Chapter 16

Hunt staggered back from the man bound to the tree. He clutched at the centre of his body feeling the kick as though it had come out from the top of his head. One part of Ray Hunt wanted to take the man on the ground and kick him into the middle of next week. He'd spent the past few days (since he'd found out about Ethan Quade) planning on the fitting retribution for the man who raped his sister and yet now that he had Quade at his mercy; now that he had the man bound, injured and virtually helpless at his feet there was some small but important part of Hunt that stopped him from delivering that final blow.

The blond man was as confused as hell. Twice he balled his hand into a fist. Twice he took a deep breath and took a step towards the brunet and twice at the last moment he stopped short of making contact. Finally with a yell of frustration and pain Hunt lurched away from the clearing and out through the vegetation needing somewhere away from the brunet to clear his mind and get his thoughts into some kind of order.

Quade wasn't the only one who was suffering the after effects of the journey to the island. Hunt's own injuries from the crash, though not as severe as Quade's were still beginning to make their presence felt. As he staggered away with his hands cupping his balls for support, his chest hurt and his head ached viciously too. By the time he'd staggered a hundred yards away, the blond finally dropped to his knees on the ground and threw up the contents of his stomach onto the ground, continuing to vomit until he could accomplish nothing more than dry heaves. Hunt shuffled a little way away from the messy puddle he'd created and rolled onto his side, knees up and hands still around the family jewels. He rolled slowly onto his back and then onto his other side, eyes closed against the sparkles and fireworks going off inside his head. It ached more than he could ever remember it aching before, which truthfully wasn't that long, but still, it threatened to send the man into unconsciousness such was the severity of the pain. Hunt lay on the ground gasping and trying to fight those pains. He closed his eyes and willed them to go away, slowing his breathing until it was calm and regular, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Ten minutes later some of the pains had subsided but the confusion remained. Why couldn't he finish Quade? Why couldn't he finish what he'd come here to do? What was it about his adversary that stopped him from ploughing his fist into that olive toned face? And why did Quade's eyes seem to have such a hold over him? Hunt didn't think he'd ever been a sucker for eyes and yet there was something about those deep, deep indigo eyes that made him feel as though someone had clutched as his heart. It was a gut feeling, visceral and intense and as weird as hell. The more Hunt thought about it, the less he felt he understood it and the more he came to realise that the memories; flashbacks; call them what you will, seemed somehow connected with Quade. Had he tried to kill the man before? Was that where all this shit was coming from? That explanation didn't seem to sit comfortably either, but it was the only explanation Hunt had for the moment.

With a groan of pain the blond man forced himself to his knees. Quade had certainly worked a number on his balls and out of pure grisly interest Hunt lowered his pants and whistled low at the spreading black and blue bruise forming across the top of his legs and the centre of his body. Seeing it brought more pain and another wave of nausea but oddly he felt nothing more about Quade. Logic would have dictated that after the brunet injuring him so significantly he'd have wanted to kill Quade all the more and yet….

The sun was beginning to drop lower in the sky now. By Hunt's estimation it was maybe four in the afternoon. Quade would be suffering worse pain than Hunt right now and for a brief second Hunt had the strong desire to go back and check on his captive – not as a captor would but more as a concerned friend. Where the hell had that come from? Was Hunt sick? Had Quade kicked his head as well as his balls? Hunt snickered to himself. You're getting soft Ray old boy. Go find a drink of water, have a rest. He aint goin' nowhere.

Softly the flaxen haired man got to his feet. He stayed doubled over for a second until his body adjusted to the pains and then slowly straightened, gritting his teeth against the feeling that the world was about to fall out of his nether regions. Walking was a whole different ball game and he excused himself the pun. Hunt found it best to employ the "I've lost my horse" approach to walking, keeping his legs as far apart as he could. Every touch against his bruised body was an agony all on its own and several times he had to stifle a cry as his legs brushed his sensitive flesh whilst he put some distance between himself and Ethan Quade.

The blazing heat of the day was slowly gliding away. The afternoon held that tired, comfortable feeling, as though the day were finally settling down now that dusk was approaching and up ahead Hunt thought he saw the shine of something like water through the trees. It was maybe a stream because it was no more than a twinkle through close, green vegetation. With his throat feeling like sandpaper and with his half bottle of water back in the clearing with Quade, Hunt walked towards what he perceived to be drinking water only to be brought up short when he realised it was not water at all that he had seen. Instead he pressed the line of his body against the nearest tree, trying to blend in with the vegetation as he saw two men sitting in another small clearing. Between them was an antennae which was the bright object Hunt had seen through the trees and the two men were intent on the portable battery operated radio that sat on the ground between them.

There was something about the men – something about the way they were talking almost in whispers that made Hunt cautious. Very quietly he inched himself forwards until he could hear what was being said and then he hugged the tree for support.

The men were leaning intently over the radio which crackled and emitted a small tinny sounding voice which Hunt recognised after a moment as that of Doctor Isaac.

'……get onto the island, kill, them and then come back to base.'

'I thought we were supposed to wait until they killed each other. That was the plan' Man #1 hissed into the microphone.

'The plan has changed. There was a small error before despatch. Starsky got the full final dose of Regulon but Hutchinson only got ten percent of it. There's a danger he's going to remember.'

Hunt staggered backwards, fighting a pain in his head so intense that he grabbed at his temples, biting down on his lip to stop himself from crying out. The pain took his breath away but it wasn't just the pain that was a shock.

Hutchinson.

Dr Isaac had used the name Hutchinson. That was him! He was Hutchinson. Ken "Hutch" Hutchinson and the man he had tied up and almost killed back there…. Fuck. Starsky!

The conversation between Isaac and the two men was forgotten as Hutch bowed his head, shaking it from side to side like a wounded dog. He knew who he was. He knew his name and he knew Starsky's name. What else did he know? He knew that Starsky was his….his…..friend? That didn't sound quite right – almost like a half truth. Starsky was more than a friend and yet….

Some say memory returns in a flash. Some liken it to a waterfall where the memory starts to flow and fills up the individual with their identity. None of that happened to Hutch. Whilst he was certain of who he was and who Starsky was, the deluge of memories did not occur. Sure, the flashbacks he'd had started to make a little more sense and he now realised that on some fundamental level his mind had stopped him from killing the man in the clearing, but as to why he and Starsky were here on the island, or why Dr Isaac was involved he had no recollection. His only thought now was that Isaac had in effect put a contract out on both him and his …..friend? And he needed to get back to Starsky, give him the good news and everything would be hunky dory.

Softly, and with a care born out of wanting to be silent and invisible Hutch pushed himself back from the tree and started to hurry back the way he'd come. The pains in his body were not forgotten but now, with memories starting to return like bees to a honeypot, Hutch had a different mindset. His purpose had changed and now, far from wanting to kill Quade -Stop that now, it's Starsky- he needed to get back to the brunet and tell him what was going on. Then Starsky too would remember, they'd help each other out and get off the island.

But at the back of Hutch's mind was the damaged he wrought on Starsky. Despite his feelings of friendship for the curly haired man and even if that deep friendship was mutually felt, could any man forgive being cut up, pushed into a pit, tied to a tree and generally slapped around? It would take some friendship to survive what he'd done to his friend. Shit!

Knowing that he had to get them both out of there and away from Dr Isaac – that arrest would come later – whoa. Back up and repeat. Arrest? That was it! He and Starsky were cops and if he remembered rightly damned fine ones. Ok Hutchy get excited later. Then you can do all the reminiscing. The blond ploughed on through the heavy vegetation, his heart now thundering in his ears. He had to get back. He had to get to Starsky but as he finally came back to the clearing Hutch could hardly bring himself to enter it and approach his friend. So much had happened. So much had been told to him about Starsky…Quade….whoever…. that he had become a monster in Hunt/Hutch's eyes. Surely the same was true of the brunet who would surely be hating Hutch/Hunt with a vengeance right now.

As the clearing in the trees came towards him Hutch took a deep breath and as he attained the tree line and was about to walk out into the clearing when the sight that met him brought him up short.

Starsky was obviously still where Hutch had left him, sitting with his legs outstretched and his back against a tree, his wrists strung up above his head. Dark blood still showed, almost black in the shadows across the centre of his shorts but there also, like the spectre of death was a small, but deadly looking snake. The reptile had slithered up until it was draped across Starsky's lap whilst the brunet had his eyes fixed on it. Even from where Hutch stood, some ten feet away, the blond could see that his friend was hyperventilating, Starsky's eyes were wide and staring and there was a sheen of perspiration across his face.

Hutch reached out a hand towards the bound man and hissed 'Starsk. Don't move.'

The brunet never looked up, in fact he didn't register that he'd heard the voice at all, but Hutch was suddenly thrown back in time so violently that he staggered against the vividness of the memory. He was standing at the door to a cabin in the hills and his partner – yes Starsky was his partner – was sitting on the floor of a small kitchen in red flannel combinations, his eyes almost popping out of his head as a rattle snake lay on the ground in front of him. Hutch had uttered those very words – "Starsk. Don't move" and Starsky had been too terrified to try.

The vision in Hutch's head brought back other memories. A girl standing at his front door asking if "it worked" and Hutch nodding and holding up an empty glass of his morning power shake and saying. "Sure. He drank it all.'

Another time with a girl's body at his feet – Gillian – clutching at Starsky's worn leather jacket as he sobbed and held onto the brunet as though his life would end.

Jokes with Huggy Bear; tricks played on Dobey; loves won and lost; lives snuffed out or put in jeopardy.

Hutch moaned, clutching at his head. It was all there. The car accident, the funeral they were supposed to have attended, the hospital and Dr Isaac's worried, earnest face advising him he had a friend for Hunt/Hutch to meet. The alias. Shit it had all been some kind of trick. But why? And more to the point what was he going to do now to help his friend?