into his eyes. "You've looked everywhere. Huggy didn't come up with anything. Sweet Alice didn't. APB didn't. Nobody's called you with any demands. No clues at his place. His car's still parked in front of his house. He just disappeared. Wasn't at home the other morning when you stopped to pick him up."

"Will you help me, Joe? I don't know what else to do. I've looked everywhere. We've got enemies, yes, and a lot of people would like to see us dead. But we've made no special ones lately. No recent death threats. Huggy would have heard something like that. He's just . . . "

"Gone."

There it was. The change. I felt it. From death angel to guardian angel. From sinister to sunshine.

From pit bull to lion cub.

I thought he was going to cry right there in the back of my diner.

(God, Joe, I don't know what I'd do if he died)

Starsky's the only person that can tear him up like that. Twist him around until he's almost suicidal with grief and affection.

He held Starsky's leather jacket out to me.

I looked at it, not touching it yet.

Because when I touch personal belongings of people, I always get a stronger read. It's like a lightening rod. Attracting stronger images. Clearer ones. More precise. And I really didn't know if I wanted to get a read as strong as I was expecting to get from it.

I looked into his hopeful, serious face. "Hutchinson, I don't know about this."

He just stood there, holding the jacket out for me to take.

"Hutchinson, you remember what it does to me. When I found that little boy . . . and then the girl . . . I'm in their heads. I feel what they feel."

I waited for him to say something, but it was no good. He knew what it would do to me and he didn't care. He didn't care if it killed me. As long as I found his partner.

But then another thought, right behind that one: (Do you know how grateful I'll be, Joe?) (Can you read that from me?) (Because if you can, then you know I will die trying to find him)

He didn't have to say anything out loud. I sensed it all. And his pain was already bearing down on my insides like a runaway semi. What would Starsky's read do to me?

I looked around my own diner, almost for help, like I needed rescuing from Detective Ken Hutchinson and his partner.

But everybody was busy eating and talking and minding their own business, and I was left there with his uncompromising eyes on me.

There wasn't anything else in his head except for Starsky.

No thoughts of what time it was, or how tired he was, or how thirsty he was, or what he would be eating for dinner later that day. Because he didn't care what time it was, or that he'd been without sleep for three days, or that he'd had so little to drink and eat that he was becoming sick and dehydrated.

"Let's step out back in the alley," I said quietly, and raised my voice to the waitress, Lucy, behind the counter. "Lucy, take over and close up! I don't know when . . ."-(or if?)-" . . . I'll be back."

Lucy nodded and I led the way to the rear exit.

Hutchinson still carried the jacket. No way was I going to handle it until I was outside.

"Wouldn't hurt to have an ambulance on standby," I joked, but it fell pretty flat out there in the dirty alley behind my place.

(I'll call one if he needs one) was Hutchinson's next thought. Big of him. Like a sadist he would put me through sheer mental and physical torture to find his partner, but like a boy scout, would make sure I received medical attention afterward.

"Hutchinson," I tried for a half-hearted, transparent plea, "you don't really buy it, do you? You sure you want me to-"

He thrust the jacket at me, and the contact of that simple leather material against my chest knocked me against the brick wall. Not the material itself, of course, but what came to me, through it. The images-dark, sweat, smothery, wool, foul, nasty, blood-assaulted my senses, and like always, but never this intense, I wasn't Joe Collandra anymore, but David Starsky. Not in my back alley, but somewhere . . . somewhere else . . . where? Where are you, Starsky? Where am I?

Hutchinson's face disappeared from my vision. All went dark and I was falling, down, down, into a deep well, hollow, until I could no longer see the alley, or Hutchinson, or the brick wall.

I was gone.

I was Starsky.

Breathe.

I can't breathe.

Choking. Something over my head, my face. Someone's choking me. Yelling and saying something, but I can't hear what it is, what they're saying.

Breathe. Stay alive. Hutch will come. Hutch will find me. Come on, Hutch.

"Hutch?" I heard myself saying out loud, and it was too much like Starsky's voice. My hair was standing on end. I was frigid with cold. "Are you comin'? You comin' to get me?"

"Starsk?" Hutchinson's voice floated around me. My vision had faded to black, but my hearing was just fine, and I could still feel things-especially Hutchinson's painful grip on my arms. "Starsk? You okay? Where are you?"

Hutchinson actually thought he was talking to his partner through me.

There was so much intuition between them. So much perception. Psychic interpretation.

Of course he was. That's exactly what he was doing.

"Who has you, Starsk?"

Finally, the darkness passed, as if Starsky had lost consciousness.

And that was all.

No more thoughts.

No more images.

No more Starsky.

Quiet. . . . . . . . .

Quiet. . . . . . . . .

A respite for me. My chest was aching.

The black cloud was lifting, and color and sight were returning to me.

"Joe?"

I felt myself slumping down to sit on an old vegetable crate.

Hutchinson was kneeling down in front of me, shaking me, saying something.

"What?" I heard myself asking. My senses were trying to zone out again. I handed the jacket back. I just wanted it out of my hands. It was sapping me.

Of all the images I'd seen, of all the people I'd sensed, read, tracked, and found, I had never, ever,

spoken as them, or with the likeness of their voices.

"-your neck."

"What?"

Hutchinson was saying something and I'd missed it.

"What?"

"I said," he said staring at me and sitting down hard on the ground, "My God, you've got bruises all over your neck."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

He had taken me to his apartment and put a cold compress on my head, and I was now arriving back at myself on his couch.

I didn't even remember the trip to his place.

"What happened?" he asked me.

"I don't know."

He sat on the coffee table in front of me, Starsky's leather jacket draped over one arm.

"You have to know, Joe. Something happened. You saw something, didn't you? Where is he? He's hurt, isn't he?"

"Hutchinson . . . "

I could hear the weakness in my voice, like an old man, and it scared me to death. He held the jacket out to me again. "Find him." "Look, give me time. I can't-"

"DO IT!"

"NO WAY! NOT RIGHT NOW!"

I was panting, he was seething.

"You want me to find him," I said in a hoarse, cracking voice. "You back off. I'm no good to you dead."

He stared at me again, especially my neck.

"You don't know what this does to me, Hutchinson."

He grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me forward. "What's it doing to Starsky, Joe? Huh? Is somebody . . . " Something-emotion-caught in his throat. "Choking him like that?"

I relayed the vision. He needed to know. He would kill me if I didn't give him something to keep him off my back.

"Dark," I said with a wheeze, and reached into my back pocket for a handkerchief.

I coughed into it. Tried to blink away the red spots in front of my eyes.

He handed me a bourbon.

"Smothery," I added wiping my brow. "And yes . . . " My hand went carefully to my own throat, my voice harsh and whispery from the throttling. "Someone was choking him."

His head dropped. It just dropped, and he sat there in the silence, as if in prayer.

"But he's not dead," I told him. "At least, not now. I mean, that's what I'm feeling. He's . . . I think he's still alive."

"What else?" he whispered with his head down.

I knew he really didn't want to know. Didn't really want to hear. Or see my throat again. Or hear my choked voice. Because it was Starsky. What little I'd gleaned was already tearing him apart. It would be a torturous journey, for both of-

His thoughts invading mine again:

(I'd take it, Starsk)

(I'd take whatever you're going through if I could)

"No," I said out loud, and didn't care what he thought about it. "I've had a taste of it, and believe me, you don't want it."

His head slowly rose again.

"You don't know who? Why? Where? How? Anything at all, I can use it. Just give me something. Keep talking."

"Blood," I said, and each word that followed fell like a stone from my mouth. "Wool. Nasty. Sweat. Smell. Black. Hot."

"Indoors?"

"Outdoors. That much I can be sure of. He's outside. But he-"

I winced and shrank back into the couch, hands to my head. Something unexpected was bullying its way in.

Starsky was regaining consciousness again.

"Trapped," I managed to say through gritted teeth. I suddenly bent double and started to heave.

Hutchinson helped me to the bathroom but nothing came up.

An invisible blow to the stomach and I was on my knees gasping for breath-"Hutch-"-My hand clawing for him, my eyes trying to stay focused on him, but no good. I could hear him saying my name over and over, but I wasn't me anymore, I was his partner, somehow I was his partner, and I was on the floor, curling up, my hands going behind my back as if tied.

I went with it, rode on it, to see where it would take me. It was the only way to find him.

I lurched when a hard kick came to my stomach.

"Huh-"

Hutchinson was trying to pull me up, pull my hands around.

"Joe! What is it? Tell me! Is it Starsky?"

Choking again. Not breathing.

Hutchinson smacking my face, urging me to breathe.

"Out," I gasped as Starsky against the cold tiles. "Get me out." I tried to move my hands, but they felt bound behind my back. I couldn't move on my own. I'd been beaten.

And-as Starsky-was losing consciousness.

"Hutch," I whispered. "Help."

The boy scout knelt next to me, his hand reaching out-not to me, but to Starsky.

"Starsk . . . "

"Find me," I groaned. "They're gonna kill me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I didn't know how much time had passed, but when I fully came to myself I wasn't on the bathroom floor anymore, I was lying on the sofa, and Hutchinson was sitting on the coffee table dabbing my face with some kind of antiseptic pads.

"You're bleeding," he said, and I detected the tremble (pale rage) in his voice.

I knocked his hand away and pushed myself to a sitting position. "He's unconscious," I mumbled.

"How do you know?"

"BECAUSE!" I screamed at him. "I'D BE DEAD IF HE WEREN'T!"

I pushed past him, even though he tried to keep me on the couch. I had to get up, I had to walk around. I wrapped my arms around my chest.

"I think I got some cracked ribs," I mumbled.

Hutchinson got up to follow me around like a tenacious blond Doberman.

"What did you say?"

"I said," I repeated in the same mumble-pain prevented me from raising my voice again, "I think I got some cracked ribs."

"How? Are you telling me that . . . "

I kept walking, he kept following.

"Joe, are you telling me that you're going through whatever Starsky's going through?"

"No. Not with the same intensity. No."

"But you're feeling it."

"I'm feeling a shade of it. A shadow of it. You think this has happened to me before? You think I know what's going on here? I'm getting more than I ever got before."

"Then why don't you know where he is? Why can't you get that? How can you-"

I grabbed the jacket just to shut him up and get it over with, clutching it to my chest, the force of it driving me to my knees.

"Oh God," I gasped as I doubled forward with my forehead on the floor, pressing my face into the soft leather. "They're back. They're back. They're back. They're-"

"Joe!"

"NO! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! HUTCH!"

Beating me into the ground. Down. Down. Into the dirt, the garbage, the-

"Gang of boys. Initiation. Kill a cop. Get a color. Be a man-"

Choking again.

Blacking out.

Hard to breathe.

Can't see.

Can't move.

It was over.

They're leaving.

They're finished.

"Garbage," I whispered, and sank face-first into the rug.

Something slamming closed overhead.

Done.

It seemed to be over, but I felt empty instead of relieved.

"The dump," I moaned to the floor. "He's at the dump. Mayo's Dump."

Hutchinson's hands hauled me up to my feet. "Is he alive?"

I couldn't answer. I didn't know.

He shook me. "Joe! Is he alive?"

"I DON'T KNOW! IT DOESN'T FEEL LIKE IT, HUTCHINSON!"

He pulled me out the door. I didn't want to go. I didn't want anymore Starsky. Or Hutchinson. I just wanted to lay down and sleep for a month. Or puke. Or die.

And like he read my mind, he said, "You're going with me. I want to make sure I find him once I get there."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Mayo's Dump.

If hell had a garbage dump, this had to be it.

Mountains of trash, wrecked cars, trucks. Burned out appliances. Mounds of useless and broken furniture. Rats scurrying around. Flies. Scavenger birds. Snakes.

And the smell.

Enough to gag.

And Starsky was here, somewhere, amidst all the piles and piles of debris.

Hutchinson had called Dobey and asked him to dispatch officers to help us look, but they hadn't arrived yet. So me and the death angel walked around-no, ran around-calling out his name, hoping we'd hear him from the dark trunk of one of those old rusted clunkers, or find him wrapped up in a carpet somewhere.

"Anything?" he asked me every five minutes or so.

I shook my head no. Couldn't explain why I wasn't feeling anything from Starsky except white noise. No pain, no fear, no panic.

God.

Does that mean he's dead? Dying?

I sensed the sirens before Hutch heard them.

"Help's coming," I offered lamely.

He cupped a hand around his mouth. "Starsk!"

Hutchinson's pulse was in my head, his dozens of thoughts flying around a mile a millisecond, my heartbeat pounding time with his.

"Starsk!"

Sirens in the distance. Help had arrived. Dobey came out of his sedan and ordered the searchers around. To the officers' eyes he was brisk and business. To my mind's eye he was carefully-controlled alarm and dread.

I moved along with some of the officers, hunting through the heaps of garbage, and I knew what they were thinking (crackpot) (phony) (snake-oil) (freak) (you know he's here because you probably put him here yourself), but I didn't care. I had long ago learned to let the slur-thoughts of othersslide off me like Teflon. If I took every thought personally, I'd be in a rubber room by now.

Hutchinson and his superior looked at each other, but no words passed between them. They didn't need words. They just kept looking.

And I think that Hutchinson found Starsky-sensed him-a fraction before I did, though we both looked in the direction of the abandoned deep-freeze at the same time.

(Oh my God) was in his head as we ran over to the dirty-white and dented freezer.

White noise.

Dying.

No air.

Hot.

Dark.

Breath going.

Hutchinson flung open the lid, and there he lay curled on his side, a woolen bag over his head and tied at the neck with an electrical cord, hands bound behind his back with yet another electrical cord, clothes drenched in sweat, not moving, seemingly not breathing.

(Starsk)

"Oh my God."

I reached inside the freezer to help Hutch cut the cords. He pulled the wool bag from his partner's head and we saw the beating I'd felt. His cut and bruised face, discolored from lack of oxygen. He was suffocating. His throat purplish red from strangulation. Sweat dripping from his hair.

"Starsk?"

The boy scout's small voice: Fear. Dread. Love.

Hope: One long, sustained, dreadful note of hope.

We reached in and lifted him out. Unconscious, near death, he came as a boneless rag doll in our hands, and we put him on the ground.

"Starsk?"

I had to walk away. Catch my breath. Try to get as far away from Hutchinson's deathly love, and the white noise, as I could. It bore down on me again. Tons. Crushing my chest, in my lungs, heart, brain, ears, nose, eyes, all my senses.

It was private, their love. Beyond that of friends, of partners, of lovers. Something spiritual and designed. Something transcending the physical, the romantic. More than friendship. Friendship is too elementary a word. But no earthly words accurately describe it. Try describing the color of the sky to someone who's never seen it before.

"CAP! OVER HERE! MEDICS!"

Hutchinson leaned over his partner and began CPR, panting, cajoling, praying, begging life back into him.

And even though my back was turned and I was out of sight behind the totaled hulk of a van, I could feel it.

Starsky coming around. A sputter of life. A faint gasp. A weak moan. Eyes open and shining like blue lights.

Hutchinson laughed and cried, crazy with love, exhausted with relief.

I was laughing and crying too (Alive! He's alive, Joe! He's alive! Thank you! Thank you! Thank God! Thank), thankful those two hadn't killed me.

XXXXXXXXX++

I was lurking around in the hall outside Starsky's hospital room, feeling guilty for overhearing, in my head, the conversations in THEIR heads, even though they weren't saying anything out loud to each other.

Starsky was just lying quietly (a change for that motor mouth!), hands bunching at the sheets, letting the doctors check him over and tend to him.

It was his puffy throat they were worried about.

They would keep him a couple of days, give him something to keep the swelling down.

And yes, he did have some cracked ribs. Mine were only bruised.

"How'd you get these?" one of the doctors asked me.

"Fell down the stairs," I shrugged. What else could I say?

(I was scared, Hutch)-I heard Starsky say in his head. He was looking at Hutchinson but not sayinganything out loud. (I'm glad you found me)

Hutchinson was standing next to the examining table Starsky was on, arms folded defensively across his chest (don't poke and pry on him so hard, you clowns) yet smiling fondly at his partner (we're okay, buddy) (thanks to-Joe, what are you doing out there)-

Hutch appeared in the doorway and grabbed my arm.

"Joe, what are you doing out here, counting the ceiling tiles? Get in here."

Feeling like a peeping Tom who'd been caught red-handed, I followed Hutchinson into the room.

"Here's the man," he said clapping me on the shoulder. "Right here. Best psychic in the world."

"Sshh," I scolded him. "Don't spread it around. Somebody might put me away."

"Well," Starsky said in a voice that sounded like laryngitis. "If they put you away, they gotta put us away too, because we know the truth. Right, Hutch?"

"Right, Starsk."

Starsky put on a brave smile. He really wanted to hold onto his partner's arm, but he kept bunching the sheets in his hands instead.

"Thanks," he whispered to me.

"Yeah," Hutchinson added. "I wish there were some way to repay you."

"Wash my dishes for two weeks and we'll call it even."

Hutchinson put his hand out to me. "Thanks, Joe. You don't know how much this means to me."

I shook his hand, and felt all the love he possessed in that one handshake.

"Yes," I winked. "I do know."

End

BOO

By TR

XXXXXXXXX

It was Halloween day and the Dobeys' little girl Rosie was in the hospital getting her tonsils out, so Starsky and Hutch decided to take Halloween to her.

Standing on top of Starsky's coffee table, Hutch was getting antsy waiting for Starsky to finish winding the last of the long white Ace bandages around his right ankle.

He was wrapped in white from head to foot.

"Will you please hurry?" he complained impatiently.

"Will you hold still?" Starsky griped as he fastened the safety pin into the material. "You don't want anything fallin' out, do you?"

Hutch looked down at his partner's furry face. He'd elected to be a werewolf for the occasion, and Huggy had helped him out by getting long fake hair, face fur, and glue from an actor friend of his.

"There," Starsky said as he stepped back. "All done."

Hutch stepped off the coffee table and looked into a full-length mirror Starsky had brought into the living room. He didn't see Ken Hutchinson, he saw a mummy.

"Little warm in here," he said in a slightly muffled voice behind the white material.

"Shush," Starsky told him as he adjusted some bandage folds at his waist. "Mummy's aren't supposed to talk."

Starsky considered his own look in the mirror. He had chosen a dark suit, and borrowed Hutch's hiking boots.

He growled into the mirror.

"What are you doing?" Hutch asked him.

"Practicing," he said giving another growl.

"Good grief."

"The return of The Werewolf and The Mummy," Starsky said proudly. "Got the candy?"

"I didn't get candy. You know candy's bad for kids."

Starsky gouged him in the ribs with his elbow. "Hutch, it ain't Halloween without candy."

The effect of Hutch rolling his eyes was not lost between the white folds of cloth around his head. "Rosie's had her tonsils out, for crying out loud. She's not going to be able to EAT any candy."

Starsky shrugged. "She'll be able to later. And what about the other kids in the hospital? They need candy too."

Hutch grumbled as he walked into the kitchen, then came back with a shopping bag. "Here," he said thrusting it at him. "You carry it."

Starsky looked into the bag and saw it full of bubble gum, suckers, candy bars, candy corn, and granola bars. "Knew you wouldn't let 'em down."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Even though there were other trick-or-treaters out collecting candy door-to-door in their various costumes, none drew the stares and finger-pointing that the werewolf and mummy did when they climbed out of the Torino in the hospital parking lot.

"Hey!" one kid shouted behind a Casper mask. "You two are too big for Halloween!"

Starsky spun with a growl and lunged at him, making the kid shriek and run off.

Laughing, Starsky returned to Hutch, who stood with his arms folded across his chest and shaking his head.

They started inside the hospital, where they were met with smiles and nods and handshakes from the hospital staff and some of the patients.

"Nice of you to do this," a nurse said wryly as she pressed the elevator button for them. "It should boost the police department's image."

Starsky started to say something, but Hutch shook his head no.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

"Happy Halloween!" Starsky announced as he and Hutch bounded into Rosie's hospital room, which was decorated with black and orange and yellow balloons, streamers, and cardboard cutouts of ghosts and witches and trolls on the wall.

"Lots of candy that's bad for you!" Hutch chimed in.

Mrs. Dobey was spoon feeding Rosie some ice cream. Edith's face brightened with a big smile when she saw them.

"Well, Rosie," Mrs. Dobey said, "I wonder who that could be?"

Since she had been instructed by the doctor not to talk, Rosie would only smile and lift her arms to hug her visitors.

"Here," Starsky said as he scooped some candy from the bag Hutch was holding and deposited it in her lap. "Save that for when you go home, huh?"

"Hey, Wolfman," Hutch said as he sat down on one side of Rosie's bed. "What's a ghost's favorite dessert?"

"Beats me," Starsky answered as he sat on the other side.

"Boo berry pie!" Hutch replied, and slapped his knee.

Rosie's eyes lit up with giggles.

"Hey, Mummy Man," Starsky said. "What's a ghoul's favorite ride at the carnival?"

"The haunted house?"

"Nope, Bandage Head. The roller ghoster."

It was Edith's turn to laugh.

A small crowd of orderlies and candy-stripers and nurses gathered inside the room to watch.

"Hey, Werewolf," Hutch said as he unwrapped a sucker and plopped it into Starsky's mouth, "do you know what policemen like for a snack?"

"Got me."

"Cop-cakes."

Rosie clapped her hands, her amused eyes traveling from the left side of her bed to her right.

"Hey, Mummy Boy," Starsky said. "What's a polite vampire say after he bites somebody?"

"I give up."

"Fang you very much," he said, and raised his hands in the air, curling his fingers into claw-shapes aimed in Hutch's direction.

"Yikes!" Hutch exclaimed, and ran toward the door, with Starsky close behind.

They both bumped squarely into the door as Captain Dobey opened it, and sprawled to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

Dobey glared down at them. "I don't recall authorizing any leave for this."

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other on the floor-"Oh, well, um, uh, y'see, I mean, Cap-" and Dobey's glare turned to an amused twinkle.

"Keep up the good work," he said, and winked across the room at Rosie.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

After making the rounds to all the children, they headed back down to the parking lot.

"Hey," Starsky said with a grin as they walked toward the Torino. "That was fun, huh? We could do somethin' for Thanksgiving too."

"And no costume necessary. You're already a turkey."

"Hey, no fair-"

A squeal across the parking lot snapped their heads toward a nurse picking herself up off the asphalt.

"My purse!" she wailed. "Somebody stole my purse!"

It was the nurse who'd rode in the elevator with them.

They saw a man darting across the lot with a leather handbag clutched in his hand.

"Hey!" Starsky yelled as they gave chase. "Come back here!"

"Police!" Hutch added as they raced between the cars. "Freeze!"

The man looked over his shoulder as he ran.

"I don't believe it!" he shouted. "I'm bein' chased by a mummy and a werewolf!"

The man was fast, but Starsky and Hutch were faster. They gained on him and tackled him just as

he was ready to cross the street.

Drivers, passers-by, and trick-or-treaters stopped to look, chuckle, and point at the mummy and the werewolf who were handcuffing the purse snatcher and reading him his rights.

The detectives escorted the thief back across the parking lot and into the back seat of the Torino.

"Here you go, Ma'am," Starsky said as he handed the nurse's purse back to her.

She looked at him and smiled. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Hutch adjusted the name pin that had been knocked askance on her uniform during the scuffle. "No thanks necessary. Just doing our job."

End