STARING DEATH IN THE FACE
Prologue
Hutch grinned. Starsky had won the table tennis tournament yet again and now he was reeling off the menu of his dream dinner as he trotted round to open the driver's door.
Hutch didn't know why he hesitated, a premonition perhaps? The black and white began to pull out of its spot. Hutch sensed that something was wrong and yelled to his partner who was still fantasizing about the New York steak he was going to eat that evening. The black and white scraped against the car parked next to it and Hutch's world started to run in slow motion.
"Starsky!" he yelled a warning as he pulled his gun. Gunshots ran out and Starsky fell.
Hutch froze to the spot. The slow motion had become a freeze frame and he couldn't move. Hutch didn't even notice what happened to the black and white. His brain was numbed by the echo of the gunfire. Later he would learn that he fired four shots.
He looked over to where Starsky should be. He should be standing there with his gun at the ready – legs spread and knees bent, bracing himself to get in an accurate shot. Hutch stared at the empty space. He felt his arm retract and return his gun to the shoulder holster. He moved forward; each step seemed to take a minute, his legs were heavy, his feet like lead.
Hutch looked at the shattered glass where the car's windows should have been and the line of bullet holes scarring the red paintwork.
Candy apple red…blood red…
Hutch looked down again.
Starsky was hunched against the wheel of the Torino.
The pool of blood was spreading slowly and the blood wasn't candy apple red or bright red – it was dark blood that was seeping out of Starsky's wounds and taking his life with it. Hutch heard his voice inside his head; that's his lifeblood.
It seemed as if he was moving against the tide. He knelt down beside Starsky and saw the bullet holes. A line of three neat black holes formed a diagonal pattern in Starsky's beloved flying jacket; as he knelt down Hutch saw the edge of the fourth hole hardly visible where Starsky's body touched the ground.
"Starsk? Dave? Hey buddy…"
He looked at the blood on his hands; I'll have his blood on my hands for the rest of my life. I didn't warn him in time.
He thought he heard Starsky laugh; he could hear his voice with its Brooklyn accent. "Don't you go on another of your guilt trips, buddy; I can't come to pull you back."
Hutch crouched over Starsky's body and gathered him up into his arms. He heard his own voice yell for help. He was aware of other people gathering; he heard another car start and the wail of a siren as it went in pursuit of the murderous fake cops in the genuine black and white.
He was holding Starsky close to him now. He could feel the blood seeping into his own shirt.
Starsky was still breathing, but only just. Hutch could sense his stubborn friend's determination not to let go; he held him as tightly as he could in a desperate bid to stem the flow of blood; he reached a hand up under Starsky's T-shirt and sighed. The skin was still warm but there was something wrong; it took him a moment to realize what it was, four bullet holes in the jacket and Hutch could only feel two exit holes.
He's bleeding inside.
They came and took Starsky away from him. Dobey was there, comforting, avuncular, trying to protect Hutch from his own fear. Hutch finally let go and the paramedics got to work. When they were satisfied that they could move Starsky, they lifted him gently onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. Dobey led Hutch to his car and drove close behind the ambulance that sped through the city surrounded by cars and motorbikes with flashing lights and wailing sirens. Every cop in the precinct knew and liked Dave Starsky. He was the clown but he was also deadly serious when he had to be. Hutch fleetingly wondered if his colleagues would be escorting his ambulance in the same way, then he remembered the Torino and its wild but determined driver. He'd have an escort all right!
The ambulance slowed down. Dobey braked. "What the hell have they slowed down for?" he grumbled. But Hutch knew why. He'd done a little more than pre-med after all; he'd spent vacation time riding with a paramedic crew.
"He's dead. They slow down when they lose them."
Dobey shot him and angry look and then cursed as the ambulance picked up speed and hit the sirens again.
Hutch sighed and Dobey said nothing. "I guess he held on."
In the weeks that followed Hutch started to track down the killers and ended up tracing a path right up to the man who considered being the President of the United States as a downward career move.
Starsky died twice more before finally pulling through.
That was six months ago and today Hutch was going to bring him home.