Chapter 8 - November 2nd

Starsky's mind had finally closed down on the horror of his situation and he slept. He had no idea how long he'd so far been confined, although he was pretty sure it was days rather than hours. His dreams were all of confined spaces as his brain rebelled against the constraints placed upon his limbs, his mind picturing his body being locked inside boxes or stretched out like toffee on a table being rolled thin to make candies. His head rolled against the thin mattress as the dreams took him and shook him and his lips worked in silent conversation as he shouted for Hutch over and again. As the moisture started to cool and dry on his jeans, he started to shiver, the wet material of his clothes clinging to his skin and the ammonia continuing to burn his sensitive flesh and before long in the cool of the crypt, his teeth were chattering together and his body began to shudder against its bonds.

But at the same time, he started to feel hot, his head aching and his eyes feeling as though they were lined with sandpaper. The fever started to burn in his body and as he slept, the pains in his limbs returned so that he groaned in his sleep.

Something awoke him hours later and he stared into the still dark room, trying to focus on the extra stimulus. Had he heard something? He was unsure, but something had roused him from his fever-fogged dreams. He coughed, his chest feeling tight and he felt light headed and dizzy. His throat was dry as a bone and his lips were beginning to crack although that small pain hardly registered as it nestled amongst the others assaulting the brunet's body.

What had shaken him awake? If he could stop his limbs from shaking long enough, he may be able to think. Somewhere, in the far off distance he could hear a voice….no, two voices! His heart leapt. Freedom. He could taste it now and he bellowed into the dark

'OVER HERE. IN HERE. HEEEEELP'. The yelling cost him and he sank back against the mattress, coughing a hacking, dry cough that threatened to rob him of his breath. He stopped long enough to listen, but the voices seemed no nearer. He could hear them, muttering in the periphery of his hearing but they didn't seem to be able to hear him. Shit! For a moment he wondered if his mind was going and that he was imagining them.

He was taking another lungful of air to shout again, when he heard the minute sounds of scratching against the door and suddenly his eyes were pierced by the light shining in through the open doorway. Starsky raised his head and looked at the light. Although seeming terribly bright, he saw, in fact, that it was dark outside and that the light was coming from the moon, stars and the flashlight carried by Prudholm. There was another figure in the background, a smaller man who didn't attempt to come into the crypt and quietly Prudholm walked in, closing the door behind him.

He walked over to the bed and shone the light into the brunet's face making the bound cop hiss, the light stabbing at his eyes and sending lancing pains through his head. Starsky rolled his head sideways and squeezed his eyes shut against the bright light that seemed to stab into him like a knife. Funny that after the hours of being afraid of the darkness, that he should want to shrink from the light now.

Prudholm looked down at the body stretched out before him and something clicked on in his head. He saw the young, slim body, the fever bright eyes and the mop of tousled mahogany curls and instead of looking at his archenemy, Detective Dave Starsky he saw again the familiar face of his son.

'Gary, are you alright son?' he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Starsky's fever clouded mind paused a moment, processing the new development. 'What?'

'You look sick son. What can I get ya?' the madman said, reaching out to run his fingers through Starsky's hair.

The cop flinched out of the way, his skin crawling at the thought of Prudholm touching him. 'Ya can get me the fuck outta here' he said weakly. 'Just lemme go' he croaked through his dry throat. 'Lemme up an' I'll be ok. We can talk'.

'What do you want to talk about son? I shouldn't let you up, you're sick. Just lie still Gary and rest an' I'll look after you' Prudholm said almost tenderly.

'Not Gary…..You made me sick. I can hardly move….hurts. Lemme up' Starsky continued, trying to shuffle away from the man's caresses.

Prudholm looked confused. 'What do you mean, I made you sick? Gary, I'm your father. I'd do anything for ya, you know that. Let me look after you huh?'

'I'm not Gary. Your son's dead. Died in jail remember?' the brunet pushed, creeped out by the idea that Prudholm would think he was his dead son.

George stopped a moment, his hand in mid air as he processed the information. He looked harder at the man on the bed, the face morphing from Gary's to Starsky's and back again. Prudholm ran his hands over his face, rubbing away the vision and looked again. The hands came away and he looked again, unsure now who he saw in front of him. But whoever it was, they were offering him cheek. And a son doesn't talk back to his father. He lifted his hand and slapped Starsky across the face, hard enough to leave white finger marks on the olive toned skin.

The blow wasn't especially painful, but it knocked his head sideways and set off Catherine wheels and rockets behind the brunet's fevered eyeballs. He bit back the groan and looked back at his tormentor.

Prudholm reached forward and tenderly rubbed the white finger marks. 'Don't sass your father' he said sternly. I won't have that Gary'.

Starsky sighed back the panic he felt. Prudholm was away with the fairies, completely lost in his own imagination now and the brunet didn't know whether to try to pierce the madman's fogged mind, or play along. He tried again.

'Please…..let me up. I hurt. At least gimme a drink huh? Then we can talk'.

'Course you can have a drink Gary. Wait a minute'. George got up and reached into a bag by his side, pulling out a flask. He unscrewed the top and poured some coffee into the cup, holding Starsky's head gently while the parched cop sipped at the hot drink, feeling the caffeine wash through his system like a life giving tide. He relished the feel of the fluid on his parched throat, the scalding liquid making his brain feel sharper and more in focus. Prudholm pulled the cup away and Starsky tried to follow it with his lips.

'More?' he panted, pleading with the man. He hated the feel of Prudholm's hands on his chest and his head, but he craved the drinks and knew he needed more fluid.

Prudholm seemed pleased, however and poured another cupful of the hot, sweet, strong coffee, solicitously holding Starsky's head again, as he drank his fill

The drink finished, his head fell back onto the mattress. 'Prudholm, listen t'me. I ain't Gary. Gary's dead. You brought me here, remember? Remember? The cemetery, this freakin' place?'

'Not Gary?' a quizzical look came over the older man's face

'No, not Gary. Starsky. I'm a…..'Something in Prudholm's face stopped the brunet from speaking the last word. What if the word "cop" turned Prudholm from loving father into avenging demon in one fell swoop. Trussed up as he was, there would be no way Starsky could defend himself, and although his body desperately craved freedom, just at the moment he'd take living captivity over death.

'Starsky?…yeah you're…..No. Gary you're sick. You don't know who you are'.

'Prudholm, please, listen to me. You brought me here, remember. Remember talking to me, remember telling me….' He tailed off. His last conversation with the older man had consisted entirely of details of Gary's death. Not the wisest thing to bring up now. He changed tack.

'I need to get up. I need to move……please?' Starsky tried to get through to the man he knew Prudholm had once been. The sane, albeit criminal man. Trying to make him see what he'd done and the sense in letting Starsky go.

He read many conflicting emotions flitting across Prudholm's face, but none of them looked like the sort of emotion which would switch on the sanity in the man's head. Instead Prudholm shook his head at his captive.

'Starsky! Shuddup!' it was as though a switch had been thrown in the older man's head, switching him from "Gary mode" to the present.

'Prudholm?' Starsky asked, seeing and hearing the change in his demeanour.

'Yeah, who else?'

'Prudholm, let me go. You don't know what you're doin' Starsky tried again, almost as though he was dealing with two distinct men.

Prudholm giggled maniacally. 'I know exactly what I'm doin'. I'm getting retribution for what you did to my son'.

'No, you aren't. You're signing your own death warrant. Hutch'll find ya and bring you in, no matter what happens to me. You know that Prudholm…..George. Listen to me. Just lemme go'. Starsky pleaded. But the light of understanding was leaving the man's eyes again and he reverted to his previous persona, the sane Prudholm taking a back step to the caring, loving father.

'You're sick Gary. I know you are. I can feel you have a fever. Ssh, don't worry. Papa's gonna make it all better. I'm gonna get you some of your medicine, then you'll feel well again huh?'

Starsky saw a possibility and decided to try running with it.

'Yeah, that's right, I'm sick. I need a doctor. Can ya bring a doctor huh? Someone who can make me better?'

Prudholm chuckled. 'You don't need a doctor Gary. I know what sort of medicine you need. Just leave it to your Papa huh? I'll get ya what you need'.

The brunet's patience snapped, panic rising again in his chest.

'I don't need no fuckin' medicine. I need to get out of here' he yelled, pulling at the ropes around his wrists again. 'Just lemme go, please…….just untie me' he finished, the outburst leaving him feel weary and light-headed.

Prudholm stood up and ruffled Starsky's curls again. It was a fatherly gesture, designed to show just how much Prudholm loved his son, establishing just what lengths he'd go to to keep Gary happy. He set off for the door.

'Where're ya goin'?' Starsky asked, panic grabbing him again. He didn't want to be left in the darkness and especially when he didn't know when Crazy George would come back to check on him. In his present state he might just forget that the brunet was even there.

The older man smiled back at him. 'I'm gonna go an' get ya fixed up. Then you'll feel better son. Won't be long. Just rest a while'.

'Don't!…..don't go, please' the brunet pleaded. Even a madman's company was better than solitary confinement in the dark.

'I won't be long Gary. Then everything will be ok'.

'Will ya leave a light on?' Even to his own ears, Starsky sounded like a little boy afraid of the bogy man.

Prudholm chuckled. 'You need your rest son. I'll turn the light off so that you can sleep'. He opened the door and extinguished the flashlight, closing the big heavy door behind him and shutting out Starsky's desperate, lonely 'Nooooooooooo'.

Outside, Mickey stood waiting for him, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

'Is Starsky still ok?' he asked.

Prudholm paused. 'Starsky?'

'Yeah. Ya got him in there dontcha?'

'Starsky…..oh yeah. He's erm……he's fine' the older man looked blankly. 'Mickey I need ya t'get somethin' for me'.

The little snitch looked expectantly. 'What?'

'Gary needs his medicine' Prudholm said conspiratorially.

'Gary aint here' Mickey persisted. 'That's Starsky ya got in there'.

George paused again, his mind so confused that he could barely make out the difference between the cop and his son, the two men blending into one in his head.

'Oh yeah, well, I need ya to get it for me'.

'How much?'

'Enough. He needs a lot'.

'Its gonna cost' Mickey said, his eyes refusing to meet Prudholm's.

'How much?'

'Ten K for the first couple'a doses'

'I don't have that sorta money right here. Where'm I gonna get that from right now?' Prudholm asked desperately.

Mickey grinned. 'Well if the "medicine" is for him' he nodded at the crypt 'then the only guy you'll get it from is Hutch'.

'Hutch?'

'His partner'.

'Why would he……..?' Prudholm's confused eyes met Mickey's

Mickey sighed. 'You've got Starsky. Hutch'll want him back. An; he'll pay big time. What ya spend the money on is your concern'.

'An' if I want to buy the horse?'

'I don't care who you use the drugs on. Starsky, Gary. Just gimme the doe an' I'll get ya the drugs'.

Prudholm smiled. 'And then Gary'll feel better'.

Mickey looked exasperated. 'Yeah, Gary'll feel better an' you'll be richer. An' Starsky'll've been dealt with'.

'Yeah, Starsky will have paid'.