No Greater Gift and True Blue

by Zebra 3 and Me

From tragic loves to holidays, Starsky and Hutch face challenges in these stories.

NO GREATER GIFT and TRUE BLUE

By TLR

Stories-

1. Crossroads-A high-speed police chase ends in tragedy

2. Little Boy Blue-S's reservations about H's fiance

3. Tough Love-H disrupts Marcus' plans for S

4. Triangle-S's new girlfriend finds that breaking up hard to do

5. Christmas Past, Present, and Future-H finally finds meaning in the holiday

6. Thanks-A Thanksgiving story

7. Angel Eyes-Sweet Revenge through the eyes of an angel

8. Bedside Manner-Starsky in a Hutchinson crisis

9. Star of David-An anti-Semitic group in the precinct

10. What If? (The Fix-If There Were No Starsky)

11. Bloodstain-Hutch is missing

CROSSROADS

By TLR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Torino dodged recklessly in and out of traffic in pursuit of the red Trans Am-siren blaring, light flashing, running red lights.

Hutch held onto the dash. "Starsky, slow down!"

Traffic swerved, horns honked, some cars screeching to a halt, some colliding in fender benders.

"Starsky!"

Starsky's eyes were on the red sports car, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were white.

Hutch barked into the mike: "Control One, we are in pursuit of the bank robbers. They have a hostage."

Hutch glanced at the speedometer.

Seventy. Eighty.

Traffic and pedestrians weren't traffic and pedestrians anymore, but blurs of color whizzing by.

"Starsky, slow down. It's not safe. We could both be-"

Ninety. Approaching a hundred.

Starsky yelled without taking his eyes off the street. "He's got a hostage! What do you expect me to do?"

The Torino was gaining.

Hutch held the mike in his hand, started to speak into it again, but then just stared at the freeway ahead as if transfixed.

"Star . . . "

Hutch saw it first, and tried again to say Starsky's name, but it just wouldn't come. His hand clutched Starsky's arm but that was all he could do.

The Trans Am dodged first, careening side to side in wide snaky motions, then sped on.

Starsky saw it but not in time. He slammed on the brakes and braced himself, arms stiff on the wheel. The Torino skidded for what seemed like hundreds of feet.

It happened quickly, that surreal sensation of speed and slow time, as if it were unfolding on a movie screen instead of before Hutch's eyes: The THUNK, the screaming tires, the screaming people, the feel of something large and wrong under the car.

The Torino lodged on top of something, and ground to a halt.

Hutch flung the door open and jumped out, forcing himself to round the front of the vehicle and look for something he didn't want to find.

"Oh God," he groaned as he crouched with one hand on the bumper of the car.

A crowd was gathering. People running, trying to see, trying to help, trying to talk to him.

Someone-a young woman-the mother?-screaming hysterically and trying to get under the car.

Why? Why would she want to get under the car?

The two black and whites that had been a part of the pursuit were just now catching up, and the uniformed officers exited their cars.

Traffic had stopped, motorists were complaining, but the crowd was ogling for a better look.

Voices of the policemen, clipped, professional: "What happened here? Who-"

But Hutch heard none of it. Saw none of it. All he heard were the screeching brakes in his head, and all he saw were the mangled remains of a pink bicycle. And a pool of blood spreading from beneath the car.

He shuffled around to the driver's side as if dazed.

"Starsk?" he asked weakly as he grabbed the handle of the car door and opened it. "Starsk?"

He expected to see Starsky leaning over the wheel, distraught, tearful, stunned.

But Starsky was gone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Dobey tugged roughly on his tie and opened his office door. "I'm telling you for the last time," he said showing the two uniformed officers out, "If you have a grievance, you have to file it through the chain of command. You don't go over your superior's head with a complaint. Is that understood?"

"Oh, yes, sir," they said backing out of his doorway. "We just thought maybe you could talk to Lieutenant-"

"You thought wrong," the captain informed him. "Now get out of here."

The young officers turned and made a hasty exit.

Dobey turned to go back into his office, almost overlooking his dark-haired detective sitting at the squad room table.

"Starsky? What are you doing here?"

Starsky didn't answer. He stared into the air.

Dobey walked closer. He'd seen Starsky this pale only once, in the hospital full of Bellamy's poison, when Hutch was leaning over him for what could have been a last goodbye.

"Why do you look so sick? Where's Hutch?"

Starsky still didn't answer.

Dobey glanced around to see who might be observing, then sat on the edge of the desk.

"Starsky, unless the cat's got your tongue, you better be telling me if something happened to that partner of yours."

Two or three officers trickled in, buzzing in low tones to the seated officers, their eyes on Starsky as they spoke to one another.

"Captain," one of the uniforms said. "We need to talk."

Dobey looked from the uniform to Starsky. "Starsky, I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me what-"

It was then that Hutch came stalking through the doorway and toward Dobey's office, hand in his hair.

"I didn't mean to hit the dog," Starsky said numbly.

Hutch froze and looked Starsky's way. "Oh my God."

Dobey rose from the corner of the desk, puffing up with agitation. "Hutch, would you mind explaining-"

It appeared as though Hutch were ignoring him as he crouched beside his partner's chair.

Two uniformed officers took Dobey aside and spoke to him in confidential tones.

Hutch placed his hand on Starsky's forearm and spoke in a trembling voice. "It wasn't a dog, Starsk."

Starsky didn't look at him. He looked straight ahead. "Tell me it was just a bike then."

Hutch rubbed his weary face. "I wish I could tell you that, buddy."

(Oh God. Bits of the memory fighting their way in: Her golden hair, her lavender dress, her pink bike . . . Torino going too fast, the mother assisting her across the street, rightfully in the crosswalk, trying to stop, turn, leave, hurry . . . her eyes. No, I didn't want to see her eyes. But they were wide and blue. I didn't want to see them looking at me, at us, but at the moment of impact, her eyes saw us, and so did her mother's, just as wide and just as blue)

Hutch shook his shoulder. "Starsk? Come with me, buddy."

But he didn't move. His face was flat, his eyes open but as blank as drawn window shades.

Hutch glanced around the squad room, feeling the eyes of the other officers.

(He didn't leave the scene of an accident. Not intentionally. He was in

shock. He didn't know what he was doing. I was there. It wasn't a hit and run. Yes, he was going fast, yes they had a hostage, yes, he tried to stop, and yes, yes, he left, but there was a reason for it. He walked-no. Wandered is a better word. He wandered away. Witnesses saw him staggering in the middle of the street. Traffic screeched to a halt to keep from hitting him)

And somehow-an internal compass-radar-something . . . somehow he navigated himself to the police station to-(Oh God, please. To turn himself in?)

"Starsk . . . "

The cops were muttering to one another now.

Every word of every comment was a tiny brand on Hutch's heart:

"-I knew this would happen some day."

"-Damn speed demon."

"-Torino."

"-Always hot-rodding. Always pulling stunts."

"-Was it worth it?"

"-Didn't even catch the perp. Blew the hostage away anyway, just like we told him he would."

"-You don't sacrifice the lives of innocent people just to get your man."

"-Should've radioed for a roadblock."

"-Should've blown their tires out."

"-Irresponsible."

"-Careless."

"-I knew this would happen."

"-Knew this would happen."

"-Knew it would."

"-Just knew it."

"-Knew it."

"-Knew."

Hutch spun and punched the cop closest to him. "SHUT UP!" he roared as the man tottered backward.

Several officers caught the staggering man before he fell, while others grabbed the furious blond away and held him face-first against the wall.

"You two hotshots have been too lucky for too long," an older cop seethed against Hutch's neck. "You can't play maverick heroes and go around disregarding procedure and expect nothing to ever happen. It caught up with you, that's all. And I'm not a bit surprised."

Chest heaving against the wall with harsh pants, Hutch willed himself to regain composure. Not for himself. But for Starsky. Who sat at the squad room desk as if nothing had happened.

"Starsk," he said, hating the lame way his name fell from his mouth.

The officers released him, each grumbling under their breath and going their separate ways, until the squad room was empty except for Dobey, Starsky, and Hutch.

"Starsky," Hutch said crouching next to his chair again. "It was an accident."

Starsky didn't respond.

Dobey squeezed Hutch's shoulder.

Hutch took Starsky by the arm to help him up, and Starsky came passively, as one heavily drugged.

"Starsky," Dobey said grimly as he turned his back to the officers in the room. "Until there's a finding of an official inquiry, I have no choice but to suspend you. Standard procedure."

Starsky's finger was trailing absently along the edge of the desk.

"Captain," Hutch said moving in close to him, keeping one hand around Starsky's arm. "Do you have to do this now? He's in no condition to work anyway. Why not call it medical leave instead of-"

"Hutchinson, you're not going to interfere with procedure. I am handling this by the book. No one is going to accuse me of favoritism. Suspension is routine in cases like this. You know that. It's not an indication of wrongdoing. Just an administrative safeguard until the matter is resolved. You know as well as I do that-take him home. I'll call you when they need his statement. They'll need yours too."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch was surprised at the number of reporters waiting in front of the police station:

"Detective Starsky, will you comment?"

"Are you being charged with anything?"

"Have you spoken to the family?"

"What is departmental procedure in a case like this?"

But Starsky moved robotically through the press, and wouldn't have been moving at all if Hutch hadn't been pulling him along.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Huggy was pacing and listening to the radio at Venice Place when Hutch arrived home with Starsky. His dark eyes played across Starsky's bland features as he spoke to Hutch. "Man, it's all over the radio and local TV sta-" He stopped and looked at Hutch. "What can I do, bro?"

"Turn the radio off," Hutch said as he walked to the telephone.

Huggy turned it off.

Starsky remained standing in the middle of the floor. "Who was she?" he asked in a faraway voice. "I don't know her name."

Huggy took Starsky's arm and steered him toward a chair. "Here, dude. Sit down. Want me to fix you a good strong drink?"

Starsky shook his head no.

"Clover family," Huggy told him. "Dad's a businessman. Mom's a teacher."

Huggy watched Starsky's face for a reaction, and when he got the same blank stare, walked over to where Hutch stood dialing the phone.

"Somethin's got to give," Huggy said in a near-whisper. "I've never seen the boy like this before."

Hutch held the receiver and looked at his watch-He's never run over a little kid before either, Huggy-is what he wanted to say. But he didn't. "Go get him some clothes," Hutch told him. "He'll be here for a while."

"Will do," Huggy said as he headed for the door.

After Huggy was gone, and after making sure Starsky was still sitting in the easy chair- he carried the phone into the bathroom, closed the door, and, no longer able to keep up his cool, almost businesslike defenses, wept into the receiver.

"Dad?" he said in a broken voice. "Something terrible has happened."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch paced all evening, watching Starsky, trying to talk to him. But he got no response. He even turned the radio back on ("murder in the first degree, manslaughter, vehicular homicide, involuntary manslaughter, hit and run, wrongful death, leaving the scene of an accident, high-speed police chase, lethal cop, damages, lawsuit") hoping one of the reports would elicit a reaction-anger, confusion, pain. Any would be welcomed.

But nothing worked.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

"Here," Hutch said gently as he leaned over the easy chair with a cup of hot tea and two sleeping pills. "I want you to take this, Starsk."

Starsky shook his head a small no.

Hutch set the tea and sleeping pills aside on the end table. "If you don't start talking to me, I'll take you to a hospital. Now do you want that?"

It was a de-clawed threat, and Hutch knew Starsky knew it.

"Buddy, you've been sitting here almost all night. They'll probably start the inquiry sometime today, and you need to get some rest. Why don't you lie down on the sofa over here and I'll get a blanket and pillow for-"

A knock at the door interrupted him.

"Coming!" he said as he went and answered it, surprised to see, not Dobey or Huggy, but his father standing in the doorway in overcoat and hat.

"Dad? I didn't mean for you to fly all the way out here. I just-"

"Nonsense," Richard Hutchinson said as he moved past his son and into the living room, eyes scanning the apartment until they found what they were looking for. He stepped toward the easy chair, regarding the downcast figure. "David, you-oh my." He glanced at Hutch, then removed his hat and placed it on the arm of the couch along with his overcoat. Then he loosened his tie and turned his sleeves up a cuff or two before taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Starsky.

Hutch went to the kitchen, but was all ears as Richard talked to his partner.

"David," Richard said calmly as he folded his hands between his knees. "It happened in the line of duty. You must keep telling yourself that. Because it is the truth."

When Starsky said nothing in return, Richard ran a hand through his hair. "I know you don't believe it right now, but-"

A rude pounding came at the door.

"If he's in there, I want to talk to him!"

Before Hutch could get to the door, it flung open and allowed entrance to an enraged man, who was crossing the room-"You killed my little girl!"-and grabbing Starsky's arm and jerking him from the chair.

Hutch tried to pull the distraught father aside, but the man was operating on grief and adrenaline, his grip hard and unforgiving.

Starsky didn't raise his head.

Richard held to Starsky's other arm and growled between clenched teeth: "I am sorry for your loss, but his intention was not to kill your daughter."

"There's nothing left of her!" the red face boomed at Starsky's lowered head. "Bastard! You won't even tell me you're sorry!"

The man grabbed Starsky's face in one hand and jerked it up. "Look at me and say you're sorry!"

Richard tried to pull Starsky away, but the man wouldn't let go. "How do you bury bits and pieces, detective?!"

'TAKE YOUR DAMNABLE HANDS OFF OF HIM, AND YOUR HIDEOUS WORDS OUT OF HERE!"

Starsky was caught in a desperate tug of war. Richard pulling one arm, the grieving father pulling the other.

As if dissolving under the man's eyes, Starsky sank lower and lower between them, a low, quiet moan escaping him.

"Murder!" the man shrieked as Hutch finally grabbed him away and muscled him toward the door. "I want you charged with murder! I'll sue!"

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

When Hutch returned, he froze in place at the sight of his father kneeling with Starsky in the floor, one arm around him.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"Where's your partner?" Dobey asked as Hutch walked into the squad room and past some curious police officers. "He's supposed to testify at the inquiry in an hour."

"I'll tell you in here," Hutch said as he headed for the captain's office.

Dobey followed him in and closed the door.

"They'll have to question me first," Hutch told him. "He's not ready."

"Where is he?"

"My place. Dad's with him."

"Hutch, if you think I can hold off that pack of dogs, you're crazy. They're already talking disciplinary action."

"They can't do that without a fair hearing."

"And the press-"

"The press can go off itself. They're sentencing him before they even hear the case. Yes, it was a little girl. Yes, it was bad. I was in that car too, Captain. So I can tell them all about it. But so help me, if they nail Starsky because of outside pressure, I'LL sue somebody."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch sat at a conference room table in suit and tie, trying to conceal his disdain for the panel who was insensitive enough to hold the proceeding before Starsky was emotionally prepared.

"Just give him time," he'd told the commissioner. "He needs a few days."

"The Clover family doesn't get a few days," was the trite response he'd received.

A man in black-rimmed glasses and receding hairline nodded to Hutch. "Good afternoon, Detective Hutchinson. We are all very well aware of why we're here. And of course we had scheduled your partner David Starsky to give statements first, but since he is not present, and since we have no idea how long this will take, we will go ahead and get started."

Hutch reached for a glass of water and took a drink.

"Detective Hutchinson, if you will, begin your statements at this time."

Hutch folded his hands on the table and looked at the figures lining the table.

"My partner is very shaken by the tragedy, and unfortunately isn't in the right frame of mind to defend himself at the moment." He took a breath. "So I'm going to."

"Detective Hutchinson, the statements you are about to give should reflect your account of the incident. Not your partner's."

Hutch continued as if he hadn't heard. "Yes, it's true my partner and I have sometimes misconstrued policy and procedure. But we followed it in this instance. It was a life or death situation."

"Detective Hutchinson, must I repeat myself-you cannot give testimony on behalf of your partner. Only yourself-"

"The fleeing felon was driving at speeds of 100 miles per hour. We had to do the same in order to pursue. There was no wrongdoing in the chase itself. We violated no procedure. Yes, I told him to slow down, as my partner will tell you. But we were in pursuit of a bank robber holding a hostage. Our intention was to apprehend a criminal, not kill a little

girl."

The chairman took off his glasses. "Detective Hutchinson!"

"We tried to stop. Applied the brakes. Tried to veer away, but it was too late. He was . . . and is . . . devastated by what we did. He did not knowingly leave the scene of an accident. He was in shock. Witnesses will testify to that. I am testifying to that. He ended up here at the police station, so apparently he wasn't trying to flee the country."

The chairman banged his paperweight down on the table. "Order!"

Hutch's eyes panned the others at the table, conscious of the fact that he had delivered his statements in detached, unemotional tones. The panel would hear an officer's account, not a friend's. The appearance of objectivity was the best thing he could do for his partner at this hearing. To do what he really felt inside-blow up with emotional indignation-would ruin his credibility.

Hutch rose to his feet. "That's all I have to say," he said as he turned and walked out.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch was shocked to find Starsky and his father waiting in the hall just outside the conference room.

"I tried to make him stay home," Richard offered apologetically. "He wouldn't listen."

Hutch looked at Starsky's dark-circled eyes, unshaven face, tousled hair, and rumpled clothes. "Buddy, you look terrible. Why don't you go home and try this tomorrow after a good night's sleep?"

Starsky shook his head no.

Hutch gave him a long look. "You don't want to do well in there, do you?"

Starsky shrugged.

Hutch took his arm. "Starsky, they want to eat you alive as it is. Don't give them any ammunition."

Starsky moved past him and into the conference room.

Richard looked at Hutch. "How did it go for you?"

"I don't know."

"Is it true that even if an inquiry finds no violation, a citizen can file a wrongful death suit against him?"

"I don't know, Dad. I'd have to ask the District Attorney about that. I don't know if police officers are immune in cases like this."

Richard straightened his tie. "If that . . . that . . . CLOVER man wants to play hardball, he came to the right court. If it's money he wants, I'll show him money. I'll keep him so tied up in the court system with legal fees, he'll wish he'd never heard of a lawsuit. You tell David not to worry about an attorney."

"Dad, we don't know that he needs one."

"I understand. I'm just telling you. And tell him not to worry about the money if they win."

"Dad . . . "

"You tell him that, Ken."

Hutch sighed. "I will."

Richard looked down the hall. "I would assume that this man would be in a position to accept a large sum of money, since he's the one that mentioned a suit to begin with."

"Dad!"

Hutch pulled Richard away from the conference room door. "Dad, do you honestly think Starsky wants you to buy someone's silence?"

Richard pounded his hand against the wall one time. "DAVID DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG!"

"Sshh." Hutch pulled him further down the hall and glanced around to see who might be watching or listening. "Keep it down. I know it's frustrating, but we're just going to have to ride it out."

Richard put his hat on and left. "I'll be at the hotel if you need me."

Hutch watched him go, moved by his father's defeated posture. "Dad, I appreciate you wanting to help, but . . . "

But his father was already in the elevator.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch was pacing outside the conference room when the door opened an hour later.

Starsky stepped into the hall.

"Well?" Hutch asked.

Starsky shrugged. "They have to talk to some witnesses before they make a final decision." He looked around the hall. "Where's Mr. Hutchinson?"

"Hotel."

Starsky started down the hall. "I want to see Dobey."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky didn't avoid the gazes of his fellow officers as he walked into the squad room.

Dobey was looking over a case file at their desk.

"Well?" the captain asked as he rose to his feet. "Anything yet?"

"They don't have to take my badge," Starsky said quietly as he pulled his shield from his pocket and placed it on the desk, along with his gun. "I'm givin' it to you."

Dobey didn't pick the items up. "I said you were suspended pending the outcome of the inquiry. Not dismissed."

Hutch took his partner's arm. "I will not let you do this."

Starsky suddenly yanked his arm free. "It's not your decision."

"You need to talk to the department psychiatrist, Starsky. You're in no shape to be making decisions like-"

"Oh yeah!" he shouted into Hutch's face. "He can dope me up so I won't FEEL anything! Well, I got news for you, partner. I WANT to feel this bad! And I've had it up to HERE with you tellin' me it was an accident. You told me to slow down, Hutch. You begged me. But I didn't listen. All these cops are right. Her father is right. I killed that little girl, and I can't change it or take it back."

Starsky turned to leave.

"Let me give you a ride home," Hutch said following him out the door. "Dad's already gone."

"No. I'll catch a cab. I want some time alone."

"Starsky, don't do this. You did not murder that child in cold blood-"

Starsky turned and grabbed the front of Hutch's jacket, plowing him back against the wall. "For once," he growled in a shaky, tearful voice. "Stay out of my life and leave me alone."

Hutch stared at him. "Starsk . . . "

Starsky released him and walked down the hall, the eyes of Hutch and other officers following him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky muscled through the reporters who met him at the front door of the police station.

The questions showered him like hailstones, but he kept walking.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Two days later Hutch read aloud the last paragraph of the written report over Dobey's shoulder:

"Based on the interviews of Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson, the accounts of bystanders, as well as the other officers in pursuit of the fleeing felon, we find no grounds to deem the incident anything more or less than accidental. Detective Starsky acted within the parameters of departmental policy and procedure during the high-speed pursuit that tragically ended the life of Becky Clover. Therefore, no disciplinary or legal action is warranted."

Hutch suddenly dropped into the nearest chair. "Thank God," he sighed with a hand to his forehead.

Dobey smiled. "Go tell that partner of yours."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Well-hidden by a large tree and flowering bushes, Starsky stood on a grassy bank at the cemetery and looked down at the burial of the little girl. Her little friends were placing flowers and hand-colored artwork near the casket. Her mother and father stood together, holding onto each other in a hopeless, helpless embrace.

The casket.

(So small. Caskets should never be that small)

(I'm sorry, little girl. Becky. Becky is your name. I'm sorry, Becky)

(You shouldn't be here)

(You should be out playing hide and seek with your friends, arranging tea parties under a shade tree, dressing your cats in your baby-doll clothes)

(You were just learning to ride a bicycle, weren't you? I could tell. It was new and shiny, and you were wobbling on the training wheels. Probably never crossed the street with it before. And you were so proud of yourself. Your bright eyes and your fresh smile)

(But I took that away, and you will forever be four years old)

"I thought I'd find you here somewhere."

Hutch's voice.

Starsky didn't take his eyes from the service. "I thought I told you to

leave me alone. You're just like a leech, you know that? You won't give anybody any rest. You won't let anybody-

"Quit? No, I won't let you quit. The inquiry cleared us of any wrongdoing. Go get your badge."

Starsky shook his head no. "I don't want it, Hutch."

Hutch kicked at some flowers in exasperation, making the soft pink petals flutter to the ground. "What do you want? Behind bars? You want to be exiled from the country? You want that man down there to come up here and beat the daylights out of you? Blow your head off? What do you want? The panel deemed it accidental. Tragic, yes. But in the line of duty. And accidental."

"I'm going back to New York."

Hutch stared at him. "You don't mean that."

"I don't?"

Hutch studied his poker face and knew he was serious.

"For how long?"

"I don't know for how long."

"Starsky, leaving won't bring that little girl back."

"I can't stay here now. And I can't believe you still want to be a cop after this."

"Only with you, Starsk. You think I'd put up with this job by myself?"

"So you're sayin', if I quit, you quit?"

Hutch shrugged. "Sums it up pretty good."

Starsky brushed past him and walked on. "Good to know I'm instrumental in your career move. Your dad'll be so proud he'll put me back in the will."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Mr. Clover, I'm not here to try to minimize your loss, nor am I here to tell you that you shouldn't be angry. I would be outraged to lose my child in that manner also. But to call David Starsky a cold-blooded killer . . . that he is not, sir."

The bereaved man regarded Richard Hutchinson with bloodshot eyes. The older blond man stood dignified and cordial in the doorway with hat in hand. "You're not welcome here, Mr. Starsky. That bastard cop son of your sent you here to ease his guilty conscience. Well you can tell him-"

Richard spoke after glancing over the man's shoulder at all the flower arrangements in the living room: "He's not my son, Mr. Clover. And I would appreciate it if you would refrain from calling him a bastard. He doesn't know of my visit. I'm here to show you a different side of him. One that he himself would never tell you about."

Mr. Clover's eyes narrowed.

Richard continued. "I haven't always liked the young man. But he's done some things I think you should know about." He pulled his wallet out.

"Mr. Starsky-"

"The name is Richard Hutchinson."

"Mr. Hutchinson, if you think you can bribe my silence-"

Richard pulled some folded newspaper articles from his pocket and handed them to him.

Mr. Clover glanced uncertainly at Richard, then unfolded the carefully clipped articles.

Waiting, Richard cleared his throat as the man read to himself. "He and my son Kenneth Hutchinson are undercover detectives. Most of the time their names are left out, and their deeds go unmentioned."

Mr. Clover continued to sift through the small slips of paper. "If you think this in some way justifies what he did . . . "

Richard put his hat on and turned in the doorway to leave. "My address is on the back of one of those. I expect you to mail them back to me after you read them."

Mr. Clover stared after the departing man.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky was packing clothes into a suitcase in the bedroom when Hutch breezed into the house.

"You know," the blond said as he walked into the bedroom. "People shouldn't leave their front doors unlocked." He took a folded shirt from Starsky's hands.

Starsky took the shirt back. "People shouldn't barge in without knocking."

Hutch took the shirt away again. "Impound wants you to come down and sign some papers about the Torino."

Starsky grabbed the shirt and flung it into the suitcase. "I don't want the Torino."

"Look, I know how you-"

Starsky slammed the suitcase closed. "No! You don't know how I feel! I killed a little girl, Hutch!"

"Oh, excuse me! I wasn't in the car with you, was I?"

Starsky threw the suitcase against the wall. "She was innocent!"-

-Then a lamp.

-"Wasn't a bank robber!"

-Then turned the bureau over into the floor.

-"Wasn't threatening me!"

-Then began kicking and punching the wall over and over.

"She is dead because of me! She-"

Tears jumped to his eyes and he suddenly doubled over. "Oh God, Hutch," he choked. "Why was I drivin' like a maniac? I should've slowed down like you told me to." He collapsed to a crouch by the bed, one hand covering his eyes, rocking back and forth in a tight, achy rhythm. "I don't think I can take this. I still feel her under the car. I see her pretty eyes at night. Her mother . . . her father. . . I killed her, Hutch. I took her life away. I'm supposed to help little kids. I feel like a murderer."

"Hey," Hutch said as he crouched with him and put an arm around him, not at all bothered that he was saying his next words for the tenth time or more. He knew he'd have to say the words ten more times, and then ten more after that, until Starsky could tolerate himself again. "You didn't mean to do it. We were chasing a felon. We've always known something this awful could happen. We never think it could happen to us. We're never prepared for something like this." He squeezed the back of Starsky's neck. "We were doing

our job. Trying to save a hostage. Our speed was necessary."

Suddenly weary, Starsky rose to his feet. "I gotta go," he said wiping a sleeve across his eye and reaching for his suitcase. "Plane leaves in thirty minutes. Will you drive me to the airport?"

"No."

"Fine," he said going to the phone. "I'll call a cab. Will you pack up my stuff for me while I'm gone?"

"No. And if you're not back in a couple of weeks, I'm coming to New York to get you."

"Look, Hutch-"

"No, you look, Starsky. How dare you make a decision that affects-not just your life-but mine too. I know you're hurting, but this impulsive decision of yours is a gut-level, emotional one."

"Well, sorry, Mr. Spock, but that's the only kind I can make right now."

Starsky put the phone down and carried his suitcase to the door.

"You forgot the cab," Hutch told him.

"I'll call from somewhere else."

Starsky opened the door to find Mr. Clover coming up his steps.

"I'm sorry," Starsky told them as he brushed past him on his way down the stairs.

The man grabbed his arm.

Starsky stopped and looked at him, waiting for the verbal attack that was sure to come.

"Thank you," Mr. Clover said. "I'm sorry too."

Starsky stopped on the bottom step and raised wounded blue eyes to the man. "Why? You didn't do anything to be sorry for."

The man cleared his throat. "We realize. . . I mean . . . I realize . . .that you were trying to save a hostage, and that my daughter died because of criminals. She'd be alive if they hadn't been running from you. She was their victim too . . . and I guess you were too."

Starsky stared up at him.

Hutch came outside the door to shake the man's hand. "That's very noble of you, Mr. Clover. I didn't expect you to ever feel that way."

The man glanced downward. "Neither did I." And then he glanced back at Starsky. "Until Mr. Star-I mean, Mr. Hutchinson . . . came to see me."

"Mister-" Starsky looked at Hutch. "You?"

"The older one," Clover explained.

"Uh . . . " Starsky blinked. "Why?"

Mr. Clover handed the small stack of folded newspaper articles to him. "Make sure you return these to him."

Starsky leafed through them, then, bewildered, handed them up to Hutch.

Hutch read over them, sitting down on the top step as he did so.

Mr. Clover looked at Starsky. "I can't say that I feel like forgiving you. But I can say that I hope to some day."

And with that the man turned and descended the stairs.

Starsky watched him go.

"You okay?" Hutch asked him.

"Yeah," Starsky said quietly. "You?"

Hutch turned the clippings over thoughtfully in his hands. "I think so."

Starsky put his hand out to Hutch. "See you in a couple of weeks, Hutch."

Hutch shook his hand, then came down the stairs to drape an arm around his shoulders. "Couple of weeks? In that case I'll drive you to the airport."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Rachel Starsky saw her son standing in her doorway.

"My son," she said taking his hurting face in her hands. "I am so sorry you have to go through this. I'm glad you're here."

He wrapped his arms around her and cried onto her shoulder.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two weeks later . . . . . .

"I had it put here in the parking garage," Hutch said pulling the tan Ford into the precinct parking area.

Starsky looked out the passenger window toward the Torino. "You drove it?"

Hutch shifted into park and turned the ignition off. "Not yet."

Starsky kept looking the car over from where he sat. "Can you tell?"

Hutch glanced his way. "Tell what?"

"You know. That it ran over some-"

"No. You can't tell."

Hutch opened his car door. "Come on, Starsk."

Starsky sat still, his hand frozen on the door handle. "I thought I could do this."

"You can. But I'll do it first."

Starsky looked at him, then opened the passenger door.

Hutch opened the driver's side door of the Torino and slid under the steering wheel, then rolled the window down. Sighing nervously, he took the wheel in his hands. "I won't say it feels good," he said shakily.

Starsky caught the tremble in his partner's voice and leaned over into the open window. "Okay. You can kick me now."

Hutch looked at him, blinking against tears. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Because I've been thinkin' only of myself through this whole thing."

Hutch shrugged. "It's okay, Starsk."

"It isn't. You took the heat when you didn't have to. You coulda said, 'He was driving', 'he was the one who did it.' But you keep saying 'we' and 'us' and 'our', like you were drivin' this thing too. Like you're the one who messed up."

"Don't worry about it, buddy."

"Hutch, let me say this, okay?"

Hutch looked at him. "You don't have to say it."

"But sometimes I forget, Hutch. Sometimes it needs to be said to best friends too. Thanks, okay?"

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I mean it too."

Starsky looked around the garage, then back at Hutch. "Guess it's my turn to get in the car, huh?"

Hutch nodded, then reached across the seat and opened the passenger door for him.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Pink flowers in hand, Starsky stood at the little girl's grave and gazed down at the white headstone which bore an engraved lamb.

His whisper was heavy. "I'm sorry, Becky. I hope you don't mind me coming."

He picked the petals off one by one, and slowly, letting each drift to the ground. "There's no way I can take back what I did. But I wish I could. Life is a sacred thing, and I didn't mean to take yours away. . . "

A caul of grief shadowed his face, and every muscle and bone ached with his weary sobbing. Just when he thought he was finished crying, a new wave of emotion would sweep over him.

"Hey, Starsk. Thought I'd find you here."

But the warm hand on the back of his neck made his bruised heart a little easier to carry.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

At the airport, Starsky retrieved Richard's suitcase from the trunk of the tan Ford and handed it to him.

Hutch shook his father's hand. "Thanks for coming, Dad. See you next time."

"Indeed."

Starsky extended his hand to the elder blond man. "See ya, Mr. Hutchinson."

Richard gripped his hand and held it fast. "See ya? That's all?"

Starsky looked at Hutch, then back at Richard. "Well," he said trying to take his hand back. "I want to say more, but I don't know if you like soapy scenes."

Richard still held to his hand. "How soapy are we talking about?"

"Well um . . . " He looked at Hutch, then gave a sheepish smile as he gave the man an eager hug that almost knocked him down. "Thanks," he whispered tearfully. "Thanks for coming." And then he gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and grinned. "That soapy enough for you?"

Richard's face flushed a deep red. "Well er . . . I better leave before I miss my plane. If you need me, just give a whistle."

Starsky nodded, then watched Richard take Hutch's arm. "Escort me to the plane, Ken."

Hutch walked with him, smiling back at Starsky over his shoulder.

"Now," Richard continued in a secretive tone to his son. "You are aware that they have

support groups for situations like this."

"Yes, Dad."

"He may need one sometime."

"I know."

"And you must keep reminding him that he's still a good police officer."

"I will."

"And a mistake doesn't mean you fail."

"I know."

Richard let go of Hutch's arm, then exited the gate to board the plane.

"Kenneth," he said as looked over his shoulder. "I'm pleased with your fortitude. You have a lot of your mother in you. Keep up the good work."

Hutch waved a goodbye, then joined Starsky again.

"Think your dad likes me a little bit?"

Hutch smiled. "I think he likes you better than me."

End

LITTLE BOY BLUE

By TLR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

He met her at the beach. We had just met with Huggy there for some information on a case, and after Huggy left, we saw her reading a book under her big red umbrella with her shades on. Long blonde hair, long legs, a nice one-piece, a generous smile.

"No ring," Hutch said as he poked me in the side. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Very," I murmured as my eyes fixed on her. She was closing down her umbrella and putting her things in a beach bag to leave. "So what's your move gonna be, Romeo?"

"Observe," he said smugly as he moved toward her and tripped over a piece of driftwood.

I shook my head at him. Sand went everywhere.

His face got red.

"Oh, sorry," he apologized to her as he caught himself and put his hand out to her. "I didn't mean to get sand all over you."

She took her sunglasses off and smiled up at him. "No problem," she said, and looked over at me.

I gave her a little wave. (I didn't mean to get sand all over you?) What a pick-up line. But she seemed to like it.

"I'm uh . . . " He helped put her things-tanning lotion, radio, snacks (Oh God, dried fruit. Please not dried fruit. He's a goner) into her beach bag. "I'm uh . . . Ken Hutchinson."

She held a long, slender hand out to him. "Francine Gayles."

He looked at the snack bags in his hand. "Dried fruit, huh? I love dried fruit. Nothing like a natural snack."

("Nature's own goodness," I was waiting for him to add. But he didn't)

And that's how they met. Small talk on the beach.

I don't know exactly when the small talk led to big talk, but they must have seen each other every night for three months after that, and evidently had a lot to talk about.

Every morning he'd pick me up and tell me what a good time he'd had with her the night before.

Francine Gayles.

Single. Nursing student. Quiet. Little-girl quality. A little like Jeanie, he said.

But there was something about her that didn't sit quite right with me, and at first it was hard to put my finger on. It wasn't like I thought she was out to hurt him or anything. Because she wasn't. She hung on his every word. If he said he was thirsty, she'd get him a drink of water. If he said he was tired, she'd massage his shoulders. She couldn't hide the infatuation in her eyes. And he was head over heels in love with her too.

"She's never been to an art gallery before," he told me in a bewildered voice. And he was determined to show her some good times.

She loved the attention. Opened up like a flower. Really was a sweet girl. Maybe vulnerable, needy, but she made his armor shine brighter.

But there was a little something. That grew into a big something. A look in her eyes. On her face. Like she'd been around. Seen too much. Done too much. Of the wrong things in life. Not enough of the good or decent. My suspicions were groundless, of course. I didn't know that much about her. Just what Hutch told me.

And like Hutch had read my mind, or she had, he showed up at my place one night without her, wanting to talk, just roaming around the living room really excited about her.

"Things goin' good with you and Francine, huh?" I asked handing him a beer.

"Oh, man . . . " He held the beer without even opening it. "Yeah. Things are going fine, Starsk. We had a nice dinner tonight. I took her for lobster and . . . "

"Let me guess. She never had it before."

He smiled. "How'd you know?"

I rolled my eyes. "Gee, a little birdie told me, I guess."

"She told me some things tonight, Starsk. That . . . I don't know. Makes me love her even more."

I waited. And listened.

"She uh . . . " He shrugged. "Has a past. Did some things she's not proud of. But who hasn't, huh?"

I knew it. A damsel in distress. He can smell them. Gravitates toward them.

(God, it better not be another Gillian. We can't do that again)

"She's come a long way, Starsk. She really has."

There was more, I could tell. I just waited till he could get it out.

"She used to use heroin, Starsk. Years ago. Five years ago. But she's clean now. Making something of herself. Putting all that behind her. She wants to move on and help other people by being a nurse."

God, I knew there was something, but I had no idea.

"I think I'm going to propose," he said as he set the beer down.

This was the part where I was supposed to be happy. But instead all I felt was heavy-hearted.

It's funny. What he liked about her, I found unsettling.

But what was I supposed to say to him? Or about her? She hadn't done anything to hurt him. If he asked for the moon she'd try to get it for him. She was smart, charming, easygoing. Wasn't into playing games. Seemed honest enough.

But still . . .

A recovering drug addict? Did Hutch need that in his life?

He looked so happy about it. What could I say?

"Congratulations, Hutch," I said shaking his hand and putting on my best phony smile. "You deserve the best."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

When I showed up at Venice Place the next morning, they both met me in their bathrobes. Their tousled hair told me they hadn't been up long. But long enough to start breakfast. I could smell a fishy aroma from the kitchen.

"Hey, Casanova," I said as I walked in. "How come you're not ready for work? We're gonna be late."

"Sorry, Starsk," he said as he pulled the blonde to him and smelled her hair. "I'm not going in today. I tried to catch you at home, but you'd already left."

"Playin' hooky?" I teased as I winked at Francine. "You're corrupting my pure-as-the-driven-snow partner."

"I know," she said as she slid her arms inside his robe and around his middle. "But it's fun."

I saw her nurse uniform on a hanger in the bathroom. "Won't your instructors be upset with you missing classes?"

"Classes cancelled today," she said with a smile. "Broken water pipes in the labs or something. And with Thanksgiving break, I won't be going back to school for at least a

week. Lucky break, huh?"

"Come here, Starsk," Hutch said as he took my arm and led me to the table. "Just sit down and have some breakfast with us."

"Breakfast? I gotta go to work."

"How can you with a raging fever?"

"Raging fev-"

Hutch picked up the phone and dialed a number. He waited for the other party to pick up, then he said, "Hey, Cap? Got some bad news. Starsk isn't going to be able to make it today."

He winked at me. "Oh no. He's got a terrible fever. I'll have to baby him at least through Thanksgiving.. You know he regresses to a three-year-old when he's under the weather. Yeah, I know. If he had a terminal disease we'd never hear a peep. Why, that's very generous of you, Captain. Yes, I'll tell him. Thanks a lot."

He hung up and smiled at me. "Cap says take as long as you need."

"So, I can be sick through Thanksgiving?"

"Looks like it."

"Cool."

Francine put on an oven mitt and pulled down the oven door.

"Salmon soufflé," she announced as she and took a dish from the oven.

I made a face. "Fish for breakfast?"

"Goes great with scrambled eggs," Hutch assured me as he handed me a fork.

"It's delicious. Trust me."

Fork in hand, I cast a doubtful eye at the puffy dish on the table. "I trust you with my life. But with my stomach?" I looked imploringly at him. "Didn't I leave some bagels over here last week?"

"You did," he said as he poured some goat's milk for us to drink. "But Francine ate them all."

I gave her an evil look. "Gee, thanks, Fran. I'll remember that."

She spooned some of the salmon soufflé onto my plate.

I looked at Hutch. "Why am I gonna be sick for so long?"

"Because," Hutch said as he helped himself to Francine's homemade breakfast. "I'm taking Francine back to Minnesota to meet the folks and I want you to go with us. Don't want you spending Thanksgiving holiday by yourself."

Uh oh. It was getting serious. He was taking her to meet his parents.

(God, Mr. Hutchinson, if you thought I wasn't good enough for your son, what would you think about Francine Gayles?)

(Is that why you want me to go, Hutch? Reinforcements?)

(You're gonna need it by the time your dad gets done with her)

"Sorry," I said shaking my head. "You two go ahead. I think I'll go spend some time with Ma."

(Oh, is that right, Sergeant Starsky? Aren't you secretly hoping Richard will do his she's-white-trash-you're-white-bread number out there in Minnesota and it'll blow up, and they'll break up, and then you won't have to worry about Hutch marrying a . . . )

(A what? What is she? A nursing student? How harmless do you want, Sergeant Starsky? If Hutch likes her, isn't that all that matters? You have absolutely no reason to feel uneasy about this girl. Absolutely none. It's not like she's a . . . )

(She's a prostitute. And nothing you do or say is gonna change that fact)

(Is that what you're trying to tell me? Buddy? Friend? That my girl is a . . . )

(Nursing student? Recovering user? Beautiful? Loving? Tender? Deserving of a second chance?)

Hutch looked at me, but I wasn't looking back. And it was right then that I knew he saw reservation on my face.

"Well," he said quietly as he picked up his fork. "Okay. I guess it's just me and you, Francine."

I didn't know what to say, because I didn't know what it was I was feeling. So I just kept

my mouth shut to keep from saying something weird.

Me and Hutch weren't mad at each other, but it was the quietest breakfast we ever had.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They went to Minnesota without me. I had Thanksgiving with Ma. She did most of the talking. I didn't feel like it. She asked me what was on my mind, but I didn't want to tell her. So she just went on with the holiday like nothing was wrong, trying to cheer me up, trying to keep me full of food and chit-chat.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch came back from Minnesota in a silent mood. But his relationship with Francine was still intact. He had weathered Hurricane Richard without me. Which told me just how much he loved her.

I tried to make small talk with him but it didn't feel right. Then I tried making big talk with him about how things went with his dad, and that didn't work either. He just shrugged and looked the other way.

"It's okay," was all he would tell me.

So much he wasn't going to tell me now. Wedding plans? Honeymoon? Would he even invite me? Would they stay at Venice Place or hers?

Why did I have to ruin it for him?

And then one day in the squad room, out of the blue, he brought it up.

I guess, like me, he couldn't take the awkward air anymore.

We were sitting across from each other at the desk and he looked at me.

"Okay, Starsk. What is it you don't like about her?"

"I don't dislike her, Hutch. She's a great girl."

"A great girl? You really think she's a great girl? Dad thought she was a great girl too. You should have been there. You two would've made a good team. I told her not to bring up her past, that it was none of his business, but she wanted to be honest about it. He told her she was a great girl for latching onto a family with money."

I didn't want to do this here. It wasn't the time or place. But Hutch was too mad to care.

He leaned across the desk to me and quietly said, "She hasn't used in five years, Starsk. She's clean, she's beautiful, she's going to nursing school, making a fresh start." And he put a sardonic twist to the rest: "Isn't that what we want for recovering drug addicts? What do you want? If they're using, they're trash. If they get cleaned up, they're reformed trash? When do they kick the label, Starsky?"

"I just think you should think it through, that's all. Just give yourself some time."

"I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I'd be happier if . . . "

He sat back and threw his pencil on the desk. "What are you saying, Starsky? Somebody has a past, makes some mistakes, they're not good enough for me?"

"No, I'm not sayin' that-"

"-She has to stay with her own kind?"

"Not sayin' that either."

"Then what are you saying, partner?"

"That you deserve the best, Hutch. Not some . . . "

Too much. I said too much.

He stood from the desk. "Go on, Starsky."

I looked down.

"Say it, Starsk. Not some what?"

I shook my head no.

"Not some . . . " Hutch flung a mug book against the wall. "EX-JUNKIE?"

I laced my fingers in my lap and still wouldn't look up.

Hutch leaned over me, seething quietly into my ear. His temper was simmering like quiet lava and the cops in the room were looking. "You think between me and Francine, there's a good chance one of us will end up relapsing? Isn't that what you're trying to say? That she'll bring me down? Once a junkie, always a junkie, right?"

Not waiting for an answer, Hutch slammed out of the squad room.

I followed close behind.

"Hutch, I never said that. You did. And if you'd stop walkin' away every time we get close enough to the subject, maybe we could-"

Hutch spun and put a finger in my face. "You sound just like my father."

Officers in the hall were beginning to stare.

Hutch stalked down the hall toward the elevator.

I followed him again. "You're identifying with her. I remember the day when you would NEVER have considered sleeping with a woman like her. You see yourself as 'one of them' now. That's what gets me."

Hutch spoke without looking at me, walking so fast I could hardly keep up. "Oh, it's 'us' and 'them', huh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. There's a big difference between you and Francine. You didn't choose your addiction. She did."

Hutch's finger jabbed the elevator button. "Why don't you say that 'addiction' word a little louder next time?"

"That's what makes you different from her. And better than her."

Hutch grabbed my shirt and slammed me against the wall, holding me there. "That's enough."

Tears came to my eyes. "What, you want to punch me? Go ahead. If hittin' your best friend is gonna make you feel better, you go right ahead."

Hutch's glare lingered on me. "Remember Sharman, Starsk? I never told you, but I admired you for going out on a limb to help her."

"I didn't love Sharman."

"Could you have loved her? Could you love anyone like her?"

I rammed my elbow against the wall. "I loved YOU when you were like her, didn't I?!" I cried at him.

Hutch stared at me for what seemed like ages, then he just turned and walked away.

I watched him go. But didn't follow him this time.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

We went our separate ways that day. He did his thing and I did mine.

I overheard his and Francine's conversation at her car in the police parking garage when she came to pick him up. I walked past him to go to the Torino and he completely ignored me. Their voices were low but I still heard them.

"It doesn't feel right, Ken."

"What doesn't?"

"Us. Me. Causing trouble for you and Dave."

"He's just going to have to grow up."

It was Francine who followed me to my car. "Dave, I'm sorry. Let's talk, okay? I hate this. I want you to know something. I would never come between you and Ken. I'd walk out first."

I opened my car door and got inside. She swung around in Hutch' direction.

"Ken, stop him. This isn't right. I don't want to come between friends. I know how much you mean to each-"

But Hutch was getting into Francine's car, and he was waiting for her under the steering wheel.

She stooped by my door and put both trembling, perspiration-damp hands on my arm. "Dave, please. What is it I can do? What can I say? I don't want to be the one to . . . "

She was crying now, and Hutch was getting out of the car, stomping over to me like I was the one who made her bawl.

"Oh God," she choked, and ran off.

Hutch ran after her, but a patrol car turned in front of him and cut him off.

Cussing under his breath, he walked toward Francine's car.

"Thanks, buddy," he growled over his shoulder to me, and peeled out of the garage with a squeal of tires.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Days went by.

Me and Hutch were getting more distant with each other, less talkative. I was just thankful no heavy cases were coming our way, because I don't think either one of us were mentally up to it.

Dobey gave us strange looks but didn't say anything, and I wondered how long it would be before he gave us a lecture about keeping our personal lives out of police work.

But he knew as well as I did, that where me and Hutch were concerned, it was all one and the same. And a distant partner could be dangerous on the street.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

"Starsky, in my office."

Hutch went to the commissary for some yogurt. I shuffled some papers at my desk and pretended like I hadn't heard.

(Well, Hutch? What do I tell him?)

"Um . . . okay, Cap. Comin'."

He held the door open for me.

I went in and braced myself for some kind of chewing-out. But when he closed the door and motioned for me to sit down, I knew it was something else.

I took the seat.

"What is it, Cap?"

He planted himself on the edge of his desk and scrubbed at his mustache with a handkerchief. "Has Hutch been seeing a girl by the name of Francine Gayles?"

I wasn't sure how to answer. I didn't want to say anything to get Hutch in trouble, and this felt like trouble. It had to be something big for him to ask about our personal lives.

"Um . . . he just went downstairs to get some yogurt, Cap. You can ask him when he gets-"

"Just yes or no, Starsky."

I leaned forward, all prepared to help Hutch out, even if I didn't understand it all. It didn't

matter. I'd defend him to the end. "Well, um, Cap, y'see . . . he knows she has a past, and they talked about it, and she's goin' to college now, to be a nurse, and, you know how Hutch is, he's always one to give somebody another chance, and well . . . um . . . "

"She's dead."

I stared at him. "What?"

He picked up a file and opened it. "Just got the call. Her ex-boyfriend got out of jail and the two of them were at a party last night. She died from a fall. From the rooftop. Everybody was stoned or drunk. Nobody really saw what happened. Or if they did, they're not saying."

My body went numb. "Ex-boyfriend?"

He heaved a heavy sigh. "Raiff Hamilton. Was doing time in San Fransisco for dealing heroin until last night. Childhood sweethearts."

"Did he see what happened?"

Dobey shook his head no. "Said they had an argument about her new cop boyfriend, he left her crying on the roof, and thirty minutes later she was dead." He looked at his watch. "But that's his story, and nobody's disputing it. Thought you should be the one to tell Hutch."

But I heard Hutch's voice-a yell of pain out in the squad room-swearing- thud of furniture against the wall-and knew one of the cops had just told him.

I flew out of Dobey's office but Hutch was already gone. One of the senior officers stood in the doorway with his hands in the air. "Hey, Starsky, I'm sorry. I thought he knew. I was just giving my condolences."

I moved past the cop and ran down the hall, but didn't see where Hutch had gone. The hallway was empty and no one was at the elevator.

"Hutch!"

I took the stairs, but he wasn't there either.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

I went to his place but he wasn't there.

And wasn't at Huggy's.

Wasn't at Francine's.

Wasn't at mine.

So I checked one more time at the station, and, still not finding him, went back to his place again. And that's where I found him, pacing the floor with a half-empty bottle of Scotch in his hand. He wasn't crying. He was way past that.

"Hutch, I'm-"

"Don't say it! Don't say you're sorry!"

He didn't look at me. He just kept pacing around the living room. "No more Francine, right? Problem solved, right? Dad'll be happy too."

"Hutch, I'm not happy she's dea-"

"Go ahead, Starsky. Go ahead and say I Told You So."

I grabbed him and shook him hard one time. "Okay, I will. And I WILL say I'm sorry, because I am. Any time you get hurt, I'm sorry. She didn't tell you about her ex-boyfriend, did she, Hutch? Or about her baby that was stillborn from all the drugs in her body? Or that she had done a little time too?"

His eyes were cool blue crystals. "You ran a check on her?"

"Yeah, I did."

"When?"

"An hour ago."

"You ran a CHECK on her?"

"Her old man got out of jail and she went runnin' back to him. It had nothin' to do with me, Hutch. Or you. Or us. It was her. Them. Birds of a feather. They partied, they shot up, and she either fell, or jumped, from the roof."

Hutch raised his head. "She wouldn't do that. She loved me."

"She loved him."

"She loved ME!"

"She thought she loved you. She wanted to."

He pulled away from me and kept walking. "Starsky, he probably pushed her because she was seeing me. But nobody's going to be too concerned about how she died, because she was just a USER!" He drank the Scotch like it would give him strength to get through the conversation. Or strength enough to pretend like it wasn't as bad as it seemed. "He probably gave her the dope too. Probably talked her into it."

"Hutch, she was a grown woman. She chose that needle. And does it really matter if he gave it to her, or she gave it to herself? She was there, at the party, with him. Either way, she wanted it. And him. She knew what she was doing."

Hutch stopped pacing and slumped onto the sofa. "Why would she do that? I thought she loved me."

I shook my head and sat down in a chair across from him. "Maybe she knew, Hutch. That she wasn't good for you. That her past may have been dead, but not buried. I think she went back to him because she knew there was a difference between you and her. Like there was with you and Gillian. And she was making it easy for you to break it off."

Hutch's voice was suddenly a slow whisper. "Starsk . . . " He raised his confused eyes. "What's become of me?"

My head slowly shook no. "Don't say it like that, Hutch."

"I have to. I mean . . . look who I fell in love with. For the first time in years. Did I see myself in her? Did I?"

My arm reached across the coffee table and rested on his forearm. "You saw your good stuff in her. Strength. Beauty. Fight. Resilience."

Hutch's tone was not bitter. "And you saw the bad."

"I saw . . . " I tried to keep my voice gentle. "Her wanting you to save her, instead of her saving herself. I saw her running from her past, not dealing with it. I saw you wanting to help her. I saw you forgiving her and accepting her. But it would have been a one-sided marriage, Hutch. With you doing all the giving, and her doing all the taking. And yes, you do deserve better than that. You deserve all the good things in the world. You've had enough of the bad. You were too much for her, Hutch. Too good. She couldn't handle it. She had to go back to what she was comfortable with. What she knew." I squeezed his arm. "Buddy, that's not you."

Hutch looked away with tears in his eyes. "I've got to know, Starsk. How she died. Accident. Suicide. Murder. I have to know."

I came around the coffee table and put an arm around him. "I know, buddy. I know. But

don't worry about that right now. That part will come."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch didn't really cry at her funeral. I think he was too mad, or too confused, or too hurt.

I knew it would be a different story later, though. When he was home alone, looking at the things she'd left behind at his place, when he was boxing them up, it'd hit him, and he'd break down.

He had to be far away to do it.

Far away from me-("you deserve better, Hutch")

Far away from his father's eyes-("how could you love someone like her, Kenneth? Did you know all that about her when you proposed? I can't believe you'd sink that low")

Far away from the officers who were starting to talk about him behind his back-("party girl, been around, truck-stop tramp, uniform groupie")

I had hurt him with my words, and there was no getting around it

This was one time I couldn't comfort him. Because I was part of the pain.

I was grateful that he let me by his side during the service. It was all he could accept from me at the time.

We stood together at the casket. They had veiled her face.

He placed a small gold locket in the pillowy satin beside her. "Rest now, Francine," he whispered to her.

He didn't have to tell me the locket held their pictures. He bought it for her and I watched him trim down their photo for it at the squad room desk before putting it inside.

"It's not like you were married to her," Mr. Hutchinson's voice said behind us. "It'll get easier with time."

Hutch didn't say anything. I knew he didn't have the power.

"He loved her," I told him quietly in Hutch's defense, and my fingernails cut into the palms of my hands where I was squeezing my fists so hard.

Nobody could push my buttons like Richard Hutchinson. He could be as cold, but as solid, as stone. He could cut you down and build you up in the same sentence.

"He would have spent the rest of his life with her, Mr. Hutchinson. Haven't you ever loved anybody so much that you didn't care who they were or where they came from or how much money they had? Haven't you ever loved someone so much that that person is the only thing in the whole wide world that mattered?"

He looked at me for so long that at first I thought he hadn't even heard me.

But then, for some reason, his eyes got a brighter, mistier shade of blue, and there was a look like sadness, or regret, or a yearning in them that I didn't understand.

Maybe he'd never had real love. Maybe he'd always wanted that and was so unhappy because he'd never found it.

"David, let me see your hand."

"My what?"

I could almost see him smackin' it with a ruler like a stern school master.

But not really. The look in his eyes had softened too much for that. So I held my hand out for him to see, and I saw for the first time that I'd actually drawn blood.

"Here," he said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around my hand. "I see a lot of love in your hand," he said as he tied the ends of the handkerchief together. "I think my son's going to need it."

With that, Hutch turned around and moved into his father's outstretched arms.

End

TOUGH LOVE

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

My name is Huggy Bear Brown. Hug to my bros. And what follows here is Hutch's account of what happened. He wrote it all down in the little notebook he carries, knowing me or the good Captain Dobey would make sense of it. Wanted it straight for the books, and you can't blame him for that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

From Hutch's notebook:

They grabbed Starsky first. When I came from the bathroom at Huggy's, he was just gone.

"What happened to him?" I asked Huggy. "Where did he go?"

Huggy was at the bar with a new waitress and didn't seem to sense the urgency of the situation. Simon Marcus, cult leader supreme, had been behind bars exactly one week. "Beats me," Huggy shrugged. "I think he was on the phone in the back. Probably took off with that mini skirt he was flirtin' with."

I walked through the restaurant, looking right and left.

"Starsk?"

Checked the kitchen (please be in here sampling the spaghetti sauce), checked the upstairs apartment (goat's blood on the mirror?).

(Now why are you thinking it's Marcus when you know he's incarcerated?)

"Starsky?"

Checked the back alley.

A squalling cat was the only answer I got back. I kicked a garbage can.

"Starsky!"

I turned my head to yell for Huggy to help me look, and that's when somebody grabbed a handful of my hair and smashed my face into the side of the building.

White stars exploded in my head, but I didn't go down. I fought to stay awake long enough to see who jumped me, and when I turned to look, I saw the robed figures.

"Scum," I mumbled as I staggered sideways. "Where's Star-"

But they shoved a cloth in my mouth, a hood over my head, and led me away to their van.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Through the woods. They led me through the woods, pushing me and shoving me whenever I slowed down. They took the hood off and the gag out when I kept falling. They were chanting all the way. Carrying torches. Repeating Marcus' name. My face throbbed and felt two sizes too big. My eyes were swelling shut.

"Where is he?" I asked them as I looked around the dark forest, hoping to see Starsky nearby. "Where's my partner?"

Twigs and brush crunched beneath my feet. There was an orange glow up ahead.

We stopped at a clearing and they knelt around a huge bonfire that a handful of cultists were tending.

The fire crackled and popped.

"Kneel," one ordered me.

I spat at him. He swiped his torch across my face and it seared my right cheek and neck.

I yelped as I tripped sideways into some bushes.

That took some fight out of me. I wanted to get up out of the bushes but all I was really doing was covering my face with my shirtsleeve.

They surrounded me. With my arm across my eyes, I lay in the brambles and listened to their voices above me.

"Where?" I asked them, surprised at how weak my voice was. "Where is he?"

But they kept chanting. Circling. The heat from their torches was close.

"Trade, okay?" I asked the figures parading around me. My eyes were still squeezed shut.

I couldn't see them, but I could hear them.

"Keep me. Let him go."

My free hand, like instinct, went inside my shirt, even though I knew they had taken my gun.

No weapon. Not even a pocketknife. My free hand felt around in the briars for some sort of weapon. Anything would do. A good size rock, a sharp stick, I didn't care.

"I'll take his place," I said as my hand patted around. "Just don't hurt him anymore."

They didn't hear me. They didn't want to. They were under Marcus' dread sway.

Transfixed, hypnotized, completely given over to their dark idol.

More patting. And my hand fell on something. A lot of little somethings in the bushes.

Berries.

They'd been all through the woods, these berry bushes. I had seen them. Bright red. And round. The size of blueberries. And it would have been nearly impossible to pick them for the thorns. But just as well, because they were poisonous. Nature had embedded them in thorns to discourage curious hands. And even added a minute black dot on each one. A warning.

Like the red markings on a black widow spider.

Don't touch.

Poison.

"Where is he?" I asked as they pulled me to my feet. By this time I was worried more about the condition Starsky might be in than I was about escaping.

It was too late for escape. Starsky was here in the woods somewhere and I wasn't about to leave him.

"Simone dreamed you would die here," one of them said as they pulled me closer to the bonfire. "First the dark. Then the light."

I thought I wasn't able to keep my eyes open until then. But I had no problem staring at the sight of my partner being carried overhead by four robed cultists.

"STARSKY!"

I screamed his name as loud as I could, but he gave no sign that he heard me. He wasn't struggling and his head lolled backward as if his neck were broken.

I saw his badly beaten body from where I stood, and knew he couldn't get down.

Oh God. They were going to throw him into the fire.

"Please don't!"

I struggled against their arms.

"Let me go to him!"

The followers removed Starsky's shirt, then used it to bind his wrists to a high tree branch. In the firelight I could see his bruised torso.

Then they stepped back, one unfurling a thick bullwhip, but when the whip cracked across his back, all he could produce was a whimper. I was the one who jerked in pain.

and cried out.

I put my head down.

The whip lashed down again and again, and my muscles cringed each time. Each red stripe was a stripe on my heart.

"No," I said shaking my head back and forth as I sank between the two cultists holding me up. "Please no more."

I was conscious of the two pulling me a short distance away from the bonfire at the same time two others were cutting Starsky down from the tree.

My brain was hash by then. Closing down. Shutting out. Trying to blot out the snapping sounds that echoed in my head.

"Morning," one cultist said as he gave me a hard shove. "You'll die in the morning."

The shove sent me forward and I fell headlong into a deep pit. I tried my best to land in a roll as I hit bottom, but there wasn't much room for that. My shoulder took the worst of the fall.

I struggled to push myself to my feet.

"GODFORSAKEN CULTISTS!" I yelled up at them. "LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

The pit, or well, or hole, or whatever it was, had walls of slimy stone that were impossible to climb. Wet and mossy. It wasn't meant for climbing. Or escape.

The floor was hard mud.

I wondered how many people had died here. How many sacrifices.

I tried climbing but found the walls as slick as raw eggs.

Their voices were above me. Twenty-five or thirty feet up. I saw their torchlight.

"STARSKY!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.

I looked up and saw them. Two held Starsky over the mouth of the pit. One by a wrist, a second by an ankle. He didn't seem to know what they were doing or what was going on. He hung limply from their grip like a bloody rag.

In the light of the bonfire I could see the blueness of his brightly dazed eyes. They had drugged him.

(Just drop him. I pray. Give him to me. Let me have him)

And they did.

They dropped him.

I tried to catch him, but it wasn't much of a catch. All I did was break his fall as he slammed into me with such force it knocked me down, and out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the slow motion of dreams I reached for my partner's neck and felt for a pulse. "Starsk?"

Was there a pulse? Was there a Starsky anymore?

He was hanging on, somehow. Spitting up blood.

But I didn't know how.

"Huh . . . "

God, he was trying to say my name.

He was dying and he was trying to say my name.

We were a tangle of arms and legs. I was moving and he wasn't. In our fall, he had landed on me, but his left arm somehow got wedged under my shoulder.

He gave a little squeak of pain and tried to move his arm from beneath me, but couldn't.

That's how weak he was.

"Oh God, Starsk," I groaned as I rolled off his arm and rubbed it. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"'kay," he mumbled faintly. I didn't know where that came from. I didn't think he even realized he said it.

I turned him onto his side so he wouldn't choke, then sat with my back against the cold stone wall.

Now his hand was moving toward me. I didn't know what time it was but the followers would be back in the morning to finish us off. First Starsky, then me. They wanted me to watch Starsky die, and I had seen enough already.

I couldn't get him out of here. The pit was deep, but rather narrow, barely room for the two of us. Both my ankles felt sprained or twisted, and the sheer rock surface was too smooth to climb.

His hand found my shirttail and hung on. He couldn't speak anymore or raise his head.

His soft moan caused a lump in my throat.

I reached for him and pulled him onto my lap.

I'd hang onto him for as long as I could. They would kill him, but they'd have a hard time getting him away from me to do it.

"Easy, buddy," I said as I curled my arm under his neck to support him.

His eyes were closed. His left arm, limp and useless-the one not wedged against my stomach-didn't move.

I rocked him like a baby.

His head was against my chest and I knew he could hear my thumping heart.

But that was all right. He knew it meant, among other things, that as long I was alive, it would beat for him. I hoped it gave him some comfort. I wasn't sure he could hear me or see me, and I wasn't sure of his level of awareness, but I knew he could feel my heartbeat.

I patted around in my clothes for a handkerchief, but what my hand found instead was a clump of the thorny berries that had stuck to my flannel shirt.

Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. I wiped it with my shirttail, but the bleeding was internal and wouldn't stop. He wasn't moving now. No trembling. No gripping my shirttail. Content to let me hold him until . . . oh God, I felt hot liquid against my thigh and realized he had no control.

"Sweet Jesus," I whispered as I pulled him closer and wept into his hair. "It's okay, Starsk. It's okay. I'm right here."

(Marcus, you devil, look what you've done to him)

I knew what I had to do.

As careful as I was about picking the handful of berries from the briars, the thorns still pricked me.

"They won't win," I whispered to him as I slipped half of the berries-two or three-into

his mouth. "I won't let him hurt you anymore."

His sick eyes looked up at me. The pact was unspoken, but clearly understood.

I'd lectured him about those berries every time we went camping.

Don't touch. Don't eat.

(But they look like little cherries, Hutch)

(They're not little cherries, Starsk. They're poisonous)

"Swallow," I said with my hand gentle on his throat. "It only takes a few minutes."

He knew what I was doing.

It was an effort for him to swallow, but he managed. I couldn't look at his back. I didn't want to see that again. I didn't want that to be the last image I had of him.

I put the rest of the berries in my mouth and swallowed. Sweet at first, and then bitter.

Then I pulled my small notebook and pencil from my shirt pocket and began to write.

(You didn't dream this, did you, Marcus?)

(We'll take it out of your hands and put it into ours)

I held him closer, and that's how they'd find us, huddled together with no regrets.

They would call it murder/suicide.

(They would never understand. Not in a million years)

(Maybe Dobey would)

(Maybe Huggy)

(But no one else)

(They would shake their heads and call me things)

(Sick)

(Madman)

But I'd call it love.

End

TRIANGLE

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky was kick-starting his new motorcycle and easing it from his garage and onto the sidewalk when Hutch pulled up in the tan Ford.

Hutch grinned at him and beeped the horn. "Hey! I was worried about you! I tried calling you and got no answer!"

Starsky smiled and straddled the seat of his motorcycle. "I'm not answering the phone. Gina called me last night. I didn't want to talk to her again."

"You two have a fight?"

"How can it be a fight after one date? I found out she was married and told her I wasn't gonna see her again."

"Wow. She's married?"

"She told me she wasn't, but Huggy knows her husband. Said he's an over-the-road trucker who delivers stuff to him sometimes. When I broke off our next date, she kept tryin' to call me back."

"You broke it off over the phone?"

"Well, she IS married. I didn't want to go to her place to do it, and I didn't want her over here."

"I'm sure her husband appreciates your discretion. Want to go to a matinee today? Eastwood's new movie is out."

Starsky grinned and revved his motor. "Let's go."

"On that?"

"I'm not goin' in that Veg-o-Matic of yours."

Hutch laughed and turned the engine off, then got out of the car and climbed onto the bike behind Starsky. "Don't you think we should be wearing helmets with this thing?"

"Just hold onto that sissy bar and you'll be okay."

Hutch grinned and did as Starsky told him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You know," Hutch gushed as they emerged from the dark theater three hours later and stated across the parking lot toward the motorcycle, "Eastwood typifies the new anti-hero, anti-cop, anti-establish-"

Starsky smiled. "Can't you watch a movie without analyzing it? Can't you just enjoy it for entertainment's sake?""

Hutch thought about it before he answered. "Well . . . no. I can't."

"Well, Mr. Ebert, I can. So just let me absorb the movie, okay? I don't need a review every time we go see one-oh no. She's here."

The dark-haired policewoman with bright eyes and dimples was straddling the motorcycle and smiling suggestively.

"And she's in uniform," Hutch noted. "Wearing her wedding ring today I see. Wonder where hubby is?"

"Hi, Gina," Starsky said coolly. "Fancy meeting you here."

She lounged back against the sissy bar. "You and Hutch . . . " She glanced at Hutch and waved her fingers. "Hi, Hutch." Then looked back at Starsky. "You and Hutch were leaving your house just as I was pulling up. I tried to keep up but . . . " Her hand ran along the inside of her thigh. "You're so fast."

Hutch cleared his throat and nudged Starsky's arm. "I think I'll go back for some Good n Plenty. Want some?"

Not waiting for comment, the blond walked back toward the theatre.

Starsky gently took the girl's arm, helping her off the bike. "Let's go over this again, Gina."

She came willingly off the motorcycle. "We went over it last night."

"And what did I say?"

"You said . . . " She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. "That you didn't date married girls. But hey, I filed for a divorce this morning."

He stared at her and took her arms down. "You did what?"

She shrugged. "That's the solution."

"You shouldn't have done that. Even if you were single . . . I mean . . . nothing personal, but-"

"Oh, is it something personal?"

"-you're a nice girl and everything, it's just that-"

"I'm not your type?"

"I didn't say that-"

"I'm not attractive?"

"You're very attract-"

She pressed against him. "I don't turn you on?"

His voice was heavy and his face was very close to hers. "You turn me-"

"You find female cops threatening?"

"No way. I just-"

"Is it because I'm a rookie? You think you have to set some sort of example or you think there's some kind of conflict with-"

"No, I just . . . you know . . . I don't feel the same way you do. And you're married."

"I won't be in thirty days. Surely you can wait that long."

"Yeah, I know, I could, but there's such a thing as . . . spark? A click? Chemistry?"

"And we don't have it?"

"We have it in bed. I'm not sure we have it else-"

"Forget you, David Starsky. I'm good for a lay, but forget anything emotional. Forget that

I'm willing to get a divorce for you. Since when did you become Mr. Purity?"

"I'm not Mr. Purity. I'm just tryin' to explain why-"

"Oh, I understand. You divide girls into two categories: One for loving, one for doing. I guess I know which category I fall under."

She turned and marched toward her patrol car.

"Hey!" he called after her. "You lied to me! What about that? And what about your husband? You're cheating on him, so how can I trust you? How do I know you wouldn't do the same thing to me?"

"GET LOST!"

Hutch was returning with two boxes of Good n Plenty. "Here you go, Valentino," he said as he handed Starsky a box. "Made her mad, didn't you?"

Starsky shrugged and swung onto the bike. "At least she got the point."

"Told you," Hutch said as he climbed on behind his partner. "You're a heartbreaker."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Huggy set two cold beers in front of Starsky and Hutch as they took two stools at the bar. "What's happenin', dudes? Enjoyin' the Saturday sunshine?"

"Trying to," Hutch smiled as he sipped his beer. "If Starsky's girlfriend would leave him alone."

Starsky swatted his partner's arm with a napkin. "She is not my girlfriend."

"Oh, that's right. She's married."

"Separated as of this morning."

Hutch whistled appreciatively and clapped him on the back. "Way to go, partner." He winked at Huggy. "See the effect he has on women?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Starsky pulled the motorcycle onto his sidewalk and cut the engine. "Want to go in? I'm makin' chili."

Hutch got off the bike and headed for his car. "Nope. Have to go home and wash my

hair."

"Couldn't get a date, huh?"

"Hey, I could call Gina up, now that she's separated."

"Ha ha. Get out of here before I call her and tell her you're available tonight." Starsky watched while Hutch pulled away from the curb. "See ya in the morning!" Starsky called after him.

Hutch waved to him out the window of the car.

Starsky pushed his motorcycle into the garage, and that's where he saw Gina sitting on an old storage trunk.

He pushed the kickstand down and looked at her. "I thought we had an understanding."

"We do. I just . . . want to apologize. I still care for you. We'll be working together in the same precinct, and I don't like awkward scenes . . . I just thought . . . I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Me okay?" he asked pushing the kickstand down. "I'm fine."

She rose from the trunk. "Good. Because I don't want any hard feelings between us."

"There aren't."

"Then . . . does that mean we can still be friends?"

He smiled and shrugged. "Not sure I have the hang of that little social skill yet."

She strolled casually toward the garage door. "It's okay. I do."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch stared at Starsky. "You mean she was waiting for you in your garage?"

Starsky settled back in the booth at Huggy's and propped one foot up on the table. "Yeah. I mean, she was just there."

"Was she mad?"

"No. She was apologetic."

"No kidding. You know, if she keeps bothering you, you can go talk to the captain about harassment."

"He'd laugh me out of his office, Hutch. I don't want her to lose her job. She's just confused."

"You mean lovesick."

Starsky kicked at him under the table. "When's the last time YOU had somebody file for a divorce over you?"

Huggy approached the table with a tray of beers. "You guys check out the new waitress?"

"Better not be Gina," Starsky said as he tried to peer around Huggy's left side for a better look at the blonde at the bar.

"Nope. Name's Shayla."

Hutch peered around Huggy's right. "This one's mine, Starsk," he said moving out of the booth.

"We'll see about that," Starsky said as he scooted across the seat.

But Hutch got to the bar first, because Gina was blocking Starsky's way.

"Oh, uh . . . " He smiled and tried to move politely around her. "Excuse me, Gina."

She ran her hand up his arm. "Dave, can we talk? I don't know if I can do the Let's Be Friends thing either."

He sighed heavily and looked at Huggy, then back at Gina. "Let's talk outside. I don't want to get into it here."

"Get into it? I just want to talk, Dave. That's all. Nothing heavy."

"Yeah, but I don't want to talk to you, and I don't know how to tell you without hurting your feelings."

"Dave, you can't hurt my feelings. We're past that now. I know, in time, you'll feel the same way I-"

He took her arm and spoke into her ear. "Gina, don't make me go to somebody in the depart-"

She locked her arms around his neck. "Dave, please listen to me. I'm not married anymore. Not in my heart. If we work at it-"

"There's nothing to work at. We're not dating, and I don't want to date you. How many times do I have to-"

The muscular form of a man in a sleeveless T-shirt and jeans moved up to them.

"What are you doing, Gina?" the man asked looking from Starsky to Gina.

She looked around, startled. "Mitch . . . "

"What the hell's going on?"

"I . . . " She gave a quick, desperate glance at Starsky, then looked at her husband again. "It wasn't me, Mitch. I tried to break it off with him. He followed me here. He's always making passes at me. He-"

Starsky looked at Mitch. "I think you should have a long talk with your wife," he said, and walked away.

Mitch grabbed the collar of his jacket and reeled him back. "I think I'll have a long talk with you."

"No," Hutch said as he punched the man in the face. "You'll have a short talk with me."

The man crashed backward and fell to the floor. Because he still held to Starsky's collar, Starsky stumbled back too, but Hutch caught his arm and kept him on his feet.

"Wow," Starsky blinked as he looked around.

Hutch took his badge out and leaned over the man, holding his badge in front of the reclining man's face. "Police," he said quietly, then pulled the man to his feet.

Mitch held his gushing nose. "Stuff it."

Hutch took the man's arm in one hand, Gina's in the other, and led them both to the door. "A good lay should solve the problem," he said as he pushed them both out the door. "Or a good muzzle."

The customers inside made room for him as he marched back through the restaurant to where Starsky was helping Huggy pick up some of the overturned chairs.

"No more kid gloves," the blond said pointing a finger at his partner. "Either one of them has contact with you again, you file a restraining order against them."

Starsky looked at Huggy. "Sorry for the mess, Hug."

"No sweat, Starsk. Wasn't your fault."

Starsky looked at Hutch. "Maybe we should drive by her place and make sure she's okay. She looked pretty scared of him."

Hutch jabbed a finger at his chest. "You are why chivalry is not dead."

Starsky looked at Huggy. "That supposed to be a compliment?"

"Take 'em when you can get 'em."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky turned the radio on in his kitchen while Hutch was standing with the phone in his hand.

"Hey, Starsk," Hutch said with the receiver to his ear. "You sure you gave me the right number? She's not answering."

"I'm sure."

"Twelve rings." Hutch hung up. "I'm going over there."

"Let me get my jacket."

"I said me. Not you."

"Why not?"

"She'll take it the wrong way."

"I can wait in the car while you go up to the house. You may need back-up."

Hutch rolled his eyes. "I think I can handle it."

"Yeah, okay. Guess I'm reduced to makin' popcorn for Charlie's movie."

"Charlie Bronson's on tonight?"

"You can't call him Charlie. Only his biggest fans call him that. Sissy boys like Eastwood. Tough guys like Bronson."

"Always said I was the brains and you were the brawn."

Starsky threw a pillow at him on his way out the door.

Starsky could hear Hutch laughing on his way down the stairs.

When Hutch was gone, Starsky went to his desk and picked up a little black book.

"Okay," he said thumbing through the pages. "Best to stick with someone safe for a while. Let's see. We got Liza. We got Maria. We got Sophia."

He went to the phone and picked it up, then closed his eyes and pointed randomly at one of the names in his books. Opening his eyes, he looked down to see the name his finger had landed on. "Sophia, I hope you like Mr. Bronson mov-"

"She couldn't like them as much as I do."

Starsky spun around at her voice.

"Gina? How'd you get in?"

She came from his darkened bedroom. Dressed, not in her police uniform, but in a clingy black mini dress. "That's for me to know and you to find out," she said as her arms came up to encircle his neck.

He stopped her arms. "Gina, I told you I'm not interested."

"It's okay, Dave. He's taken care of."

"He? He who?"

"Mitch."

His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we don't have to worry about him anymore."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Hutch arrived at Gina's, he found the house torn apart.

Rage, he thought.

Someone's rage.

Gina's? Mitch's?

Fighting the queasy feeling pooling in his stomach, he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket, wrapped it around the telephone receiver, and dialed Starsky's number.

"Come on," he whispered as he paced back and forth through the scatter of broken lamps, broken furniture, and ripped cushions. "Be there," he breathed.

Five rings and no answer.

Then his eyes fell on the folded out sofa bed. Ripped. Torn. Shredded. Foam everywhere.

Feathers everywhere.

"Knife," he said hoarsely.

One of them had a knife.

Mind spinning out, he tore from the house like a madman.

XXXXXX2XXXXXX++

Starsky didn't like the odd look in her eye. "Gina, I think you should tell me exactly what you're talkin' about."

"Mitch won't leave us alone. Even if we were divorced today, he'd make my life . . . our lives . . . miserable. So . . . there was only one thing left to do."

He stared at her, his voice surprisingly weak. "What did you do?"

She smiled, putting her finger to his lips. "Sshh. Don't worry, Dave. He's out of the way. Or at least . . . he will be by morning."

He knocked her hand away. "What the hell do you mean?"

She looked wounded. "Dave, I know people. Nobody will ever find out. We can't start our life together with him in the way. I know that now."

Starsky slammed the phone down. "YOU HIRED SOMEBODY TO KILL HIM? IS THAT WHAT YOU'RE TELLIN' ME?"

"Dave-"

He took her by the wrist and pulled her to the door. "I wanted to do this the easy way. You wouldn't listen. I tried to tell you we didn't have a future together. And now you put a HIT out on your husband? You think I want somebody like you in my life? You think I

could love somebody like you? You're a psycho, Gina, and I'm puttin' a stop to you right now. We're going to the police station. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent-"

She planted her high heels into the floor and tried to pull away. "No. I'm not going with you."

"Yes you are. You've got to stop that contract."

She clenched her teeth. "You don't even appreciate what I'm doing for you."

"You lie, you cheat, you set your husband up for murder. No, I don't think I appreciate that."

"Dave, listen-"

"We have to tell your husband. Where is he? Who did you hire? And you better be talkin' fast if you don't want a murder charge on your-"

The front door banged open just as Starsky reached it, and Mitch came bullying his way in, large kitchen knife raised overhead.

Starsky's hand went quickly beneath his jacket-"Mitch, wait a min-"-but the knife flashed down in a silver streak.

Staggering backward, Starsky saw the blood pouring from his left shoulder but felt no pain.

"Oh hell," he groaned when he realized his left hand wasn't working well enough to pull out his gun. "Oh hell."

He stumbled backward, toppling over the footstool and onto the floor.

Gina screamed, but the sound was cut off by a fluid slice of the knife across her throat.

Her hands came up to the sheeting blood, and she dropped to her knees.

The knife slashed downward again and again into her back, until she fell forward into a silent heap.

Starsky's right hand pawed desperately at his holster, but Mitch pounced on him and straddled him. One giant hand clutched Starsky by the throat and held him down while the other stabbed away with the knife, chopping into his chest, stomach, and shoulder.

Starsky pawed at the man's arms and shoulders, his legs thrashing to buck the man off.

"Now," the big man seethed down as Starsky's struggling diminished. "Now I guess you know. I guess you know a man sort of loses his mind when he finds out his wife is having an affair. I guess you know that. Can you blame him? Huh, Officer Starsky? Can you blame him?"

But Officer Starsky was no longer able to defend himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky's front door was wide open. Hutch bounded up the stairs, eyes wide and panicky at the splashes of blood along the handrail.

"STARSKY!"

He saw Gina first, and besides the amount of blood that had left her body, he saw by her vacant upward stare that she was already dead.

Hutch's voice caught in his throat when he saw Starsky.

"Oh my God."

Flat on his back, arms out on the floor. Blood everywhere. Soaking his shirt. Bloody handprints on his face and throat. His face white. His eyes gazing at the ceiling.

Hutch ran to him and fell on his knees beside him, reaching for the phone with one hand, his partner with the other.

"Am . . . ambulance," he stammered as he dialed for help and gave Starsky's address.

He threw the receiver down and held his hand against the worst of the wounds in Starsky's chest, very near his heart. He was still bleeding.

"Starsk?" he said shakily as he leaned over Starsky and squeezed his bloody hand.

Starsky tried to speak but nothing came out.

"Don't try to talk, Starsk. I know you're scared. I'm right here."

Starsky then raised his free arm, reaching until Hutch gently pulled him against his chest.

"Okay, buddy. I'll hold you. Come here."

Starsky's arms fell away from what little hug they had around his partner's shoulders.

"Oh Starsk," he whispered fearfully. "You're holding on real good. Hold on some more, okay? Don't let go. Ambulance will be here any second."

Hutch closed his eyes at the gasping sounds coming from his partner as he struggled to breathe.

Hutch pulled him closer, until he was no longer sure where his body and Starsky's body met. It felt like one. "Oh God," Hutch croaked against his hair. "Was it him, Starsk? Was it her husband?"

Starsky's only answer was a soft groan and a slight nod of his head.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch paced the waiting room floor, pushing one hand through his hair while bumping a rolled-up newspaper against his thigh with the other.

(Internal injuries, emergency surgery, major blood loss)

(Five stab wounds)

(He may not make it, Detective)

(Be prepared for that)

(We all want to hope, but . . . )

(But five knife wounds are a little much, Doc)

The blond spun around when the door opened.

Captain Dobey gave a half-smile. "Thought I was the doctor, didn't you?"

Hutch gave a half-smile in return.

"Huggy's on the phone. You can take it at the nurse's station down the hall."

Dobey held the door open for him while Hutch moved past and headed down the hall to the nurses desk.

An older nurse with a pencil behind her ear handed him the telephone receiver.

"Yeah?" Hutch said into the phone.

Huggy's voice was low, and fighting a tremor. "I think you better get over here to the bar, Hutch."

"Are you crazy? I'm not leaving Starsky. The doctors say he may not . . " He couldn't finish.

"Hutchie boy, I am tellin' you, and tellin' you clear, you better get the hell over here. Husband of the year is sittin' in my back booth lookin' at a menu like nothin' happened! I swear, if you don't do somethin', I'M gonna do somethin' you ain't gonna LIKE!"

"Just sit tight. I'll take care of it."

Huggy's voice lowered. "You gonna get a cop over here?"

"Yeah. On the way. Try to stall him."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch walked into Huggy's carrying the baseball bat, drawing looks from Huggy and the customers.

"No way, man," Huggy said coming around the bar to stop him. "This ain't what I had in mind. Just take him to jail."

Hutch shrugged him off and kept walking.

"HEY YOU!" Hutch shouted as he picked up a faster pace. "YOU WANT TO MESS WITH ME? COME HERE!"

Mitch raised his head just as Hutch jerked him from the booth with tremendous force, shoved him to the floor, and planted a boot on his throat.

Mitch lay stunned and bleeding, struggling to gain purchase somewhere on Hutch's clothes or body.

Hutch raised the bat over his head.

"No!" Huggy yelled as he grabbed the bat in both hands. Two other men came to hold Hutch back. "Hutch, don't. He's not worth it. Don't throw your life away over this moron. You're better than he is. Show him."

Panting, Hutch looked at him, his face threatening to dissolve into a pool of helplessness.

"Huggy . . . I can't let him get away with that. You didn't see what he did to Starsky. I can't let . . . "

Huggy took the bat from him and walked him toward the back exit. "I know, bro. The dude deserves to die. I wanted to do it myself. Come on, let's talk." He glanced over his shoulder at one of the waitresses. "Call an ambulance for that freak, Candy."

But Hutch was in no mood for talking. He wrested away from Huggy and slammed out the back exit.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch trudged down the hospital corridor with an almost-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other.

A handful of nurses rounded the nurses desk and followed him down the hall.

"Detective Hutchinson, you have no business being in this hospital in your condition."

"Get lost," he slurred as he looked from room to room.

"This is ICU," another nurse told him. "We have patients here in critical condition."

"Yes, I know. My partner's one of them."

A third nurse took his arm. "Sir, if you don't leave, I'm afraid we'll have to call the police."

He pulled his arm away. "I'm afraid I am the police. Just tell me where my partner is."

"Not until you sober yourself up and-"

"Starsky!" he shouted as he shuffled unsteadily down the hall, looking in all the rooms. "Where the hell are you, buddy?"

One nurse looked at another. "Call security."

"Yes, call them," Hutch told her. "Maybe he can help me locate my-STARSK! WHICH ROOM ARE YOU IN, PAL?"

One of the nurses ran down the hall.

Hutch finally saw his partner lying still and pale in one of the beds. The blond slumped against the doorframe at the sight of all the machines around his friend.

"Oh Starsk," he said hanging his head.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

When Hutch was finally allowed to see him, he leaned over his partner's bed and smiled at the sight of his groggy eyes opening. "Hey, buddy," he said moving a dark curl from his forehead. "Good to see you again."

Starsky's hand came up and Hutch gripped it. "Gina," came Starsky's faint whisper.

Hutch gave a slow shake of his head, his smile fading. "She didn't make it, Starsk."

Tears welled in his dark blue eyes. "I tried to help her," he whispered.

"I know."

"Couldn't get to her."

"It's okay. Don't worry about that right now."

"I couldn't get up."

"Sshh. Take it easy. Just worry about yourself."

"Her hus . . . " It was becoming more difficult to speak.

"Her husband is in a psych unit for the criminally insane. He can't get to you."

"She . . . she put a hit out on him. I was gonna tell him, but he didn't give me a . . ."

"Starsky, they're not worth the breath you're wasting on them right now. She's dead and he's locked up. Just rest."

Starsky squeezed Hutch's hand and looked over at the bouquet of flowers on the night

stand. "I'm glad he didn't get you too, Hutch. I woke up last night and saw that empty chair, and I thought . . . I couldn't reach the nurse's button . . ."

Hutch smiled. "Well, seems Mr. Daniels and I were behaving in an unseemly fashion last night and I had to sleep it off in the waiting room."

A ghost of a small smile curved his lips, but then faded when he felt Hutch's hand trembling in his. "It was close, wasn't it?"

Hutch nodded.

"How close? Did he shoot me? I don't remember."

Hutch swallowed and tried to smile. "He stabbed you."

"No kiddin'? Where at? I hurt all over."

Hutch couldn't say anymore without breaking up.

Starsky squeezed his hand again. "It's okay, Hutch. I may be down, but I'm not out."

Hutch could only nod.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Starsky was propped up on his pillows in his hospital bed and reaching for a banana on his lunch tray with a bandaged arm.

"Ouch," he hissed as he held his side.

"Let me do it," Hutch told him as he took the banana away.

"I can do it."

"Sure you can," Hutch said as he began peeling it.

A knock at the door made him hand the banana quickly to his partner.

"Here. Got it?"

"Got it."

Hutch walked to the door. "Must be him."

"Him who?"

"Special visitor I arranged just for you

Starsky's eyes brightened with pleasure and curiosity. "Oh yeah? Who is it?"

Hutch opened the door for a sturdy man in jeans, sports coat, open-necked shirt, and boots. "Come on in, Charlie."

The dark-haired actor with the narrow eyes and chiseled face stepped into the room wearing a half-smile, half-scowl-not unlike the expression Captain Dobey wore on a good day.

"Somebody said there was a real cop here I needed to meet," came the distinctive voice.

Starsky froze with the banana to his mouth. "Oh my God."

Hutch grinned brightly, his chest expanding proudly. "See? I got him for you."

Bronson stepped over to the bed and extended his hand. "Stabbed five times, uh? Don't look too tough to me."

"Uh . . . " Staring, Starsky put the banana down and reached for Bronson's hand. "Uh . . . "

"He's tougher than he looks," Hutch offered helpfully.

"Lucky him."

"How . . . " Starsky spoke to Hutch without taking his eyes off of the actor. "How'd you get him?"

Hutch shrugged modestly. "Just called him up."

"He pulled me over for speeding," Bronson winked. "Said he'd tear up the ticket if I did him a favor for the toughest cop on the street. I said I had to meet this guy, since I always thought I was the toughest cop on the street."

Starsky's face softened in awe. "Oh, no, sir. You are the toughest cop on the street."

"So, like what, do you want me to sign an autograph or something?"

"Uh . . . " Starsky offered up his bandaged arm. "Right here. Right here on my hand where I can see it."

Hutch handed Bronson a fine-tip marker. "Here you go."

The actor scratched his autograph.

"Wow," Starsky breathed as he gazed at his hand. "I'm never gonna wash this off. Thanks, Mr. Bronson."

The man winked and walked toward the door. "Just call me Charlie."

End

CHRISTMAS PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE

By TR

+CHRISTMAS PAST+

The smell of good things his mother had baked earlier that day-roast, gravy, yeast rolls, brownies- brought him from his bedroom, and he came padding down the hall in his blue fuzzy pajama feet. It was night, and there was only a small lamp in the hall to light his way. A plump brown teddy bear was tucked securely beneath an arm.

He stood at the top of the stairs, peeking over the banister at his mother and father, smiling because they looked like love to him.

They sat on the couch together, his arm around her. Her head on his shoulder. They were gazing at the softly twinkling Christmas tree. Mellow sounds of Christmas music came low from the radio.

He dropped the teddy bear on purpose, giggling, and it landed between them.

They leaned their heads back, smiling up at him, and saw him.

"David," his daddy said patting his lap. "Come on down."

He held tight to the rail as he made his way down the stairs.

Daddy scooped him onto his lap and tickled him. "Peeking on us, eh?"

David giggled.

Mommy winked. "Trying to catch a glimpse of Santa, aren't you, Davey?"

He recovered from the giggles and stood in the couch between them, one arm slung around his mother's neck, one arm around his father's. The lights on the tree cast a magical rainbow glow over the living room. All seemed cozy and warm.

"Will Santa eat the milk and cookies?" David asked.

"How could he resist?" his father asked with a wink to his wife.

David settled down between them, pulling the bear onto his lap.

"David," his mother said pointing to the window. "Look at the snow."

He watched as if mesmerized by the large, slow-falling flakes. "Pretty."

He leaned his head against his father's shoulder and wrapped his small arms around one strong one, snuggling in close. This is one of the days his father got to be home. He was working a lot, his mommy had said. Putting bad people in jail. Keeping people safe. It was a hard job.

He held on tighter. "Daddy," he asked looking under the tree and seeing it bare of presents, "will Santa leave me a present tonight?"

He didn't see the look his mother and father passed over his head. Nor interpreted the brief squeeze his father gave his and his mother's arm. "Well, Santa has a lot of houses to go to. And there are so many kids. I'm sure he'll leave you a nice present. But he'll bring more next year."

"Good," David smiled. "'cause I've been a good boy."

"You sure have," his mother said kissing the top of his soft curls. "You carry pieces of wood in for us, and you feed the kitty, and-"

"And I helped Daddy fix that ole flat tire," he added.

"Yes, you did."

"And I wiped off the table."

"Yes, you wiped off the table."

David spread his hands. "So I should get somethin' big?"

His father smiled. "I hope so, seein' all that hard work you've been doing." He reached for a book on the coffee table. "Want me to read you a Christmas story?"

The boy nodded, eyes consuming his father's face as he read aloud The Night Before Christmas.

The low, rich voice made David feel sleepy and safe. His eyes were closed before the story was over, and his head rested against his father's breathing side.

"Sshh," his mother said as she took the teddy bear from under his arm. "Let's put him back to bed."

His father picked their sleeping child up and carried him toward the stairs. "Honey," he said to his wife, "I know it's not much of a Christmas. Sorry."

She rose from the sofa and joined him, slipping a hand to his worried cheek. "We have each other. That's what's important."

They went up the stairs and tucked him into his bed, then went on down to their own room.

Sometime during the night they got back up to eat the milk and cookies, and to wrap their son's present.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

"Ma! Daddy! Santa came!"

His mother and father plodded down the hall, their hair mussed, eyes bleary, pajamas buttoned askance. They looked over the banister to see his happy face beaming up.

"Look, Daddy! A car! A drivin' car!"

They smiled and padded downstairs. It was barely dawn.

"Wow! Look at it!"

He jumped inside the pedal-operated, red metal convertible and started pedaling around the hardwood floor.

"Can I take somethin' to eat with me like Daddy does?"

His father chuckled and handed him a bagel from the kitchen table. "It's not Christmas breakfast, but it'll hold you. And no speeding."

"Okay, Daddy!" he said as he drove around in slow circles, one arm cocked on the driver's door, the bagel clutched in his pudgy fist, the other on the wheel. Then he tossed the bagel into the air and pedaled vigorously toward the front door.

"Hey, sport," his father told him with a laugh. "You can't drive outside with snow up to your knees."

The boy turned the car around and came back. "Santa gave me a nice present, Daddy. And he ate the milk and cookies too."

The man crouched in front of the car. "There's one more present I need to give you, kiddo."

Both hands on the steering wheel, David smiled in anticipation.

"I'll be right back," his father said as he went upstairs.

The boy looked at his mother. "What is it, Ma?"

"I don't know," she whispered excitedly. "We'll have to wait and see."

They giggled when they heard the manly voice singing "And a partridge in a pear tree!"

"Daddy's silly," David said shaking his head.

"Wonder what he's doing?" his mother asked as she tried to peer up the stairs.

"Ho ho ho!" came his father's voice as he came downstairs wearing his snowsuit, and carrying David's in one hand.

"Look at Daddy!" David marveled as he pointed to his father, who was covered in dozens and dozens of glitzy, colorful bows. Red, green, white, gold, silver, blue, plaid, striped . . .

"Merry Christmas, David!"

Mouth open, David looked at his mother, then back at his father.

"I'm giving you me," his father told him. "The whole day is ours."

David abandoned the car and ran over to hug his father's leg, gazing up at his laughing face. "Oh boy!"

His father stooped to help him into his snowsuit. "Look out, snow, here we come!"

"Can we make a snowman?"

"You bet."

"And build a fort?"

"Of course."

"And an igloo?"

"And an igloo. And a tunnel. And have a snowball fight."

Once David and his father were dressed for the weather, the man swept the boy up onto his shoulder and trotted toward the front door.

"Join us, honey?"

"I will later. You two go ahead while I start breakfast."

"Hey, Daddy," David whispered through cupped hands into his father's ear. "When Mommy comes outside, we'll throw a snowball at her, want to?"

"Yeah," returned the whisper. "Let's get a whole bunch made up just for her."

She watched out the window as the two of them played in the deep white powder. They did all of the things they said they were going to do. They built a snowman, a fort, an igloo, a tunnel, and had a snowball fight. The bows, of course, could not stand up to their hearty playing. A unique decoration in themselves, they were scattered around on the blanket of snow, and then in it, and then under it, They were still on the ground weeks later when the snow melted, a reminder to David of how his father had made his third Christmas a special one.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He watched out the window and into the night, his gaze on the driveway, a wrapped present clutched in his hands. The Christmas tree behind him reflected winking lights on the pane his forehead was pressed against.

"Will Daddy be here?" he asked the window.

His mother sat down in the window seat and put a cool hand to the back of his neck. "Let's hope so, Kenny. Daddy said he had an important meeting but would try very hard to make it."

He nodded, squeezing the gift in his hands, stifling a yawn. "I hope he comes real quick."

She smiled sadly and curled a blond strand around her finger. "He'll try. He doesn't want to miss Christmas with us. If he doesn't make it tonight, he should be here in the morning to watch you open all of your presents. Do you want some eggnog?"

He shook his head no.

"Would you like to hear some Christmas music?"

"No. I want my daddy."

"How about I read a nice Christmas story to you?"

His eyes still looked out the window, his voice quiet and a little sad. "No. I just want my daddy."

She sat with him for a while, then went to the kitchen to use the phone.

He could hear her asking if his father was there, and his heart sank when she said, "No, that's okay. I'll try later."

She brought a tray of cookies over to him. "Kenny, would you like to leave some milk and cookies out for Santa?"

He climbed up in the window seat and rested his head against the glass. He was very tired. His mother usually didn't let him stay up so late, but since it was Christmas, and since he was waiting for his father, it was okay.

"Kenny?"

"No," he said glumly, without even looking at the cookies. "Santa probably won't come either."

She set the plate of cookies down and slid her rocking chair close to the window. "Santa will be here, baby. Even if your daddy . . . well . . . they're both very busy . . . lots of work to do. Let's hope for the best, okay? Let's hope they both come."

He wasn't very interested in what she was saying.

She picked up a book she had been reading and found the page she'd marked.

He sat in the window seat a good while longer, until he fell asleep, and then his mother picked him up and carried him upstairs to his bed.

Tucking him in, he stirred, the present still in his hand. "Mommy," he murmured sleepily, "did Daddy come yet?"

She bent down and kissed his forehead. "Not yet, baby."

He tried to keep his eyes open, but it was way past midnight and he let himself be carried away to a heavy slumber.

She sat with him and read a while longer, then went to her bedroom for the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

In the morning she woke up to find her husband's side of the bed empty, then slipped her feet into house shoes and whispered down the hall to her son's room.

He wasn't in his bed, so she knew he must be downstairs opening his presents.

"Kenneth?" she said going down the stairs and belting her silk robe. "Merry Christmas, baby. Are you . . . "

She stopped on the bottom step. He was sitting in the window seat again, still holding the present. The presents under the tree had been untouched. A single tear on his cheek took her to the window, where she slipped an arm around him.

"Oh, honey, don't cry. Daddy didn't mean to miss your Christmas morning. He tried to be here."

He swiped his cheek but still looked out the window. "I know."

She jostled his shoulder. "Come on. Big boys don't cry. Let's go have some breakfast."

He sniffed. "Not hungry."

"Even for hot cocoa?"

He shook his head no. He saw the kids in the neighborhood outside playing with their new presents, some parents standing on the porch, some watching from windows, some actually playing with them.

She went to the tree and picked up a big present, shaking it. "Guess what it is?"

"I don't care what it is," he said glumly.

Her delicate throat moved as she swallowed a sob. "Let's open it," she said, trying to keep her voice bright. "Let's see what Daddy and Santa got you."

Her hands removed the wrapping and opened a box containing a set of Lincoln logs.

"Oh look!" she exclaimed. "You can build a log cabin!"

He gave only the slightest attention to the logs his mother was spilling out onto the floor.

"Come on," she said sorting them out. "I'll help you build it."

He looked down at the present he was holding, but couldn't bear to let it leave his hand.

"Maybe later," he said as he slid from the window seat and made his solemn way up the stairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

His daddy didn't come home until two days later.

And when he did, the boy ran to greet him by flinging his arms around a long leg.

"Daddy! You're home!"

His mother watched from the top of the stairs, her smile almost sad.

His father picked him up and held him in one arm. The other was behind his back holding a large shopping bag. "Sorry I'm late, son. Business trip went too long. Plane was late. Had so many delays. There was a snowstorm and I couldn't even get to a phone."

Kenny squeezed him around the neck. "I got you a present, Daddy."

"Oh really? Where is it?"

The boy wriggled to get down, ran to the window seat, then ran the gift back to his father.

His father shook it, hearing a rattling sound. "Wouldn't be a rattlesnake, would it?"

A small giggle. "Nope. Made it just for you."

The tall man set the shopping bag down and crouched in front of his son to take the gift-wrapping off. He opened a box, spilling the contents-an array of unique and colorful stones-glittery pink quartz, glassy mica, smooth flint, sparkling crystal, and a chunky conglomerate-into his hand.

"My, son, what a gift. Straight from your heart."

Kenny stuck his chest out proudly. "To hold the papers down on your desk."

His father ruffled the light hair. "Many thanks. I'll remember this Christmas for years to come." He handed the shopping bag to his son. "And I think I have one for you in here, unless a reindeer ate it. I helped Santa load the sleigh, you know."

The boy's eyes grew bigger and rounder. "You did?" he asked as he pulled out a large

present and took the metallic gold paper off.

"A gun!" Kenny shouted as he pulled the cowboy gun and holster from its box. "Wow! Thanks, Daddy!"

He began crouching behind the couch and chairs, firing at unsavory characters only he could see. "Give up! I got you!"

The tall man chuckled and rose to his feet, then looked up the stairs to his wife, who was coming down to greet him with a smile.

"I missed you," she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

He gave her a long, passionate kiss. "I missed you too."

"I tried to call. With the meeting, and the plane, and the delays, and the snowstorm and all, I couldn't get through."

"I understand," she said as she loosened his tie. "Which are you ready for, dinner or breakfast?"

"You," he said as he swept her into his arms.

"Uh oh," Kenny said as he giggled and covered his eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX++

+CHRISTMAS PRESENT+

The squad room was loud and boisterous with cops taking complaints, witnesses being interviewed, and suspects being paraded around as they were being booked.

A scuffle broke loose and a suspect started kicking the fully-decorated Christmas tree.

That brought Starsky to his feet. "Hey!" he shouted as he pointed to the scruffy-looking suspect. "Accosting a Christmas tree is against the law!"

Two uniforms wrestled the suspect under control.

Starsky was going to say more but was attacked by a bout of sneezing.

Hutch tossed him a box of tissues. "You're getting the reports all wet."

Starsky took a handful of tissues and buried his face into them, sinking back into his chair. "You ever had the flu so bad your hair hurts?"

"So that's what happened to yours."

Starsky threw a wadded-up tissue at him. "It's no fun being sick at Christmas, Hutch."

Hutch shrugged. "Just another day to me." And smiled. "Hey, your nose is red like Rudolph's. That should make you happy."

Starsky dabbed at his watery eyes. "Nothin's gonna ruin my Christmas Eve. Not this cold, not your Scroogey attitude, nothin'. You hear?"

Hutch watched him fold his arms on the desk and lay his head down. "Christmas will survive without you." He threw the wadded-up tissue back. "I'm just wondering if you'll survive without Christmas."

"I'll never have to find out," he said. "I'll always have a Christmas."

Hutch rose to his feet. "Come on," he said taking Starsky's arm. "You look beat. Get home and get some rest."

Starsky rose from the desk and picked up his box of tissues. "Yeah, I think I'll do that."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch let Starsky out at his place.

"Lots of orange juice!" Hutch called as he watched his partner walk up the stairs. "And vitamins!"

Starsky raised a lethargic hand in acknowledgement.

Shaking his head, Hutch drove on to Huggy's.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Huggy's was festive with Christmas decorations. Bells hung along the bar, garland around the stools.

"Ho ho ho," Huggy said as Hutch took a stool. "Where's Prancer?"

"Prancer went home to get ready for Christmas," Hutch said. "Got the sniffles. But I think it's an excuse to go home early and put his decorations up."

"You want somethin' to eat?"

"How about a tuna burger?"

"How about you're the only one who orders them?"

"Then you should have plenty."

Huggy shouted over his shoulder. "Margo! Hutch special!"

He turned back around to Hutch. "See that chickadee over there in the corner?"

Hutch looked toward the shapely redhead in the corner booth. "The one sitting all by herself?"

"The one who looks like she just lost her favorite elf."

Hutch straightened his collar and patted his hair. "On my way," he said sliding off the stool.

"What about your tuna burger?"

"Save it for tomorrow."

Hutch walked to the back booth and smiled at the redhead. "Hi. Like some company?"

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Two hours later Hutch escorted the lady to the front door of Huggy's.

"Oh, excuse me," he said as he held her light blazer for her. "I need to check on a sick friend. Stay right there."

She watched while Hutch went to the phone and dialed.

He waited while the phone rang several times.

She looked impatiently at the clock, then tapped her watch at him.

He held his hand up. "One minute, Donna." He spoke into the receiver. "Starsk?"

He spoke through his head cold, his voice tired and scratchy. "Hey, Hutch."

"How you feeling?"

"Pretty good," he mumbled. "For Christmas Eve, that is."

Hutch bit his lower lip. "'Pretty good' means you're feeling lousy."

"Nah, really, I'm okay. Where you at? I hear music."

"Huggy's. I met this foxy gymnast, and she-" He glanced over at the redhead, who was folding her arms huffily across her ample bosom and tapping the toe of her high heel shoe on the floor. "Catch you later, huh, Starsk?"

"Oh, yeah, have a good time."

Hutch hung up, stood at the phone a moment, then walked over to Donna. "Sorry, Donna. I really can't go ahead with the Christmas party tonight. Not big on the holiday anyway. Raincheck, maybe?"

"Sorry, honey," she said with a flip of her hair. "I don't appreciate being dumped for a 'sick friend'. Hope she's worth it."

"HE is," he said as he dropped her blazer on the floor on his way out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch crept into Starsky's apartment and was surprised to find it dark.

"Starsk?"

No sounds.

Hutch stepped quietly to the bedroom and saw that Starsky was huddled under some blankets in the bed.

"Hey," he said going to the bed and turning the lamp on. "You okay, buddy?"

A faint groan answered him.

Hutch felt his forehead, finding it very hot.

"Starsk?"

His eyes fluttered open and gleamed a feverish blue. "Hey, Hutch? Your date go okay?"

Hutch smiled. "Something more important came up." He put a hand on his shivering shoulder. "You're chilling. Why didn't you tell me you were feeling this bad?"

"Hot too," he breathed weakly.

"Did you take anything?"

"Nnnn. Too tired. Just wanted the bed."

Hutch tucked the blankets tighter around him. "Just rest. I'll stay the night."

Starsky managed a faint smile. "Won't be a bad Christmas after all."

Hutch put two more blankets over him, then went to the kitchen and heated up some chicken noodle soup. He poured it into a cup, got a small glass of orange juice, and a bottle of Nyquil, set it all on a tray along with some tissues and a pan of cold water, and carried it into the bedroom. He set it on the nightstand, then poured a capful of the dark green medicine.

"Here," he said lifting Starsky's head. "Medicine first."

Starsky turned his head when he smelled it. "Hate that stuff. Might as well get me the rubbing alcohol."

"It's good for you. Drink it."

He drank it, then Hutch reached for the cup of soup, holding it to his lips.

"Careful. It's hot. Just sip it."

Starsky sipped the broth, not offering to raise his hands to help. "What is it?"

"Chicken soup."

"Can't taste it."

"Take a little more."

He did.

Hutch set the cup of soup aside, then picked up the juice.

"Here you go. Something cold."

Starsky sipped it.

Hutch set the glass aside, then took a cloth, dipped it in the cold water, wrung it, then placed it across his forehead.

Starsky's only response was a soft moan. He mumbled something in his sleep but Hutch

couldn't understand him.

When Starsky was asleep, Hutch settled into a chair next to the bed to read a book.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hours later Starsky opened his eyes to a dreamlike vision.

He was immersed in the soft glow of colored lights.

The strings of Christmas tree lights traveled the walls of his bedroom, a stocking stuffed with fruits, nuts, and candy hung from the knob of his dresser.

Silver icicles were draped at the window, catching and reflecting mellow twinkles.

And Dean Martin was singing "Let It Snow" on the stereo. With Hutch humming along.

For a moment Starsky watched Hutch wandering around the room hanging an ornament here, an ornament there.

"Hi, Hutch."

Startled, Hutch dropped a Styrofoam snowman on the floor.

He turned and smiled at him. "Hi, buddy. How you feeling?"

Starsky's eyes wandered around the lighted room. "Pretty good." He tried to raise his head, then, finding it too much an effort, let if fall back. "Ouch. That hurt." He couldn't help it. He was smiling from ear to ear, in spite of his fever and throbbing head. "Aw, Hutch, you're the best. Look at what you did for me."

Hutch fiddled with the snowman in his hands. "Had to find SOMETHING to do while you were sleeping. Talk about bored."

"You had Deano to keep you company, didn't you?"

Hutch rolled his eyes.

"Hey," Starsky told him. "I didn't mean to spoil your Christmas."

"Spoil my Christmas? Are you kidding? YOU'RE my Christmas, Starsk. And don't you forget it."

Smiling, Starsky closed his eyes and allowed himself to be carried away by Hutch's singing and the feeling of Christmas.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

+CHRISTMAS FUTURE+

He placed a white rose on the grave and stiffened at the cold New York air.

(YOU'RE my Christmas, Starsk. And don't you forget it)

How many years ago had he spoken those words? Three? Five?

Not just Christmas. He was everything. Everything that meant anything.

How profound such innocent words could be.

How he wished he had one more Christmas with him. Just one more season of his childlike joy, so pure and unabashed.

The Christmas trees that had seemed so unimportant before now looked absolutely alive and brimming. All because Starsky, or rather, his absence, had put meaning to them.

They had had fewer Christmases, fewer years, fewer moments, fewer laughs and smiles, then either of them would have predicted.

The headlines-("Officer Dies a Hero")-told only part of the story.

Dying young. So suddenly. Cut down in the street much like his father.

What was it they called it? A 'drive-by' shooting?

How about ambush? How about slaughter? How about cold-blood murder?

("STARSKY!")

(Facedown in the street)

(Traffic screeching to a halt)

(Too much blood)

(Not moving except for his bloody hand)

(Searching for me)

(Like I could make it all right)

(Like I could make living all right, suffering all right, dying all right, anything all right)

("Hutch, where are you?")

("I'm right here")

("You got my hand?")

("Of course I do, can't you feel it?")

("Hu . . . ")

("Starsky, you can feel my hand, can't you?")

("Hu . . .")

("Come here, buddy. I've got you. Come here")

("Okay, Hutch? You okay?")

("I'm okay")

(Starsky tearful, pressing his face into Hutch's chest, comforted by the strong heart beating fast and hard)

("I don't want to go, Hutch, I want to stay here with you")

("I know, buddy. I'm right here. Whatever happens, I'm with you")

(Quieter now)

("I'll always be with you, Starsk")

(Fading out)

("I love you, Hutch")

("I love you too")

("Thanks for bein' my best pal")

("No, thank you, Starsky")

(Like Chip and Dale)

(Is that how it ends? A few words that seem inadequate, yet at the same time, just right? On one side of eternity, laughter and life. On the other, an empty stretch of time for the one left behind-a death sentence itself.)

(God, Hutchinson, did you take him for granted?)

(Did you?)

(Did he know you loved him?)

(Did you show it enough?)

(Tell him enough?)

(What does life mean anymore?)

(How is it supposed to make sense?)

(It doesn't)

(And it never will)

(There is a gaping hole in my chest that used to be him)

(Oh, I have his heart, his love, his spirit)

(That will never die)

(But what I wouldn't give for one more look at him)

(One more laugh)

(One more tease)

(Feeling him sitting or standing beside me, his eyes on me like he knew everything about me, everything I was going to think or say before I thought it or said it, knowing where I would sit down in a room, knowing precisely why I kept my mouth shut sometimes, and why I chose the words I chose to say)

(Making me do things I swear I would never do)

(Twisting me around his little finger, his heart, his life)

(Loving me with a complete and unselfish love)

(Proving that love by the bullet in his heart)

(Oh Starsk, what a gift, what a blessing you were)

(What am I supposed to say to that?)

(If that isn't love)

(Throwing yourself into the path of a piece of searing metal, knowing it will pierce your heart and kill you? Taking a bullet meant for me? You die so I can live? Is there any greater expression of love?)

(You were love)

Sounds around him: The bells of Christmas, the caroling, the laughter of kids, the joy of a snowball fight, skaters on the ice, the sledders.

(How many times did you beg me to come to New York for Christmas, and I said no?)

(Oh, for one more time)

"I miss you," he whispered to the ground, then kissed his fingers and pressed them against the headstone. "Merry Christmas, Starsk."

End

THANKS

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thunder rolled softly across the gray sky.

"Over the river and through the woods," Starsky sang happily as he watched the passing greenery. "To grandmother's house we go."

Hutch shook his head. "Do you have to sing all the way to Aunt Sara's house?"

"Why not?" Starsky asked as he rolled the passenger window down. "It's Thanksgiving. Can't wait for that turkey."

"You're the turkey," Hutch muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said I hope she has enough turkey."

"Hey," Starsky said as he fished around in the glovebox. "I know you have a headache, but you don't have to take it out on me. Don't they call that misplaced aggression?"

"Displaced aggression."

"I thought there was some aspirin in here somewhere. I bet you'd find Jimmy Hoffa if you cleaned this out." He pulled out a pair of dainty pink bikini underwear. "Oh, well, this is more interesting than Hoffa. Whose are these?"

Hutch snatched them from his hand and stuffed them into the crack of the seat. "None of your business."

Starsky grinned. "Holdin' out on me, huh? Who is she?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

"Do I know her?"

"Never mind do you know her. Did you find me some aspirin?"

"No. I found a movie ticket from 1962." He closed the glove compartment and settled back in his seat and sang under his breath: "We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing . . . "

Hutch rubbed his face. "Starsk, can't you play the radio instead? Why are you in such a good mood anyway? We've been driving 'out in the middle of nowhere' as you like to call it, for three hours now. Usually you're complaining about this time."

"Hey." He shrugged. "Anything beats camping. Ma says 'Oh goody, Kenny is showing

you all about nature'. Little does she know, Hutch. Little does she know. Aunt Sara is safe."

"She's my aunt, Starsky. Not yours."

"I think of her as 'our' aunt, Hutch. Isn't that nice?"

"Nice? I'll tell you what's nice. She'll give you the guest room and make me take the couch. She'll give you the fluffiest scrambled eggs. An extra muffin."

"And all the ice cream I want. Homemade. With bananas. I'm gonna have to do somethin' nice for Aunt Sara this year. I might take her out."

Hutch stared at him. "On a date?"

"On the town. Bet she hasn't seen a movie in twenty years."

"Starsk, you know Aunt Sara. Give her an inch, she'll take a-"

A sudden loud POW! sound and swerve of the tan Ford startled both of them..

"Damn blowout!" Hutch complained as he steered the car to the side of the two-lane country road.

"Hey," Starsky said as he jabbed his thumb out the window. "Coulda been worse. We could've veered into that ravine over there."

"No, I'll tell you what's worse," Hutch growled through clenched teeth as he shoved the gearshift up into Park and turned off the ignition. "Not having a spare." He swung the door open and stomped around to the trunk.

"Oh, I don't think that's worse than veering over into a ravine," Starsky said as he got out and joined Hutch at the rear of the car. "We both know that."

Hutch peered around Starsky for a better look at the ravine, and shivered at the sight of the steep downward slope.

"Touche," he said softly, then opened his trunk and rummaged through the old clothes, magazines, golf clubs, baseball caps, guitar books, and tools.

"You said no tire," Starsky reminded.

"I know. I'm looking for the jack."

"What good's a jack when you have no tire?"

"We can get a tire."

"How? We're out in the middle of nowhere."

"I know that. But somebody will stop to help us."

"Sure about that? Why don't we just walk?"

Hutch closed the trunk. "Starsky, the nearest anything is twenty miles away. I'd rather stay here with the car. Somebody'll come by."

The sky was darkening with storm clouds.

Starsky shrugged. "I can handle that."

Lightening flashed in the sky and droplets of ran began to fall.

"Let's get in the car," Hutch said as he started for the driver's side door. "We'll turn our flashers on."

They got into the car, both rolling their windows up against the ever-increasing rainstorm.

"Great," Hutch grumbled as he leaned his head back against the headrest. "What a Thanksgiving. Nowhere near Aunt Sara's house, no spare tire, and we're in a thunderstorm."

Starsky leaned his head back too. "And no turkey."

"Oh well," Hutch sighed wearily. "It won't be long before somebody stops. I mean, people do drive on this road."

"Not many, though. I didn't see much traffic once we turned onto it. Wouldn't be on Thanksgiving. Everybody's home with their family and all the food."

Hutch closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "Sure you can't find those aspirins? Did you look under the seat?"

Starsky felt under the seat. "I feel somethin' sorta squishy, somethin' sorta hairy, and somethin' sorta lumpy."

That brought a small smile from Hutch. Starsky was trying hard to cheer him up.

"Nope," Starsky announced as he leaned back again in his seat. "No aspirin. They say if you can find the right pressure point, you can ease a headache that way."

"Do you know which pressure point it is?"

"No."

"Then it doesn't help me."

"Well, I'm sure Aunt Sara has some aspirin. I'll tuck you in and read you a nice little bedtime story when we get there."

"Oh," Hutch said dryly. "That's quite all right."

"Well, we could be here for a while, so how about the radio?"

"Sure. Whatever."

Starsky turned the key to Accessory and turned the radio on. "I'll keep it low," he informed Hutch softly as he found a classical station. "Take a nap in the back. I'll keep an eye out for a car."

Hutch didn't have to be told twice. He climbed over the seat and lay with an arm across his forehead.

"You said you always missed hearin' the rain on the roof when you sleep," Starsky said as he looked out at the heavy downpour. "This should be a real treat for you."

But Hutch didn't answer. He was already asleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Two hours later a loud thunderclap jolted Hutch awake.

"Headache gone?" Starsky asked.

"Pretty much," Hutch yawned as he sat up. He saw that Starsky was rummaging through the glovebox again. "Can't believe nobody stopped. Hey, what are you doing up there?"

"Since everybody's home having Thanksgiving, I thought we should have one too."

"What are you talking about? We can't have Thanksgiving. Look at us, stuck out here for God knows how long. It could be hours before somebody comes along."

"I know, with the football games and all. So that's why we have to make do. We can still have a Thanksgiving. I mean, what's it all about?"

Hutch leaned forward and folded his arms across the seat. "What are you up to?"

Starsky lifted the clipboard overflowing with various snacks he'd found in the glovebox, under the seat, and in the floorboards. Packs of raisins, nuts, crackers and cheese, cookies, and a glass jug of apple juice. "Here you go."

Hutch cast him a doubtful look. "Thanksgiving, huh?"

"Is it about food or about being thankful?"

"Well, that's a silly question," Hutch said as he reached for a small box of raisins. "Of course it's about being thankful."

Starsky opened a cellophane bag of nuts. "And sharing a meal with family and friends, right?"

Hutch scooped out a couple of Starsky's nuts. "Of course."

Starsky twisted the lid from the apple juice. "When I was a kid, Ma would go around the table and have each one of us say somethin' we were thankful for."

"She did, huh?"

"Yep. What did you do?"

"Mom would invite some of the orphans from the boys home down the street."

Starsky opened a package of crackers and cheese. "I don't see any orphans around here, so let's say what we're thankful for."

"Oh, well, we don't have to do that, do we?"

"Sure we do. It's Thanksgiving, isn't it? I'll go first. I'm thankful we didn't go over into this ravine over here. And I'm thankful I found you in time when you went over yours. And I'm thankful you survived the plague. And I'm thankful that you're still in relatively good health after all you've been through."

"Relatively? I'm not an invalid."

Starsky smiled. "Just teasin'. I know you can still whip anybody." He took a swig of apple juice. "Now it's your turn."

Hutch took the jar of apple juice from him and held it. "Uh, I don't have to be as gooey as you, do I?"

"Yeah. You have to on Thanksgiving."

"Um, well, let's see. I'm thankful you lost those Slim Whitman concert tickets you got me for my birthday. I'm thankful you don't like yogurt shakes or you'd be drinking all of mine. I'm thankful you . . . " He watched for Starsky's pout, then smiled. "All right, I guess I'm thankful for all the times you saved my life."

"You guess? I guess I'm thankful for all the times you helped me when I needed it. Like when I was shot at the restaurant, and with Bellamy, and Marcus."

"Okay, that's enough saccharin, let's chow down on our delicious-"

The sudden blast of a horn made Hutch spill all of his raisins. "Good grief!"

They looked up to see headlights glaring through the storm, and then a big farm truck lumbering up beside them.

"Aunt Sara!" Starsky shouted as he honked the horn urgently and looked at Hutch. "It's Aunt Sara."

"I can see who it is, Starsky. And she's my aunt, remember? She must be psychic."

"Nope," Starsky said as they climbed out of the car and headed for her truck. "She just knows your car."

End

ANGEL EYES

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Angel.

Sent from above.

Just to give the man some comfort. He paced the halls until his legs shook.

Prayed until his stomach ached. Cried until he threw up.

(Starsky, please. Oh please. Oh God. Help him. Help me. I can't do this. It's too much)

A smattering of bullets ended the light hearts.

(Starsky! Get down!)

Too late. The warning came too late.

Rounding the red car, seeing him on the red ground.

No jest, no laughter, no playing.

Down.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

His face through the hospital window.

His thoughts:

(Please, my friend. My heart beats for you. My lungs breathe for you. My will fights for you. Don't slip away)

Live.

I went to him when he could bear no more. My hand on his shoulder. Could he feel my presence? Did he believe in angels? Did it matter?

I was to offer solace to a man that knew it not. Offer comfort to a man who embraced the pain. Peace to a man who relished the torture. Offer hope and life to a man who was dying inside.

For if one perished, the other was undone.

Love.

It coiled inside him like a blood-red viper, and hissed and struck at the man who caused it all.

I went with him.

This much hatred was not healthy. This much love was dangerous.

The oceans would run dry before his love ceased.

Why can't I know this love for myself? Why must I watch it from afar? Why am I sent to give what I have never felt?

I can minister unto the needs, but will never know one.

Never yearn, never hate.

Oh but I would give my wings to feel half his passion and pain. I would give it all away to know it.

The phone call.

(Hutch, you better get down here)

I gave him speed and might to run.

Run, run. I will help you. Hurry, hurry.

His thoughts frantic in my head: (Hang on, hold on, don't let go, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming)

My reinforcements stood in the hall. He would need them if the line stayed straight. They would catch him when he fell. And he would fall. Beside the bed, beside him.

But the line moved.

Hope.

Alive

Beating. Breathing. Relief.

(Yes, yes. Thank you. Thank God. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh God, thank you)

His joy.

Unspeakable. Radiant. Glorious.

(Starsk! You're awake!)

(I love you. I've always loved you. I always will)

Nothing more, nothing less.

I held him back as best I could. But there was no restraining him. He climbed into the bed to hold him, and I went with him, to help those careful, careless arms encircle and hold his loved one through the tubes and wires.

(It's me, I'm here, it's all right now, don't be scared)

(Hutch, is that you?)

(Sshh. Don't talk. Everything will be okay)

(Glad you're here, Hutch. Even though the bed's a little crowded)

I must go now.

You will live to slay another dragon, climb the highest mount, cross the roughest, reddest sea.

Thank you for letting me know love through you. It only makes my heart long.

Thirst.

End

BEDSIDE MANNER

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky drummed two pencils against his typewriter at the squad room desk. "What time is it? I'm getting' hungry."

Hutch looked at his watch. "Only after ten. Why are you so hungry?"

"Thought you'd never ask. I'm on a fast. You know. Like you said? To get rid of all the impurities?"

Hutch smiled as he sorted through a stack of case files. "In that case you'd better fast the rest of your life."

Starsky merely gave him a look. "Aren't you gonna ask me how long I've been fasting?"

"How long have you been fasting?"

"Since I woke up this morning."

"You've skipped one meal and you're starving already? You'll never make it."

"Wait and see. I'm gonna fast the whole day."

"Sure you will. I'll have the ambulance on standby when you faint from hunger at lunchtime."

Dobey's office door opened and the captain came out, wearing a sober expression.

"Hutch? In my office." And as he was about to step back into his office, added, "You too, Starsky."

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a look, then joined Dobey in his office.

Dobey closed the door. "Hutch, I just got a call from Minnesota. Your father's in the hospital."

Hutch's jaw went slack, his voice bewildered. "What?"

Starsky took his arm to steady him, and gently pushed him into a chair.

"Stroke," Dobey said quietly. "That was your mother. She couldn't stay on the line." He took a careful breath and looked at Starsky. "It doesn't look good."

Dobey left them alone in his office.

Hutch gazed ahead, his eyes fixed on nothing.

Starsky knelt on one knee by his chair, his own trembling hand resting on Hutch's arm.

It was a long time before either of them spoke.

"I have to go," Hutch finally said, but making no move to get up. "I have to be there." He raised his eyes to Starsky, an unspoken request.

Starsky gave his arm a squeeze. "I'll go with you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They saw only her elegant back as they walked down the hall. Her poised shoulders bent with anguish outside Richard's hospital room. She was turned to the corner of the wall, pretending she was looking at a picture, one of those pastel deserts, her hands twisting tissues, not wanting anyone to see. Her delicate throat struggled to contain her emotions.

"Mom," he said gently, and put his arms around her. "It's okay. Go ahead and cry."

And she did, holding his arms, her head against his shoulder, her sob a warbling sound. "I want to be strong for him."

He held the back of her head, his hand resting on the soft bun she'd hastily pulled her hair into. "You are strong."

She noticed Starsky and smiled tearfully at his suit, tie, and bundle of flowers.

"David," she said as she reached for him.

Princess Grace, Starsky thought as he put his arms around her and patted her on the back.

She always reminds me of Princess Grace.

"He was helping me plant a tree in the yard," she said with a quivering voice. "That's all. He was digging, and then he simply . . . he fell, and he couldn't move, and I couldn't get him up . . . the doctor said it was a clot . . . a blockage . . ."

"Here," he said moving her to a chair against the wall. "You want to sit down? Want me to get you a drink?"

"No, I'll be all right." She looked up at them and put trembling fingertips to her lips. "That's not Richard," she whispered. "Ken, that's not . . . "

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Time seemed to stand still as Starsky and Hutch moved to the hospital bed, not realizing they were holding each other up.

To Starsky it felt so much like an invasion of privacy.

(What if he doesn't want me here? What if he only wants his wife and son here? Will my being here make him worse?)

Richard looked, almost, like someone else-a ravaged caricature of himself sketched by the stroke-his figure somehow thinner, a death-gray pallor to his skin. The left side of his face drawn down-everything: eye drooping, the corner of his mouth. His arm curled against his side. One knee bent.

His eyes were open, but a pale, watercolor blue. His hair lank, swept back by Dorothy's hand.

It wasn't easy seeing a man so vital and animated, physically and verbally-a man who closed business deals while shooting hoops, playing handball, or riding horses-reduced to a dependent invalid. More helpless than a baby. Babies could at least make their needs, their discomfort, their wants, their fears, their emotions, known-through crying, sounds,

tears, gestures.

All the tubes and wires and machines made him look so vulnerable.

His mouth moved to speak, the effort even more evident in his eyes, but only a gray, hopeless sound came out.

Starsky hovered close when Hutch leaned over the bed to give his father a hug, not at all certain of the strength in his friend's shaking legs at the moment.

The older man began a childlike weeping, a lack of control induced by the stroke.

"I'm right here, Dad. No matter what happens. . . I'll help you out. Whatever you need."

Richard's good hand came up as if to return the hug, but his limited mobility froze his hand in mid-air.

Starsky took the hand, fighting tears.

"Sue . . . " The bowed mouth tried to smile, but only more tears came-the only communication that was able to come-much too freely for a man who preferred to shed tears in the privacy of a men's room when no one was around.

Starsky looked down at his suit, then into the frustration of Richard's eyes.

"Yeah," he said with a small smile. "I wore it just for you, Mr. Hutchinson. Brought you some flowers too. I'm gonna put 'em over here in a glass of water where you can see 'em. And they say if you drop an aspirin into the water they'll last longer. So I'll get a nurse to do that for you, okay?"

There was a vague squeeze from the gray, cold hand.

The door opened and a distinguished-looking female doctor entered the room.

"We must keep the visits brief," she said kindly but firmly. "As much as he needs his family, it can be very upsetting and draining to a stroke patient."

Hutch started to argue the point-Starsky could see it on his face. But he squeezed Hutch's arm to stop him-(Not the time or place, Hutch. It could hurt your dad)-and Hutch nodded, more at Starsky than the doctor.

"We're going to monitor him through the night," the doctor told Hutch. "He needs a good night's sleep for the tests we'll give him in the morning. We're not allowing another visit until sometime tomorrow afternoon. So the best thing you can do for him is go somewhere and get some food, some rest . . . we'll let you know if there's a change."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

But they didn't go for food, or rest.

They found Dorothy in the hallway challenging the nurses:

"I am telling you, you can't keep me from seeing my husband."

"Yes, we can, Mrs. Hutchinson. I can appreciate your need to be close to him, but there are going to be times when that just won't be possible."

Hutch put his arm around her like a protective wing and moved her down the hall toward the waiting room. "Come on. They know best."

She walked under his sheltering arm, dabbing her nose with a shredded tissue. Starsky handed her a fresh handkerchief, which she accepted with a slight smile of gratitude.

"Mom . . . " Hutch brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "Do you want me to do anything for you? Get anything for you?"

They stopped at the waiting room door and she smoothed down the front of his shirt. "I want you to take care of yourself. So nothing like this will ever happen to you. What good is working yourself to death if you end up in a hos-"

She withered into tears and he pulled her against him. "Oh Mom . . ."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Starsky stood with Hutch next to Richard's hospital bed. The elder Hutchinson looked, somehow, a hundred years old, a disfigured face, a disfigured spirit. His face the color of smoke. His hair lifeless straw.

This time there were no blue eyes, no unrestrained tears, no sad attempts of moving or communicating.

"He's comatose," Doctor Quayle said in the doorway behind them. "I'm sorry. We don't know how long he'll be this way. It's so hard to predict . . ."

Hutch opened his mouth as if to say something, and then he turned and left, brushing past the doctor in the doorway.

Starsky waited for the doctor to leave, and when she didn't, pulled the privacy curtain around Richard and himself and bent to one knee beside him.

His hand went slowly, tentatively, toward the man's forehead.

"I don't know if you can hear me. . . but we'll take care of you, Mr. Hutchinson."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky sent Dorothy for some coffee while he went to find Hutch.

He saw him in the waiting room, sitting on the leather couch, a rolled-up magazine in his hands.

Hutch spoke to him even though Starsky's presence in the doorway was as silent as a cat's.

"So many words I can't take back, Starsk," he said softly, and without looking up.

Starsky remained in the doorway. "Hutch, don't."

"It's true."

"Yeah, okay, it's true. There are so many words everybody can't take back. But that's life. We say things we regret sometimes. You've said 'em. I've said 'em. Your dad's said 'em. But it doesn't mean you don't love each other. Love ain't easy sometimes."

"Since when did you get all the answers, hotshot?"

"I don't have all the answers, Hutch. Just tryin' to help you, that's all."

Starsky let him sit in his cowl of silent pain for a while.

Starsky took a breath. "I know it's hard."

"You don't know anything. He's not your father."

Starsky gripped the doorknob so hard the metal felt hot in his hand. He gripped it until it hurt.

"I know, but . . . "

"But what?"

Starsky approached him and sat down on the coffee table in front of him.

"Listen to me, Hutch. I know it doesn't look good for your dad. And it's probably easier to sit in here by yourself than see him like that . . . " He took the magazine from his hands

and lay it aside on the coffee table. "That's why I came with you, buddy. So you wouldn't have to go through this alone. You need to be with him. Tomorrow might be too-"

Hutch banged his hand down on the arm of the couch. "I don't care!"

"That's a lie! I know you care. It's his dyin' you don't care about. But you've got to put that aside to be with him. You promised him, Hutch. If you think you got regrets now, how do you think you'll feel if you-"

Hutch jumped off the couch and stalked from the room.

Starsky got up and followed him.

"Hutch, he needs you. You can't just walk away at a time like-"

Hutch stopped in the middle of the hallway and leaned his head against the wall, his shoulders moving in quiet sobs. Then he just turned into Starsky's arms and cried.

Starsky squeezed him tight. "Tell him, buddy."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I love you, Dad," he whispered as he leaned over the bed.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Doctor Quayle and Starsky found Hutch asleep in the chair next to his father's bed, his head sharing the pillow with him, one arm draped across his chest, one hand gripping his father's still one.

"Excuse me," Dr. Quayle said with a smile as she patted Hutch's hand. "I believe your father is trying to wake up now."

Hutch raised his head. "Huh?"

Starsky clutched the back of Hutch's neck. "Look!" he hissed excitedly.

Richard was stirring slightly in the bed, his eyes opening and then closing like heavy window shades. A soft moan came from his weak throat.

"Oh my God," Hutch said as he rose to his feet, his grip tightening on his father's hand. He smiled into his father's face, which was still drawn from the stroke, but his eyes held signs of life and recognition. "You're awake. You're here."

The older man's mouth parted, the tip of his tongue moved to form a sound, the exertion

extremely taxing and difficult to watch. "Luh . . . " A stubborn tear formed in his eye. "Luh . . . "

Hutch wept as he curled his arms around his father's neck. "I love you too, Dad. I love you too."

Doctor Quayle looked at Starsky. "We're hoping for a decent recovery."

"I'm gonna tell Dorothy," Starsky said as he backed from the room, a smile brightening his face.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dorothy fell onto her husband in a desperate, loving embrace.

"Oh my God!" she cried as she kissed his face all over. "My Richard! Thank God!"

The only words he could offer her came from his eyes. Hope, sorrow, relief, happiness.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch sat by his father's bed and took his hand, but Richard immediately pulled it away, keeping his eyes averted.

Hutch looked at Starsky, then back at his father. "Dad, it's okay. If my being here upsets you . . . I just . . . I want to sit with you. No talking, okay? I just want to be close. We almost lost you and . . . "

Richard's mouth moved in a silent sob. Hutch had to look away.

Starsky squeezed Hutch's shoulder. "I think he needs some time for himself, buddy."

Hutch rose slowly from the chair and followed Starsky out the door.

"He doesn't want me here," Hutch whispered in the hallway. He ran a sleeve across his eyes.

Starsky squeezed the back of his neck. "Hutch, you know better than that."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Dorothy found a jazz station on the radio for Richard when Dr. Quayle and two orderlies came in with supplies for a sponge bath.

He tried so hard to sit up, speak, move, but, as always, ended up in an exhausted state of

agitation, especially when the doctors and nurses and aides were around.

Dorothy drew the privacy curtain closed and stood between the medical staff and her husband.

"I want to take him home," she told Dr. Quayle. "He doesn't like it here, all these people taking care of him. Feeding him, bathing him. You don't understand. He's a proud, independent man. And very damn private."

"Mrs. Hutchinson," the doctor explained patiently, "I do understand. But he has to have the care of a hospital right now. He can go home when he's stronger. Now please cooperate with our care."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky carried the BLT and glass of milk into the waiting room.

Hutch was asleep on the couch, so Starsky set the lunch down, trying to be as quiet as possible.

But Hutch heard him and opened his eyes.

"Hey, Starsk."

"Hey. Sleep good?"

"Not bad. What time is it? It all seems like . . . "

"I know. One long night. Think you might want to take a walk outside after you eat? Pretty day."

"Maybe." Hutch picked up the sandwich and lifted the top layer of toast. "Mayonnaise?"

"Would I forget somethin' that important?"

Hutch took a bite and chewed. "Mmm. Didn't realize I was so hungry."

Starsky handed him the glass of milk. "Gotta keep your strength up."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Dorothy approached Richard's bedside with a vibrant green plant.

"Look, dear," she said holding it for him to see. "This is from Harold and Edith Dobey. Isn't it nice?"

But Richard was doing his best to turn away from her.

She set the plant down on the bedside table and reached for his hand. "Rich, you need a bath, you need a shave. You won't let the staff do it, so for God's sake let . . . do you think I don't know how hard this is for you?"

He pulled his hand away from hers.

"Richard, you're my husband. If I can't do things like this for you . . . remember when I fell from the ladder and fractured my wrist? You helped me with things. I know every inch of your body. I've loved you since we were crowned King and Queen of the Snowball Dance. Do you think this is so different when I return the fav . . . "

A short, desperate sob escaped him.

She reached for a napkin to dab the corner of his wet mouth. "Please let me help you," she whispered.

But he gave her nothing.

She put the napkin in his hand, watched him a while longer, then told him she was going for some coffee.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"He'll need the best of care to make a decent recovery," Dr. Quayle told Starsky and Hutch in the hall outside Richard's room.

"No offense," Hutch said calmly, "but we want more than a decent recovery. I'm not sure he'll get the best of care here at this hospital. I may take him to Bay City for his rehabilitation."

Dr. Quayle almost dropped her clipboard. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's nothing personal. I know you have a fine hospital here. But . . . "

"But?"

He looked at Starsky, then back at her. "You don't have Dr. Bernstein."

"Who, may I ask, is Dr. Bernstein?"

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"Yo," came the familiar voice on the line. "Speak fast. Time is crucial. Time, time, time."

Hutch gripped the telephone receiver.

"Dr. Bernstein, I don't know if you remember me. I'm Detective Ken Hutchinson with BCPD."

"Why should I remember you? I see lots of detectives from BCPD. Did I work on your brain?"

Hutch smiled in spite of himself. "No, uh . . . not mine. My partner's. David Starsky."

"Oh, hell yes, I remember. Five-story splash. And you were his junkyard dog. So, what's up? He go ten stories this time?"

"No, uh . . . "

"Speak fast, Dick Tracy. I ain't got all day. You know how many brains are rollin' into this emergency room with my name on 'em?"

"Muh-my dad," he finally said. "He needs the best. He had a stroke."

"Damn, as power-packed as he is, I can see why. Where you callin' from?"

"Minnesota."

Clack!

The receiver cracked against the wall.

"Damn, Dick! You think I'm gonna drop what I'm doin' and fly all the way out there for the Almighty Richard Hutchinson's rehabilitation? In case you didn't know it, the trauma's past, the fat lady has sung, and I don't get paid to clean up spills."

Hutch was silent on the line.

"Good day," Bernstein said in a quieter voice, and hung up.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky was changing the channels on Richard's TV when the pretty aides wheeled in a cart of supplies for bathing and personal care.

"Good morning!" one sang brightly as she opened a shaving kit. "How are we this fine day, Mr. Hutchinson?"

Starsky saw Richard's hand curling the sheet inside a tense fist, his jaw set rigidly. He'd been with Richard's stroke enough hours to interpret his signs of distress.

Starsky knew the man didn't want two, young, pretty girls seeing his vulnerable body, even if it was their job, even if they'd done it a thousand times.

As if to confirm his thoughts, one of them said, "Pay no attention," as she uncapped the can of shaving cream. "It's just a job to us."

Starsky snatched the can from her, a little too roughly. "That's okay. I'll do it."

"He doesn't even want his wife or son doing it," the other one said quietly. "Why would he want you?"

Starsky ignored the question and drew the privacy curtain around.

He heard the soft squish of their white shoes as they left the room.

Turning to Richard, he squirted some white foam onto his fingers, then smoothed it onto his cheeks.

"You'll be doin' this for yourself before long," he told the elder Hutchinson. "But till then, just think of me as your personal beauty manager." He reached for the can and put it in the curved hand. "Here. Hold this for me, will you?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I want to see it all, Madam Curie," Bernstein said as he jogged down the hall, with Dr. Quayle hustling to keep up. "CATs, PETs EKGs, EEGs, MRIs, every test, every result, every slide, every sample, every piece of paper you have on him."

"Oh-of course," she said as one hand tried to hold her straying blonde hair in place.

"Who's the hospital director?"

"My husband."

"Hallelujah, a Mister Curie. No obstacles then."

"Well, I haven't exactly told him you were coming . . . "

"Sshh," he whispered as he put his finger to his lips. "Let's don't and say we did. Tell him after I leave. It's not like I'm going to open the guy up or anything. I'm here as . . . a consultant."

"A consultant."

"Sure," he said winking at her. "Be good publicity for your hospital. It's not every day Dr. Bernstein flies across the country just for a rehab consult. But you know, as Mr. Hutchinson would say, it would be a savvy business move for me. I should consider expanding my practice."

They reached the elevator and she pressed the up button.

He watched her as she tried to catch her breath.

"Anybody ever tell you, Dr. Quayle, you got Angie Dickinson legs?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch's mouth dropped open when he saw Bernstein coming into the waiting room.

"What-"

Bernstein shook his hand. "Hi, Dick. We have to stop meeting like this."

Hutch looked from Bernstein to Quayle. "But I thought-"

"That's what you get for thinkin', smartass."

Bernstein shook Starsky's hand too. "All right, I'll tell you the truth. I couldn't get those puppy-dog eyes out of my head and I grabbed the first jet out here."

"Puppy-dog eyes?" Starsky asked with a smile. "Mine or Hutch's?"

Bernstein smiled. "Richard's, of course."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Spare parts," Dr. Bernstein said as he sat down on his wheeled stool and rolled up to Richard's bed. "Our brain has spare parts, Mr. Hutchinson. One fuse goes bad, it pops in another one. Pinch hitting, get it? Cool to know, huh? Swelling goes down, language and comprehension go up. You're going to rehabilitate slowly, one step at a time, but you're going to rehabilitate. I'm going to put so many needles and pills in you, and hook so many gadgets to you, you'll wish you stayed in your coma."

The bowed mouth tried to move upward in a smile.

He handed Starsky a newspaper. "Make him read."

Dorothy covered his mouth. "Read? Oh my word. He can't rea-"

Bernstein put a finger to his lips and escorted her from the room, motioning with his head for Hutch to follow. "Can't never did do nothin'. Let me give you some of my yet-to-be-published-medical-journal articles to read, Mrs. Hutchinson." He dug around in his white coat pockets and handed her some folded hand-written pages of notes done in a hasty scrawl. "Granted, my techniques are experimental, but hey, Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Edison started somewhere, didn't they?"

"But-but-on my HUSBAND?"

"Relax," Hutch told her. "He knows what he's doing."

Bernstein popped his gum and nodded vigorously enough to make his fluffy hair bounce. "That's right, Mama. You listen to Dick. He knows what he's talking about."

"Dick?" she asked in confusion. "His name is Kenneth."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

"You blasted the clot out, didn't you?" Bernstein asked Quayle in one of the labs.

They were alone except for the stainless steel sinks, the test tubes, microscopes, monitors, and machines.

"Of course I did. He was brought to the hospital in plenty of time to do that. Do you think I'd leave it in there to dissolve on its own?"

"Just checking. Give him an anti-platelet treatment?"

"No. You know as well as I do that they're optimal at three or four hours after a stroke. It's been over fifteen for him. That treatment would be lost on him."

"I have a new one," he said digging in his medical bag. "For his after-care. Something he'll take on a regular basis."

"Dr. Bernstein, our hospital will not be held responsible for your snake-oil hi-jinks."

"Now how did you know that it's made from snake? You been reading my notes too?"

"You-you're not serious."

"I found something interesting with victims of snake bites. Their blood. Particularly victims of pit vipers. Their blood doesn't clot. We don't want Mr. Hutchinson's blood to

clot like that again, do we?"

"Well, no, of course not. But still, this hospital cannot be respons-"

"You're not responsible, I am. I act for my hospital, not yours. I've tested this on fifty patients so far. Twenty showed improvement thirteen hours after they got it. This'll be one of his on-going treatments. Mr. Hutchinson will sign a waiver."

"Mr. Hutchinson can't write his name."

"Mr. Hutchinson can put an X."

"Dr. Bernstein, I had reservations about letting you come here-"

"Then keep them to yourself, because whatever I can give Mr. Hutchinson to improve his daily functioning, his communication, his mobility, that I will do."

She paused, watching his busy hands sorting through the large medical bag. "No danger of intracranial bleeding?"

"No more than usual. Do I look like I want to kill the guy?"

"Well," she smiled, "you do look like a mad scientist."

"I am a mad scientist, Dr. Quayle. A mad BRAIN scientist. So you can help me help this man and ride my coattails and share the spotlight on this one, or you can cower behind that clipboard of yours and bite your fingernails."

She watched his eager, dancing eyes. "You've got big plans for brains, don't you?"

His hands came out of the medical bag and he moved closer to her, his lips almost touching hers. "Know what my biggest one is, Angie legs?"

She didn't move closer, but she didn't back away either. "I couldn't begin to imagine."

"One of these days, I'm going to take some good brain cells and put them in place of some damaged ones. Not the whole brain, mind you. About a million cells or so would do. Snip out the damaged part and put them right in and let them fuse to the healthy tissue."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Richard tried to knock the newspaper away with his better hand, and with a grunt of frustration turned his head as far as his stiff neck would allow.

"Come on, Mr. Hutchinson," Starsky said as he moved the newspaper into his line of

vision. "Doc says a spare part will kick in for you. You gotta believe that. Read that big headline for me."

But there was no reading today. Only tears.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky and Hutch listened closely as the young surgeon spoke to Richard about rehabilitation, even though the older man's attention was on the TV across the room.

"Paralysis on your left side. All kinds of therapies. Speech and language. Physical and occupational. Recreational. Mobility, problem-solving, strength, coordination, memory, the works."

Hutch saw tears forming in the faded eyes and moved closer to the bed, but Richard closed them, shutting him out.

Hutch stopped abruptly and looked at Bernstein, who took his shirtsleeve and ushered him through the door. "In his own time, Dick," he said gently as they stood in the hall. "Nothin' personal goin' on here. He needs some space. You ever need space?"

He nodded like a ten-year-old. "I want to help him."

"I said do you ever need space?"

He nodded again.

"He's been Number One for you and Mama all these years, see. The provider, the protector, the man with the plan. And now he's gotta look to the two of you for his very survival? To drink meals through a straw? To go potty? Huh uh. No way. He's too ashamed and embarrassed. Damn private as your dear mother pointed out. You and Mama are gonna give him some space on the stuff you want to help him with."

"But . . . "

Bernstein popped a gumball into his mouth. "But what?"

"But . . . who?"

Bernstein pulled him over into the doorway, where he could look in and see Starsky combing Richard's hair and cajoling him in his best Bogart voice.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I want to show him a filmstrip we have on adjusting to disabilities," Dr. Quayle told

Bernstein as she handed him a cup of coffee in her lounge. "When would-"

"Don't tell me it's 'Managing the Loss'. Hell. I've seen that a dozen times and it makes me want to throw up every time. He wants to overcome his disabilities, not get used to them. God, how depressing. You show him that piece of crap, it'll just give him a reason to give up. Let's keep him a fighter, shall we? He's a pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of guy, and that's how he's gonna improve. No negativity, got me? Not even from the Missus. If you can manage to guide her on that, I'd appreciate it."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Mr. Hutchinson," the nurse told him as she put the call button in his hand. "We would prefer that you use THIS when you need us, not bang on your safety rail."

Richard banged the call button on the safety rail. The nurses looked at Bernstein for help.

Bernstein shrugged. "He's a man used to doing things his way. People jump when he snaps his fingers. Can't deprive him of being a top-of-the-line ass, now can we?"

The nurse turned and huffily left the room.

Bernstein saw the spark of laughter in Richard's eyes and smiled. "Thought you'd like that one."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The cafeteria offered a backdrop of buzzing conversation while Hutch and his mother shared a cup of coffee.

Dorothy searched her son's eyes as she absently swirled her spoon around in her creamed coffee. "I don't understand, Ken. They say see LESS of Richard? What could they possibly mean? Don't they understand I have to-"

"Mom, yes, Bernstein understands, but it's only for a while, until he gets a little stronger. He's not saying stay away for good. He's saying visit once in a while, give him some room to get better without us watching every move he makes, holding our breath for each little improvement, each little mistake he makes . . . "

"You too?"

He nodded. "Me too."

She let go of her spoon. "God, I don't understand. Fine one minute . . . totally incapacitated the next."

He reached for her hand . . ."I know, Mom" . . . but she smacked her hand down onto the table, hard enough for him to withdraw his hand. The other diners turned in their seats to stare.

"It's not fair!" she said with her hand still clapped to her brow.

"No, Mom, it isn't."

She continued to stare at the table, palm against her forehead. "I want to help him. I want him to know I care. They won't-HE won't- let me bathe him, dress him, wash his hair . . . "

"I know, Mom. He wants to be . . . your husband . . . my father . . . let him be that for us."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky leaned over the checkerboard and looked at Richard's face. "You get first move."

Richard tried to sit up a little straighter. His partially-closed hand rested on the edge of the mobile table across his bed. The forefinger on his working hand pushed stiffly at one of the black checkers, his lips pursed in concentration.

Starsky moved a red checker forward. "If you think I'm gonna let you win 'cause I feel sorry for you, you got another thing comin'."

Starsky reached for a glass with a straw and held it for Richard to drink.

Richard sipped it, then turned his head with an obvious look of distaste.

"Bluh," he managed to say.

"What's the matter?" Starsky asked him. "Don't you like Hutch's health drinks? I brought 'em just for you. They're very nutritious. Got lots of vitamins, minerals, protein, calcium, and fish oil, which Bernstein says is brain food. Drink enough of these and you'll be doin' the tango with me in no time."

Starsky took a sip himself, also making a face. "There, see? If I did it, you can do it."

Reluctantly the older man turned his head back and took another sip.

Starsky set the glass aside and they resumed their game.

When it came time for Richard's checker to jump Starsky's, he grunted at his inability to pick up the checker.

Starsky picked it up for him and made the jump.

Richard managed a small nod of approval. "Ch . . . " he tried to say.

"Checkers?"

Richard moved his head in a no gesture.

"Ch . . . " Starsky looked around the room. "Chair?"

Richard moved his head no a second time.

He touched the front of Richard's hospital gown. "Chest?"

The older man growled and shook his head no, this time more forcefully.

"Gee um . . . wait a second." Starsky got off his stool and looked around for something big to write on, finally yanking the calendar off the wall and turning it over to the blank side. "Okay," he said taking a red marker from his pocket. He held the calendar to the wall as he wrote the alphabet in large, red, capital letters, drawing a perfect square around each one. When he was finished, he put the cap back on the marker and put it in Richard's better hand, then placed the alphabet chart on his lap. "There you go. Now what's ch all about?"

Richard pointed the marker with difficulty, and with too many tears once again, to the letter C, and to the letter H, and to the letter E, and twice to the letter S.

"Chess," Starsky said. "You're tellin' me you'd rather play chess."

Richard nodded, clutching the marker tight in his fist, as if afraid of losing his newfound link to the world.

With no control of his emotions, Richard sobbed while pointing out three other words, one letter at a time: T . . . H . . . A . . . N . . . K . . . Y . . . O . . . U . . . D . . . A . . . V . . . I . . . D.

Starsky plucked some tissues from a box and dabbed at his cheeks. "My pleasure, Sir."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She waited patiently, but impatiently, while he pointed out each letter-

I . . . L . . . O . . .V . . .E . . .Y . . . O . . .U . . . D . . . O . . . R . . O . . .T . . .H . . . Y-

and then she slipped her arms around his neck and kissed the corner of his mouth. "I love

you too, Richard," she whispered.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Starsky was sitting on the end of Richard's bed and putting a pair of socks on his feet when the sturdy male therapist rolled in a wheelchair.

"Time to introduce you to some pool therapy, Mr. Harrison," he said as he used the bed crank to move him to a sitting position.

"Hutchinson," Starsky corrected quickly. "And I don't remember you askin' him if he wanted to sit up."

The therapist offered a thin smile and continued. "My name is Matt. I'm sure Dr. Quayle explained that the warm water will relax your muscles and joints. It'll help with flexibility. And then Bernstein wants you doing some light exercises right there in the water."

Richard was not able to turn his head very far, but he was able to turn his upper a body a bit toward Matt, which enabled him to see the wheelchair.

When the wheelchair got close enough, Richard's stronger leg kicked at it.

Matt's tone was condescending. "Now, Mr. Harris-"

"Hutchinson," Starsky corrected quickly.

"-this wheelchair is a vital part of your recovery. It's necessary to get you from place to place. We certainly can't push you around in your bed." He moved the chair up closer to the bed. "The sooner you get used to it, the easier it will be. Now if you'll allow me to-"

"Nn!"

Richard pushed it away, using his hand this time.

"Mr. Harri-"

"Hutchinson!" Starsky yelled at him.

Richard's stiff hand gripped the under-rail of his bed and he tried to pull himself up, sweating and gasping.

Starsky took his shoulders. "It's okay, Mr. Hutchinson. You don't have to try to walk right now."

But Richard kept pushing his upper body against Starsky's hands, his face red from the strain. "Nnn!"

Starsky looked at Matt. "Leave us alone, huh? Leave the chair here. Just go."

Richard continued to push and growl.

Matt shook his head. "If he continues to be difficult, I'll have to call for a sedative or restrain-""

"GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

Matt shoved the wheelchair against the wall and stormed from the room.

Richard wanted to get out of the bed and walk, long after Matt was gone.

Starsky wrapped his arms around the bent shoulders and sat down beside him. "You can't walk, Richard," he whispered as he held the weeping man's head against his shoulder, and he was surprised at how well he could hold his own emotions back. "I know you want to. But you can't right now. You'll only fall, and you'll hurt yourself. And if you want to walk that badly . . . and I know you do . . . " He hooked the toe of his sneaker under a footrest on the wheelchair and pulled it over. "Then this is the first step."

The man was too weak to raise his head from Starsky's shoulder.

Starsky rubbed his back. "I won't let 'em sedate you, or restrain you, but you have to promise to cooperate. It's the only way you're gonna get better."

Between his mournful sobbings, the older man managed to cross his heart with his thumb.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The therapy room was quiet because it was night, only a few low lights on in the ceiling, and void of people except for the two of them.

They sat by the in-floor whirlpool, Richard in the wheelchair in his white swimming trunks, Starsky in his black ones, his leg moving in the foamy, swirling water.

"Warm," Starsky finally ventured.

Richard moved his head no, his better hand on the silver wheel of the chair, as if he could move it. He slid sideways a little in his seat.

Starsky pulled his legs from the water and crouched next to the wheelchair. "What's the matter, huh? You got your trunks on, the lights are low, Bernstein arranged for us to have

the whole place to ourselves. Just an introduction. No rush. No therapy. Just to sit in it and get used to it. That's all. It'll feel good just to relax. Like a sauna. You got a sauna at home, don't you?"

Richard nodded.

"So, see? What's the problem? This'll loosen you up some, you'll sleep better tonight, and we can tell the doctors tomorrow that you're on your way."

Finally, after a long silence, Richard nodded.

"Good," Starsky said as he moved Richard out of the chair and carefully eased him down to the edge of the whirlpool.

They both sat with their legs in the water, Starsky's arm securely around the older man.

Starsky moved down into the water and stood facing him, gripping him under the arms.

He felt the stiff body trembling in his hands, and his heart winced at the intensity of it.

"What?" he said quietly. "What is it, Mr. Hutchinson?"

His light blue eyes were fearful, a trickle of perspiration dripped from his graying blond hair. His mouth moved to talk, but of course nothing but a moan came out.

"Oh my God," Starsky whispered. "You're scared. You think I'll let go of you? You think you'll slip under and drown or somethin'?"

Richard's good hand raised up to rest on Starsky's shoulder.

Starsky swallowed. "I won't let that happen to you, honest."

After long seconds of looking from the exit, to the wheelchair, to Starsky's patient face, Richard's arm hooked around Starsky's neck and clung tightly.

"That's it," Starsky said gently as he lowered Richard into the water. "I got you."

Richard still trembled, and still clung tight.

Starsky sat very still, lending his patient, safe presence. The warm water was barely disturbed by their bodies. Starsky kept his voice low, and held him up as if he were fine china.

"See? Nice, huh? You should be proud of yourself."

Richard was still too pre-occupied with his safety to offer any kind of response, but

Starsky did feel the stern muscles softening a bit against him.

"It's okay to lean on me, Mr. Hutchinson. It's okay to trust me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

That night as Richard slept the soundest he'd slept since his arrival at the hospital, Starsky stepped outside the room to get a nurse to stay while he went for a bite to eat. It was midnight and the floor was quiet. Hutch was standing just outside the room, leaning against the wall.

"Hey, Hutch," he said quietly. "You okay?"

"Yeah, Starsk," he whispered back. "Are you?"

"Yeah."

"How'd he do in the pool?"

"He did okay."

"You think it would hurt to just look in on him while he's asleep?"

Starsky took his arm and led him into the room.

Hutch's hand went out to touch the sleeping face, then drew back.

"Come on," Starsky said putting a hand on his shoulder and gently steering him out. "Let's get somethin' to eat. Been a while since I talked to you."

"Yeah, I know. You look tired. Sure you're okay?"

"I'm sure."

But in the cafeteria Hutch felt the way both of Starsky's arms trembled on the table when they sat down to eat, and he knew it had to be because Starsky had been lifting, moving, and holding his father for hours.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I call it my Motor Planner."

Starsky watched from a swivel stool as Bernstein placed a small monitor the size of a hand-held cassette player in Richard's hand and showed him some electrodes. "Okay, Mr. Hutchinson. Want to be my guinea pig? Got a gadget for you. We stick these self-

adhesive electrodes on your forearm-it contracts your muscles for you-you control the intensity of the stimuli, and just by THINKING about moving, just by IMAGINING the movement, that motor skill, your muscles move, and a healthy part of your brain will go 'Ah-hah, THAT'S what you're trying to do-move, so I know how to tell your body to do that now'. It's a wonderfully vicious cycle. First the stimuli-which will be your own thought, then the brain catches it, feeds it back to the body, over and over again. Until your brain re-teaches your body its movements, and your body re-teaches your brain. This little monitor will even tell you when to relax, when to move, and it even stores your progress in a freaky little microchip. Thirty minute sessions. You know why this is just right for you, Mr. Hutchinson? Because this device is powered by motivation and concentration, and that you have. Your brain powers it, not these batteries."

Richard's hand moved his red marker to the alphabet chart to point out a question:

GO HOME?

Bernstein grinned. "You're itching to leave, I know. Tell you what. Work some more on your exercises, and we'll see how things look in a few days. Our discharge planner will be in to talk to you about the Home Health team who'll be coming to your house. You'll go home much the same way you are now. But you will continue to get better every day. Just follow the rules, be patient with yourself, and your recovery will happen just like you want it to."

Starsky saw a fleeting look of relief-even hope-in the man's eyes as his marker pointed quickly to the letters that spelled YOU COME TOO, DAVID?

Starsky stared at him, then looked at Bernstein, then back to Richard again. "You-you really want me to?"

OF COURSE.

"I'd be honored."

Bernstein winked. "I'll send Matt up to help with some flexibility exercises. Watch how he does it and you can continue them when Mr. Hutchinson gets home."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Richard continued exercises with Matt, with Starsky watching carefully-mild neck rotations, arm stretches, foot flexes, and insisted on doing them in the therapy pool to hasten the results-but with Starsky's assistance, not Matt's.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Starsky met with Hutch and Dorothy in the cafeteria.

"Going to eat with us, dear?" she asked Starsky as she pulled out a chair for him.

"Um, no. Actually, I want to know if I can borrow your house keys for the day. Richard will be in therapy with Matt most of the day, so he won't miss me too badly."

Dorothy sorted through her purse until she came up with a key ring. She took the house key off and handed it to him. "Just make sure you lock the gate to the pool when you're finished."

He smiled, passed Hutch a tired wink, then left.

"He does deserve a day of rest and relaxation," she said as she lifted her coffee cup.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

DAVID-WILL-TAKE-ME-HOME-TODAY.

"Okay, Dad," Hutch said as his eyes followed along the message his father was pointing out with his marker. He wasn't about to debate the point. At least his father was communicating with him-tolerating his presence in the room again. And Dorothy's as well. The stronger Richard became, the more he let them in. Hutch was grateful for the small doses of love. It meant his father was becoming more himself again.

He watched Starsky with his father. Even though Richard couldn't walk yet, Starsky slipped his shoes on as if he could, and even dressed him in street clothes opposed to the regular fare of pajamas and robe. "Mom and I will go to the store and get some food we think you could eat."

Starsky reached into his pocket for a list and handed it to his partner. "That should do it."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch carried groceries in for his mother, marveling at all that Starsky had done for Richard before his homecoming. He had set up the guest room for him, as it was next to a bathroom, and on the ground floor. He'd moved things aside-footstool, magazine stand, Oriental rug, wastepaper basket-so Richard wouldn't trip on them when he began to get on his feet. He'd installed handrails along one wall, put in chairs with sturdy arms and legs that Richard would be getting in and out of. Next to the bed-a real bed, not a hospital bed-he'd set a table with magazines, books, medicine, water glass and pitcher, radio, lamp, phone, alphabet chart, clock, calendar, and a bell to ring for service.

And in the bathroom he put liquid soap in a pump container for hands that could not yet handle a bar of soap.

Starsky brought Richard in by wheelchair and got him settled into bed.

When Dorothy saw what he had done, she literally sat down in a living room chair and cried. "I thought David was going to use the POOL!" she wailed. "How shallow can I be!"

Starsky ran to her side and took her hands down from her face. "It's okay, Mrs. Hutchinson. Don't worry about it."

She sniffed onto his shoulder, and, as always, he was ready with a handkerchief.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

As was custom these days, Richard shooed Hutch and Dorothy from his room after brief visits. They didn't like being apart from him, but they understood, so they tried to stay occupied by taking care of Richard's business details and calling his associates and employees to tell them he was ill but would be returning to work as soon as possible, and that all major financial decisions would be made by Richard himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"See this, Mr. Hutchinson?" Starsky asked as he held the cardboard box in his hands.

Richard observed the box from his bed and nodded. "Yuh."

"We'll call it a box of safety. Smoke alarm, fire extinguisher, flashlight, whistle for emergency . . . " He took the whistle out. It was at the end of a black string, and Starsky draped it over his head like a necklace. "Try it out."

Richard moved his clumsy, stiff hand around the whistle and brought it to his mouth, then gave a weak puff or two.

"We'll work on that," Starsky told him, and put a silver bell in his hand. "Bet you can handle that."

Richard clanged the bell with no problem.

"Okay, good. And while we're on the subject of safety . . . " He pulled the electric blanket off that Dorothy had so kindly placed over her husband's legs. "We'd better not use this. If it burns your skin, or if it shorts out . . . "

Richard nodded, then gestured toward the radio with his claw-like hand.

"Jazz today?"

Richard shook his head no. "Suh . . ."

"Suh . . . " He knew Richard was trying to pronounce something. "Sex Pistols?"

Richard chuckled and spoke more forcefully. "Suh . . . "

"Stevie Wonder?"

He shook his head no again. "Sue . . . "

Richard took his marker, pointing out the letters:

S…U…..P…R…E…..M…..E…S as he offered a crooked little

smile.

"Oh, got a thing for the ladies, do we? I think I can bring you their Greatest Hits today."

Richard nodded enthusiastically, then pointed out the letters D…O…R…..

"Duh . . . Doh . . . "

"Oh," Starsky said quietly. "I get it. You and Dorothy used to listen to The Supremes."

He nodded as vigorously as his stiff neck would allow.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Richard grew a little stronger as the days went by. Hutch or Dorothy or the visiting nurse and therapist would come into the room to find Starsky always doing something for Richard or with him-watching movies with him, telling jokes and doing impressions, rubbing lotion on his legs, washing his hair with a scented shampoo, clipping his nails, helping him form his mouth to make certain sounds, helping him rotate his neck, flexing his wrists and ankles, playing tug of war with him using a thick rubber band with handles on both ends, squeezing a rubber ball in his hand, using light hand weights, putting the electrodes of Bernstein's Motor Planner on his wrists and arms, and the monitor in his hand to help him improve his mobility, helping him sit up and bend forward, and then backward.

"We'll do it till you can touch your toes," Starsky told him, and Richard would half-chuckle and half-moan at the thought, because although the exercises were necessary, they were painful, and on several occasions Starsky had to close the door so Hutch and Dorothy couldn't hear his sounds of discomfort. He also closed it when making Richard read out loud, so that he would feel freer to express his labored attempts at words.

"You push yourself too hard," Starsky told him as he wiped his brow with a cool, damp cloth.

"Why don't you take a break? We can go outside or somethin'."

But Richard would shake his head no, one day pointing out a message so long it took about five full minutes for him to complete it.

"I…WON'T…GO…OUTSIDE…UNTIL…I…

CAN…WALK….ON…..MY…OWN…..."

"Okay," Starsky agreed with a sigh of resignation. "You're the boss. But you will go into the kitchen with me sometime, won't you?"

"Nnn."

"What about when Hutch and Dorothy are gone?"

"Yah."

"Good. 'cause I got this cool dish I want you to try. Easy to chew and swallow, healthy, and delicious, if I do say so myself."

So Starsky dreamed up some excuse for getting Hutch and Dorothy out of the house- sending them on a trip to the library for some more books for Richard-and while they were gone, Starsky helped Richard into the wheelchair and steered him into the kitchen.

"Okay, Mr. Hutchinson," he said as he parked Richard where he could see what he was doing.

He pulled a wok from the cabinet, then got some oil, cooked chunk chicken, rice, and fresh vegetables. "You're gonna like this. If I cut it up real small, think you can handle it?"

Richard nodded. Since the alphabet chart was in his lap, he pointed out FIRE EXTINGUISHER?

Starsky gave him a sidelong glance as he heated the oil in the wok. "Real comedian, aren't you? "

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

When Hutch and Dorothy returned from the library and looked in Richard's room, they looked in on them, finding the room very quiet with Richard asleep, the Supremes playing low, and Starsky sitting on the end of his bed, lovingly shining Richard's shoes, buffing, polishing, blowing lint away. They shined like black mirrors.

Starsky looked up with an embarrassed, almost guilty expression on his face.

"For when he can walk again," he explained with a small shrug.

Hutch didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He just nodded and smiled, then turned and left him to his task.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sometime during the night Starsky was awakened by Richard whining and moaning in his sleep.

He leaned over the bed and spoke gently. Usually Richard slept right through.

"Mr. Hutchinson? You okay?"

The man's eyes came open, wandered around the room, then returned to Starsky's. His chest hitched with difficult sobs. It had been a long time since Starsky had seen him cry.

"Are you in pain? Can I get you somethin'?"

Richard's hand came up as if to reach for him, then drew back.

Starsky knelt by the bed and handed him the alphabet chart, then placed the marker in his hand.

Slowly, and with tears drying in he corners of his eyes, Richard pointed out letters to the longest message he'd written so far: SAD AND BEAUTIFUL DREAM. I WAS YOUNG AND STRONG AGAIN. HEAVING BALES OF HAY ONTO OUR WAGON. ROUNDING UP THE CATTLE. CHOPPING WOOD. CARRYING WATER. BUILDING A SMOKEHOUSE FOR MY MOTHER. AND NOW

The alphabet chart slipped to the floor, the marker fell, and Starsky gripped his hand.

"Your hands get stronger every day," he whispered. "I can feel it. You're doin' a good job. Most people would've given up by now. It's gonna be okay."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Bernstein and Dr. Quayle made a surprise visit to the Hutchinson home when Starsky was in the heat of singing the Supremes' 'Where Did Our Love Go?' for Richard, atop of the footstool and using a flashlight for a microphone.

When the two physicians entered, Starsky quickly jumped down and put his hands behind his back, dropping the flashlight onto the bed.

"Oh hey," he said as they approached the bed. "Fancy seein' you here."

The doctors shook his hand, then looked at Richard, seeing some animation and color on

his face, some energy and humor in his eyes.

Bernstein winked at Richard. "Captive audience, huh?" he asked as he clasped the older man's hand. "Came to say adios, amigo. You're a hell of a fighter. Any questions before I go?"

"Nnn . . .nuh."

"The only concern raised by the Home Care nurse," Dr. Quayle said, "is his weight."

"He gets his vitamins and iron," Starsky told her. "Plus some health drinks. And he eats whenever he wants. He just doesn't want a lot."

"Keep an eye on his weight," she said. "If he keeps losing, we'll look into a pureed diet."

Richard spelled out GROSS on the alphabet board.

Bernstein laughed. "You still taking my snake oil?"

"Yuh . . . yeh."

"Still using the Motor Planner?"

"Every day," Starsky confirmed.

"Super. I'm splittin'. Looks like you're in good hands. You have my number if you need to call me."

He nodded and reached for the doctor's hand, though the grip he offered was faint.

When they left, Richard pointed out a request on his alphabet chart that surprised even Starsky.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

"He wants me to what?" Hutch asked Starsky in the kitchen as Starsky prepared a meal of scrambled eggs and ground sausage. Soft enough and small enough for Richard to eat.

"He wants you to bring your guitar into his room tonight and sing him a song."

Hutch just stood dumbstruck with a dishtowel in his hand. "Starsky, he has never, ever, asked me to play or sing for him."

Starsky shrugged. "Well, what can I say? I think he's gettin bored with my lounge act."

Hutch looked around the kitchen, blinking like an owl. "He actually wants me to play something for him. He hasn't even wanted me near him, but now he wants me to sing for him."

Starsky took a bite of egg from the skillet. "Don't just stand there with your mouth open. Go get your guitar. The man's hungry and he wants some entertainment. He says bring your mother too."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

When Hutch and his mother came to dinner in Richard's room that night, they were all treated to a candlelight meal of scrambled eggs and crumbled sausage, yeast rolls, tomato juice, and sliced kiwis. They were eating on fine china and drank from crystal glasses. Starsky had even brought out the gold flatware and silk napkins.

"Wow," he marveled. "I've never seen gold utensils before."

It was the first meal they'd all shared since Richard came home.

"Guh . . . good," Richard said as he sipped his tomato juice through a straw. He held a fork in his hand, and although his bites were painfully slow, and he worked to swallow each one, he managed to feed himself without spilling any. Hutch noticed that Starsky slowed the pace of his eating down to match Richard's.

"Very good, David," Dorothy smiled. "I don't believe I've ever had scrambled eggs with the sausage cooked right in."

Starsky wiped his mouth with a napkin, and so did Richard.

"Here," he said handing Hutch's guitar to him, then leaning over to Richard's ear. "This will help our digestion."

Hutch looked at his father first, who nudged encouragement with his stronger hand. "Suh . . . sing fuh . . . for me."

Hutch nodded and wiped his perspiring palm on the leg of the good slacks he wore just for the occasion. He licked his lips, his left hand trembling a bit as it surrounded the neck of the guitar, his right as a thumb began to strum the strings.

"I wrote this just for you," he said softly. "Father Hero." And he began a song that was as gentle as a summer rain.

Dorothy sat dabbing at her eyes with her napkin.

When Hutch was finished, Richard reached across the hushed table, took his son's hand,

and kissed it.

"Thah . . . thank you, Keh . . . nuth," he managed to say.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

The Home Care nurse stepped over to Richard's bed and put the large jar of baby food into his hand. "Now doesn't that look good, Mr. Hutchinson?"

He threw it to the floor and it rolled under a chair.

The nurse picked it up and started to put it back in his hands. "Until your swallowing improves-"

Starsky gently took the jar from her. "Soft food. But real food. Juice. Scrambled eggs.

Oatmeal. Chicken salad, cheese spreads, Jello, pudding, barbecue, corned beef hash . . .

I've got a list."

"Pureed meals are best. First we cook it fully, then we have to put it in the blender-"

"I said real food. Small bites."

"It can take up to two hours feeding someone that way."

"I've got two hours."

She started tucking the sheets around Richard's feet. "One minute he refuses our help, the next you're telling me how to do my job. He's the most difficult, and the rudest patient I've ever had."

Richard kicked at the confining sheets with one foot.

She stood with hands on her hips. "If he went a day without food or was left for a while in his dirty clothes, he might come to realize just how badly he needs us, and he'd be a little more appreciative-"

The nurse's eyes widened when Starsky took her arm and led her outside the door. "You're dismissed."

"Detective Starsky, I don't know who you think you are, but only Mr. or Mrs. Hutchinson can refuse my services. You can't-"

He led her toward the front door. "I just did."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Starsky brought the walker in and set it beside the bed.

"Whenever you're ready, Mr. Hutchinson."

"Whu . . . uh . . .if . . . I . . . cuh . . . "

"You can," Starsky said as he helped sit him up. "I'll help you. Just like I did with the pool. You take this one step at a time. It's real sturdy, it takes a heck of a lot to tip it over, and it'll get you out of that wheelchair."

"Buh . . . "

"Small steps, Richard. It won't happen in one day. We'll just stand with it first, okay? That's all. Just stand here with it and get used to how it feels, think about how you can move your arms and legs to make it work, think about how nice it'll be to be able to go across the room, maybe even outside . . . "

"Nuh . . . " he said shaking his hand.

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I remember. You won't go outside until you can walk out there. Well, okay. That's what we're workin' on, right?"

Richard nodded, then placed one hand on the silver walker.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Every day. Starsky helped him with the walker. Richard stood leaning into it, feeling his weight bearing on it, making sure it was sturdy enough. Feeling the silver bars in his hands, his feet on the floor, moving it just a fraction on the floor, evaluating the strength and ability of his own legs and feet.

"That's it," Starsky told him. "No rush. Whenever you're ready. If we have to stand for two weeks, three weeks, however long it takes, it'll be okay."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

It took days for Richard to be able to pick up the walker and move, but when he did, Starsky hovered behind him with his arms out, ready to catch him if he fell.

Mr. Hutchinson's house slippers slid an inch or two at a time, his legs wobbling, his arms trembling because they were bearing most of his weight.

"Day . . . " He attempted a smile. "David."

"Yeah, yeah, you're doin' good. Keep goin'."

Richard's hands, clamped so hard on the silver walker that his knuckles were white, lifted it a little and then set it down.

"Duh-done," he gasped as his body slumped sideways. His face was shiny with perspiration and pink from the effort it took to move such a tiny distance.

Starsky caught him and sat him back on the bed.

"See? First step with the walker. Not so bad. Then comes the cane, then comes the real thing."

Even though Richard looked exhausted, relief and exhilaration beamed on his face.

Starsky sat with his arm around him, trying to catch his own breath, looking just as exhausted.

When Hutch came to the bedroom with a fruit salad, he found it was Richard who had his arm halfway around a sleeping Starsky. His partner had fallen asleep on the man's shoulder.

Hutch set the salad on the table and eased Starsky onto his side on the foot of the bed.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Dorothy glared at the new Home Care nurse. "A paid companion?"

They all stood in Richard's bedroom-Dorothy, Hutch, the Home Care Nurse-Richard's eyes moving from person to person as they spoke.

Dorothy thrust her handkerchief to the floor. "I am outraged. We will not PAY for my husband to have company-"

"Mom-"

"Mrs. Hutchinson, you don't under-"

"WE love him! WE will keep him company!"

"Mom-it's to give Starsky a break."

Dorothy looked at Starsky, who was still curled asleep on the foot of Richard's bed, completely oblivious to the heated conversation.

Suddenly ashamed, she put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said as she placed an afghan over him. "Of course."

The nurse handed her a pamphlet. "They'll come five days a week and sit with him, talk to him, do things with him, much like Detective Starsky does."

Starsky finally stirred from their voices and blinked his eyes open, squinting at all the people standing in the room.

"Oh, uh," he said groggily as he rubbed his eyes and sat up. "Didn't mean to fall asleep on you, Ri-Mr. Hutchinson."

"We're talking about a paid companion," the nurse explained. "To give you a break."

"Paid?"

"Or even a volunteer," the nurse added.

"I don't need a break."

"He's getting stronger now. Your services aren't as necessary as they were be-"

"I SAID I don't need a BREAK!"

The nurse sighed. "It was Ken's idea."

Starsky glared at him. "Gee, thanks, buddy."

Hutch glared back. "You're welcome! How do you think I feel seeing you worn out over doing the things that I myself should be doing for him!"

"Hush!" Dorothy snapped. "Just hush!"

Richard grasped his cane and rammed it up and down on the floor.

They all stopped shouting and looked at him.

On his alphabet board he pointed out, IT'S DAVID'S DECISION. NO ONE ELSE'S.

Starsky passed his smile of satisfaction around to all the faces, especially Hutch's. "I'm stayin'."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch and his mother were going over some account books in the kitchen one Sunday

morning when they looked up to see Richard moving shakily through the doorway with his walker.

The pen fell from Dorothy's hand. "Oh my," she said, and rose to her feet. She started to step toward him but Hutch touched her arm.

Hutch smiled. "Here he comes, Mom."

Starsky was moving patiently along with him.

"Breh . . ." Richard began. "Breakfast."

"Of course!" Dorothy laughed as she went to the refrigerator. "I'll cook a big breakfast for all of us!"

Hutch fought the urge to help his father sit down.

Richard made his stiff, rickety way to the table and Starsky pulled a chair out for him.

"Cuh-come," Richard said to Starsky as he patted the chair next to him. "Sit beside me."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

The walker was set aside as Starsky put the cane in Richard's hand.

"This is gonna be a little harder to do," Starsky told him as he took Richard under the arms and looked at him. "The walker won't be here, the chair won't be here. Just me. But I swear I won't let you fall."

Richard was already perspiring, even though he hadn't even tried to use the cane.

Starsky gently lifted him to his feet, steadying him.

"Put your arm around my shoulder."

And he did. The other arm leaned into the cane.

Starsky watched his face. "Ready?"

Richard looked across the room. Even to Starsky it looked a mile wide.

Richard's house slipper slid forward, and Starsky felt the man's weight shift toward the cane.

"Easy," Starsky said quietly. "Easy does it. Take another."

The other foot slid forward, and Starsky felt Richard's weight shift against him.

"Another."

The other foot moved, and the weight shifted into the cane.

Another step, and the weight shifted into him.

"By George, I think you got it."

He was finding the sequence, the rhythm, the strength, the small stages it took to perform a single step. Richard's arm was clutching him so close in safety and desperation that Starsky could smell the soap, deodorant, and hair tonic wafting from him. But it was a good smell, a healthy smell, the hopeful smell of a man who was now able to give himself a sponge bath and apply his personal items by himself.

A smile started on Richard's face.

"Dor!" he shouted with the excitement of a child. "Ken!"

His wife and son came running, both stopping in the doorway at the sight of him moving without a walker or wheelchair.

"Rich," she whispered as she ran to him, almost tipping him over with her enthusiastic hug.

But Starsky was careful to brace him.

"Oh Dad," Hutch said in a trembling voice. "You look so beautiful."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

When it was night, and when everyone was asleep, Dorothy crept into her husband's room, finding him asleep, with Starsky sprawled asleep in a chair nearby.

She adjusted the cover over Starsky's shoulders, then leaned over Richard and kissed his forehead.

He was a light sleeper, so he turned toward her and gave a half-smile, his hand coming up to rest on her arm. It couldn't grip well yet, but it could move so much better than it used to.

He could turn in the bed, reach for things on the bedside table, and get out of the bed and use his cane with help.

"Richard," she whispered in the soft light of the nightlight that glowed amber in the room, "would you like to come to our bed?"

His hand moved up to stroke her cheek, then down her neck, his fingers playing lightly down, then lingering on, the swell of her breast.

His voice was one quiet breath. "Not yet."

She nodded, understanding, the back of her finger running down his downy sideburn. "I love you."

He kissed her fingers, then held its softness against his cheek. "Love you too."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Richard was standing by the window of his room, cane propped against the wall and looking out over the flower garden, when Starsky came in wearing a new black suit and carrying a large shopping bag.

"Where's Hutch and Dorothy?" Starsky asked as he put the bag onto the bed.

"Eh . . . errands."

Starsky smiled. "Guess everybody's got things to do, huh? Well, so do we. Today's the day we go out. Just me and you. And I got some brand new stuff special for celebratin' your first day of walkin' by yourself."

Richard turned at the window, his hand sliding inside the pocket of his bathrobe. "Out?"

Starsky took the things from the bag. A new black suit, a crisp white shirt, a tie, a belt, some cologne, and some cufflinks. "On the town. We're gonna do the day up right. Go to some of your favorite places, eat lunch at a fancy restaurant, take a nice walk in the park, go to the museum, catch a symphony. Do it up right. Show off the Richard Hutchinson we all know but love anyway."

Richard smiled a bit nervously. "Help me dress?"

"Sure I'll help you dress."

Richard's movements were by no means free and easy, but he was able to untie the loose knot of his bathrobe and shrug out of it, then his T-shirt and pajama trousers.

Starsky held the black trousers while Richard put one leg in at a time, his hand on Starsky's shoulder for support. When Starsky zipped them for him and buckled them, he

gave a little wink. "Anybody ever tell you you're a good-looking man, Mr. Hutchinson?"

Richard chuckled as Starsky slipped the white shirt onto his arms, then drew it around his chest and buttoned it.

"French cuffs," he informed him.

Richard nodded.

Then came the tucking in. "Apples don't fall from the tree, do they, sir?"

Richard smiled and shook his head.

Starsky got the tie and slid it beneath his collar, then tied it expertly for him.

"Hmm," Richard said with approval in the mirror when he was finished with the knot. "Good."

Then came the cufflinks. Richard inspected them first, eyeing each gold H, and then grunting his approval as Starsky clipped them on.

Hair tonic and cologne were next. Starsky combed the man's hair perfectly and patted some cologne on Richard and himself. A woodsy fragrance floated around them.

"Mmm," Richard said as he again checked the mirror.

"Now for the shoes."

Richard sat down in Starsky's chair while he knelt with the glossy black shoes he'd polished months ago just for this occasion. A step of faith. Acting on that faith when there were no guarantees. Stronger than hope, more than prayer. Assurance that it would happen. Calling it so, even when it wasn't.

As Starsky gently moved the shoes onto his feet and tied them, Richard's hand came out to rest on his head. Blessing him.

Starsky looked up and saw tears in his eyes, then smiled at him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

The doorman of The Cavalier, one of the most expensive restaurants in town, nodded respectfully as he held the door for Richard Hutchinson and his young companion.

"You look very well, sir," the doorman said cordially. "Good to have you back again."

"Thank you, Charles."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch and Dorothy were staring in wonder when they saw Richard getting out of the car on his own.

"Wuh-where have you been?" Hutch said as his wide eyes took in their new clothes and refreshed countenances.

"On the town," Richard said as he reached to take hold of Starsky's arm. "Had fun."

Hutch looked Starsky up and down. "Wow. You look pretty good."

"You both do," Dorothy said as she came closer.

Richard held his elbow out to her. "May I escort you to the house?" "Certainly," she said as she took his arm and they walked toward the front door.

Starsky held his elbow out for Hutch. In his best Richard voice he said, "May I escort you to the house?"

Hutch grabbed his tie and led him toward the front door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

That night it was Richard who slipped out of bed to join Dorothy at her bedside.

She felt his hand stroking her hair and opened her eyes to find him kneeling by their bed.

"It's been so long," he whispered to her, and slipped his arms around her.

She drew him down on top of her, relishing his familiar weight.

"I love-" she started.

But Richard's kiss cut her off. "Quiet, dear. We'll wake the children."

She gasped as his hand moved inside her satiny nightgown, and moaned with anticipation when she felt him against her.

"Everything," she whispered breathlessly. "Ev-everything seems to be in fine working order."

End

STAR OF DAVID

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

We stared at the glossy 8x10s taped inside Starsky's locker. Black and white photos of the Holocaust-haunted Jewish eyes gazing bleakly through barbed wire fencing. Stacks of starved corpses dumped into mass graves. One of Hitler. One of Nazi soldiers with swastikas on the shoulders of their uniforms.

Starsky stood as still as a statue, not knowing what to do, what to say.

I grabbed for the pictures to tear them down, but Starsky grabbed my wrist.

"Prints."

He was right. I doubted that there would be any fingerprints, but we needed to be sure, and I didn't want mine all over them.

I looked around to see if anyone was watching for our reaction.

A couple of young rookies were changing from street clothes into uniforms.

Sounds of good-natured ribbing from the showers.

A janitor mopping the floor.

Two veteran cops coming in to change after a workout in the gym.

Nothing.

I slammed the locker shut to get a reaction, and everyone looked at me.

I opened my mouth to say something but the look in Starsky's eyes-"Let it go for now"- stopped me.

I stalked out, Starsky following me.

"I'm reporting this," I said as we headed for the elevators.

One of the young rookies came tagging along. "Detective Hutchinson, it happened to me too."

We stopped and looked at him.

A young fresh-faced kid with the barest of a burr. Couldn't have been on board more than a couple of weeks. I didn't recall seeing him around until today.

"Rick Steinberg," he said reaching into his pockets. He opened his hand to reveal an SS button. Looked like it had been on a uniform at one time.

"In your locker?" Starsky asked him.

"In my desk drawer."

I looked at Starsky. "It has to be someone who works in this building. Cop, secretary, maintenance. Somebody gets close enough to our stuff without rousing suspicion." To Steinberg: "Anybody else getting stuff like this?"

"Not that I know of."

"Heard anything?"

"No."

"Want to go to Captain Dobey with us?"

Steinberg looked uneasy. "I don't know. I mean, I know it's the right thing to do. But I'm new here, you know, and I don't want to make any waves."

"You're not the one making waves," I reminded him. "They are. If you let this go . . . "

"They'll keep doing it," Starsky finished.

"But don't you think we could just sit back and watch for them? See if we can observe somebody doing something?"

"And wait for more incidents?" Starsky asked. "Not me. I was gonna wait too, but now that it looks like they're pickin' on more than just me . . . "

Steinberg looked around the busy hall. "I didn't know this could happen in a police station."

"Prejudice is everywhere," I told him. "A badge doesn't make you immune from hating."

He nodded, and looked down at the SS button again. "I'm ashamed to say this, Detective Hutchinson, but when I showed this to my partner, he thought you did it as a prank, because, well, somebody said you're from German descent, and well, I've heard how you like to kid around with your partner, so, but . . ." He looked at Starsky. "When I saw what they put in your locker, we knew that couldn't be true."

Gee, kid. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

The three of us stood in Captain Dobey's office while he poured some coffee.

"All right," he said as he looked across all our faces. "I can see that this is a problem, but until we know who's responsible, there's not a thing I can do about it. I can't open an official investigation. Leaving Holocaust paraphernalia around isn't a crime."

"It should be," I told him.

"Looks like child's play to me. Trying to stir up some trouble. You get me some names and I'll see what I can do. Till then . . . my advice is to ignore it."

"Oh, that's good," I said in my driest tone. "That's good coming from you. You know yourself what it's like to be discriminated against. Why am I standing here telling you this?"

"I don't know, Hutchinson! Why are you? Come and see me when it's a crime!"

I slammed out of the office, the wind from the door making the aluminum blinds clatter against his window.

Starsky and the rookie were left in the office.

A few of the cops watched me as I went to the coffeepot and poured my own cup to drink.

Dobey's office door opened again and Starsky sent the kid on his way, telling him to let us know if anything else happened.

I poured a cup for Starsky too. "You should be as mad as I am, partner. Why are you taking this so easy?"

He took the coffee and sat down at our desk. "I don't know, Hutch. I guess . . ."

I sat down across from him. "Don't tell me you're used to it."

He slowly looked up from his coffee. "You think this is the first time anything like this has happened? Off and on, Hutch. Little things. Slurs. Remarks. Back in New York when I was a kid. Out here in California. The police academy. This is just the first time you've seen it in action. And, no, I'm not used to it. I don't want to ever get used to it. But believe me, the locker thing is tame compared to some of the things that can happen to Jews. Or somebody of a different color. Or religion. Or sexual preference."

"You feel grateful they didn't shove you in an oven, so you let it go? That only gives them a reason to do more, Starsk. That's not like you. Where's your fight, huh? If it'd happened to me, you'd be tearing this precinct apart trying to find out who was responsible."

"Who you gonna look for, Hutch? Like Dobey said, it's just prank stuff, to get me riled. Except YOU"RE the one gettin riled. Nobody's gonna step

forward and admit it. And they know we're watchin' now. So that'll probably be the end of it."

"I'm taking it to Internal Affairs."

"They won't do anything."

"Starsky-"

"They'll tell you the same thing Dobey did. And we don't know that a cop's doin' it. Like you said, a lot of people go in and out of this building. Lawyers, legal aids, parole and probation officers, counselors, reporters, photographers, lab techs. People come and go."

"I'll put a camera in there if I have to."

"And violate everybody's rights while you're at it? You couldn't use the tape legally if you got something."

"But I could use it for my own use."

"What, catch the culprit on camera so you can work him over? Hutch, I won't let you jeopardize your job over this. I'd turn you in before I'd let you lose your badge because of me. It's not that important."

"It is that important."

"It'll blow over. It'll go away. The more we stir it up . . . "

I shoved my chair back and stood up.

"I have to get some air," I said, and walked out.

He didn't follow me. He knew I was mad and needed time to stew.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As I suspected, there were no fingerprints on the photos.

I looked at the Asian lab tech. "Anything about the paper? The tape?"

"Scotch tape you can get in any dimestore. The photos . . . well, they're ancient. Originals. I don't know where they came from. Maybe a private

collection. Maybe a museum. But someone risked some value to put these in Starsky's locker. They're worth some money. To someone. And the button looks authentic-"

"Burn them."

The tech stared at me. "What?"

"Burn them."

"But it's evidence. I know it's not much to go on right now, but maybe later-"

I took the photos from his hands and ripped them in half. "Nobody cares."

And in half again. "Nobody wants to do anything."

And then into little pieces. "Dobey says wait."

Smaller bits. "Starsky says let it go. So why should I care, huh?"

I tossed the bits of photos into the air and walked out, feeling the tech's eyes on my back.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

I went back to the squad room. To apologize. To tell him I'd buy him lunch to make up for the ass I'd made of myself, but he wasn't there.

He was always accusing me of mother-henning him to death, so he was probably ticked at me too.

And he was right. I was blowing it way out of proportion. It's not like anybody had said anything to him. They were too cowardly for that. And it's not like they'd committed a crime. Although that's what it felt like to me.

(Just back off, Hutchinson)

(Maybe he's right)

(You haven't had to deal with discrimination like he has)

(Maybe your righteous, pompous, white-bread indignation is too trite)

(What do you know about it?)

(Maybe he's better than those fruit loops who left the pictures)

(He doesn't think like they do)

(He's above retaliating)

(Is that supposed to be honorable?)

(If there's a name, a face, he'll tell Dobey)

(That's how it works)

I opened the door to Dobey's office and stuck my head in. "Starsky say where he was going?"

"No. It's lunchtime. I assume he's gone to eat."

I went back to our desk and looked around for a note, but didn't find any.

"Anybody know where Starsky went to?" I asked the few cops in the room.

A couple of them muttered that they had no idea and went back to typing reports and talking on the phone.

"Terrific," I grumbled as I picked up my jacket and went downstairs.

I saw Steinberg going into the locker room.

"Hey," I said following him. "Starsky come in here?"

"Nope."

The sound of our footsteps echoed hollowly against the walls.

I opened Starsky's locker to see if those nuts had put anything else in it, but found

everything to be in order.

"Detective Hutchinson," Steinberg asked me as he pulled a clipboard from his locker. "Me and my partner Seth were wondering if we should always call for backup on a domestic. Seth says no."

"What do you say?"

"I say assess each call on an individual basis when you get there."

"I say that could get your head blown off. A few years ago you could assess each one individually. But these days you don't know what you're walking

into. The wife has a gun. The kids have a gun. Your partner's right. Always call for backup on a domestic."

I heard the door opening behind me and thought it was Starsky. But it was only Seth, Steinberg's partner, also wearing a haircut with almost no hair, coming in.

"See Starsky anywhere?" I asked him.

"Yeah, he said he was goin' for some lunch. He took the Torino. Said to tell you he'd bring you back a Hutchinson salad."

I closed Starsky's locker and smiled. He couldn't be too mad at me if he had my lunch on his mind.

"Heads up," Seth said as he tossed me a bag of fruit-apples, oranges, bananas, pineapples. "Somebody said you like health food."

"I do," I said catching the bag. "Thanks."

"You know," Seth grinned. "You and your partner have some reputation around here. Me and Rick hope to follow in your footsteps. You blaze a pretty wide trail."

I grinned and opened my locker to put the fruit inside. "Thanks, kid. It's good to know all the running around and head-banging we do means something to somebody else."

Rick blushed a bit. "Little eyes are always watching," he said, then he and Seth went out the door, arms slung across each other's shoulders, joining some other young rookies who were waiting for them outside in the hall.

I laughed and started to close my locker door, but what I saw inside dried up my good mood.

It was a note written in crayon: You're too good for Jew scum. Dump him.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

I dropped the note on Dobey's desk.

"What about this, Captain? Picking on my partner is bad enough. When they start harassing ME over my association with him . . . "

He just looked at me. "Is that all you have?"

"Yes. Plus Rudy from the lab says the pictures are authentic, and so is the button."

"And that's it?"

I put my hands on his desk and leaned over it. "Captain," I said, leaving out as much gall as I could. "I'm going to leave this note here on your desk. And every time you look at it, I want you to think about what else you need to open an investigation, or at least an inquiry."

"Hutchinson, you laying a sympathy trip on me isn't going to change the fact that I still need a name, a description, a fingerprint, a lead. Something."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

I waited thirty more minutes for Starsky to come back with lunch, and when he didn't, I picked up the phone to call Huggy.

"What can I do you for?" Huggy asked above the sounds of music, dishes clattering in the kitchen, and loud voices of the cooks and waitresses conversing back and forth.

"Starsk come by for lunch, Hug?"

"Nope. Ain't seen hide nor hair of him."

"Okay. Look. If he comes by . . . man, just tell him I'm sorry, okay?"

"Sorry? What for?"

"He'll know. Just tell him, all right?"

"Roger that, Detective Hutchinson. I know when I ain't included in the thing."

I hung up and went into the hall, looking up and down, hoping to see him coming in carrying a big bag of lunch.

But it was past that, and I knew I had to stop fooling myself.

(Can't you just leave him alone for a second? Can't he just be gone for a couple of hours without you calling out the National Guard?)

He was shot in an Italian restaurant.

Poisoned by Vic Bellamy.

Captured and tormented by the cult leader Simon Marcus.

(Why SHOULD I leave him alone for a second?)

(Why SHOULDN'T I call out the National Guard?)

(Once bitten . . . )

(Twice bitten . . . )

I ran down to the parking garage, yelling his name.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

The Torino was at his place, but he was gone.

His place was trashed. Blood on the floor. A red Star of David on the wall. There'd been a struggle.

I just stood in the middle of his floor as the crime lab milled around carrying out their tasks. The police photographer took pictures. Someone moved me out of the way.

"Why did he come here at lunchtime?" I asked in a wooden voice.

Dobey took my sleeve and shook me a little. "Wake up, Hutch."

I looked at him and repeated myself: "Why did he come here?"

"Who knows? Why is that important? He probably wanted to get something to eat."

I shook my head no. "He was bringing something back. Seth said so."

Dobey picked up the mangled remains of one of Starsky's clipper ships and set it on the kitchen table. "Get that blood tested," he told one of the cops. "See if it matches Starsky's. And dust the entire place for prints. Inside and out. And the Torino too."

I couldn't hear what the cops were doing around me. Nor could I see it. I felt myself sort of detaching from the room and floating upward like a helium balloon. The only thing that kept me grounded was Dobey's face.

"This enough for an investigation, Cap?" I asked quietly.

Dobey massaged the back of his neck. "I don't think you need to be here. Why don't you go check on Steinberg and see if he's okay?"

I nodded numbly and turned around, moving through the debris-his lamps, his cushions, his record collection, his model cars, his magazines-like a robot.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

I went to the police station to check on Steinberg like Dobey had said.

Maybe Starsky had told Seth of other plans, of something else he had to do at lunchtime. Maybe he had to see somebody else. Or make a private phone call. Or . . .

But Steinberg and his partner were nowhere to be found.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I didn't know where else to go, so I went back to Starsky's. The crime lab, including Dobey, had left.

Only Huggy was there, and I suspect Dobey had told him to get over there and babysit me.

Huggy was picking up some broken dishes in the kitchen.

A few had drops of dried blood still on them.

"They fought him all over this house," I said as I stumbled back.

Huggy caught my arm and sat me down in a chair before I fell.

"Easy, Hutch."

My eyes were drawn to the red Star of David on the wall.

"Who . . . "

Huggy squeezed my shoulder.

"Huggy . . . "

"Easy, man."

"Who would do something like this?"

"I don't know, bro. But I'll do all I can to help you find out."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

We went to my place. Hoping against hope that he could get away from wherever he was and get to my place. Or get to a phone and call me. Or have someone else call me.

I paced for hours. Huggy turned the radio on low. The silence and my constant moving was driving him crazy.

It was late afternoon when the phone rang.

I wanted it to be Starsky, but it wasn't. It was a rookie. One of the new guys Steinberg and Seth worked with.

"Hutch," he said with a shaking voice. Not like a cop at all, who is trained to be objective and professional. "I mean . . . Detective Hutchinson. You need to . . . they said I should call you . . . we're out by the Dawson Farm. He's here."

He.

Meaning Starsky.

I threw the phone down and ran.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

Huggy held onto the dash for dear life. I had the lights and siren on as I made my way through town, and then out of town, and then on to the Dawson Farm, which was one of the biggest horse farms around.

I didn't understand. Why had he been out here?

I saw a small crowd gathering at the green, camouflage-painted van.

A news crew. Cameras. Reporters. Witnesses.

I was out of the car before it completely stopped, in tears before I even got there, at what little I could glimpse of Starsky on the ground, which was too much: His left hand, bloody, tied to the rear bumper. The way his clothes had been practically shredded from his body. His left leg, bent, the jeans material torn and soaked with blood from the calf down. His blue sneaker no longer blue, but bright red. And he wasn't moving.

A couple of uniformed officers were trying to herd back the bystanders.

"Starsk!"

I couldn't see the rest of him very well. Dobey was crouched low and protective over him, blocking my view, the crowd's view, and as I got closer I saw him (God, no, holding him) scoop Starsky's limp and bloody form into the crook of his arm.

He was pulverized-cut, scraped, gashed, nicked-his face . . . bloody and swollen beyond recognition. He gasped for breath. Not breathing really. Just sounds in his throat. Not enough air.

A uniform cut the rope tying his wrist to the bumper.

The cameras moved in for footage.

"Get away!" Dobey bellowed at them, and the crowd, and all the eyes. He bowed even farther over Starsky's broken body.

"Starsk!"

I tried to push my way through.

The paramedics were reaching for Starsky but Dobey wasn't letting him go.

I kept pushing.

I felt Huggy's presence behind me, somewhere.

"Starsk!"

I heard someone, probably a medic: "He's still alive, Captain. Let us take him to the hospital. He may have a chance."

Finally. Finally.

I pushed through, the sight of his monstrous features buckling my legs.

"Cap?" I asked, as though I didn't know. "Who is that? Is that . . . oh God." I stumbled to one knee and picked up a mangled hand. The one that hadn't been tied to the bumper. But it was just as bloody. The palm sliced in a design. I jerked my handkerchief out and quickly wound it around. A Star of David.

They pulled him forcefully-no time to waste-from me, from Dobey, laying him on a stretcher and then loading him into the back of the ambulance. I don't think the paramedics wanted the cameras to see him either.

"Wuh . . . "

I was left kneeling in the dirt and looking at the blood in my hands, the cameras hovering all around, microphones in my face as if I would say something.

Their words floated in the air above me:

"Anti-Semitic group."

"Skinhead."

"Neo-Nazi."

"Bigot."

"Hate group."

"Prejudice."

"White Supremist."

"Aryan."

I didn't know how I got to my feet, or where Dobey was, but I was stalking-tromping around in the dirt like a wild horse.

"Who are they? Who are those PEOPLE? Why in God's name would they DO something like that to some-" I doubled over in rage and grief.

And then two uniforms were pulling Dobey to his feet and I was running at him, grabbing the front of his shirt, shaking, screaming. "IS THIS GOOD

ENOUGH FOR YOU, CAPTAIN?! IS THIS ENOUGH FOR AN INVESTIGATION?!"

He wouldn't defend himself. He wouldn't say anything. Even when the cameras were

angling in.

They pulled me away, they pulled him away. Put him in a car, put me in the ambulance with Starsky. They didn't think he would make it to the hospital.

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

But he made it to the hospital, where they worked to fix him, stitch him, mend him, patch him back up, keep him alive.

They put a guard outside his door.

Little too late, Captain.

I couldn't help it.

I knew I shouldn't blame him.

He wasn't the one that ravaged his body on the highway and left him for dead.

But still . . .

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

I found him in a separate waiting room, just sitting forward in a leather chair, elbows on his knees and staring at the floor, his tie undone and bloodstained, his hands holding his hat.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I need to blame the right person. Not you."

He didn't look up at me. I don't think he trusted his eyes or his trembling mouth beneath the mustache. "I have to take half the blame, Hutch. I was complacent. You never think it will happen to someone you know." He grunted. "You think the lynching days, the Holocaust days, the coliseum days, are over. When I was a younger man, I was beaten for drinking out of a Whites-only water fountain. You'd think I'd be the first one to see it. But . . . "

"We all get complacent, Cap. So do I. We're not supposed to live our lives looking over our shoulders."

"I know. But still . . . how is he?"

(God, I wish you would look at me)

"He's going to make it. The doctor will be out pretty soon."

It was time to leave him alone. But before I left I said, "I'm glad you were there with him, Cap. I'm sure he appreciated it."

He only gave a small nod.

I quietly left the room and closed the door.

Huggy was in the hall.

"Stand out here," I told him. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

He nodded.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The press tried to get into the hospital, and security had a time of keeping them out. I saw them out the window interviewing everyone and anyone who had any knowledge of what happened.

Vampires.

I heard the news stories on the radio:

Community leaders were in an uproar. Religious leaders. Politicians. Educators. Spiritual leaders. What were they to do with these new hate groups? They had money, arms, and organization. Paramilitary. Extremists. The fringe. Hated anyone who didn't fit their idea of what a decent human being was, which were any and all non-Aryan.

They would slash your tires, burn your house, or tie your wrist to the bumper of a van and

drag you...

"Detective Hutchinson?"

I turned around and saw the doctor, a small black woman of about fifty. She smiled because, I guess, she thought I could use one.

"I think it would be nice if you could be with him," she said kindly. "He keeps reaching for someone. . . is it you?"

I didn't mean to be rude. I just needed to see him. I brushed past her and went down the hall to ICU.

He was swathed in bandages from head to foot, his left forearm in a cast, his right calf in

one too.

I saw the blue in his eyes peeking at me through the white folds of gauze: Pain. Fear.

Relief.

The monitors and tubes and machines were doing their job, so I did mine, trying my best to steady my voice.

"Hey, buddy. What do you mean going for lunch without me?"

I made sure he didn't have to reach for me again. I picked up his hand-the right one-the one with the Star of David carved in its palm-and held it as gingerly as I could.

They had him doused with so many painkillers, but I was grateful. He needed some relief. And the white bandages helped me forget what he had looked like hanging from the bumper of that van.

The guard looked in to make sure things were all right. I saw Dobey hovering in the doorway.

I leaned over him and spoke softly. "Do you know who it was, buddy?"

It was a long time before he answered, and when he did, it came out in faint breaths.

"They called me."

I nodded, watching his eyes to make sure it wasn't hurting him. In any way.

"They . . . said they'd been attacked."

His whisper was so vague. I leaned closer to his mouth to hear. "But they were okay."

I didn't even know who he was talking about and my blood was boiling already. Those Aryan lowlifes had set a trap for him, knowing he'd respond to a cry for help.

"Steinberg," he whispered. "And Seth. They're not Jewish."

I almost dropped right there in the floor.

"They had . . . face paint on . . . camouflage clothes . . . but I saw them . . "

I tried to speak up, to make sure he heard me when I told him I'd be back, but he'd already closed his eyes, and that all right since my voice would not rise above a whisper anyway.

"I'll be back," I promised, and walked out into the hall. "Stay with him," I told Dobey.

"Don't let anyone in there. I'm going after Steinberg and his lovely little partner."

I went on down the hall.

"Hutchinson!" he called at my back. "Don't do anything crazy!"

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

He saw me coming. Sitting in an open third-story window, drinking beer and playing some kind of blood-and-guts, raunchy militant-type music, a pistol in his hand, and when he saw me he skittered up the fire escapes. Up and up.

Laughing. Swearing. Firing his gun but missing because he was so drunk.

"Jew dog died, didn't he?!" he shrieked over his shoulder. "Serves him right!"

He still wore his camouflage face paint and his Army clothes.

Skinhead.

Neo-Nazi.

A disgrace to the German people.

I didn't want to waste my breath. I was going to kill him and he knew it. So I followed him up.

"Shoulda dumped him when we told you!" he shouted as he climbed onto the roof. "You'll do much better without him! You'll see!"

I was right behind him.

He fired his gun again and I fired back.

He must have been out of bullets because I saw him tossing the gun onto the roof.

I chased him across the roof and tackled him, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and leaning him over the edge of the seven-story building.

"WHAT?!" I screamed into his face. "WHAT DID HE EVER DO TO YOU?!"

The young rookie had a look of wild satisfaction in his eyes. "He breathed my air," he said with a grin.

I shook him and leaned him farther out over the edge. But a familiar voice-

"Hutch, don't!"-cut through my red rage.

It was Huggy. He came closer. The wind whipped the boy's shirt. All I had to do was let go of him. Instant satisfaction. Balance. Eye for an eye. Revenge. Send a message to those geeks, loud and clear: Mess with the wrong one . . . you pay.

"Don't, Hutch," Huggy said quietly.

He moved as close as he dared. But not too close. He wasn't sure that I wouldn't kill him or anybody else that got in my way.

I think the rookie even knew it now. He didn't look so cocky anymore. As a matter of fact, he was looking at Huggy, a natural enemy because of his color, for help.

"Put him behind bars," Huggy said in an easy voice. "Where he belongs. He'll get his in there. He's not worth it, Hutch. Piece of crap. You think Starsk would go for this?"

Huggy was showing the man the mercy he never showed my partner.

Steinberg licked his white lips. "Hey, man . . . what's the big deal, huh? He's just a Jew. What's the fuss?"

I hauled the boy up and threw him onto the roof. The two uniforms that had followed Huggy made the arrest.

Huggy walked me inside the building and leaned me against the wall. My legs shook so badly I couldn't stand. I wasn't even sure where I was or what I was doing, and I suddenly understood what temporary insanity must feel like-something that could drive you to do something you wouldn't ordinarily do.

"Oh God," I whispered. "Huggy, I almost . . . "

"Take it easy," Huggy said. He kept his hand on my shoulder. "You didn't."

I watched as they led Steinberg away.

He would rat on Seth, tell them where they could find him. Anyone who would bait a trap with a phony cry of distress would snitch on their partner.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"This isn't a problem that's going to be solved overnight," the commentator was saying on the TV in Starsky's hospital room. "These White Supremists will keep on doing what they're doing as long as we tolerate it. We must have stiff, stiff

penalties for hate crimes such as these. And we must teach our children-"

I turned the TV off.

"What's the matter, Hutch?" Starsky asked weakly from the bed. "Jealous 'cause I got my fifteen minutes of fame?"

There he was looking like a mummy from the late show and he was making a joke.

"Starsky," I said as I walked over to the bed. "If you want to call this fifteen minutes of fame . . . "

I couldn't harp on him. His bandaged hand was creeping out from under the sheet for me again.

I took it and held it as easily as I could.

"Need anything to drink?" I asked him.

He nodded, so I picked up a glass of ice water and held the straw so he could drink it.

"Good?" I asked him.

He nodded.

I set the glass down. "They're both behind bars. They ratted out some of their buddies, but they wouldn't give us the leaders. I have a suspicion that this isn't new stuff, Starsk. Just more exposed. It's always been around. They're just braver."

"And dumber," he mumbled.

I nodded. "Anybody who picks on my partner has got to be dumb."

A light rap at the door drew my attention.

Captain Dobey came in carrying a large vase of yellow flowers.

"Hope this will cheer you up," he said putting them on the bedside table.

Even through the white wrappings I could tell Starsky was giving him a little smile.

Starsky was still as weak as a kitten, so he mostly listened to his visitors, and enjoyed them with his eyes. He wasn't up to much talking.

"Starsky, I think I owe you an apology," he began.

But Starsky cut him off by saying, "It's okay, Cap. Nobody knew what those fruitcakes were capable of."

Dobey scrubbed at his mustache with his hand. "Who would have thought it could go on in our own department? You think you know people. You think you can tell who's prejudice and who's not. But when . . . "

He trailed off because Starsky was asleep again.

"Come on," I whispered as I led him toward the door. "I'll buy you some lunch. He needs his beauty rest."

End

WHAT IF? (THE FIX-If There Were No Starsky)

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Detective Hutchinson spoke into the telephone receiver at a squad room desk, his body turned a little away from his partner in order to have a private conversation.

"Jeanie, I'll be there."

Her voice on the line: "You haven't told anybody?"

"No."

"Not even Ray?"

"If I said I haven't told anybody, I haven't told anybody."

Hutch listened a few more minutes, then hung up.

"Who's that?" Ray asked in a Texas drawl as he dropped a peanut into his mouth.

Hutch looked at the man with short black hair, handlebar mustache, blue denim shirt, and cowboy boots.

"Friend," he said rising to his feet and picking up his jacket.

Ray held his hand out. "Got some change for some candy?"

Hutch shook his head no. "Stuff''ll kill you," he said as he picked up his jacket and went out the door.

After he was gone, Ray looked at Captain Dobey. "The Ice Man goeth."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

They were on him the minute he stepped into the cottage, charging him before he could defend himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Two held his arms while the third punched him in the stomach until he retched and could no longer stand.

"Okay, where is she?"

He lay on the ground, blindfolded, trying to catch his breath.

They picked him up and carried him into the house, dumping him into a straight-backed chair.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

He tried to move.

Disoriented. Voices around him. Breath hot and seething in his face and down his neck.

Bodies close. Crowding.

"Who?" he asked wearily.

They shoved him back into the chair. "Jeanie."

Head pounding. Reeling. "I don't know."

A blow across the face.

"Where?"

Slumping in the chair. Head down.

Grabbing his hair and pulling his head up. "Come on, Hutchinson."

Finding his voice. Hearing the weakness. "Not Hutchinson. I'm Ray."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

He felt his arm being pulled out straight.

What were they going to do, cut it off?

He struggled. "No."

Please, help. Somebody.

Cap?

He doesn't know where you are. He doesn't know about Jeanie.

Ray?

Would Ray know something was wrong?

A sharp sting in his arm.

Poison? Overdose?

Another struggle. "Hey . . . "

It flowed through his veins like mercury through a thermometer. Not unpleasant. Smooth and mellow. Easing his aches and pains. Leading him to a place as warm as the sun.

"Go," he mumbled. "Le me go."

He slid from the chair and onto the floor and that's where they left him.

"We'll be back," they said as they exited the room. "And then we'll give you some more."

XXXXXXXXXXXX+

More.

Lying across the foot of the bed. Light in his eyes. Moaning.

The sting.

Did he protest?

He thought he did. He meant to.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

name.

Monk.

"Little more of this . . . " "You'll be beggin' us for it . . ."

"If you think you're bad now, sucker . . . " "You'll be beatin' your head against the wall . . ."

"Where is she?"

"Where'd you take her?"

"You likin' this?"

"You want some more?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

(Help me)

(I need some) (Let me go) (Don't do this) "Don't leave me!" "Come back!" "Help me!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

On his knees. Trying to crawl.

"Help me."

"Where is she?"

"I . . . "

A kick to the side.

"WHERE IS SHE!"

Panting, gasping, shaking, hurting.

"Uh . . . uh . . ."

Another kick.

"WHERE!"

"Sea . . . Seaview . . . Seaview Puh-Point."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Take a good look, baby."

Jeanie's voice. Sad. Concerned.

"Oh Hutch…..What have you done to him?"

He told?

He told them?

She was here?

Where was he?

In a bed? On the floor? In a chair?

Her hand on his cheek. "Oh Hutch."

She moved across the room and past them, voice empty, defeated, and full of regret: "I'll go with you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

In the back seat.

"Shark bait."

"Water'll carry that body right out."

The hell it will.

One hard kick.

The door flew open.

Running into the street.

Where?

Through traffic, across the street, down the sidewalk. Horns honked, fingers pointed, people shouted.

Stumbling, grabbing at things. Anything. A chain-link fence. Tender leaves on the bushes. Anything for purchase.

An alley.

Freedom. Escape. A chance.

Staggering to his knees.

Crawling to the wall. Collapsing. Panting.

Did they follow? Are they here?

Nothing left. No steam. All out.

A siren. Screeching tires. Feet running toward him.

A uniform crouching beside him.

"Hutchinson? That you?"

Bernie?

Another voice:

"Ken! Are you crazy?"

Ray's voice.

Ray beside him, jerking his arm out from under him, yanking up his sleeve.

"My God," Bernie said. "He's a junkie."

"Call an ambulance," Ray told him.

Bernie ran down the alley to his black and white, but stopped when he was halfway there and looked back, hesitating, watching.

Hutch tried to get to his feet.

Ray took a step back. "I need to call this in."

"No."

"An ambulance then."

"No hospital," Hutch groaned as he leaned against the wall.

"You need medical attention, Ken. You need some help."

Hutch looked at him, holding his stomach, retching into a trash can. "Don't tell any . . . anybody, Ray." He spat onto the ground. "Okay?"

Ray took another step back. "Don't tell anybody? I don't even know what the hell is going on. Huggy didn't have the slightest idea where you were. What the hell have you gotten yourself into? How do you think this is going to go over with Captain Dobey?"

Still hunched over, Hutch raised his blackened eyes. "Please don't tell him. I didn't do this."

Ray began to stalk at a ferocious pace, his cowboy boots tromping in the alley. "You expect me to believe that? Huggy says you met this Jeanie chick. You spend all weekend with her? You party with her? Her jealous boyfriend find out about it and work you over?"

Hutch stumbled away, but his legs bent lower and lower, until he was on his knees again.

"No, it's not like that. Somebody . . . somebody forced it on me. I . . .was helping Jeanie. Hiding her out. Please . . . don't tell."

Ray started walking away. "Don't worry," he said disgustedly. "You think I want everybody to know I have a junkie for a partner? Adios, amigo."

"Ray . . ."

"I'm outa here," Ray said with a wave of his hand as he headed back to his car. "Do what you want to do," he said to Bernie as he passed by him.

Hutch's eyes met Bernie's down the alley.

"Bernie, please . . . you have to believe me. I didn't do this. Nobody has to know. I can't lose my job, Bernie. It's all I have . . . "

Was it working? Was begging enough? Reduced to pleading with a uniform for his job?

Shaking his head, Bernie turned and walked away.

Hutch mustered up the strength to run again, stumbling, sobbing, before Bernie changed his mind.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Huggy was just closing up for the night, taking the last of the garbage out back to the alley, when he heard a sound on the other side of the dumpster.

Licking his lips, he leaned down, pulled his pants cuff up, and took out a pistol.

"Anybody there?" he asked moving around the dumpster. "Speak now or forever rest in peace."

He saw the pale hair even in the shadows.

"Hutch?"

And then the blue eyes. Frightened. Alone.

"What the hell?" Huggy asked as he crouched next to him, slipping the gun back in its holster.

Hutch was curled up tight, hugging himself, chilling, shaking, moaning.

"Hug?"

Huggy sat him up and leaned him against the wall. "My God, boy, what the hell happened

to you? What you been into?"

"I . . . I . . . " His teeth chattered and his hands shook as he pushed his sleeve up. "Look. See? I didn't do it. It wasn't muh-my fault."

"Who did it?"

He shook his head. "Not sh . . . sure."

"You need a hospital, Hutch."

"No."

"Then let me call Dobey. He'll understand."

"No. If he sees me. . . I can't involve him . . . he . . . " He started retching, and Huggy held his arm while he leaned over and retched onto some old newspapers. "Oh God," he sobbed and spat at the same time.

Huggy pulled Hutch to his feet, one arm going around his back to grip his belt. He wrapped one of Hutch's arms around his neck and hauled him inside and up the stairs.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Huggy paced the floor while Hutch hugged the pillow to himself in the bed.

"Hutch, man, let me call a-"

"No," came his shaky voice. His watery eyes followed Huggy around the room. "I'll be okay. I'll be-" He stiffened and stifled a squeal into the pillow. "God," he growled. "It hurts."

Huggy went to the bed, wet a sponge from a pan of water on the bedside table, and leaned over to pat Hutch's face.

Hutch kicked at him. "Get the hell away from me. Get out of here."

"Hutch, it's me. Let me help you."

He sniffed. "You can't help me."

Huggy stood for a moment watching his friend rocking in a self-soothing rhythm.

"Coffee," Huggy told him. "You could use some coffee. And some sugar. I'll be right back."

Hutch reached for him. "No! Stay!"

Huggy gripped his hand and sat on the edge of the bed. "Hutch, you got to tell me who, so I can tell Dobey and Ray."

Hutch panted through clenched teeth. "Forget Ray. He thinks . . . Dobey'll think . . ."

"Dobey will believe you. You got to tell him."

"So he can what, Huggy? Cover for me? Lie for me? I can't ask him to do that. A cop saw me. Ray saw me. If they tell . . . Cap can't know . . . he'll lose his job."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

"He got away, Mr. Forest."

They lounged poolside at a breakfast table. Ben Forest, in his bathrobe, fixed his eyes on the man in the three-piece suit, tea cup in hand.

"Go find him, and finish him off."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Huggy watched Hutch pace in tense, jerky circles. It was a chore to stay on his feet.

Hutch rubbed his chilly arms and held them to keep the spasms down.

"Will you stop following me?" Hutch asked tightly.

"I'm not following you. I'm just standing here."

"Then quit looking at me."

Huggy glanced away. "I'm not lookin' at you either."

Hutch looked at the clock on the wall. "When are you going to leave? Don't you have to- -" He shivered uncontrollably. "-have to go downstairs and work?"

Huggy watched Hutch's face. The eyes-a devastated, haunted blue-kept straying to the door. "Not till you're feelin' better I ain't. You just want me to go downstairs so you can call somebody to bring you somethin'."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I don't need it. And you know people. You could get me some. A real friend would do it. A real friend-"

A knock at the door made Hutch look toward it, then at Huggy.

"Who is it, Huggy?"

"Must be Dobey. I told him not to come-"

Hutch stared at him. "You told him?"

Huggy walked toward the door. "I had to. Somebody has to get those geeks before they come back to-"

Hutch drove him back to the wall and held him there. "You told my-" He choked on a sob. "-CAPTAIN!"

Huggy's wet eyes shifted away from him. "Hey, it's not like I wanted to . . . "

Pounding at the door. Dobey's voice: "Hutch! Let me in!"

The grip Hutch had on Huggy's shirt loosened, and he stumbled away. "He's not seeing me like this," he said as he went into the bathroom and slammed the door. "He's not-" A bang as the trashcan hit the wall. "SEEING ME LIKE THIS!"

More pounding: "Damn it, Hutch! Open this door!"

Hollow crying sounds from the bathroom.

Huggy went to the door and opened it, slowly shaking his head at the grim, subdued face he saw. "Not now, Captain."

"I'll see what I can dig up about the girl. If he says anything at all about who did this . . . "

"Yeah. I'll call. Sorry to drag you over here. He just . . . "

"I know." He turned to go down the stairs. "Dignity."

When Dobey left, Huggy came back inside, speaking through the closed bathroom door. "He's gone, Hutch. Come on out."

"Stuff it."

"Hey, you can dog me all you want to, but Dobey's worried about you."

"Yeah, I bet he is."

"And so am I."

"Yeah, I bet you are. If you were really worried, you-you-you'd go get me something."

"You know you don't want it."

"The hell I don't!"

"Hutch, it's the withdrawal talkin', not you. Just shut up, okay?"

Sudden pounding on the door.

"YOU SHUT UP!"

The door flung open, knocking Huggy aside as Hutch made his way to the door.

Huggy ran after him. "Where you goin', man?"

"Out."

Huggy grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "No you ain't."

Hutch struggled to pull free. "Yes, I am. I have to have it. I can't stand it anymore. It'll help. I know that. When they gave it to me-" He broke loose and went for the door again. "I need it right now. You don't under . . ."

Huggy blocked the door with his body, holding his hands up. "Be cool, Hutch. I can't let you out of-"

Hutch backhanded him, sending him to the floor.

Dazed, Huggy shook his head to clear it, blinking and looking up at Hutch from the floor while holding his bloody nose.

(Hutch-) he tried to say, but Hutch was already out the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX+

Hutch stumbled into the alley where they were shooting up.

He'd seen them before. Disheveled, hollow-eyed, but satisfied. That starry look in their eyes like they'd just been laid.

"Okay," he said trudging toward them, swiping a hand across his perspiring upper lip. "How much?"

He held a hundred-dollar bill out to them. "This enough? You want more?"

They recognized him. And laughed, as shocked as their mellow frame would allow. "I must be dreamin'," one of them said in a lazy drawl. "Cop scorin' from us?"

He stood over them, the bill shaking in his hand. "Just give it to me, okay?"

They stopped snickering and nodded.

He crouched with them, dropping the money between the three drug addicts and holding out his arm. "You'll do it for me?"

One smiled softly and tied the tourniquet around his arm while another prepared a syringe.

"I don't really want it," he said without a hint of meaning it.

The needle went in his arm and he closed his eyes, a smile soon forming on his face. "Ah, that's it," he whispered as he leaned his head against the brick wall. "That's it."

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

He roamed the streets, avoiding Huggy's place, avoiding patrol cars, avoiding eye contact with anyone except the winos and the addicts. Looking to buy. Shooting up. Finally ending up at his place, where he huddled in the bathroom, a towel over his head, hiding his face and crying.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there. Must have been several hours by the way his body eventually sought another needle.

He wasn't hungry, wasn't thirsty, or tired. He had become non-feeling, non-existent except for the heroin. It held any life now. Had replaced any life he'd cherished at all.

The phone rang ten times before he realized it was making a sound.

He made his way to it and lifted the receiver, marveling at the way he could see it but couldn't feel it in his hand.

He'd have to go out again, but he'd have to go to the bank first. He didn't think dealers took credit cards.

He laughed a little at his own joke, but the laughing turned into a bit of a cry.

"Hello?" he said without any effort of composure.

"Hutch? That you?"

Dobey's voice.

Hutch clamped a hand over his mouth to contain a betraying sob.

"Hutch, damn it, I need to know if you're safe. What the hell have you been doing? Mickey's looking for you. Says he has some information." Silence. And then: "You're worried about your job. Maybe we can salvage it. Let's talk about what we can do . . . "

No words. Nothing. Just gut-wrenching sobbing that bent him double over the sofa.

Receiver in hand, he held his aching stomach.

"Cap," he squeaked, but the captain had already hung up.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

Hutch sat at the restaurant table across from Mickey, a dark, nervous, restless-eyed snitch hunched over the table with a cigarette between his thumb and forefinger.

His eyes shifted around as if he expected a bomb to go off any second.

"What's the matter, Hutch? You look . . . I don't know . . . sick or somethin'."

Hutch's head bobbed wearily as he tried to keep his tired eyes open. "I want some information," he said in a weak slur. "And I want it . . . fast."

"Uh yeah . . . sure . . . "

A man approached the table and grabbed Hutch from behind, locking his arms around Hutch's chest and pulling him away from the table.

"Hey," Hutch said clutching the tablecloth and pulling everything off to create a commotion.

Heads turned. Mickey rose from the table. "Here," he said with false concern, "let him get you to a doctor."

"Come with me," the man told him.

"No," Hutch protested with all the force of a sick child as the man pulled him toward the doer. "I'm all right."

"Sure you are."

The man walked him outside, down the sidewalk, and around the corner of a building.

He leaned Hutch against the wall.

"Huh?" Hutch asked groggily. "Where'm I goin'?"

"Dreamland, pally. One sweet pop and-"

Hearing a siren, Hutch butted his head into the man's stomach, knocking him down, then stumbled away and into an alley, footfalls following close behind.

Shots were fired as he jumped onto a wall and tried to scramble over it. But he was too weak to climb so he merely lay the length of it.

The man aimed from a distance down the alley and fired at him.

Hutch's head jerked from the impact of the bullet, his hand losing grip on the wall, his arm dangling uselessly.

Like red paint, blood spilled from his head and dripped down the side of the wall.

The man was gone just as the black and white pulled into the alley.

Seeing the blood all the way from his car, Dobey radioed for an ambulance before climbing out and hurrying to the wall.

"Hutch!"

The detective wasn't moving or breathing. Dobey felt for a pulse with the tremor that always came to his hand when he thought he was losing a man. And this time, a friend too.

"Hutch?"

No answer.

No pulse.

Dobey shook him in spite of the lifeless way his open blue eyes gazed at nothing.

And when there was forever no response, Dobey gently took him down from the wall and lay him on the ground.

End

BLOODSTAIN

By TR

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

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

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

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

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

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

Hutch stood with hands on hips and watched his partner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hutch was left in the Starsky-less house.

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

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

Dressed in black, hooded sweatshirts, both holding pistols.

"Where's Star-" he started.

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

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

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

Black-

Hoods-

Starsky-

Marcus-

-His last thoughts before passing out.

XXXXXXXXXXXX++

An old, wet smell.

Moving shadows.

Whispered chants.

Watery sounds.

Around him, over him. Behind him.

(I've been drugged)

(Something's wrong)

Voices faraway, his body falling but going nowhere.

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

"I believe Detective Hutchinson is coming around."

The chanting ceased.

The air hushed.

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

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

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

"Marcus," he mumbled through a swollen lip.

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

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

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

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

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

"Scum," he muttered softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hutch merely shook his head no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So be it," Marcus said tenderly.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nicky?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to leave.

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

"NO KIDDING!" Starsky roared at him, turning back. He settled his voice when it drew looks from the guards. "Maybe that's what you need. Get a taste of WHY you need to stay

out of trouble. You think it's fun seeing you mess your life up over and over? You think it's a big joke? 'Oh, hey, I got away with it that time. I'm slick. I'm cool. I'm smart. They can't catch me. And if they catch me, I have a mother and a brother and some friends from the old neighborhood with money-'"

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

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

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

Starsky reached in to grab his shirt, yanking him up against the bars. "I was twelve years old, Nicky. I didn't leave anyone. Ma put me on a bus with my baseball cards and sent me packin' to California. I wanted to stay. I begged her to let me. She said it was too much for her. She was under a lot of stress with Pop's murder. What was I supposed to do? Add to her burden? I didn't mean to leave you alone, Nick. It wasn't my choice."

Nick lowered his head.

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

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

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

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

(For blood?)

(God, had they somehow gotten to Starsky?)

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm Marissa," she said in a light voice that somehow sounded like a silvery wind chime. "Marcus told me to get you ready."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stone him," Marcus said coming through a heavy door, and though his voice was mellow, his followers heard it below all the chanting and yelling, and obeyed, picking up

the baseball-size rocks that were piled in rusted fifty-gallon drums. Two of the men each held an arm to keep him from covering himself up against the assault.

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

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

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

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

The phone rang just as he saw the bloodstain.

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

Simple.

Yet speaking everything.

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

(Okay, which lowlife is it?)

(Which one grabbed my partner?)

"Hello?"

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

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

"Cap . . . "

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

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

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

Starsky heard Dobey's door slamming inside the receiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Starsky, listen to me!"

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

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

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

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

Starsky slammed the phone down and ran out the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marissa nodded, then left the room.

Marcus turned his attention to Hutch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Help," he whispered.

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

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The jacket.

Dark wool, white leather sleeves.

Worn by a frail girl.

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

Gail.

No, not Gail.

But almost like her.

That helpless entrapment on her face. Naïve adoration.

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

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

"Sure, honey."

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

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

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

She handed him the can. "Thanks."

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

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

"Run out of gas?"

"No. Just need it for the tractor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The girl kicked and tried to squeal through his hand.

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

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

She continued to struggle.

"I just want my partner."

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

"Where is Marcus holding him?"

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

He spun her around, gripping her shoulders.

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

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

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

He shook her once. "Where are they?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He jerked her up and yelled into her face.

"Where! Tell me where he is!"

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

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

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

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

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

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starsky would have plowed headfirst at the man closest to him if two deputies hadn't

caught him and pulled him back.

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

"Gone," one smiled serenely.

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

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

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

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

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

"HE'S HERE!"

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

"WHERE!"

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

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

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

All alive and well except for Hutch.

All breathing and moving except for his partner.

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

But the followers only offered their thin, empty smiles.

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

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

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

"Hutch!"

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

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

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

"Hutch!"

But he wasn't here.

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

No electricity. They used kerosene lamps and candlelight.

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

"Hutch!"

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

No Hutch.

And then the grounds outside.

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

All empty.

And no Hutch to be found.

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

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

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

No answer of course.

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hutch!"

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

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

Unlit torches on the wall.

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

The room.

Of chant.

Of ritual.

Dark worship.

Unholy sacrifice.

"Hutch!"

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

Shock stole Starsky's breath as he spun, his back to Hutch, leaning heavily on an altar so he wouldn't collapse.

(Hutch, no, please).

"Oh God," he choked, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth. He blinked hard at the white spots that rushed past his eyes.

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

He stumbled for the door, dragging in a wheezing breath, one hand to his throat, the other feeling past the white spots for the door.

But then-(you can't leave him like this)-(you're in shock)-(go back)-(you have to get him down)-he turned back, his trembling arms reaching for-a pentagram on Hutch's stomach, drawn in blood-two words in red-LOVE HURTS-

(HUTCH!)

It was Hutch's name he wanted to say, but it was "MARCUS!"-a cry of pain-that came out as he ran back to his partner and-

A breath . . .

"Starsk."

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

Heart surging with hope and relief, Starsky grabbed his head in his hands and carefully, carefully, lifted it, trying to see into eyes that were half-closed.

"Hutch? Are you really alive?"

A snuffle of blood answered him. Hutch was doing more gasping than breathing. More dying than living. His hands tried to come up to find Starsky, but fell back down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hutch rested limply against his chest.

Starsky patted his face and spoke into wandering eyes.

"Hutch? Can you hear me? Huh?"

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

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

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

Starsky struggled to haul Hutch to his feet.

"Come on, buddy. Hang in there."

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

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

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

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

Starsky realized Hutch was not able to respond.

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

It seemed like forever, because Starsky didn't want to hurt him, but he finally pulled and packed Hutch up the stairs and into the sunlight of the outdoors.

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

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

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

"MARCUS!"

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

"SIMON MARCUS!"

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

"MARCUS!"

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

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

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

Marcus would have to wait.

For now.

"Hutch! I'm comin'!"

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

"Starsk?" he groaned.

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

Hutch nodded as his head dropped back into the grass. He watched his partner run across the yard to the Torino, and then, when it felt safe enough, he closed his eyes and lost consciousness.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Look at me. Standin' right here."

"Or me?"

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

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

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

When Starsky saw that he was starting to drift off to sleep, he whispered near his ear, "Sacrifice, Hutch. Not the kind Marcus had in mind. His sacrifice comes by taking blood. Yours came by giving it."

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

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

XXXXXXXXXXXX

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

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

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

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

Hutch's eyes came open and searched the room.

"Look right here at me, Hutch."

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

"You're okay?" Hutch whispered.

"Right as rain."

"But . . . "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That seemed to calm Hutch a little more.

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

Hutch stopped him by grabbing his wrist. "Don't. No thanks necessary. You'd do the same for me. We're family, Starsk. Don't give it a second thought. If-"

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

XXXXXXXXX++

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

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

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

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

"Six months, huh?" Hutch asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Starsky cleared his throat. "Um . . . " And then coughed, and then put the back of his hand to his forehead. "Oh no," he said in an overly weak and dramatic voice. "I feel woozy." He groped for the empty bed next to Hutch's and eased slowly against the pillows. "Think I feel a fever comin' on."

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

End