Alternate reality based on The Plague. 12,350 words

Note: This might appear to be a death fic, but appearances are deceiving.

This Time

by Rae

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 change. If there was nothing, what was the point of this? Whatever the hell this was. If it was an endurance test, he would win it. There had to be something.

°°°°°

Roper's study was straight out of a nineteenth century Italian palazzo. And Roper, in his red silk robe, apparently thought of himself as a fancy signore, with his footmen gathered nearby, ready to fire their pistolas at the smallest provocation. They all had nothing better to do than play chess and smoke cigars in the middle of the day. This time they were all bunched up together on the velvet sofa, very cozy. He could see no reason for it. It looked odd.

Starsky remembered the time he'd lost his temper and got himself clocked in the head by the big one in the charcoal double-breasted suit. And the time two of the goons had dragged him out by the arms and dumped him in front of the Torino. One of them had tossed his emptied-out Beretta at him and it had hit him in the head. He rubbed the spot. Maybe he should try a different approach this time.

He went in, smiled at Roper, and politely handed his gun to one of the footmen. The guy put it on a side table without removing the clip. He still had on his double-breasted suit, buttoned this time, tight across his belly.

"Want a drink?" Roper said. "Marty, give him a drink. What, vodka? Anisette? What?"

Starsky took a breath. "I'd like to just talk, if that's all right."

Roper seemed surprised. "A cop with grace? I didn't think cops knew any social amenities. All right, Detective Polite, you talk, I'll listen." He made a gesture toward a massive leather armchair that was almost the same color as Starsky's jacket. Starsky sank into its depths, trying to appear relaxed.

He looked up at Marty. "I'll take a cold drink, please. No alcohol, though." He grinned again at Roper. "On duty. You know how it is."

Roper shook his head. "Can't imagine it," he said. "So, what's this about?"

"Thomas Callendar." He watched Roper's eyebrows go up fast. "We both know he has a contract on you."

Roper nodded. Marty brought Starsky a tall glass of something with ice and lemons. Starsky took a long drink. Some kind of fizzy water. It tasted good. He finished it off, and Marty took the glass without a word, refilled it, brought it back.

"Yeah," Roper said. "So what?"

"We're looking for him. So are you."

"Yeah, so what?"

"I think that if you find him first, you'll burn him."

Roper looked affronted. "Now that's not nice, Officer Polite. My lawyer can charge you with . . ."

"Mr. Roper, please. I'm not here to play games, and I'm no rookie on a roust. I just need your help."

Roper laughed and the footmen snickered. "You hear that, boys? Now the cops are coming to Roper for help. You'll ruin my reputation!" He grinned, and held out a box of cigars. "Cuban. Take one for later."

"No, thanks." He waved away the box. "It's like this. Callendar's sick. Carrying the plague, but he hasn't died. His blood can provide the serum, save a lot of lives . . ."

"That's a beautiful story, Detective. Anybody here play the violin?"

"Mr. Roper, please. No games."

"All right, no games." He sat back. "Callendar's tried to kill me once and he won't stop. He has to finish the job or his life is over."

"Yes, exactly."

Roper was no fool. "You want me to go out there and play pigeon?"

"I've tried every other way I can—" He stopped, took a breath. Started again. "It's the only way we'll get him. Will you help me?"

"Hear that, boys? Mr. Polite can't get him so he comes to Roper to stand up and be shot at. Bang. Bang. Bang bang bang." He pantomimed getting shot, quite dramatically, and the footmen laughed in appreciation.

Starsky stayed still and waited.

"No, Mr. Cop," Roper said, wheezing a little. He took a sip from a brandy snifter. "The answer's no. We'll find Callendar without putting Roper's ass on the line."

"Okay. I didn't think you'd go for it. Worth a try, though, don't you think?" He smiled, and, to his surprise, got one back. "But if you find him before we do, you don't burn him, understand? You turn him over to us, no questions asked, clean and alive."

"You don't tell me what to do—"

"I'm asking, Mr. Roper. Begging if I have to."

"The answer's no. Roper don't deal with cops. Not even polite ones."

Starsky had a little trouble getting out of the deep chair. He wondered fleetingly if Roper ever sat in it, and how many goons he needed to help him out. He made it to his feet, nodded to the big guy—the one who usually beat the crap out of him—picked his gun up from the table, and left.

Same result, then. He might as well have just gotten mad, as usual. Roper types responded better to threats and ultimatums anyway. That's what they understood best. Next time he wouldn't bother to be polite.

°°°°°

This time, once he knew he hadn't changed anything, and Hutch was going to die again, he stayed away. He just went to his hallway a little earlier than he always did, and waited until he felt sleepy, and let it come upon him without a struggle. It was easier.

°°°°°

Something had changed. He came back to himself in Judith's office, where she was taking Helen Yeager's blood. Usually a nurse did that. And he was on the phone, or had been. It was still in his hand. He put it down and turned away.

Helen asked to be with Richie, and Judith nodded, her eyes wide and compassionate.

"Of course," she said. She'd pulled her hair back with a wide band—she hadn't done that before. And her sweater was blue, where it had always been light pink.

Something had changed.

Judith opened the door for Helen and handed her over to the nurse waiting outside. "I'll tell you the moment we know anything. I promise." They hugged, brief but hard, patted each other's backs, and let each other go.

Judith slumped into the chair in front of her desk. Starsky went around behind her, kissed the top of her head, rubbed her shoulders. She wilted.

"How's Hutch?" Why did he always ask?

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

"In other words, he's dying." Why say it? Next time he'd try not to. Next time . . .

"Yes. Do you want to see him?"

Surprised, he let go of her shoulders, and moved around in front of her.

"Yeah. I need to talk to him."

"Come on, then. I'll get you a gown and a mask, like the nurses wear."

The hallways were full of people in motion, doing their jobs, visiting their dying relatives. Smiling, talking, crying, silent. The sterile white walls behind them bleached out their faces. Everything was too bright. They should tone down the lighting so people didn't look so stark, so pale.

Judith looked awful. He put an arm around her waist and she leaned against him for a moment, and tried to smile. He kissed her forehead and opened the door of the little entry where they could put on their isolation gear. He knew it was a waste of time, but he went through the motions.

One time when he'd tried refusing to wear the protective coverings, because maybe that little thing was the key, Hutch had been furious, and he'd coughed so long and so hard that Starsky had cried, and turned away. He wasn't going to risk that again. He had to pick his battles, and trying to go in without the gown and mask was one he knew he wouldn't win.

This time Hutch didn't seem to be in as much pain, or as frightened. His eyes were still watery and red-rimmed, and he still coughed, but a wild hope flared. Maybe this was it and all he had to do was wait it out. There was plenty of time, if Hutch wasn't so sick, for Callendar to come in, and Judith would still be able to use his blood. He didn't know why, or what he'd done to change it, but things were different this time.

"Hey," he said.

Hutch grinned and tried to sit up. "Hey, yourself."

Starsky sat on the edge of the bed. Judith read over Hutch's chart instead of pressing that red cloth to his face. He'd forgotten to ask her to let him go in alone.

He took Hutch's arm and helped him up, pulling the pillow up behind his back, straightening the blankets across his lap. He found a metal pitcher of water on the bedside table, and poured some out, but Hutch shook his head.

"We're getting closer," Starsky said, wanting to drink the water himself. If not for the mask covering his mouth, he would have. He thought about taking the mask off, but it would have upset Hutch, and that was the last thing he wanted.

"Yeah?"

"I went to see Roper."

"What? Why?"

"Had some crazy idea he'd be willing to play bait and help us reel Callendar in."

"You just walked in and asked for his help?"

Starsky laughed. "Yeah. I thought, alakazam, he'd say, 'sure, Captain Marvel, I'd love to help you by standing up in front of the guy who wants to kill me.'"

"That stinks, buddy. Not your best plan ever."

"No. I'm better at planning with a partner."

Hutch laughed, too, and then coughed, hard. Judith came over and made him lie down flat again, brought out the red cloth and wiped the sweat off his face. Starsky was near to hating that cloth.

His own chest constricted. He took hold of Hutch's hands. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm okay. Just get out there and walk the streets, check the sewers, hop in every hole. Because I don't want to die young and pretty, you know?"

Starsky caught his eyes with his own. Unblinking, he said, "You're not going to die, Hutch."

"You never were a good liar, unless you were undercover."

The problem was that it was a lie, because even though things were very different this time, Starsky didn't believe that it was over.

He wanted to tell him, explain what was happening. "I'm going to fix this, Hutch, please believe me. I'm going to find Callendar, and Judith will take his blood, make the serum, and I'll fly you out of here on my magic carpet, and we'll—"

Hutch gripped his hands, hard. "No good, Starsk, no good."

His face twisted, and Starsky felt a pain in his gut like nothing he remembered. Was it what Hutch felt, too? Oh, God. God, Hutch. It hurts. It hurts.

"Judith, stay with him. I have to go. I got work to do."

He slammed out of the room, tearing at his gown and mask as he fled.

°°°°°

He went to see Dobey.

"How'd you do with Roper?" Dobey looked like he'd rather be anywhere but there. He'd apparently been doing paperwork, or trying to. He rubbed at his forehead.

"Like you figured," Starsky said. "I even tried being polite." He leaned back against the closed door, arms crossed.

Dobey laughed, but without much humor. "What now? I turned loose twelve more men. I don't know what else to do."

"I do. We go on the air and offer Callendar a deal."

"That doctor from DC said no."

"I'll convince him." He stood up straight.

"And if he goes for it, what then? Callendar's not a fool, why should he come in?"

Why was everyone always so resistant? Why wouldn't Dobey let him try?

"We promise immunity."

"We can't do that."

"Hutch is dying." Again. He didn't know how he was going to go through it again. He didn't have a lot of choice.

"And Callendar's a professional killer!" Dobey threw his pen down and sat back.

"Jail for Callendar or Hutch's life. What's it gonna be, Cap?"

"You think this is easy for me, Starsky? Don't make me out to be the bad guy in this."

Starsky glared. "Then don't be."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just . . . I don't . . . Come on! Untie my hands, Cap. Let me do this. I know Callendar's out there, and he'll hear it. On the radio, the TV, whatever. Let me try."

"All right. But for record, I don't like it."

"Thanks, Cap. Thank you."

Maybe Dobey was right. Maybe offering the deal was the key to disaster. If it didn't work, next time he wouldn't ask for this. He'd have to think of something else.

°°°°°

"Absolutely not," Meredith said. At least he had the grace to look ashamed.

Grabbing Meredith by the lapels of his lab coat hadn't worked before. Neither had pacing, shouting, or shoving things off of his desk. Starsky tried to stay calm this time.

"The word's already on the street," he said, fighting to keep his voice low and steady. "You can't avoid a panic. You're going to let my partner die, aren't you? You think it's already too late for him." What did it take to get this guy to understand?

Meredith wouldn't look up. "I'm sorry. It's not—"

But Starsky, door slamming behind him, hadn't waited to hear what excuse he would use this time. The white hallway faded and flared around him. He was afraid for a second that he might pass out.

Down the hall, Helen Yeager stepped out of Richie's isolation room and looked back at her son through the viewing window. She put a hand to her mouth, and wrapped her other arm around her own waist. She didn't see Starsky leaning against the wall behind her.

He thought he should comfort her, and started to go to her. What could he tell her that wouldn't scare her more? Sometimes she seemed to understand that he was the only one who could save her kid. Even when Richie died, she always thanked him. It always made him feel worse. He turned away.

"Detective?"

This time he wasn't going to escape, then. He turned back.

"How is your partner?" She always asked.

"Not good. Helen, I—"

"Detective . . . David." She stepped in close and took hold of his arm. "I know you're doing everything you can, but you need to rest. Have something to eat. You look . . ."

"Haunted? I'm walking around with the ghost of your son and Hutch, everywhere. Every minute. They won't let me rest. I can't rest. I need—"

"David! Listen to me. Sit for a minute." She half-dragged him to the family waiting area and made him sit. By then he really had to, anyway. His legs weren't working right. Weird feeling.

"Wait here, and I'll find you something to eat. Will you wait? Close your eyes."

It seemed like a year since he'd eaten anything. Maybe it really had been that long. It could have been. She wasn't more than eight or ten years older than he was, but he felt mothered, and had no will left to resist. He needed it. He put his head back and closed his eyes.

He didn't dare doze off. What if he fell asleep and woke up back in Judith's office, looking out the window? What if he shortened the loop and lost the chance altogether to get Callendar to come in?

Or maybe it was all he had to do. He didn't remember this moment at all. Maybe it was the first time it had happened, maybe it was the key. Should he try? Or was it the thing that killed them all? How the hell was he supposed to know?

In the end, it wasn't up to him. He fell away from himself slowly, like falling from a rooftop, knowing there was no hope of survival. Once in flight, there was nothing he could do but wait to hit bottom. In his mind, he opened his arms and let go.

Something hard on the back of his head, bright light on the other side of his eyelids, mouth sticky, and a gentle hand on his shoulder. Disoriented and startled, he shoved the hand away and sat up fast, flight response at the ready. It was Helen, and she reached for him again.

"Sorry," he said. "Did I fall asleep? How long?"

"Only a few minutes. I'm sorry I woke you."

"Glad you did." The relief of being where he'd left off was huge. He tried to take the plastic-wrapped sandwich she held out, but his hands were shaking and he didn't want her to see.

She saw anyway and opened it for him. He didn't think he could eat it, but whatever it was ended up inside him so fast that he barely tasted it.

"See? You needed some food."

She had coffee for him, too, and he took it, hands calming. He did feel better. He'd try to eat something earlier next time. God, next time. Please, God, no next time.

"Helen, I need you to do something." He turned to her, searching her face. "I need you to convince Dr. Meredith that we have to go public. We have to try to reach Callendar, convince him to come in." He saw the hope flare in her eyes. "Can you do it? We want to offer Callendar a deal, and Meredith's saying we can't tell the public—" He tried to keep the anger frustration out of his voice, but he saw that she recognized it. How could she not? It had to be the same as her own.

She stood up, nodding. She was one tough lady. "I'll go now."

He watched her hurry down the corridor and go into Meredith's office without knocking. He wished he felt more hopeful himself, but it wasn't time yet. There was still more to do, more to try. More to get through. Again.

°°°°°

He stopped outside Hutch's room and watched him try to breathe. He had an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose this time, and his breaths came short and difficult. Starsky got a mask and gown, and put them on slowly. He almost didn't want to go in. He had nothing to offer Hutch, no encouraging words, no stupid jokes. All he had was himself, and it would have to be enough. He went inside the room.

"Hutch, I'm here."

Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him without turning his head. Starsky moved fast across the floor and sat next to him again. He wanted to tell him, explain. Would it just confuse him, horrify him, even? Or would he trust Starsky enough to find a little more strength?

Maybe Hutch knew what was happening, too. Maybe he didn't want to say so, in case Starsky just thought it was the plague talking, making him delirious. Starsky needed to find out, and to tell him, needed him to know, that no matter what happened, Starsky was still in the fight.

"Stars . . ."

"Don't talk, Hutch, just listen, okay?"

Hutch closed his eyes. If not for the jagged sound of his breathing, Starsky might have thought he'd already gone. How could someone be that sick and still be alive? He wasn't even coughing anymore.

"Hutch, something's happening. I don't know if I can explain it, and it's gonna sound crazy. Hear me out, okay?"

He found the hated red cloth on the bedside table, and pressed it to Hutch's face the way the nurses did. As soon as he finished, the sweat popped back up and ran down the side of his face again. Or maybe it was tears. Starsky tried to keep up, but it was hopeless. He looked up at the bottle of stuff dripping into Hutch's arm. It didn't seem to be enough.

"We're caught in some kind of loop, Hutch. I keep trying to figure out what to do, but nothing's working, and then I fall asleep and when I wake up, it's all starting over again."

Even to himself it sounded insane. Hutch opened his eyes again, staring into his.

"I'm not crazy. I know it sounds like it, but I'm not."

He would be, though, if he couldn't make this stop. He began to tell Hutch all the things he'd tried, all the different variations, and outcomes. He sounded insane.

"This time it'll work. It will. We're going to go on the air and offer Callendar a deal. He'll come in, I know he will."

Hutch lifted a hand and tried to reach for Starsky's. Starsky took it, gently, afraid of clutching at it, grabbing hard, hurting him even more.

"Oh, God, Hutch, I don't know what to do anymore. I can't think of anything else. You have to believe me, though. I'm not giving up, you hear me? Don't you give up, either, 'cause I ain't going to Bolivia on my own, you got that?"

He thought he saw a faint wisp of a grin hovering just above Hutch's mouth. He lifted Hutch's hand and kissed the back of it through the damned mask, and watched the grin make landfall.

"I got it, Starsk." He closed his eyes.

"I have to go. I'll be back. This time it'll work, and I'll be back." He set Hutch's hand down on the bed and left him.

Starsky had an awful thought, a really horrible one. It made him stop short in the hallway. He saw the walls narrowing before him, the bright lights dimming, his vision blurring. He put a hand out, trying to find something to hold onto. There was nothing, so he stopped and stood still, bent forward, head down, hands braced on the tops of his thighs. He tried to breathe slowly.

What if the same thing had happened when Terry died? What if he'd tried a hundred, or a thousand, times to save her? What if, in the end, what happened to her was the end that was supposed to happen, and that no matter what he did here and now, in the end, he was fighting off the very thing that would put a stop to . . . whatever the hell this was? Maybe he was supposed to just let Hutch die. Go in and sit beside him, hold his hand and promise to water his plants and make sure Kiko turned out to be a good man. Listen to Hutch promise that he'd be there for him always, and that he wasn't afraid. Give up and just let it happen, accept it.

Never. That was never going to happen. Not this time or any other.

A hand on his back, a gentle voice in his ear.

"David." It was Helen. "The doctor agreed. The news reporters are on their way."

Somehow she gathered him in and held him up, and he didn't even try to do the same for her.

°°°°°

This time Callendar never called. That had never happened before, so Starsky went looking for him. By now he had a pretty good idea where to look. It seemed like all he had to do was get in the Torino and think "Callendar" and the car took him to the right spot. Maybe he was losing it, thinking things like that. Maybe when this was over there'd be no one left inside himself for Hutch to survive for.

Or maybe it wasn't so nuts, because Callendar was there, in that long tattered wool coat in ninety-degree weather. Staggering, talking to no one, doing his schizo routine. The guy was good. Starsky followed him into the restaurant, and sat beside him at the bar. It was cool and dark inside, smoky, and full of lunchtime patrons. A television high up above the bar played some soap opera loud enough to grate on Starsky's nerves, loud enough to make Callendar glance up at it and watch for a moment. Maybe he hadn't even heard the deal this time. Maybe that's why he hadn't called.

Callendar gave him the barest glance, the slightest nod of a stranger, and ordered a sandwich and a beer when the waitress appeared. Starsky ordered a slice of pie, knowing he'd never choke it down.

How should he start this, get Callendar to listen and not just bolt out the door? He had no idea.

The pie arrived, and a glass of water. He drank it in three gulps. Stuck a fork into the pie and poked at it a few times. The waitress came back and refilled his water glass, and he drank that, too.

Finally, he turned his head and said distinctly, "Richie Yeager is dying. I need your help."

Callendar was good. He didn't blink or move, or respond in any visible way. He just kept watching the actress on the television sobbing on some pretty guy's neck.

"He has the plague. You gave it to him. Will you help him now? Helen said he liked you. You can save his life."

"Who the hell are you?"

Starsky put both hands on the bar, far enough forward that Callendar could see them even if he didn't turn his head.

"I'm a cop, Mr. Callendar. We both know what that means to you. I'm here to offer you a deal. Will you listen?"

"'Mr.' Callendar? Must be some kind of deal."

"Full immunity. You come with me, let the doctors take your blood, make a serum, and I will personally take you the airport, put you on a plane to any country that'll take you. No questions asked."

"Why should I?

"You survived the plague. You could save thousands of lives. You're the only one who can."

Callendar looked at him, like he was trying to see if there could be even a shred of truth to what Starsky said. Starsky looked back, eyes quiet.

"So?"

"So Richie's dying. Somewhere inside there I know you got a heart. Every mother's son got a heart, no matter what's gone down."

Callendar looked away. Maybe he was considering, maybe he was just deciding whether to put more mustard on his sandwich.

"I still got something to take care of."

"Roper." Starsky held steady again as Callendar looked back at him. "He's locked up tight. You'll never get to him."

Starsky had never felt so cold and calm. He looked at his hands. He was still holding the fork. He put it down on the plate.

"What's your name?"

"Starsky." Should he stick out his hand for a shake? He almost smiled at the thought. "Time matters here, Mr. Callendar. Will you come with me? Now?"

"Full immunity?"

Starsky nodded. "Guaranteed."

"All right."

So easy. It felt like taking the first breath after being suffocated. Starsky pushed back away from the counter. "You won't be sorry. Let's go." He threw some bills on the counter and turned, Callendar close behind.

This time it would work. It was almost over.

Outside, Callendar looked at the Torino and went straight to it. He must have seen it a hundred times or more. Did he know, too? Or was it some kind of subliminal trace, left behind on some brain cell that stored those kinds of things? He pulled off his disgusting wool coat and left it on the sidewalk, and folded himself into the passenger seat with a grunt.

Starsky got in and started the car, making it roar. He called in to Metro, and asked the dispatcher to call the hospital and tell them he was on his way with the goods. He heard Callendar give a sharp humorless laugh.

"Is Mrs. Yeager sick, too?"

"Not yet."

"How many?"

"Twelve dead so far. A hundred more sick. Thousands could be infected already." And Hutch . . .

"Ironic, isn't it. Me—saving lives."

"Yes."

It wasn't far to Memorial. Starsky pulled up with protesting tires by the Emergency Room doors.

"Wait." Hand on his gun, he climbed out and looked around carefully. No sign of Roper, but he had to be there. He always was. He was there, somewhere. The joker in the deck.

Starsky jogged fast around the car and opened the door, staying close to Callendar, keeping him in front, his own back vulnerable to the parking lot, to the street. He pushed him ahead, trying to make him hurry, but he was too slow, too slow. Around the corner, the black limo came shrieking up, faces in the windows, guns sticking out like toothpicks from a sandwich plate. He thought he heard Roper laugh.

"Callendar!" He shoved him down, but Callendar turned, punching at him, hitting his face.

"You set me up, you son of a bitch!" He pushed Starsky's grasping hands aside, scrambling backward, up on his feet and away.

Starsky was running before he was even fully aware of the players and where they were. Yelling something, Callendar's name, maybe, or Hutch's. He felt a hard shove to his back, up high, and his left arm went numb as he reached for his gun. He couldn't make his fingers work. He lurched forward, into Callendar, pushing him down, and fell on top of him. Callendar, enraged, threw him off, and pulled his own weapon, firing after Roper's car.

"I got him," Callendar shouted. "I got him!"

Something was wrong with Starsky's legs. They were stuck to the pavement. He reached out blindly with his right hand, and caught hold of Callendar's ankle.

"Callendar! Wait! I didn't know. Wait, please." He couldn't hold on, and he watched Callendar take off, pelting around the side of the hospital, gone. He put his head down, defeated.

Something dripped down his back, itching, and he reached his right hand behind to scratch at it. He brought it back around and looked at it. It was red, like the cloth that Judith used to wipe Hutch's face. Had Callendar been hit again after all? Maybe he'd fallen just around the side of the building. Starsky tried to stand up, to go and see.

Hands on him, voices telling him to lie down, he'd be okay, not to worry. He couldn't understand why. A sensation of rising, of lifting without effort. Trees above, sky, a vapor trail dissipating. He squinted against the sunlight. He felt sick and dizzy. Did he have the plague, now, too? Was that the key? Was this finally the end?

Judith's face appeared above his. Bright white walls again. Lights too bright. Too many people. Too much noise.

"Am I sick?" he said.

"No."

Someone went behind him and rolled him forward. Someone started to cut his shirt off. He would have taken it off for them; they didn't have to cut it. Someone took off his watch. He needed it, tried to ask for it back. No one paid any attention.

Helen Yeager came in and stood quietly by the door. Someone stuck a needle in his arm, and the small pain seemed to travel up and around, focusing itself somewhere behind his left shoulder blade.

He put his right hand out, and Helen came over to take it. "I think I figured it out," he said. She might know what he meant. She was the only one who would.

"Don't talk, now. Let them do their jobs."

"I lost Callendar again." It was hard to talk. Something had a hammerlock on his lungs. "But it's okay, I figured out—"

"He's here, it's all right."

That made no sense. Callendar had taken off like he'd been shot from a cannon.

"How?"

"He came back. I don't know why."

Callendar had a heart. Somewhere deep in there he cared about Richie.

Starsky turned to Judith. "Can you still use his blood?"

"Yes."

"Shouldn't you go—?"

"Dr. Meredith is with him. Just lie still." Judith listened to his heart, and shined a light into his eyes. Something small and hot splashed on his face, and then another. Whatever she was doing, it hurt.

"Don't cry," he said. "It's okay, now. Roper shot me instead of Callendar." That made some sense.

"Yes." She pressed a cloth to his face. It was green, not red.

"See, I figured it out this time. My life for his. It makes sense."

"Callendar's?"

"No."

She didn't get it. His life for Hutch's. Why hadn't he understood this before? It seemed so obvious now. Judith's face blurred, and he couldn't feel Helen's hand anymore. He could see the people working on him, but their voices faded. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart, and then he couldn't hear even that.

He looked at her eyes. "Tell him it's what I wanted."

°°°°°

Hearing switched on. Some kind of background hum and a repeating high-pitched beep. Distant voices. Footsteps barely there, padded maybe. A telephone ringing. Someone cried out. Someone laughed.

Above him there was pain. He could feel it as some kind of disconnected mass, close, but not his. Almost like a big cotton ball, dense but light, or maybe more like one of those demolition balls, swinging wildly, ready to smash into him, do its damage, and swing away.

Familiar odors. Unmistakable. He knew then where he was, but he still didn't know why.

Something had changed, but he didn't know what. Didn't care.

It seemed like he lay beneath a gauze curtain. Or not a curtain. A net, maybe, or some kind of tent that had no inside except himself at the core.

That couldn't be right. He wasn't on a camping trip. He was supposed to be in Judith's office. He wanted to look out the window but he'd have to open his eyes to do that.

He wasn't in Judith's office, though. Something had changed. He still didn't know what.

Something had changed.

Hearing switched off.

°°°°°

Hearing switched back on, and this time so did everything else. The wrecking ball was at work, smashing into his back in a steady beat.

He was pretty sure he still wasn't in Judith's office. It was almost dark, for one thing, and quiet. If he didn't open his eyes, then he wouldn't know for sure. He kept them closed. Because if he wasn't in Judith's office, and he was somewhere, alive . . .

He opened his eyes. The room looked like every hospital room he'd ever been in. Empty bed next to his. Windows too high to see anything but the sky. There were streaks of pink and orange. It was early morning or late evening. He didn't really care which.

"Oh, God, Hutch. I thought I figured it out."

Someone had brought flowers and some kind of stuffed animal. It looked like an elephant but he couldn't tell for sure.

There was a television up high on the wall but he couldn't find any way to turn it on. There wouldn't be anything he wanted to see, anyway.

Something dripped steadily into his right elbow. He squinted up at the bottle. Dextro something. Probably his dinner.

In some vague way he wondered what time it was. He tried to lift his head to look at his wrists, but it was too much trouble and he gave up. He didn't think his watch was there, anyway. It didn't matter anymore.

He tried flexing the fingers of his left hand. They seemed to be working okay, but it made the wrecking ball swing back in, and he was sorry he'd tried. Maybe he could get a nurse to knock him back out with something. If he went to sleep maybe he'd wake up back where he could still do something to change things, still have a chance to swim through whatever the hell this was to the right island where Hutch survived.

What the hell was this, anyway? Had he imagined the whole thing? How could he have imagined all those facedowns with Roper? All those knockdowns with Meredith, the drag-outs with Dobey? How could he have imagined all those lost moments in Helen Yeager's arms, or hers in his? Or Judith's hands shaking every time he looked at them. Or those deals with Callendar falling to bits on the pavement outside the hospital.

And Hutch's eyes. There was no way to imagine the insanity of watching Hutch's eyes as they unlocked from his again and then again.

He would have imagined all those things a little differently if he had imagined it all, that he was sure of.

Maybe Hutch had never even been sick, and it was all just some coma-induced hallucination.

That couldn't be right, though, because Hutch would be there with him now, or he would have left him some kind of message to let him know he'd be back soon. Hope flared briefly, but he could see nothing that looked like a note. There was no chair nearby with a brown leather jacket thrown over the back. There was no huge window with "HUTCH" scrawled in red. There was nothing.

So it had all happened. Whatever it was. How? And why? Had it ever happened to anyone else? Was there some point to it that he was missing? Or was it just a joke that wasn't funny?

What about Richie? He didn't want to know. He felt mean-spirited but he didn't care.

The pounding ache in his back faded a little. Sleep crept up behind him, and he closed his eyes to meet it.

°°°°°

He was much too hot, his head pounded, and he felt sick. Things weren't going well for him, probably. He didn't care. He didn't bother to open his eyes.

Someone pressed a cloth to his face. He wished they would stop, go away, leave him alone. His eyes burned and whoever it was patted the cloth against the sides of his face when his tears escaped. He felt very weak. He hadn't meant to cry. Oh, God, Hutch. It hurts. It hurts.

°°°°°

This time when he woke, he felt different. No longer sick, not shivering with fever, no headache. The throbbing in his back was of reasonable proportions. Some part of him was disappointed. If he wasn't going to die, he wanted to suffer more. It was all he had to offer to Hutch. His throat tightened, and he tried to swallow past the ache of it. He didn't want to cry. It didn't help and it seemed like such a small and insignificant thing to do. Hutch's loss was too big for simple tears.

How long had he been here? A day? A month? Time wasn't a thing he understood anymore. It wasn't something that passed you by in a straight streaming line. It was some kind of liquid. Quicksand maybe, with eddies and swirls that caught you up and dragged you in. If you got out at all, it just dropped you into some other bog, and all you could do from then on was stagger around, knee deep, mired and miserable.

Why hadn't anyone come in to check on him? It seemed like years since he'd spoken to anyone. Maybe it had been. Someone had to be coming in sometimes. He was clean and relatively comfortable, and the bottle of his dinner was full again. A familiar burning pressure in his bladder let him know he had a catheter on board, and with nothing but dextro-something going in, not much would need to come out.

There were new flowers on the table, and some cards standing up next to a box of See's. Now there was a chair near the bed, and something thrown over the back of it. He heart beat stronger and his face burned, but it was a yellow sweater. His mother had one like that. Was she here?

He lay back and closed his eyes, feeling that awful weakness sneak out of them again. No one came with a red cloth to press the tears from his face and he let them fall.

Suddenly he realized he was glad it had turned out this way. If it had been what he'd wanted, and he'd died, then Hutch would be the one suffering now. He had some first hand experience of just how bad that was, and it wasn't what he'd wanted for Hutch. Maybe it was better this way after all.

There was some comfort in that.

°°°°°

This time when he woke up, he couldn't be bothered to open his eyes. But something had changed. There was a hand around his. Large and strong, familiar and warm. He closed his fingers inside it, and felt the strength of it as it tightened around them. At least he could still imagine Hutch's hands. He wished for sleep to take him back, to let him dream.

He dreamed Hutch's voice.

"Open your eyes, Starsk, I'm here now."

Yeah, me, too. Here now. What's the point?

"Come on, Starsky, it's time to wake up. I need you to wake up."

There was something in Hutch's voice that he'd never heard before. Some quality he could never have imagined. He couldn't have imagined it. The bounding hope swamped him and he fell into it once again, but this time, this time . . .

"Oh, God, Hutch. It hurts. It hurts."

"I know, baby. I'm here now."

He opened his eyes into Hutch's. He was getting pretty good at this imagining thing. Hutch lifted his hand and kissed the back of it. Starsky let himself grin.

"Hutch." He reached a hand out to touch his face, and it set off the wrecking ball. It smashed into him, relentless. So he wasn't dreaming. In dreams your muscles didn't seize up like an octopus's arms around a starfish. He breathed in hard without meaning to, and the room began to spin around him. His eyes clenched shut.

"Oh, God."

Hutch took both his hands, held them tight, tighter. "What can I do for you?"

He opened his eyes and found Hutch's without moving his head. "Get the sucker that's trying to put a pile driver through my back."

"Easy, Starsk, just breathe. Slow and easy."

The wrecking crew retreated, leaving a pounding ache behind. He relaxed a little. "You did it, Blondie."

"So did you," Hutch said.

Did Hutch know all of what he'd done? He searched his face. No, he didn't know.

Was this real, now? How was he supposed to know for sure? Hutch had on a blue hospital gown. His eyes were still red-rimmed but no longer pale and terrified. Unshaven, he looked gaunt and a little wild. He looked awful, really, and there was a rattle to his breathing that still frightened Starsky. He was pretty sure he'd have imagined him strong and healthy, and in something a little more flattering. Maybe this was real.

"How long?"

"Have you been here? Almost a week. You scared a lot of people."

"So did you."

"Yeah."

Almost a week in hell while he thought Hutch had died. Why hadn't anyone told him? Maybe no one had known that he'd thought so. Maybe they'd thought he wandered in hell because he'd been shot, and they hadn't known why he was really there.

Why hadn't he died? If the key hadn't been his own life, then what? He might never know. Never understand. He could live with that.

"I kept thinking I was dreaming," Hutch said. He looked down at his hands, and tightened them around Starsky's. "You'd come in and sit on the bed, hold my hands—like this—and I'd feel better. But then I'd look in your eyes, and I'd know you couldn't do it. And I'd think, I can't leave him alone like this. He'll die, too."

Starsky swallowed hard. "Hutch . . ."

"I kept thinking I died anyway, because I couldn't feel that sick and not be dead. Sometimes I didn't care, really—it hurt so much—but you held my hands, and you—"

"Hutch—"

"No, wait. I wanted . . . Judith told me you said . . ." He stopped, lifted his eyes and held Starsky's with a look in them that Starsky never wanted to see there again. "What the hell did you mean, it's what you wanted? What were you trying to do, Starsky? Trade your life for mine? What made you think that could work? And what about what I wanted? You don't think I wanted that?"

"No. It wasn't that. It was . . ."

"What, then? What?"

He'd hurt him anyway. He hadn't meant for that to happen. Anything but that.

"I watched you dying, Hutch. Over and over." He could see that Hutch had no idea what he was talking about. "I watched you . . . die. I tried everything. I'd have done anything to stop it."

That had been the key, then, that he'd wanted to. It made perfect sense. Kind of. The kind of sense that he would never be able to explain. He could accept that. Hutch was here with him and he would accept anything for that. He pulled one of his hands out of Hutch's grasp and put it to the side of his face instead, feeling the soft ends of his new beard, pushing the hair away from his eyes.

"When I woke up, I thought you were dead. No one told me." He put his hand on Hutch's chest, and felt the lift as he breathed, the quiet beat of his heart under his hand. "I'd have done anything to stop it. I thought it hadn't been enough."

"Oh, God, Starsky." He looked down and away, and Starsky waited, watching his face. Finally he looked up, and met Starsky's eyes. He would have done the same. He knew it, and Starsky did, too. It was the key.

"You look like hell, Blondie."

Hutch smiled, and laughed, and coughed, and ended up bent forward, red-faced and struggling. Starsky tried to find the button to call the nurse, but it eluded him, and all that happened was that the wrecking ball kicked up its rhythm. He tried to breathe through the pain of it, but it caught him up and took him over, muscles seizing, fists clenching, eyes shut tight.

"Yeah," he said on a gasp. The pain retreated a little. "Couple a tough guys, we are." He put a light hand on the back of Hutch's head. "Come on, Hutch, breathe, nice and slow."

"I'm okay." He didn't sound like it.

"You need to go back to bed." He didn't want him to leave.

"I will." He didn't leave.

Starsky listened to the sound of his breathing as it calmed and slowed. Eyes closed, he willed the pain in his back away. It didn't matter to him anyway. It meant nothing next to sound of Hutch's breathing.

Sleep stalked him again and he was afraid to let it take him. Where would he be when he came back to himself? In the end, it wasn't up to him, and in his mind he let himself fall, hand in Hutch's, listening to the sound of his breathing.

°°°°°

This time when he woke, something had changed. He had a roommate. Hutch waved over to him from the other bed. He was reading the paper.

"Hey," he said. He put the paper down and climbed out of the bed. He made his way over, poured some water, and held it for Starsky while he drank. "The nurse left this stuff for your lips. Do you want me to put some on them?"

His lips were dry and felt like they'd cracked into pieces. "Yeah." Hutch's fingers were gentle and cool. He felt better.

He was afraid to ask, but there was something he needed to know. "How's Richie?"

"Going home soon. Helen was in a little while ago to check on us."

So he did care about Richie's fate, after all. He was glad for Helen, for them both.

"Judith?"

"Still here. She's leaving on Monday."

Hutch seemed pretty casual about that. He was sorry in a way, but not too sorry.

"Roper?"

"Dobey thinks he's dead."

He probably was. Starsky was surprised to find he felt bad about it.

"Callendar?"

"Gone. Dobey took him to the airport four days ago."

"Where?"

"Don't know. Don't care."

Starsky did, but he wasn't quite sure why. Maybe he just wanted to thank him.

"You?"

"I'll be okay. Stuck here for a while longer, but so're you, so that's all right."

He gave Starsky his thousand-watt smile. Starsky thought he needed nothing else, ever again.

Hutch found a red cloth and pressed it to Starsky's face. It felt good.

"You got any more questions?" Hutch said.

He had a lot, but he didn't think he'd ever get any answers to them.

"Hutch."

"What, babe?"

"I got a hell of a story to tell you, pal."

"Yeah? How does it end?"

Starsky looked into Hutch's eyes. "You're really okay?"

"I'm okay. So're you. Or we will be."

"Then it ends well."

He was tired.

This time, when sleep tried to take him, he resisted. But in the end, it wasn't up to him, and he succumbed—unwilling, but grateful.

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