This Time

by Rae (2005)

This time Starsky was there when Hutch died. That had never happened before. Usually he was still out on the streets looking for Callendar when his worst nightmare became his reality. Sometimes Callendar died outside the Emergency Room, and Roper, laughing out the window, screamed away in his limo. A few times, Starsky had never even gotten the chance to put the word out, to make the deal that would bring Callendar in. More than once, maybe even the first time—Starsky had lost track—they made the serum, but Hutch died anyway. Those had been the worst.

This time, Callendar had come in and the serum hadn't worked, and Hutch, staring into Starsky's eyes, had gone off somewhere where he couldn't follow. Starsky had held his hands for ages afterward, because if he let go, Hutch would fall away from him, plummeting like a broken-winged bird. Judith had come in finally and taken Hutch's hands away. There was nothing inside Starsky after that except his rage. It fed him when it all began again.

Most of the time Richie died, too, and Starsky would hold Helen Yeager in his arms and say stupid things like "It'll be okay, you'll see," and "Next time I'll get him." Sometimes the best he could offer was, "Don't, don't."

Those were the times when he lost hope himself, and had nothing to give her. She knew better than anyone, better than Judith, even, what it was like for him, but on those days, he couldn't help her, because he couldn't help himself.

The first time Richie didn't die, Starsky had the feeling that something was wrong, off somehow. That it wasn't supposed to be like this. Why Richie, and not Hutch? Because he was just a kid? Because he was all his mother had? Was Starsky supposed to understand that? Accept it? Was that supposed to make it easier? Hutch was all he had. That ought to count for something.

He hated thinking about the first time, but sometimes he needed to go back and recheck, see if there was some little thing he missed.

The first time. He found himself in the office that Judith and Dr. Meredith had been working in. He didn't remember how he got there. Maybe he'd even dozed off for a moment—he was exhausted enough—standing by the window. An escape mechanism that his body thought he needed.

Helen Yeager went to Observation, and Starsky couldn't look at her when she left.

He talked Judith into giving him a mask and gown. Did she really think there was anything that could have kept him away from Hutch? She went in with him, and put a cold cloth on Hutch's face. He was grateful to her, but he wished she'd go away and leave him alone with Hutch. She waited near them, staying back, giving him time. That's all he wanted. Time.

Hutch's eyes. They were all he could see now.

"What can I do for you?" he said, watching Hutch's eyes.

"Just take care of that little sucker that's twisting my chest into a knot . . . "

Starsky grabbed his hand, feeling the strength of Hutch's grasp, fed by the pain of the beast in his body. He was still strong. They could still beat this thing. He held Hutch's eyes, trying to think only things like "you'll be okay, I'll fix it, just hold on and give me a little time," and not things like "don't you dare leave me you son of a bitch because there's nothing I want, nothing ever again, if you—"

"You did it, Starsk." Hutch lay back, muscles slowly relaxing, eyes closing. "Now get out of here, will ya?"

The beast in his chest had retreated, but Starsky saw it lurking, just outside the edge of his vision. He saw Hutch look at it, saw his fear of it. Starsky would beat it off with his bare hands if he could.

Starsky wanted to touch his face, his lips. But Hutch had his hands, and he wasn't about to take them from him.

"What's the rush?" Starsky said, grinning behind his mask, hoping his own eyes were at least pretending to smile. "Can't stand to look at my pretty face?

"Hey, no more fun and games," Hutch said, eyes now open and steady, "'cause this ain't no fun, and the game is Hutch is dying."

They both were. Hutch knew it. Starsky saw in his eyes that he knew.

"So," Hutch said, eyes locked tight to Starsky's, "you get out there, walk the streets, check out the sewers, hop in every hole." His face twisted and Starsky died some more. "And, oh God, God, it hurts. It hurts." His grip on Starsky's hands began to fail, so Starsky held his instead. "Get out of here. Go on . . ."

How could he leave? He looked at Judith, pleading silently, but he didn't know what he was asking her for. She nodded, and he let go of Hutch and slammed out of the room.

He couldn't think of any other moment in his life that he regretted more.

°°°°°

So this time, once he knew he'd failed again, he stayed, to see if that was what made the difference. He saw Judith's own pain, her own fear, but she dropped her eyes and turned away. She could have Hutch some other time, in some other reality, but in this one, Hutch was his—his to save, his to mourn.

"Hutch, listen to me, buddy. This isn't it, I swear. I swear, Hutch. I'll figure this out and next time—"

He couldn't bear the look in Hutch's eyes. He knew Hutch thought he'd gone crazy. That there was something he wanted to say and Starsky's off on another one of his crazy crusades and not letting him say it.

Starsky couldn't let him, couldn't explain why not, why it wasn't over and that it would all start again tomorrow.

"Don't say it, Hutch. Please. Oh, God, Hutch, don't."

Hutch's eyes took hold of his, and his hands let go.

"No, Hutch. No." He watched Hutch's eyes until they no longer watched his. "No."

He sat there, numb, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He hadn't heard anyone come in.

"Dave." Judith's voice was low and shaky. He didn't move. "He's gone. Come with me." When he still didn't move, she said, "The nurses need to come in to take care of the . . . his . . . him. Come on."

He stood up fast and ripped off the mask and gown. "This isn't over, Judith. Do you understand me?"

She reached out a hand and he shoved her aside, hard, so that she cried out and stumbled against the bed. He didn't help her up, didn't apologize, didn't even think to turn back to her.

This had to stop. Somehow.

°°°°°

There was a hallway with closed-off rooms that the hospital wasn't using. He'd found it the eighth time, at least he thought it was the eighth. It could have been the first, or ninety-first, even. There was a nurse's lounge with a soft chair that he could sit in and draw his legs up, and think. He hadn't known it was Time Number 8, not yet. He'd only known one thing, that Callendar had died out on the pavement, leaving his blood all over Starsky's hands, where it did no one any good. Not Callendar, not Richie, and not Hutch. He never gave a single thought to any of the other victims.

The first time Callendar died, Starsky'd gone inside, washed his hands, and begun to look blindly around the Emergency Room at all the people who could do nothing for him, nothing to save him, and he knew that even if they'd been able to get Callendar's blood, make the serum, for Hutch it was already too late. He saw Dr. Meredith at the far end of the room, hollow-eyed and gaunt. Starsky knew he was looking for him and why. He'd turned away, feet disconnected from the floor, brain disconnected from his body, unaware of the people he pushed out of his way, or who looked at him with understanding eyes.

Meredith had tracked him down, and told him how sorry he was, that he'd been wrong and that he should have allowed Starsky to try to get Callendar to come in much sooner. Starsky had felt the muscles in his arms start to vibrate, and it had been all he could do not to land a roundhouse to Meredith's right jaw. Meredith had had the sense to leave immediately, and Starsky had turned and run, pushing past the people who stared at him with their understanding eyes. They understood nothing at all.

After Hutch died, he found the hallway and the chair. He fell into it, and broke in two. He would never be one again—he accepted that right away. There wasn't enough of him without Hutch to make one complete man.

What was he supposed to do now? Call Hutch's mother. Maybe his sister. That would be better. Sisters were better than mothers. Mothers fell apart.

He wanted to call his own mother first. She was waiting by the phone—she'd said she would. She'd wanted to come out to be with them but there hadn't been time and it wasn't safe. She was waiting, and he should call her. He knew how it went.

Find a phone at the nursing station. Dial the operator and ask for an outside line, long distance, please. Identify himself, explain. His mother answers before the first ring is finished.

"Davey?"

"Mom." He can't think of anything else to say.

"Oh, David. Oh no."

He says something about having to go now and hangs up.

He found a phone at the nursing station and dialed the operator, asked for an outside line for a long-distance call. Explained who he was. His mother answered before the first ring had finished.

"Davey?" Her voice was strong, and it reached out to him and held him.

"Mom." He could hear how his own voice sounded, even for just that one small word. He knew he should give her something more, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. He pictured her at the other end of the line, in her straight-backed chair by the front door. She'd have one hand to her chest, pressed flat, and her eyes . . . Even in his imagination he couldn't look at her eyes.

"Oh, David. Oh no."

"I have to hang up. I have to go, Ma." He hung up, and returned to his chair. It welcomed him back, drew him in and held him safe while he thought about Hutch's eyes.

He looked up, startled, but there hadn't been any sound, nothing had happened. He looked across to the telephone. He'd known exactly what would happen, what he'd say, what his mother would say. It didn't feel like déjà vu. It felt like watching a rerun on television. He knew the set, the dialogue, the aftermath. What was next?

Sit back in the chair and try not to think. Start to shake, try to stop. Hear the PA system faintly asking some doctor to call extension 224. It repeats twice. He puts his head back and counts the tiles in the ceiling the way he always does when he's in a hospital. There are two hundred and eighty whole ones, and sixty-two partial ones. He feels sleepy and lets himself succumb, because it's easier, and if he's lucky, he won't ever wake up. The next thing he knows—

He sat back, trying not to think. He looked down at his hands, recognizing them as a part of his own body, though he hadn't been aware of them at all, not for hours. He could feel Hutch's hands as if they were still in his, and he tried to hold them tight, tighter, but they fell away. His own hands began to shake as he watched. He made fists, but they wouldn't stop shaking. Faintly, outside the hallway, he could hear the PA system: Dr. Jeffries, call extension 224. Extension 224, Dr. Jeffries.

He rested his head on the back of the chair and began to count the tiles in the ceiling. He knew from experience that counting tiles kept you from thinking, and that if you didn't cheat and multiply the length by the width, you could make it take longer, especially if someone came in and made you lose count. There were two hundred and eighty whole ones and—

He sat up straight. And sixty-two partial ones. He knew without counting them. He looked up and counted. There were sixty-two.

This wasn't the first time.

Some things started to make sense, and other things started to make no sense at all.

He felt very tired. He was going to fall asleep, and wake up standing by the window in Judith's office. Helen Yeager comes in. A nurse takes her blood and Judith makes her go to Observation. It makes no sense. Her kid is dying, she should be with him. Why do they insist on her leaving her boy? He should have backed her up, but he'd never thought of it.

Would he remember tomorrow what he'd just realized? Had he realized it before and then lost it all? Was he seriously thinking this could be possible? Not possible meant no hope, so he was going with possible. He'd find some way to keep track.

He tried to think of a signal he could leave for himself, in case he had to start over from scratch. Something he'd recognize, that would kickstart his brain.

He looked at his watch. Whenever he needed to remember anything important, he always put it on his other wrist, and when he checked the time and it was in the wrong place, it reminded him. Unless he forgot what it was supposed to remind him of. But he never forgot that there was something. He unbuckled the strap and moved it to his right wrist.

Sleep crept up on him from behind and put its hands over his eyes. His head fell back and he succumbed to it—unwilling, but grateful.

°°°°°

The glass against his forehead felt cold, which was good, but hard, which wasn't. He blinked a few times and stood up straight. Had he actually dozed off? Standing up? He was certainly tired enough.

A nurse finished taking Helen Yeager's blood and left the room. Why bother to take her blood? It was a waste of time. The woman had no chance of escaping the plague. It was a given.

"How is Richie?" Helen said.

"In critical condition." Judith's voice behind Starsky made her sound beaten. Without turning, he knew she was slumped against the desk, her white doctor's coat the same shade as her face. Maybe fighting not to cry in front of a patient's mother. She wouldn't want Helen to lose what little hope there was.

"I want to be with him," Helen said, without much emphasis.

Yeah, Starsky wanted to be with Hutch, too. Why did they keep saying no? Poor Judith, torn between being a doctor and a woman half in love with one of her patients.

Judith said, "You can't. He's in an isolation ward."

"Put me there with him!"

Fight for what you want, lady. Starsky turned around to tell her that.

Judith seemed to consider it but in the end she shook her head. "We're putting you in the observation ward. Please . . . we'll take care of your son the best way we know how, but right now you have to go to Observation."

Helen couldn't fight. "All right. But as soon as you know anything . . . you tell me."

"I will. I promise." She opened the door, and spoke to the nurse waiting outside.

Yielding, Helen went away with the nurse.

"I promise," Judith said again. She closed the door and sat heavily in the chair that Helen had been in.

Starsky felt sorry for her. She wasn't the enemy. She looked exhausted. Still, he had nothing to give her, nothing to offer.

"You should let her be with her kid. What difference does it make to her now? She's probably already infected anyway. Why keep her away?"

Judith nodded, and made a phone call. For some reason he felt better.

"How's Hutch?" He was surprised that he'd asked. He hadn't wanted to.

"His temperature's up. White cell count's dropping."

"In other words, he's dying." He said it so calmly. It wasn't real.

"Yes."

He was grateful that she didn't try to soften the word, or placate him.

"I want to see him."

"You can look at him through the window but he's too weak to leave the bed."

"I want to talk to him."

"I told you he can't come to the . . ."

"Judith, I have to talk to him. Surely you understand that?"

She looked into his eyes and nodded. "I'll put you in a mask and gown. Come on."

He followed her out, thinking that time was some kind of roller coaster, careening out of control, with him just along for the ride. Except that normally he liked roller coasters, and this ride was no fun.

He looked at his watch. It wasn't on his wrist. For a moment, while he thought he'd lost it, he forgot where he was and why, and felt a rush of anger so deep and dark that it made him sick. So stupid to care so much about a lost watch when Hutch . . . But the loss of a watch you could acknowledge, deal with, be upset about. You could just go get another one.

Without much thought, he looked at his other wrist, and stared at the watch there, the relief just as unexpected and irrational as the anger of a moment before. When had he put it there? What had he wanted to remember? Typical—he had no idea. He left it in place. Eventually he'd remember. He always did.

°°°°°

Judith went into the isolation room with him. He didn't want her there, didn't know why she didn't understand that. Maybe she could have had something with Hutch in some other reality, but in this one, he wanted—needed—time alone with him. He should have said something, asked her to wait outside. Maybe next time he would.

Next time?

He felt like he was entering a lion's cave, where he knew the lion was already feasting, tearing the guts out of his partner. He had no personal fear of the beast, only of what it could do to his future.

He sat on the bed beside Hutch, watching his eyes. He could feel the heat of his fever through the sheets against his own leg. It seared him, like a branding iron.

"Hey," he said.

Hutch could barely speak. "H-h . . . hey, yourself." He tried to smile, which made it all so much worse.

"We're getting closer."

"Yeah?"

How was he ever going to go through this again? How could Hutch? He would do anything, anything, to take that pain out of Hutch's eyes.

Again?

"Any hour now we'll bust Callendar."

"Yeah?"

"And Judith here'll tap his veins, find the serum in his blood, give you a shot, and alakazam, Captain Marvel, you'll be up and around . . ."

"That stinks . . ."

"Okay, you don't want to be Captain Marvel, would you believe . . ."

"It's no good, Starsk." His hands twisted into knots, and his eyes squeezed shut for a moment.

"What?"

"You never were a very good liar, unless you were undercover and, oh . . ." Starsky watched him try not to cry out, try not to let Starsky see how bad it was, but he shivered and sweated, and the tendons in his neck corded.

Starsky died a little. "What can I do for you?" He grabbed hold of Hutch's hands, feeling the strength still in them, feeling like they could still beat this thing. He tried to tell him, "This isn't it, buddy, it's not time for you to go . . . not time . . ."

Starsky felt the room start to spin, and he held tighter to Hutch's hands, and looked harder into his eyes. He had work to do. Somehow he had to make this stop.

For a second he felt like he'd left his body, or something just as weird, just as unbelievable, but in that moment he suddenly knew what he was supposed to remember. He couldn't see his watch under the sleeve of the gown, but he could feel it there, could almost feel it ticking, almost hear it. He knew.

He said, "Hutch, you listen to me. I'm gonna get out there, walk the streets, check out the sewers, hop in every hole, Hutch, 'cause I'll tell you the truth, you're not going to live to a hundred and forty-eight this way." He meant to have made it a joke, but it wasn't funny.

Hutch's face twisted and Starsky died some more.

"And I'm gonna find Callendar because I'm not lettin' you die, you hear me?"

Hutch watched his eyes and Starsky swallowed hard. He hoped that even with the surgical mask covering half his face, Hutch could see the truth of what he said. That he could convince him somehow. It was impossible. Who could believe in this? Whatever the hell this was. He didn't even know why he believed it, except that he had no choice. What was the alternative?

Hutch's grip on Starsky's hands began to fail, so Starsky held his instead. "Oh God, it hurts. It hurts."

His eyes closed hard, the tiny muscles around them tightening the skin into small lifts and chasms. Starsky wanted to pull him hard into his arms, press Hutch's head to his chest, take the beast into himself and get it the hell out of Hutch.

"Get out of here, Starsky." Hutch opened his eyes and nodded. Tried to smile. "Go on . . ."

Starsky looked up at Judith. "You'll stay with him?"

She met his eyes, blinking hard, and looked away. But she nodded.

This time, leaving wasn't so difficult. He knew.

°°°°°

Starsky tried to talk Dr. Meredith into putting it on the tube, so Callendar would see it, hear it, and turn himself in. How many hit men hung out and watched TV or listened to the radio? Maybe this one did.

This time Meredith wouldn't even discuss it, so Starsky didn't bother to argue. He went straight to Dobey.

"I can't permit it," Dobey said.

He didn't look good, and Starsky suddenly realized he probably hadn't slept since the whole thing had started. How many days? He had no way of knowing how many there'd been before he finally knew what was happening.

Starsky stayed calm. "Look, Callendar's after Roper. Either we get Roper to play decoy, or we sit tight, and wait . . . and Hutch is dead. What's it gonna be?"

Why did he bother to ask? Next time he wouldn't, he'd just go straight to Roper. Maybe that was the key. He walked out, Dobey yelling down the hall after him. He just kept walking.

Or maybe he shouldn't go to Roper. Maybe tipping him off upset the odds, and skewed the results. Or maybe not going would make it worse. He didn't know. How the hell was he supposed to know?

There had to be something he was missing, some little thing he had to chang