Possession is Nine-tenths of the Law
It was a bright, sunny morning in late October, 1982. Starsky and Hutch were in the cheerful kitchen of the small cottage they shared as lovers. Hutch had made breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice, and he and Starsky were just enjoying cups of coffee when Steve Barlow arrived. Barlow was Hutch's new partner, now that Starsky was working cold cases, after being disabled by Gunther's hit three years before.
"Hey Barlow, how's it going?" Starsky greeted him. He had trained Barlow on how to work with Hutch, and liked him.
"I'm good," Barlow said "Did you two hear the news?"
"What news?" Hutch asked. "We haven't heard anything today."
"Simon Marcus is dead," Barlow announced triumphantly. "Thought you guys would want to know. I heard it on the radio on my way over."
"Marcus dead? What happened?" Starsky asked, surprised. "He wasn't that old."
"Murdered. Some fellow prisoner shanked him. Left him bleeding out on the shower floor."
Starsky repressed a shudder at the thought of Simon Marcus, the demonic cult leader who had had him kidnapped and tortured by his followers. "Couldn't happen to a nicer creep."
"I wonder if he dreamed that in advance," Hutch said bitterly, referring to Marcus's claims that whatever he dreamed always came true.
"Wonder how his people are going to handle it," added Starsky. "There's still a bunch of them who weren't convicted of anything."
Barlow shrugged. "That's all I know," he said, "The radio account just gave the bare details."
Hutch finished his coffee. "Well," he said briskly, "That's not our problem. Marcus is gone now, and the world is better for it. Let's get to work. Starsk, you getting a ride with us, or taking the Torino?"
"I'll take the Torino, I guess. But try and come by at lunch time, guys."
"Will do, Babe," Hutch gave Starsky a quick kiss, and he and Barlow left.
Starsky finished clearing the table, and then he left too.
Starsky picked up a newspaper on the way to work, and read the coverage of the Marcus murder. There wasn't much more than Barlow had known, however.
Most of the coverage was devoted to Marcus's crimes, the murders, drugs, and kidnappings that had lead him to be arrested and convicted in the first place. There was, of course, a recap of Starsky's kidnapping by his followers after Marcus's conviction, which Starsky didn't bother reading. He knew about that all too well.
The only things that were in the papers about the murder itself were the bare facts. Marcus, serving several consecutive life sentences, was confined to a maximum security prison. He had been alone in the shower room when someone, presumably a fellow prisoner, entered and stabbed him with a homemade shank, which had been left behind. Marcus had been alive when he was found, but despite being pressed for details on who had knifed him, had not given any information the authorities could use. Although he was conscious and left a statement, he died in the prison infirmary without implicating anyone. There was an investigation ongoing, but Starsky had a suspicion that nothing would come of it. He wondered what had been in that dying statement, and shivered.
That night it was Starsky's turn to make dinner. He made a pot of spaghetti and sauce, with a loaf of garlic bread he had picked up on the way home.
Hutch didn't have much appetite, however, and seemed preoccupied.
"What's the matter, Blondie? Rough day?" Starsky asked.
Hutch shook his head. "Pretty calm, actually. Sorry Starsk, I don't know what's wrong. I've just been thinking."
"Thinking about what?"
"Oh, it's stupid. Simon Marcus. Remembering the whole thing."
"Don't give him space in your head," Starsky advised. "I'm not. He's dead and gone, and like you said this morning, the world is better off without him."
Hutch sighed. "I know. But I felt so helpless while I was searching for you. I thought I'd forgotten it, but hearing about him again brings it all back. But it must be worse for you!"
Starsky shook his head. "Don't worry about me, Babe. I had that mandatory counseling from the department shrink afterward, and that helped a lot. And there's been so much more happened since then, I don't think about Marcus's creeps any more."
"That's good. I just need some time to process it. I'll be fine tomorrow."
The next morning, though, Starsky noticed Hutch looked tired and worn, and pressed him until he admitted he had had a bad night. "I kept dreaming about Marcus. Pointless, I know."
"What did you dream?"
"Never mind the details. I don't want to think about it."
Starsky shrugged "OK, your choice."
That day there was more coverage in the papers about Marcus's death. Starsky read it curiously. The investigation had turned up nothing about suspects or motives. There was, however, a transcript of part of his dying statement, which some intrepid reporter had unearthed. The quoted part read:
"I dreamed this. This isn't the end. My dreams go on. Now I dream of continuing and my dreams always come true. The White Knight shall suffer and Heavenly Polaris shall suffer and both shall feel my dreams in their dreams."
Reading that gave Starsky a serious jolt, for the White Knight was Hutch, and he was Heavenly Polaris. He didn't like the reference to their dreams. Not when Hutch had had such a bad night. But he comforted himself saying it was a coincidence, and Hutch would be fine the next day.
Hutch looked worse the next day though, and he was yawning over breakfast. He had an extra cup of coffee, but it didn't perk him up.
He went off to work with Barlow, with a third cup of coffee in hand. Starsky went to work and worried. He read the newspaper updates on the murder. The authorities were saying now that the killing might have been a dispute over the cult management, and were looking into Marcus's followers that were incarcerated with him.
That night Hutch went to bed early, saying he needed some extra sleep. Starsky followed him in a bit later. Hutch was already asleep, but even asleep he looked tense and disturbed.
Starsky climbed into bed and held his partner, being careful not to wake him up, and was soon asleep himself.
When Barlow came to pick Hutch up the next morning, he looked worried.
"Hey Starsky," he asked, "Could you step outside for a minute? I want to ask your opinion on something with my car." Barlow and Starsky were both car fanciers.
"Yeah, sure, Barlow. You want Hutch too?"
"No, you finish breakfast, Hutch. This won't take long."
The two walked outside. They stood next to Barlow's car, and opened the hood. But instead of starting with car questions, Barlow said, "Starsky, what's wrong with Hutch? He's looking awful."
"Damned if I know. He's been having nightmares over Simon Marcus, and losing sleep."
"Yeah. I should tell you. About Marcus. Hutch asked me not to, but I think you should know."
"What?" A cold chill washed over Starsky.
"Yesterday someone came up to us in the street. Some ragged homeless type it looked like. But he had an upside down cross carved in his forehead."
Starsky drew in his breath. "That's one of Marcus's creeps all right. What did he say?"
"He said, 'The Master calls and you will come, White Knight.' Then while we were just standing there staring he darted down an alley and vanished."
"Vanished?"
"Yeah. We couldn't find him anywhere. And Hutch looked." Barlow shrugged. "He was gone."
"I don't like this. I don't like this at all."
Just then Hutch came outside. "Hey guys, you done with the car talk yet?"
Barlow shut the car hood that he had opened. "Yeah, everything's fine. Let's go."
"OK Babe, I'm gonna' finish breakfast and head to work too," Starsky added. It was, Starsky thought, a proof of Hutch's debility that he was fooled by the obvious subterfuge about talking about the car. But in his tired and worn out condition, he didn't seem to notice a thing.
The next day he looked even more wan and listless than he had the days before.
"What's wrong, Hutch?" Starsky asked in concern. "You look like somethin' the cat dragged in."
"Nothing!" Hutch snapped. "Just bad dreams, that's all."
"More dreams about Marcus?"
Hutch sighed. "Yes," he admitted.
Privately Starsky thought Hutch looked worse than a few days of bad sleep should have made him, but he didn't say so. "I told you, you need to get Marcus out of your head," he said.
"I know that," Hutch snarled. "I'm trying."
"OK, OK, no need to bite my head off," Starsky soothed. "Maybe you should see the department shrink guy. It really helped me after the kidnapping, you remember."
Hutch made a non-committal sound. Barlow picked Hutch up, and they went off to work without any more discussion, but Starsky was even more worried.
That night Starsky lay awake thinking, unable to sleep himself over worry for Hutch. There was a weird pressure in his head, making him want to sleep, but he resisted it.
Around midnight Hutch moaned softly and moved spasmodically. Starsky immediately became alert.
The room seemed cold, and he thought he could even see his breath. A breeze ruffled his hair. A thin mist seemed to drift over the bed. Hutch moaned again, and muttered "No! No!" Suddenly he thrashed convulsively, arching his back.
"Hutch! Wake up!" Starsky shook him and Hutch gasped but didn't wake. Starsky shook Hutch more violently.
The mist seemed thicker now, and denser. The room seemed colder. Starsky was now sure he could see his breath. Hutch was panting, and gasping. "Let me go!" he moaned. "Leave me alone Simon!"
The mist was thick and white, a dense cover over Hutch. It coalesced into a blanket of fog, and started to lower onto him.
Starsky grabbed Hutch roughly by the shoulders and shook him with all his might. Finally Hutch took a mighty in-breath of air and let it out with a yell. His eyes popped open. For a few moments he lay gasping. Tears ran from his eyes.
"My God Hutch, are you OK?" Starsky managed to ask.
The room had gone back to its normal temperature, and there was no sign of the white mist.
"Yeah, yeah. Just another nightmare. But that was a bad one." Hutch was drenched in sweat despite the previous cold of the room. He breathed heavily.
"Are you so sure these are just nightmares?" Starsky asked. "What are you dreaming that's so bad, anyway?"
"What else could they be but nightmares?" Hutch said.
"I don't know, but it was weird. It was cold and foggy, and I couldn't wake you up for the longest time."
"Cold and foggy?" Hutch looked around the room, clear, and warm. "Come on Starsky, you aren't trying to say there was some sort of ghost here?"
"How do you know there wasn't a ghost?"
"Because there's no such thing as ghosts. Simon Marcus is dead and gone, and that's an end to it. I just need to convince myself of that, that's all."
"Well, what are you dreaming that's so bad you yell?" Starsky challenged.
"I told you, they're about Marcus. Isn't that bad enough on it's own? I dream he's all over me, touching me…" Hutch shuddered. "Can we stop the interogation for now?"
Starsky sighed. "OK, I'm sorry. Let's try to go back to sleep and hope that's it for tonight."
The rest of the night passed peacefully enough, but this time it was Starsky who didn't sleep.
The next day, despite having seemingly slept the remainder of the night, Hutch looked worse. Starsky didn't press him with questions though. He caught Barlow alone again, and asked him to try to make sure Hutch didn't overdo it during the day. Fortunately they weren't working on anything big, just doing general patrolling. He saw them off, then got ready himself.
When he got to work, he had made some decisions. This had gone on long enough and something had to be done.
First he looked up a phone number in his Rolodex, and called the Federal penitentiary where Simon Marcus had been incarcerated. Introducing himself as a police detective, he asked to be put through to the warden.
"Hi, this is Detective David Starsky, I'm working cold cases in Bay City, California, where Simon Marcus was first arrested. I'm hoping that his dying statement may furnish some clues into some unfinished business he left behind, and I'm asking if you can give me the full transcript."
"Well, Detective Starsky, most of that statement was already leaked by the press. But if you think it could be useful to have the whole thing, I'll give it to you. I have it here on my desk somewhere. Hold on."
There was the noise of papers being shuffled, and in a moment he was back.
"Here we go. I don't think it's going to help you any though. It's pretty obscure. He said 'I dreamed this. This isn't the end. My dreams go on. Now I dream of continuing and my dreams always come true. The White Knight shall suffer and Heavenly Polaris shall suffer and both shall feel my dreams in their dreams. We go back to the beginning of the ending and the vessel of the ending shall be my new beginning. I dreamed this ending and my dreams always come true.'"
"Well that's clear as mud," Starsky said bitterly. "I don't think I'll get anything out of that, but thank you anyway."
"No problem, Detective. Always glad to help the police."
Starsky hung up and studied the words he had written down. Contrary to what he had said to the warden, he feared he had an idea of what they meant.
He flipped through his Rolodex again and wrote down an address. "Hey Margie," he said to the secretary who took care of the cold cases department, "I'm going out investigating, and I'll be gone for lunch too. If Hutch and Barlow come by tell them I'll see them tonight."
"OK Detective Starsky," Margie said politely, "I'll let them know."
Starsky took the Torino, and soon pulled up in front of a large Victorian house, one he hadn't been to in some time but still recognized.
Going inside, he was in an apartment furnished as a fortuneteller's establishment.
"Detective Starsky! I haven't seen you in ages!" the occupant said. She was a short pudgy woman, in flamboyant robes, seated behind a small table with a crystal ball on it.
"Hiya, Mary, how ya' been?" Starsky said.
"Things have been pretty good. Business is looking up. But, what brings you here today?" the woman asked. She was Mary Polanski, known as Madam Yram, a mostly fake but somewhat real psychic that had been helpful to Starsky and Hutch in the past, first in a case involving a kidnapped woman held hostage, and then after in other things.
"You haven't had any visions about me and Hutch lately, have you?" Starsky asked seriously, taking a seat in the chair opposite her.
"No, nothing, but I haven't been trying. Why, is something wrong?" she asked, worry in her voice.
"Yeah, I think so. With Hutch. Can I ask you to do some kind of reading or something?"
"Sure," Mary said. "Do you have something of his I can read from?"
"No, but I got a picture, would that do?"
"Well, not as good as something of his, but better than nothing. Let me have it."
Starsky dug in his wallet and pulled out a snapshot of Hutch that he carried. "Here," he said, handing it to Mary.
"OK, want to tell me what's wrong?" she asked as she took it.
"No, see what you can get first. I don't want to pollute your perceptions or nothin'. Then I want to ask your opinion on some things after."
Mary nodded. "I gotcha." She studied the picture intently, then closed her eyes, and pressed it to her forehead. Her breathing grew heavier, and she whimpered a little.
She put the picture down after a few moments, and gazed into the crystal ball. She drew in her breath sharply.
"Oh! Oh! I see… darkness, and cold. Hunger, and pain. Triumph and greed." Her voice rose in pitch, and Starsky shivered as a colder breeze seemed to blow through the apartment. "He hungers, and calls. He demands! Oh! He comes! Hunger and desire!" Her eyes, which had closed during her speech, snapped open.
"That was nasty," she said shakily. "If you were one of my normal clients, I'd dream up something fake to tell you, but I suppose you want the real thing."
Starsky gulped unhappily. "Yeah, whatever you got, lay it on me."
"OK, I saw some kind of dark force hovering over Hutch, gloating and evil. And it's hungry, wanting to live and be free. Whatever, whoever, it is, it wants him."
"Wants him? Wants him how?"
"I don't know… every way I guess. Wants to… own him, possess him. Devour his soul." She shivered.
"Possess him? Like… Possession? Like in The Exorcist?"
Mary shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Tell me what's going on and we'll see if we can figure it out."
So Starsky told her about the death of Simon Marcus, and his dying statement. The stranger in the alley. Hutch's bad dreams. Finally, the previous night's disturbance, the cold, the mist, and how he had tried to wake Hutch.
Mary shook her head. "I don't know much about this sort of thing. But it sounds like Simon Marcus wants to possess Hutch to, well, live again. Free from the prison."
"Yeah that's what I was thinkin'. And that maybe he even arranged his own murder to have the chance," Starsky said slowly.
Mary shuddered. "Arranged his own death? That takes some kind of nerve."
"Marcus never lacked confidence in his own abilities," Starsky said grimly, and nodded. "But what do we do to save Hutch? That's the important thing."
"You have to defeat him somehow. I don't know what you can do though."
"Physically defeat him? How?" Starsky queried.
"Well there's spells and rituals that might do something. But I don't know them. I'm just a fortuneteller, Detective Starsky, with a little knowledge. My grandma taught me some things, but nothin' about this sorta' thing!"
"OK, what sort of thing do you know? What defeats evil?" Starsky pressed.
"Well, lets think about the way he comes. There's cold, that's any sort of supernatural stuff, and there's wind, and a white mist. The mist…" she trailed off.
"The mist seemed to be floating around Hutch mostly," Starsky said, remembering.
"I think the mist is Marcus, his essence and will," Mary said slowly.
"Yeah, that makes sense. So I need to destroy the mist somehow."
"It's not so simple. Like last night, he can just leave when you wake Hutch up, and keep coming back night after night. And as it gets closer to Halloween, he'll probably get stronger. All Hallows Eve, or samhain, is when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest, and he can reach through easier."
"It's only a few days til Halloween!" Starsky said in agitation. "I can't let him keep getting away. This needs to be done soon. So I need to hold him in place while I… do something."
"Yeah! So what binds a spirit in place? Let me think." She tapped her finger against her teeth, thinking. Then she brightened. "Well there's salt. There's rituals to summon a spirit, and bind it in a ring of salt."
"Salt? Just plain salt? Don't I need some sort of magic words or symbols or somethin'?"
"Detective Starsky, I'll tell you a secret that my grandma told me." Mary said confidingly, and leaned closer. "She said, 'Magic words and symbols are all very nice, but what's really important is the intent behind them'." She smiled grimly. "So you draw a partly open circle of salt around your bed, and wait for Marcus to show up. Then when he does… you close the circle with the intent to hold him, and it should work."
"Salt, got it. Just regular table salt?"
"Sea salt, if you can get it. Or kosher salt," Mary said.
"OK, I can get that. Then what? How do I get rid of him for good once he's trapped?"
"That's harder. Hmm. What goes with salt and destroys evil?" Mary chewed a fingernail. "There's always silver."
Starsky brightened. "Silver? Like a silver bullet for a werewolf?" he asked, thinking of the old movies he loved.
"Exactly. But silver bullets don't kill just werewolves in folklore," Mary explained. "Silver is good for any kind of evil thing. Evil witches, the undead… I don't know for sure it'll work, but it's worth a try." She looked more cheerful now that a solution had been proposed.
"But I can't go firing off a gun in our bedroom, and where would I get silver bullets, anyway?" Starsky protested.
"Doesn't have to be bullets, any silver weapon. What about a silver knife? 'Specially since he died by being stabbed, that oughta' make it work even better."
"Same problem, where am I going to get a silver knife by tonight?" Starsky asked glumly.
"Now, that I can help you with," Mary said cheerfully. She started rummaging through a drawer in the table with one hand.
"I don't suppose you have a silver knife hanging around," Starsky put in, looking at the accouterments around the crowded room.
"A real silver knife? Think I could afford that? Most of this stuff," she gestured around with her free hand, "is just junk for the clients. But," she continued, "I know where you can get one." She brought out a pad of paper and pen from the drawer, and wrote down an address. "I know the owner of this place, if you mention my name she might give you a discount."
"How much is this going to cost?" Starsky asked worriedly.
"Well, it sure won't be cheap. But she might let you return it, afterward, for a refund, if it's not damaged."
"OK, I'll ask her about that. Thanks for all your help Mary," Starsky said, getting up from the table.
"No problem. Always, for you. Come back and tell me how it all went, OK?" Mary waved to him.
"Sure thing, Schweetheart." Starsky waved back, and left the room.
The address was for a cheerful looking little shop called "The Witch's Den", decked out with wind chimes and crystals, and brightly painted symbols. When Starsky opened the door to the sound of jingling bells, there was the odor of sweet incense. The woman behind the counter was a stately older woman with gray hair tightly pulled into a pony tail.
"May I help you?" the woman asked.
"My name is Detective Sargent David Starsky. Madam Yram, that's Mary Polanski, said I might be able to get a silver knife here," Starsky said.
"You know Mary's real name, so I assume you're a friend, not just a client." The woman gestured with her hand. "Please, come in and make yourself at home. Any friend of Mary's is a friend of mine. I'm the owner of The Witch's Den, Leticia Whitlock. Now, what do you need a silver knife for?"
"Thank you, I need it to try and save my partner from being possessed," Starsky said bluntly. "Mary said you could help."
"Tell me about it, please. I don't often see the police here as customers, and a silver knife is a very powerful object. I need to know it's not being misused."
Starsky explained the problem, and Mary's reasoning behind their solution.
Leticia nodded. "Yes, I see. It sounds very appropriate. Simon Marcus was a blight on the occult community. I was glad to see him gone, and I'm sorry to hear that he may not be. Indeed, I do have a silver knife I can sell you, but I warn you, it's not inexpensive."
"Mary said you might be willing to accept it back for a refund if it isn't damaged."
Leticia nodded again. "I could do that. Most things of power tend to return to their proper places given enough time. Returning it now would merely shorten the process." She produced a key ring and bent down to reach below the counter. "Here is the knife," she said, pulling out an object and laying it down gently.
It was beautiful and deadly looking, about six inches long, and wickedly pointed and sharp. The handle was decorated with stylized designs, but still looked comfortable to hold. Starsky was relieved to see that the handle was not silver, but smooth black wood, the patterns being inlaid with more silver. Hopefully, not being entirely silver would mean it was that much less expensive.
"It is as sharp as silver can be made to be. Silver doesn't hold an edge like steel does, but don't sharpen it any more. If the story you're telling me is true, it has all the edge you will need," Leticia said.
"It's true," Starsky said grimly. "That's a beautiful knife," he added.
"I know. It's old, and as I said, it is not cheap." She named a price.
Starsky gulped. "Will you take a check?" he asked.
"Normally, no, but under the circumstances, I think a friend of Mary Polanski's and a police detective is a good risk, so I'll make an exception." She produced a business card. "Make the check out to the shop."
Starsky pulled out his checkbook and made out a check. He signed it with a flourish.
Leticia wrapped the knife in paper and put it in a box, then put the box in a bag. "My best hopes for the success of your plan," she said. "May the blessings of the God and Goddess go with you."
"Thanks," Starsky said, and taking the package, left.
Before he went back to work, Starsky stopped at the health food store that Hutch used, and picked up a box of guaranteed sea salt. Then he returned to the precinct and his office.
"Did Barlow and Hutch come by?" he asked Margie.
"Haven't seen them," she said.
"OK, thanks," Starsky said, and went back to his normal caseload.
At his regular clocking out time, Starsky went home, rushing to make it before Hutch got there. Going into the bedroom, he took the box of sea salt and made a partial ring around the bed on the floor, hoping that Hutch would be too worn out to notice it. He left an opening, as Mary had described, to let the spirit of Simon Marcus enter, then he hid the box of salt on his side of the bed, along with the box with the knife in it.
Then he went to wait for Barlow to drop Hutch off. They were a bit later than Starsky expected.
When he finally got home, Hutch looked awful, but there was a look of relief on his face too.
"Sorry we're so late, but I took your suggestion, and went to see Dr. Rosenthal today," he said to Starsky. Dr. Rosenthal was the department psychologist that Starsky had seen.
"Yeah?" Starsky said dubiously. While he had originally thought Hutch should see him, things had obviously changed.
"I told him I was having nightmares about Marcus, and he made an appointment for me to see him next week. And in the meantime he gave me a prescription for something to help me sleep. I got it filled on the way home, and I'll take it tonight."
Starsky considered. He didn't think anything Dr. Rosenthal could give Hutch would help, but if Hutch thought it would, so much the better. He knew that Hutch would never accept the supernatural explanation, that Marcus was trying to posses him for real. So if the pills helped him sleep, well, the better for Starsky to do his thing.
Later that night, after dinner, Hutch popped two of the pills, and crawled off to bed. As Starsky hoped, he didn't notice the ring of salt. Soon enough he was asleep.
Starsky looked at him affectionately. It was good to see him asleep soundly for the first time in days, even though there was still a look of tension on his face. He climbed into bed beside Hutch and lay down. He kept himself awake though, despite the mental pressure he had felt to sleep.
Sure enough, at midnight things started. The air grew colder. A wisp of mist drifted in, tentatively, then growing thicker. A breeze blew, from where he could not tell.
Starsky quietly pulled out the box of sea salt. The mist thickened. Hutch moaned. Apparently Dr. Rosenthal's pills weren't preventing Marcus's influence. Starsky was not surprised.
Starsky could barely contain his agitation, as he waited for Marcus to finish entering the circle. But he forced himself to wait quietly as the mist grew heavier, until, just as it had been the previous night, it was a dense white mat over Hutch.
Hutch started to thrash again, in obvious distress. As quickly as he could, Starsky leaned over and poured the sea salt into the gap that he had left in the circle. He took the silver knife from its box. It felt heavy but fit his hand well.
"I have you now, Simon Marcus," he said grimly. "You're trapped, and I'm going to send you to hell."
The mist coalesced into a man sized mass, pulling back from Hutch and whipping around towards Starsky, where he knelt on the bed, the silver knife in his hand.
The wind blew harder, and then, horribly, there was a voice, whispery but clear.
"I see you, Heavenly Polaris. I dreamed you would be here. You have no power against my dreams. My dreams always come true, and I dreamed I would have the White Knight as my own."
"Your dreams have already failed, Marcus," Starsky said matter-of-factly. "Years ago you dreamed I would die, but I lived. Hutch defeated you for me; now I'll fight for him." He lunged forward, swiping with the knife. The mass pulled back, like a man dodging, and Starsky missed his mark.
"You can't hurt me, Heavenly Polaris. I'm faster than you, and stronger," Marcus stated flatly in his whispered tone.
Starsky stabbed forward again. This time he managed to impact the fog, at the very edge.
There was a sizzling sound, and a ring of black scorch outlined where he had struck. The mist writhed, shrinking and growing less ill defined, more focused. Now it was visibly the form of the man Simon Marcus hovering over Hutch.
Hutch was moaning and writhing. Starsky's attention was momentarily distracted, and the figure of Simon Marcus lashed out a hand at him in a punching gesture. "You hurt me. You're not allowed to do that. You'll suffer for it," he intoned. "And then I'll have the White Knight."
Just in time Starsky pulled back. "Leave him alone, Marcus," he snarled. "I won't let you hurt him." The wind whipped Starsky's hair around. There was a humming pressure in his ears.
"You have no choice. I have dreamed my claim on him, and I will have him," Marcus gloated. He punched again at Starsky, and again Starsky pulled back in time.
"Over my dead body," Starsky hissed, and thrust forward with the knife again. Once again, he slashed Marcus, this time the figure's arm. There was the sizzling noise again, and a coil of steam boiled off of the wound, and a blackened, scorched ring again encircled it.
Marcus howled in pain, and pulled back. Then he made a noise like a laugh. "You may think you can defeat me, but your dreams have no power over mine. I'll go now but I'll be back, and back, and back, stronger every night, until finally you can't fight any more."
"You're a coward Marcus. Run, now, but I'll be here for you every night," Starsky growled in response.
The figure of Marcus reached for the side of the bed, only to stop short, and recoil, as though it had struck a barrier.
"What have you done?" Marcus cried, for the first time sounding disturbed.
"Salt, Marcus," Starsky said, and chuckled. "You can't pass that. You're trapped here, and I will destroy you."
Marcus roared in rage, and desperately flung himself at Starsky.
Starsky thrust out with the silver knife, a fierce, lunging stab. This time he made contact with Marcus's chest, right where a living man's heart would be.
Marcus screamed, a thin, high wail of despair, and there was more sizzling as still more steam poured off him. The black scorched ring around the knife wound grew, tearing open a rift in the figure that swallowed Marcus's form, sucking in towards the center, into a whirling vortex of white and black and gray.
Smaller and smaller grew the shape that had been Simon Marcus, sucked into the whirling vortex, until there was nothing left but a faint smokey smell. Even that dissipated in seconds. The unearthly wind died away, and the cold chill of the room warmed to its cozy normal temperature. Simon Marcus was gone.
Starsky leaned back on his heels, panting. Hutch lay, still asleep, breathing normally, looking at peace for the first time in days. Slowly and carefully Starsky replaced the knife in its box, and the sea salt in its hiding place. Then he lay down, and putting his arms around Hutch, pulled him into a close embrace. Hutch sighed in his sleep and cuddled up to Starsky. Soon Starsky was asleep as well.
The next morning, Hutch hopped out of bed. "Those pills of Dr. Rosenthal worked!" he said. "I feel great!"
Starsky, exhausted from his efforts of the night, pulled himself up. "That's fantastic, Babe," he muttered, as cheerfully as he could.
He got Hutch out of the bedroom as fast as possible by offering to make breakfast to celebrate a good night's sleep, and fortunately Hutch still didn't notice the salt on the bedroom carpet.
After Barlow picked Hutch up, Starsky called in to his job to say he'd be late, and vacuumed the bedroom floor. He put the remaining box of salt in the pantry. He checked on the knife in its box. There was a coating of black soot on its blade, but it was otherwise undamaged, he was pleased to see. He cleaned it off with some silver polish.
He took the knife back to the Witches Den. Leticia Whitlock was behind the counter again.
"Ah, Detective Starsky. Mission accomplished, I hope?" she asked.
"I think so," Starsky replied. He gave a brief account of the events of the night before.
"That sounds definite," Leticia agreed, "Congratulations." She accepted the knife back solemnly, and looked it over. Then she took out Starsky's check. "I didn't take this to the bank to deposit yet. I think that I can simply destroy it now."
She tore the check into pieces, and gave them politely to Starsky, who accepted them gravely.
"Good-bye, Detective Starsky," she said. "If you have any more problems of this kind, feel free to return."
"Thank you, and I will," Starsky said, and left.
Then he drove to Mary Polanski's home, and told her what had happened. She too was congratulatory. "I knew you could do it!" she chirped.
"I couldn't have done it without you," Starsky said smiling. "Thank you, Mary."
Then finally, he went to work, buying a newspaper on the way.
There was a followup to the Simon Marcus story. Marcus's body had been claimed by some of his remaining cultists, and cremated. The investigation into his death had concluded that the murder was committed by one of his followers, motive unknown. The killer was already serving life without chance of parole, so it was unlikely that anything extra would be added to his sentence. The official conclusion was that the case of Simon Marcus was finally over and done.
Starsky had to agree.