Winds of Change

by Rae (c)2005

This time it was just too much. Starsky ran a shaky hand through his hair and closed his eyes. He looked at the phone and thought about calling Hutch. And didn't. He was going to keep it to himself this time. He fell asleep where he sat on the couch, not even lying down. He couldn't think of any other way to get from now to tomorrow.

In the very early morning, the phone rang and he woke suddenly, heart pounding, stiff and uncomfortable. Bad news? That's what early morning phone calls usually meant.

"Yeah?" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. He tried again. "Hello?"

"Starsk?" Not bad news, just his partner.

"Yeah."

"You been sitting there alone all night?"

"No."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"I'm coming over."

"No, don't." But the line was dead. If he pulled himself together fast he could get out before Hutch arrived. Thought about it. Didn't move. He was still sitting there when Hutch let himself in.

"Jesus, Starsk."

"I look that good, huh?"

"No, buddy. You look like shit. I'll make some coffee."

Starsky watched him walk to the kitchen, gather the filter, the coffee, the mugs. Sugar and cream. He waited while Hutch stood still, hands on the edge of the sink, bending over a little, too tall to lean that way and still stand up straight. With his back turned, Starsky could look uninterrupted at Hutch's hair brushing the back of his neck, at his shoulders and the way they hunched forward a little bit. The fall of his leather jacket just above the curve of his butt, the length of his legs, and the swell of his calf muscles. Starsky did that whenever he had the chance. It didn't mean anything. He just liked to admire his partner.

Without moving, Hutch spoke, very low. "What can I do, Starsky? Tell me, please. I'll do it."

"Bring her back."

Hutch turned around, and stood up straight. He looked at Starsky, but he could only see the top of his bent-down head, dark curls all cluttered, hiding his eyes.

"Starsk."

"Bring her back, Hutch. If you can't do that, you can't do anything. So please, just stop trying, okay?"

"Okay." He poured coffee, added the right amounts of sugar and cream to Starsky's, and handed the mug to him. He poured his own, and sat at the kitchen table, drinking it in silence.

"I'm going back to work today," Starsky said.

"All right."

"Gonna take a shower."

"I'll wait for you."

Starsky stood up, wobbling a little, and moved off, limping on his right leg toward the bathroom. If Dobey saw the limp he'd set him to driving a desk chair, so it would be invisible by the time they got to Metro, and the captain would never know Starsky was still in pain. He didn't think of trying it hide it from Hutch.

The water beat down hard on Starsky's head, and he lifted his face to it. It was the only way he could cry, with his eyes tightly closed against the sting of the spray, standing there alone and naked, like his pain.

It wasn't that Hutch didn't understand, it was that he thought he did. And Starsky didn't see how, when he didn't understand himself. He'd been through loss before—hell, they both had. Who hadn't? Somehow you raked up the fallen leaves, and burned with them, and later, when you were ready, new ones grew, green and full of life.

That's what should have happened this time, too. But when he checked inside himself for signs of new buds, new life, nothing was there. The fire was out, the tree withered. Joanna had stolen his fire and taken it away with her. And not even Hutch could get it back.

Hutch listened to the sound of Starsky's shower, a steady beat, no change in rhythm. The sound of a man standing still under a shower, not moving. The coffee grew cold, the cream congealing into a white snaking line on the surface. He leaned his head back against the soft material of Starsky's couch. A snippet of a conversation from months before tripped into his brain.

Come on, Starsky. I want a do-over.

Oh no you don't. That was a fair play, fair and square. No do-overs once you take your finger off the piece. You're the one taught me that rule.

This isn't a world chess tournament. Give me a do-over.

It ain't gonna help anyway. Checkmate. Hah!

A do-over. That's what Hutch really wanted. He tried not to go back, not to remember, but the memory of Joanna, his last memory, took him over and he rode it like the crest of a wave, trying to stay just ahead. Lose his balance and he'd fall, tossing and churning, out of control.

"Don't make him choose, Joanna."

"I'm not, it's just—I don't know how to do this. It's like I'm living with two men, but they're only living with each other. Where do I fit in here?"

You don't is what Hutch wanted to say. "You fit in, Joanna. I don't know what else to say. He loves you."

"No he doesn't. He loves his job. He loves you. He likes having me around, and he likes to fuck me, but he doesn't love me."

You're right, but I'm not going to say that. "What do you want me to say?" He was repeating himself—always the signal to retreat. But he couldn't leave her now, with that pain in her eyes.

"I can't stay. I'm not going to. I'm telling him tonight. Don't be here, Ken."

He stared down at her, her blue eyes sparking, her straight blonde hair flying around her shoulders as she moved, tossing her head for the effect of it, even as distraught as she was.

Starsky did like to fuck her, he'd said so more than once. Liked the feel of her hipbones, he'd said. Liked her athletic runner's legs slung over his shoulders when he went down on her, and the way she dug her heels into his back and pulled on his hair when she came. Hutch had gone over there one night without calling first, and had sat himself down on the couch with a beer out of the fridge and whatever awful paperback Starsky'd been reading at the time. He'd figured he would wait for them to get home, when he'd suddenly realized they were home. Frozen and guilty, he stayed, listening, growing hard. Later that night on the phone, half drunk and still semi-erect, he'd told Starsky about eavesdropping, and that, in his opinion, Starsky should try out for the U.S. Olympic Fucking Team. Starsky had laughed.

"Never ever tell Joanna," he'd said.

And there he was in Starsky's kitchen, Joanna staring him in the face, as upset as he'd ever seen a woman, and he wanted her gone, out of his life, out of Starsky's.

"I'm sorry, Joanna. I'm sorry." He left her there, pain pouring out of her eyes. There was nothing else he could say.

Starsky came out of his bedroom, showered and shaved. The wet curls made him look younger, where he'd been looking so old and tired.

"Ready?" Starsky asked.

"Are you?"

"No. But two weeks is long enough."

"What about your knee? You're still limping."

"I taped it. Let's go before I change my mind."

"You want to take your coffee?"

"Hutch."

"Yeah. Sorry. Let's go."

They went out to the Torino, leaving Hutch's poor LTD on the street. Maybe Starsky would let him stay for the evening when they got home from work, play some cards, watch an old movie. Maybe the LTD wouldn't even start, and Starsky would let him stay overnight. It had been a long time since he'd done that. Since before Joanna. Get out of my head, will you please? he thought savagely, angry at a dead woman, angry at himself. Two weeks wasn't really all that long.

---

At the station, they walked by people they knew who barely looked at them, and when they did, it was without eye contact. A "good to see you back, Starsky" from a Vice cop, a few people nodding and half-smiling, one civilian aide, speechless, with tears in her eyes. Hutch tried to run interference, but Starsky just nodded and smiled at everyone, no matter what they said or how they looked at him. No sign of a limp at all.

Through the glass doors into Homicide, and Starsky headed straight for the water cooler, took a long drink, refilled his cup. He walked slowly to his desk and sat there a moment, looking at his things like he'd never seen them before. Hutch sat down across from him, and pushed around some paperwork, looked inside yesterday's coffee mug, poked at the red and white piggy bank that camped on his desk some days, and some days on Starsky's.

Captain Dobey came into the squad room with a fistful of case files, and saw them there, silent, barely looking at each other.

"I want to see you two in my office," he said, gently. It must have sounded strange to him because he dialed it up. "Now."

Starsky smiled, and exchanged a look with Hutch.

Some things never change, do they, partner?

Nope, and thank God for small favors, huh, partner?

They followed Dobey into his office, stood by the brown leather chairs in their usual places, Hutch to Dobey's right, Starsky to Hutch's.

Dobey started to say something and changed his mind, shook his head instead, and sat down at his desk. His chair creaked in the same way it always did, accepting his bulk, bracing itself. Hutch and Starsky sat then, too, Hutch sprawling his long legs a bit, not quite relaxed, Starsky up straight, both feet flat on the floor. He can't even sit normally yet, cross his knees. Dobey'll notice.

Dobey didn't notice. He seemed to have other things on his mind.

"I didn't know you were coming in today, Starsky," Dobey said. "Are you cleared for return to active duty?"

"Passed the medical yesterday, Cap," Starsky said. "I'm ready."

"Did you talk to the staff psychologist?"

"Yes, Cap."

"When?"

"Aw, Cap, I don't need a shrink."

"You were under orders, Detective."

"I'll call her. Tomorrow."

"Today."

"All right. Today."

"Hutchinson, you ready, too?"

"Yeah. I've had enough of desk duty. We're both ready."

"Good, because I have a case assignment and I need you both on it right away." He handed a heavy file to Hutch, ignoring Starsky's outstretched hand. Starsky kept his hand out anyway, and Hutch gave him the file.

Dobey saw it, but only said mildly, "Go on and read over the file, then come back in and we'll discuss how you're going to handle this."

Starsky and Hutch stood up to leave, nodding.

"Starsky," Dobey said. "I want to talk to you. Privately."

Starsky stopped, already turned to the door. He looked at Hutch, half in a panic. Hutch shrugged and smiled gently, and left the room, closing the door.

"Sit back down, Starsky," Dobey said. "Don't worry, I'm not going to bite you."

"Sorry, Cap. Guess I'm still a little on edge."

"That's understandable. I just want you to know how sorry I am, and that I know how hard this has been for you."

"Thanks. I'm fine."

"I know that, son, but if you don't go see Dr. McAllister, I'm going to put you back on medical leave."

"Medical leave? There's nothing wrong with me."

"There will be something wrong with you if I find out you haven't called her by the end of today. Is that clear?"

"Clear. Anything else?"

"I . . . No." He waved his hand toward the door. "Go on. Get out of here."

The case was cold, practically frozen solid. They read the file: The murder six years earlier of Brian Phillips, Jr., the fourteen year old son of a rich-as-Croesus shipping magnate whose company was based in Bay City.

The boy had been vacationing with a friend's family, Gene and Debra Morton and their son Allen, at their cabin up at Pine Lake, and had disappeared one afternoon. The family had immediately reported him missing; search parties had found nothing. Four days later, the body had turned up behind an empty cabin down the road, next to a brushpile.

Autopsy confirmed death by suffocation. Otherwise healthy, no apparent physical injuries other than bruising of the wrists and ankles, remains of adhesives, probably from duct tape, around the mouth, and the postmortem damage done by animals and insects.

Searches of nearby cabins and woods, including the use of K9 units, had yielded no evidence or clues. Interviews with other vacationers had also revealed nothing. Names and addresses were supplied.

An addendum to the original case file, dated two days earlier, described the new information that had led to the reopening of the case: Freddy Burke, small time drug runner, had been arrested for DUI and possession of marijuana and had pleaded out with time served by trading information he had on an old murder. Turned out his brother's wife's cousin had gotten drunk on a Sunday afternoon, and said he knew something about the murder of some rich guy's kid six years back. The cousin's name was Todd Sloan. And Sloan had worked for Sea Line Shipping, the dead boy's father's company.

Hutch looked at the photos, the first apparently provided by the boy's parents, of a healthy, happy teenager, with clear blue eyes, straight, light brown hair falling forward, and a wide-mouthed smile. The photo had probably been taken by a school photographer. The rest of the pictures, stark and hideous, showed the boy's torso naked and small. A narrow, hairless chest, a few sprouting pubic hairs. Ligature bruises on wrists and ankles. Bite marks and tears from animals on one skinny thigh and calf. Blue, translucent eyelids, long lashes resting on unlined cheeks. Calm, quiet face, appearing more asleep than dead. A hint of tension in the young forehead made the boy look like he was having a dream that he didn't really understand.

Hutch would have given anything if he could keep the pictures away from Starsky. But his partner would have to see them, no way around it. He handed them over, knowing better than to offer up any kind of shield against the images.

Starsky took them, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and released the breath. He looked at each photograph without comment, without expression, and Hutch watched as the color drained from his face and his shoulders tensed.

"You want the mother or the father?" was all he said when he was done.

"Mother," Hutch said. The father was less likely to be emotional, and would be easier for Starsky to deal with.

"What about the family of the friend?"

"After the parents, we can decide."

"Okay."

"I'll tell Dobey we're done with the file." He waited for Starsky to look up, but he just sat there. "Starsk, call the shrink."

"I will."

"Call her now or I'm going to go back in there and tell Dobey you aren't ready."

"Bullshit." But he picked up the phone, and asked for Dr. McAllister's extension.

Hutch listened while he made an appointment for late afternoon, and, satisfied, looked up the numbers for the dead boy's parents.

Dobey came out of his office looking for them.

They followed him back into his office and took up their usual places, same as always. Hutch imagined dozens of themselves stretching backward and forward in a long line over the years, the three of them sitting in those places, with the furnishings under and around them changing occasionally from year to year. Themselves essentially the same, roosting there after each big case, deciding how to go after their next bad guy, going out and doing it, coming back ready for the next one. This time it felt different. The heat was missing, the burning drive that fueled them both. Half of the dynamo that powered him had been flash-frozen—the man next to him looked like David Starsky, and he would act like David Starsky, but the fire in his eyes was out and he seemed content to sit staring in the dark.

Hutch and Dobey looked sideways at each other for a long beat, and if Starsky noticed, he said nothing.

"Got a plan yet?" Dobey asked.

Hutch said, "We're going to interview the parents of the dead boy this afternoon, then make contact with the family the boy was with when he died. And I think we need to go up to Pine Lake, take a new look around."

"You can stay in my cabin again, if you want to," Dobey said. "Give you a base of operations."

"Not in this lifetime," Starsky said. "Not without hazardous duty pay."

"Aw, come on, it'll be a working vacation," Hutch said, infinitely pleased to see even the smallest sign of humor in Starsky's face. "I'll let you use my fishing pole." Maybe going up to the lake again would help them both relax a little, assuming there were no more timber rattlers in the refrigerator, like the last time, and no more crazy people in clearings planning to sacrifice local maidens to Satan. Maybe working on the loss of someone's child would help them both to get some perspective on their own losses. Maybe he could get Starsky to talk to him.

"Gee, thanks, Andy. I just know Aunt Bea will bake us a pie, too."

At least he was trying. There was some hope that his partner might find his way back from whatever deep abyss he'd gone to live in. Hutch wanted him back very badly.

"I'll expect reports daily from one of you," Dobey said, "and you get back here by Tuesday, with or without any progress."

"You got it," Starsky said.

"Did you call Dr. McAllister, Starsky?"

"Yes, Cap."

"Don't roll your eyes at me, Starsky," he said. "I'm on to you." Dobey looked at Hutch for corroboration.

"He's seeing her this afternoon," Hutch confirmed. "After we interview the parents."

"See that he does."

"I will, Sir."

"Get out and get to work, then."

---

The last thing Starsky thought he needed was therapy. What good would it do to sit with some stranger for an hour, while she picked him apart at the seams and examined his innards? He'd be better off with one of the autopsy docs. They would be able to see inside him without him having to say a word. Himself cold and white, splayed out on a metal table under a harsh light, all his insides poked and prodded, removed and weighed. What did they do with it all after? Put it out with the trash? Shovel it back in? Did the pathologists see stomachs and intestines, livers and lungs when they ate their lunches and took their wives to bed?

"Detective Starsky, what were you just thinking?" asked Dr. McAllister. She had a nice voice, gentle, confident. She'd told him her credentials, explained about confidentiality and the way she liked to work, and that she knew why he'd been sent to her. At least somebody knew.

"Detective Starsky?" she said again, a little louder.

"Yeah?"

"I asked what you were thinking."

Starsky came back to himself with a thud, and almost told her. He looked around the room, comfortably furnished with a soft-looking couch, two armchairs across the desk from hers, himself in one of them. Calming colors, photographs of a dog and two cats, some plants Hutch would envy. A tray of sand and some smooth stones lay on a table next to his chair, and he put his right hand in it, sifting through the coarse sand, and pushing the stones around.

He looked at the woman he was supposed to expose his guts to. It wouldn't be right to talk to such a young woman, someone so calm and attractive, about the horrible things he'd seen and heard. And thought. She wouldn't be able to deal with it, and he didn't want to have to handle her, make her comfortable. He was tired of having to do that.

So he said, "I was just thinking this is a waste of your time, and I'm sorry you have to sit here like this."

"Sit here like what?" she said.

"You have to sit here with someone who doesn't want to be here, and who doesn't plan to say anything more than he has to say to do his time and get out. What do I have to say to get out of here?"

Maybe if he pissed her off enough she'd write him off and sign his form, and he could go get hammered. Except he'd already decided that getting drunk wasn't working and he wasn't going to bother anymore.

"Detective . . ."

"Call me Dave. Or Starsky."

"All right. Dave, then. I know you understand why your captain required you to come and see me. You know it's standard procedure. And you must know you aren't the first police officer to sit in that chair feeling as resistant as you feel."

"So?"

"So you're stuck with me, and I'm stuck with you. It can be a good experience or a useless one—your choice." She pushed her chair back a little, picked up a pen and held it ready. "I don't know what will happen as we go along, but I promise you I can take anything you have to say, and I'll help you stay in one piece. I promise you that as well."

How could she promise that? He was already in pieces. She was way too late. He wished he'd brought something to drink with him. Looked around to see if she had a water cooler. There was a fancy one in the corner, cream and blue ceramic, not standard issue metal. She sat there ready for him to say something, occasionally pushing her dark hair off her forehead, or scratching her nose. Every time he looked at her face she made eye contact, and he glanced away uneasily, finding something else to examine on the walls, or on her desk. She said nothing further, just sat there waiting.

"Aren't you going to say anything else?" he finally asked her.

"What would you like me to say?"

"Shit, you sound like Hu . . . Uh, sorry, I—"

"You can use words like 'shit' in here if you want to. You can say anything you want, use any language you like." She paused a moment, thinking. "You know, you can feel free to get up and walk around, get some water if you want it, sit anywhere."

"Really? I didn't think you were supposed to walk around when you were talking to a shrink." He stood and walked over to the bookshelf, careful not to limp, and looked at some of the titles.

"Some people are more comfortable if they can move around," she said. "Do any of those books seem interesting to you?"

"Yeah. Did you read all these?"

"Some of them are way too boring, but I've read most of them. Are there any there you'd like to look at?"

"This one on the mind of serial killers. And this one, sexual abuse of children. How does somebody research a book like that?" He looked at the next shelf. "Hey, you wrote this?" he said, surprised.

"Yes."

"Secondary Trauma of First Responders by Ellen McAllister, Ph.D.," he read. "That's terrific. Really."

"You can borrow any of those you'd like."

Starsky sat down with a small pile of books in his lap and paged through the one McAllister had written. "Chapter 6, Effects of Completed Suicides on First Responders." He looked up and met her eyes. They were gray and pretty, and she looked after all like maybe she could stand to hear what he had in his head.

"How do first responders deal with things like suicides?" His hands started to shake a little, and one of the books fell off his bad knee. He let it fall.

"Everyone deals with things differently, of course. Pretty much the whole range of thoughts, feelings, reactions. Anything is possible. Everyone's reactions are normal for them."

"Is it normal to . . ." He stopped. He just couldn't ask the question. He picked up the fallen book and put it with the others on the edge of the desk. He got up and paced again, ending up at the water cooler. He stood there, back to the room, trying to still his hands, trying to breathe.

McAllister said gently, "Most first responders don't arrive at the scene of a suicide to find it's someone they know. Someone they love." She waited for him to speak, but he didn't. "There's a question I have to ask you, Dave, something I ask everyone, so don't take it personally."

"I don't think I can do this. I'm sorry. I have to go."

"All right, but I still have to ask you before you leave. Are you having any suicidal thoughts of your own?"

"No." He was a little shocked at the question.

"None at all?"

"I thought about why a person does that and how, and how I would do it if I . . . but no. I wouldn't. It's just not something I would do."

"Okay. Thank you for telling me." She stood up and came around the desk and he turned to face her. "Take the books, and you can keep them until our next session. Thursday at 10 a.m. I'll have my secretary call and remind you."

"Next session? I meant, I can't do this at all."

"I understand, Dave. And I'll see you on Thursday." She smiled, and crossed the room to the door, held it open.

Starsky picked up the books and went out past her. "Thursday, then, I guess."

She nodded and he left. His hands had stopped shaking.

---

Hutch was waiting for him at the Pits. Starsky hadn't seen him since dropping him off back at his car when they'd split up to do their interviews, and had agreed on meeting later for an early dinner and to compare notes.

He went into the restaurant and saw its owner, and waved at him, nodding a hello.

Hutch waved and Starsky made his way over to the table, plopping down in the booth, the back of his leather jacket sticking to the vinyl bench seat. He pulled it free and took a long drink from Hutch's beer, and put his head back against the top of the backrest. He closed his eyes, still holding onto the mug. Hutch sighed and signed to Huggy to bring over a couple more.

"That bad, huh, partner?" he said to Starsky.

"Worse than bad. Man, I don't like talking to parents of dead kids. Six years and the guy cried all over me." He took a few long breaths. "How was the mother?"

"We should have switched. She was cold as a glacier."

"No, it was okay. I was fine." He opened his eyes. "Thanks for thinking of that, though."

"Sure, buddy."

Huggy came over with the beers and a grin. He slipped into the booth next to Hutch, and looked Starsky over like he was a racehorse he was thinking of buying. Appraising, evaluating.

"You look like something the cat wouldn't even bother to drag in," he said.

"Gee, Huggy, you sure know how to make a guy feel great, you know that?"

"Bet some of my nine-alarm chili would do a better job of that, what d'you say? Hutch? What'll it be?"

"Think I'll just settle for the Bleuburger Special," Hutch said.

"Make it a double, Hug, but lose the bleu cheese, will ya?"

"Now I know the Apocalypse is comin' when Starsky turns down my chili." He went off grumbling to himself and they watched him go, laughing a little.

"So what did the dad have to say?" Hutch asked.

"He knew Sloan by name but couldn't remember if there had ever been any kind of problem with him. Said he'd have the personnel files brought in and he'd look them over and get back to me." He stared into his beer mug. "He looked like a shadow on a wall, all one dark color, no light, no nothing. Clothes and hair perfect, like painted on, not worn. The guy was just a shell, Hutch. No spark in him at all. A guy going through the motions."

Hutch looked closely at Starsky. Did he realize he was describing himself as well as Brian Phillips, Sr.?

"I know how he feels in a way," Starsky continued. "Not like I lost a kid, nothing could be as bad as that. But I know how he feels. Hollow."

Hutch put a hand over his partner's where it lay on the table, and nodded. Starsky took a sharp breath and seemed to shake himself mentally, like a dog shaking off rain.

"Tell me about Glacier Mom," he said, and eased his hand out from under Hutch's. He scratched his other arm with it, to make it seem like he'd had a good reason to take it away.

"Well, she was the opposite of your description of Sad Dad in appearance, very busy, very genteel. Beautiful. All the proper behaviors, offered me tea or coffee, something to eat. Light chitchat." Hutch described her house, perfectly decorated, spotlessly clean, no sign of a teenager ever having lived there. "Didn't want me to say anything, didn't want to hear anything about Sloan. Seemed like she'd do anything to keep me off the whole subject. But I think she was just as empty as your guy. I wonder if they ever talk to each other at all. I think they have separate bedrooms. I asked to see the boy's room. She said she'd given all Brian's things away, to his friends, and to a charity shop. His room was just bare, literally empty. Nothing in it at all. Like the parents." He sipped at his beer. "The door was locked. I've never seen that before. Usually the dead kids' rooms are shrines."

"Everyone has to handle things in their own way," Starsky said, remembering McAllister's words. "I wonder what the father wanted. I think he'd have preferred the shrine."

Huggy Bear arrived with their burgers. "Can't stop to talk shop with you two. Breakin' in a new waitress." He gestured toward a young woman over by the bar, owner of some magnificent frontage, enhanced by a T-shirt with sparkling multicolored letters that read "Climb Every Mountain." Her hair was an odd shade of yellow, and shorter on one side than the other, making her seem to be tilting her head. It was strange looking. Distracting. Not as distracting as her mountains, though. She looked over at Huggy, and waved sweetly. Hutch shook his head in amazement.

"Where does he find them?" he said.

They ate a while, and Starsky put his burger down unfinished. He looked at Hutch, silently daring him to say anything about it. He just wasn't hungry. Hadn't been for a long time.

"Guess the day wasn't all that productive," Hutch said. They weren't really back in the swing of things yet. They'd hit their stride soon. "How was therapy?" he asked.

"I walked out."

"Starsky."

"I know. I just couldn't do it, but I'm going in again on Thursday. Not that she gave me much choice." He picked up a French fry, and put it down again. "She asked me if I was suicidal."

Hutch stopped with his burger halfway to his mouth. He looked directly at his partner. "Are you?"

"I told her the same as I told you."

"Would you tell me if you . . . if you . . ." He couldn't say it.

"I'm not going to kill myself. I just wouldn't do it. And if I did think about it, I'd tell you." He looked down at his food. "The way I feel now—I just would never do that to you, to my mother. You can forget about it. I mean it."

"Okay, buddy. It's forgotten." He started to eat again, and Starsky watched.

"When do you want to go up to Pine Lake?" he asked.

"What time's your appointment on Thursday? We can head out right after."

"Ten I think. Maybe it was 10:30."

"Starsky . . ."

"Oh, stop worrying. She said she'd have her secretary call. I'm going back." He knew Hutch was about as likely to stop worrying as the sun to stop rising, but anything was possible. "She wrote a book—I borrowed it. You're coming over, aren't you? Play some chess?"

Hutch nodded. "Sure, buddy. I'll come over," he said.

Starsky signaled to Huggy, who came over with a pitcher of beer. "'Nother round?"

"Sorry, Hug. We're heading out," Hutch said. "Listen, see if you can get a line for us on a guy named Todd Sloan. Used to work for Sea Line Shipping about six years ago. Might be involved in a kidnapping and murder." He finished his beer.

"You got it."

Starsky said, "We'll call you in a couple of days. We're heading up to the crime scene. If you need us, just call Dobey."

"Will do," Huggy said, and turned to nod toward a customer asking for a drink, rather loudly. "My public awaits." He turned away, waving backwards over his shoulder.

Starsky put some bills and change on the table, and they left together.

Hutch followed Starsky home and they went in without talking. Starsky put out beers and got down the chess set, and stared at the pieces without setting them up.

"We don't have to play if you don't want to," Hutch said.

"I guess I'm not in the mood after all."

"Anything good on TV?"

"Let's go out. Find some girls."

"Starsk."

"What, you don't want to?"

"Honestly? No."

"Huggy was right. It's the Apocalypse."

"No. It's just, I wish . . . shit. When are you going to talk about Joanna?"

"When are you going to stop asking me?" Starsky took a few steps across the room and put his jacket back on.

"Look . . . Where are you going?"

"I'm out of here. You can stay here and talk about Joanna all you want but I'm going to go get laid. See you."

To Hutch's utter astonishment, Starsky left, and slammed the door behind him. He stood alone in the middle of Starsky's apartment, and drained his beer, and went home.

---

In the morning, Hutch found Starsky waiting in the Torino outside his apartment, reading the Bay City Times. Surprised and pleased, he got in the car, resolved to say nothing, ask nothing, until Starsky spoke first. He'd had a bad night, beating himself up for hours for his clumsiness. He should have kept his mouth shut for once, but this thing was becoming almost an obsession. If he didn't get Starsky to open up soon, he was going to need an appointment with the shrink himself. He'd gone to work alone every day for two months and done his job feeling like he'd had one arm and one leg cut off. Now Starsky was finally back to work, but Hutch didn't feel any more whole. In a flash of insight, he knew he never would until Starsky did. And he wasn't so sure that was ever going to happen.

They were almost to Metro before Starsky spoke.

"Sorry," he said.

"Aw, buddy."

"I just can't talk about it. I don't know if I'll ever be able to." He looked over at his partner. "Maybe you could go see McAllister, too. You've been pretty badly screwed over by all of this. Don't think I don't realize that."

"I'm okay. I'm just worried about you, that's all. We'll get through it. I'll try to back off, but just know I'm right here if you need me."

"Could have used you last night."

"Why? No luck?"

"Started out okay. I went over to Mind Meld. You should've gone with me. There were twins."

"Twins!"

"No shit. Lina and Lola. Or Lila and Lona. I forget. Very pretty. Nice apartment, too."

"You made it with twins last night?" He stared at the side of Starsky's face. He had to be bullshitting.

"Yeah well, I would have. Couldn't ah, you know, get the flag to go up the pole."

"Oh my God."

"Tell me about it."

"I'm so sorry, Starsk."

"Hutch, are you laughing?"

"Laughing? No. Oh, God, no, I'm not laughing." He made an odd choking sound in his throat. "Laughing. No."

"Get out."

"What?"

"We're here. Get out."

"Oh. Getting out."

Walking through the station up to Homicide was a lot easier than it had been the day before. Starsky's Day of Sympathy had apparently ended at midnight, and he was free of stares and sideways looks. It was a relief to both of them.

"I'll get hold of the people the kid was with," Hutch said. "You got a plan of attack for today?"

"Look up the pathologist who did the kid's autopsy, call the father and see if he came up with anything on Sloan." Starsky pulled out the thick file, and sat with it at his desk. "And I want to go through the file again and take some notes, see if there are any connections that got missed, make a list of names and addresses. Form a time line."

"Should've been done when it happened." He took his place across from Starsky, and, stretching out a long arm, snagged part of the file. "Who were the detectives on the case? We should track them down, too."

Starsky looked them up, made a note, and handed it to Hutch.

"How do you want to do the friend's family?" Starsky said. "Split em up? How old is the kid now? He might not even be living at home anymore. And I'll ask Minnie to try to locate Sloan."

"Starsk . . ."

"Yeah?" Hutch didn't say anything, so he looked up.

"I just—"

"Spit it out, Blondie."

"I'm glad you're back. That's all."

Starsky tried to smile but he couldn't quite pull it off. He nodded his head. It was the best he could offer.

---

"You ever miss living in a place like this?" Starsky asked as they pulled up in front of the gate of the Morton family compound. The address was in one of the most exclusive sections of Bay City.

"Like this?" Hutch said, staring up the drive. "I never lived in a place like this."

"Thought you grew up in a fancy neighborhood."

"Not this fancy." Almost this fancy, he admitted silently. For some reason it embarrassed him.

"Would you want to?"

"I don't know. I guess it wouldn't be the worst thing. You?"

"No. Definitely not. Beach cliff all the way. Sand and sun, not manicured lawns and gates." He pushed the button on the intercom.

"May I help you?" said a disembodied voice.

"Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson to see Mr. and Mrs. Morton."

The gate opened before them and Starsky eased the Torino through. "Feel like we're entering Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, with the gate opening like that," he said.

Hutch laughed. "Maybe we are. How'd this guy make his money?"

"He's some higher-up at Disney. Maybe he stole the gate."

They drove up the intricately-patterned brick drive, and stepped out into a English-style courtyard.

Hutch said, "Look at these gardens. I'd like to get a look at some of those tropicals."

Starsky pushed the bell button, and they listened to a few muffled bars of some classical piece on the other side of the heavy door. Moments later the door opened, apparently by Mr. Morton himself. He had on tennis whites.

"Come in, detectives," he said, offering his hand to each for a shake. "Sorry about my outfit. I have a game scheduled. Let me get my wife." He went to the end of the long front hall, his tennis shoes squeaking on the marble tiles, and called her name. "Come and sit down in the lounge."

Morton led them to a comfortable room full of books and plaid-covered furniture. A cat slept soundly in the middle of a big leather chair, and Mr. Morton casually picked her up, sat in her place and put her on his lap. She never bothered to wake up. Morton gestured to them to sit.

"My son is on his way down from school. I thought he'd be here by now, but he must have been delayed. He had classes this morning."

Mrs. Morton appeared with a tray of tea and some cookies, and Starsky got up to help her. Mr. Morton made introductions.

"Thanks," she said to Starsky. "Help yourself to biscuits. I'm sorry they're not homemade." She had an upper class British accent. She sat in the center of the couch, and began pouring out tea, assuming they'd each want some. She was short and fine-boned, wearing a light sweater over a T-shirt and shorts, but she still looked elegant and well groomed.

Hutch said, "We're here, as I explained on the phone, because we have some new information regarding Brian's murder. We've been assigned to the case because the detectives who first investigated are no longer at Metro. We know how difficult it must be for you, but we'd like to hear from you as much as you can remember about Brian's disappearance."

Debra Morton spoke first. "It's been such a long time, now. To tell the truth, I'm not sure what I really remember and what I just think I remember. We tried so hard to put it behind us, I'm afraid I'm not going to be much help."

Hutch said, "You never know what little thing can be helpful. We understand. Just do your best."

"The boys were out on the lake all morning," she began. "I called them in for lunch, and I was irritated because they came in soaking wet and dripping." She seemed to be thinking back, remembering. "I sent them back out to the outdoor shower, told them to change into dry clothes. It's the last thing I said to Brian—go out and have a shower—funny I remember that so clearly." She looked out one of the tall windows. "What I keep thinking about, still, after all this time, is that I sent him off without his lunch. He must have been so hungry."

Hutch glanced at Starsky, expecting to meet his eyes, but Starsky kept his eyes on Mrs. Morton. Disconcerted, Hutch turned back to her as she continued.

"He just never came back in. Allen went out to get him, and couldn't find him. Brian's swim shorts were on the floor of the shower, and his clothes were there. He never . . . got dressed. That's why we called the police right away. What fourteen year old takes off without any clothes on? I can't explain what I felt when I saw his clothes. I knew right away it was bad."

Mr. Morton said, "We really don't know what else to tell you. Believe me, we've gone over and over it, all three of us."

"I wonder where Allen is," Mrs. Morton said. "I thought surely he'd be here by now."

"Maybe you could tell us about the days before Brian disappeared?" Hutch said. "Even the smallest thing might mean something that no one realized before. Sometimes time and distance make a big difference."

The Mortons looked at each other and she shook her head.

"Did you take any photographs?" Starsky asked. "Go on any car trips? Did anything unusual happen on any visits to town?"

"We do have some photographs." Mr. Morton stood up, dumping the cat onto the floor. Hutch watched as she stretched mightily, looked around, and headed toward a patch of sun on the floor under a baby grand piano. Morton hunted through some drawers in an ornate desk. "Here they are. We never put them in an album. We could never really bear to look at them."

He handed a bright-yellow envelope to Starsky and sat back down in the leather chair. Starsky took them out and looked through them.

"I hate to ask, but if you could go through them now, and identify the people for us, and tell us if there's anything unusual that maybe you wouldn't have thought about before . . ."

Mrs. Morton reached out a hand and took them. "I'll write people's names on them for you."

The sound of a car outside made them all look up.

"Finally," Mr. Morton said.

A minute later a tall young man, casually dressed, blond and tanned, came in smiling apologetically. The cat made a small sound, got up and trotted over to greet him, rubbing happily against his legs. He bent down and scratched her head. The thrum of her purring filled the room.

"I'm Allen," he said. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic."

Starsky and Hutch both stood up and shook hands with him, and thanked him for coming in from school.

"It worked out well," he said. "Party on Friday." He went over to his mother and kissed her, shook hands with his father, and settled on the couch next to Mrs. Morton. The cat jumped onto his lap. "Pictures? Brian?"

"Yes, darling." His mother turned them so he could see them.

They looked through them together, shoulders touching, remembering and smiling. Mrs. Morton wrote names and locations as best she could, and then handed them all back to Starsky.

Hutch said to Allen, "Your parents told us a little about the day Brian disappeared. Could you tell us what you remember?"

"Not much. We were out on the lake all morning. Just lying around, swimming some. Mom called us in to lunch, and then made us go back out and shower. I went first, then Brian, but he never came in. I went to find him, and he was gone. Still don't believe it." His mother patted his knee.

"Any small things you can think of," Starsky asked. "Anything odd during the morning? Sounds, smells?"

"Nothing. I've gone over it hundreds of times."

"What about hypnosis?" Hutch said. "Would you be willing to give it a try?"

"Sure. Anything." His parents glanced at each other, but Allen didn't notice.

"We'll set it up for tomorrow if we can. Do you have anything of Brian's, by any chance?"

"His mom gave me some of his stuff. I'll get it." He went out of the room, carrying the cat with him, putting his face into her fur. They could hear his steps diminishing as he ran up the stairs.

Mrs. Morton offered more tea. "We're very proud of him. He's studying geology at Cal Tech."

"You have no other children, is that right?" Starsky asked.

"No, just the one. Brian was like a brother. A son."

Allen returned with a large cardboard box. He said, "Take them with you if I can have them back. I don't look very often, but I wouldn't want to lose them."

"We'll be careful." Hutch stood and took the box. To Mr. Morton he said, "We'd like to go up to Pine Lake and look at the place where Brian was last seen, and where his remains were found."

"I'll have our caretaker meet you with the keys to our cabin. Just let me know what time to tell him," Mr. Morton said.

Starsky stood up and moved toward the door. "Thanks for your time," he said. "I know it doesn't seem like it's helpful, but you never know." He shook hands with Allen. "We'll set up that appointment for hypnosis and let you know, and we'll get Brian's things back to you."

"Thanks for coming all the way down to see us," Hutch said.

"Anything for Brian."

"All of us," said his father.

The three of them stood together and watched as Starsky and Hutch got into the Torino, and drove off.

---

"I thought I'd have to chase you down," Dr. McAllister said on Thursday.

"Told you I'd be here," Starsky said. "Sorry I'm late, though. I should have called."

He put the books he'd borrowed back on the shelves, and sat on the couch instead of the chair he'd taken last time. McAllister sat across from him instead of behind her desk, and balanced his chart on her lap. She gestured to a coffeepot on a side table, and he shook his head.

"How've you been since our last session?" she asked.

"Had a bit of a rough time getting back into the swing of things, but we're on a cold case. New info, but we're not making much progress."

"You just started."

"Yes."

"I wondered if you have any questions for me, or if there's anything you'd like to talk about today," she said.

"No."

"Nothing at all? I thought you understood that you aren't going to get out of here, as you put it, until you find a way to deal with what happened." She smiled to soften her words.

"I'm dealing with it." Starsky looked at his hands. How had they gone from resting calmly on his knees to clenched and white-knuckled in the space of four seconds?

"Yes, but not exactly in a very healthy way." She gestured to his still-clenched fists.

"What the hell is a healthy way? Spill my guts to everyone who asks me how I'm doing? How I'm feeling? Who looks at me like I've got a brand on my forehead?" He forced his hands flat but they wouldn't stay that way. He crossed his arms and hid his hands under them.

"What kind of brand?"

"Shit, I don't know. It was just something to say."

"You feel branded." She wrote something in the chart.

"I feel . . . God! I don't know what I feel. Mostly I feel nothing."

"Like you're just going through the motions."

"Yeah. Exactly. This case, it doesn't matter to me like it should. A kid was murdered, and his killer's still out there, and we'll find out who it was and we'll go and get the bastard, but so what? Anyone else could do it."

"But you're the one who's doing it. Not anyone else. What will you feel when you solve the case?"

"When me and Hutch solve the case." She nodded and wrote something, and he went on. "I'll be glad for the parents, I guess. Though they don't seem to care much if we solve it or not."

"What makes you say that?"

"They're cold inside. Empty. Hutch said they gave away all the kid's stuff and emptied out his room. The father cried when I interviewed him."

"What did you think of when he cried?"

"Don't know that I thought of anything."

"Well, what did you do while he cried?"

Starsky thought back. "I looked around his office and waited for him to finish. He has a nice office. Nice view."

"I wonder what was it like for you to sit with an empty man while he cried." She wrote some more notes.

"It was a little embarrassing. I felt bad for the guy."

"That's all?"

"What else should I have felt?" He put his hands down on his thighs. He wanted to cross his ankle over his knee, but it was still too sore. He shifted his feet on the floor, and wished he had something to fiddle with. He picked up a glass paperweight from the low table between them, and looked into its depths.

"I can't help but notice some similarities between you and your victim's father."

"There's nothing similar between me and him."

"When you describe your feelings, or lack of them, and then you describe the father, it almost sounds like you're describing the same person."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You said you feel nothing, that you're just going through the motions. You felt no empathy when the father cried—you just looked at his things and waited until he stopped crying. You described him as empty and cold. You described yourself as uncaring about the case. You say you don't have any feelings. No feelings is like being empty, like the father. Uncaring is like being cold, like the father."

Starsky stared at her for a long moment, stunned. The paperweight felt heavy in his hands and he turned it around and around, feeling the smooth surface. He had a strong impulse to throw it at the wall, and with some effort, he put it back on the table.

McAllister said, "What were your thoughts just now?"

"That I wanted to throw something, and your paperweight would have fit the bill."

"Thanks for not doing it. What stopped you?"

"What always stops me. I know it won't help, and there's no point in making a worse mess of things than they already are."

"What would help, Dave? If you had a magic wand, what would you make it do?"

Without stopping to think he said, "I'd make it get me to Joanna two seconds sooner. I'd make it keep my knee in one piece so I could have moved faster."

"So the things that didn't happen—that you would change if you could—those things are the reason why Joanna died?"

"I'm the reason Joanna died." It came out as a whisper, but it seemed to Starsky like a shout. He stood up, his flight response in high gear, and looked a challenge at McAllister. "Write that in your chart, will you? Make a note of that."

She sat quietly, looking at him calmly, and said nothing, and wrote nothing in the chart.

He began to pace the small office. If he didn't, he would run, and he couldn't run fast enough or far enough to get away—from himself. So he would stay here and pace and maybe she would tell him what to think and how to feel, and what the hell he was supposed to do with the guilt.

Eventually he found himself back on the couch, because his knee throbbed and his hands hurt, and his head had begun to pound.

McAllister said, "Joanna is the reason Joanna died."

"So I should be mad at her? She's dead, what's the point of that? She wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for me." Neither would Terry, and maybe neither would Gillian, but if he said that out loud he'd buy himself another hundred hours of therapy.

"She wouldn't be dead if she hadn't chosen to kill herself."

"Your logic is fucked. If I'd treated her the way she wanted to be treated, been the man she wanted, loved her—"

"I think it's your logic that's fucked, actually." She smiled when he looked at her finally, incredulous. "What, you didn't think shrinks ever say the F word?"

"I guess I didn't."

"Well, now you know better."

He actually smiled, and he wouldn't have bet so much as a dime that that would have happened.

He said, "I read that chapter in your book last night. Survivor guilt. That's what I have, right?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm still here, and they . . . she isn't, and I feel guilty. Survivor guilt."

"You started to say 'they' and changed your mind. Would you tell me what you were going to say?"

"How much time have I got left?" He looked at his watch and smiled, this time without humor. "Not enough."

"Just draw me a sketch, then."

"You know, you should get some kind of award for Best Bulldozer."

"You feel like I'm bulldozing you into something?"

"Yeah. You never give up."

"No, never. Well, hardly ever."

"And you're 'hardly ever sick at sea'?"

"You know HMS Pinafore?"

"My mother used to sing it when I was a kid." This time he smiled with his eyes, and it felt good. "What, you don't think cops ever listen to light opera?"

She smiled back. "I guess not."

"Well, now you know." Maybe things would get a little better after all. Even a little better would be enough.

"Tell me about the others."

"My girl. Terry Roberts. She was murdered by George Prudholm, because I loved her and he hated me."

"And her death was your fault?"

"Of course it was. He wouldn't have killed her if she hadn't been my girl. He killed two cops, too, because of me."

"The key words there are 'he killed' them."

"Because of me." He paused, trying to decide whether to unlock the box that contained Gillian. And then suddenly he needed to, very badly. Because maybe of all of them, she was the one he most needed some kind of absolution for. "There's someone else, too. I . . . she . . . Gillian, she was Hutch's girl. He was head over heels in love with her, and I found out—I learned by accident—that she was, she worked for a man named Al Grossman. She was a call girl, a hooker, and I told her if she didn't tell Hutch, I would tell him." He stopped to take some breaths. His head was going to split in two at any moment. He rubbed at his forehead, but it didn't help.

"What happened to Gillian?"

"We found out later that right after I—, well she told Grossman she wanted out, and he killed her." He sat very still and tense, looking down at his fists, not seeing them, not even feeling them. "I got word that he was after her and I went there, and I was . . . shit. I was too late for her. She was already dead, and Hutch . . . I see his face sometimes when I'm trying to sleep, his face when he saw me there, saw her lying on the floor."

Was it possible to forget how to breathe? Could your brain shut down that far? Gillian's dead face and Joanna's, and Terry's as she left him. Sometimes he couldn't remember how any of them had looked when they lived, when they could laugh and cry and talk to him.

"Dave." McAllister's quiet voice pulled him back before he'd gone too far away, before he lost himself so far back in his memory that he'd never find his way home. "Dave, what does Hutch see when he looks at your face now?"

He was floored by the question. "I don't know." He didn't want to know, not anymore.

"What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

"I see myself. That's a ridiculous question."

"Not so ridiculous. Problem is, we're out of time." She stood and moved to her desk, and looked at her appointment book. "Maybe you could give it some thought and we can talk more about it next time. Monday at three?"

"We're going up to the crime scene this weekend, probably won't be back until late Monday."

McAllister consulted her appointment book again. "Tuesday, then, nine a.m.?"

"I'll be here." It didn't seem like such a terrible prospect this time.

---

Hutch was waiting for him when he got home. He was reading the paper, sitting on the hood of his car, making a new dent. They'd gone back to Metro after interviewing the Mortons the day before, and arranged for hypnosis for Allen Morton. Starsky had worked on the time line, and Hutch had gone down to talk to Minnie. She'd gotten some leads on Sloan, and they'd snagged a couple of uniforms to do some of the footwork in locating him. If they found him, they would arrange for a tail on him to keep him contained, and get an idea of his patterns and contacts. They'd grabbed some burritos near the station, had a beer chaser at Starsky's, and Hutch had gone home to pack up for the weekend.

Starsky looked into the back of the LTD. It was loaded with enough crap to last them three months, not just the long weekend they had planned.

"This is a working weekend, remember?" Starsky said. "We ain't going to have time for fishing and boating." He turned away. "I hope," he muttered.

"I heard that," Hutch said. "You're going to take some time to relax if it kills you."

Starsky started to speak and earned himself Hutch's forefinger, pointed straight at his nose.

"Don't even . . ." Hutch warned.

Starsky put his hands up in mock surrender, backed away, and went in to get his things.

His thoughts were still jumbled from his session with the shrink, and he sat on the edge of his bed to try to pull himself together. Therapy with her was nothing like what he'd expected—long silences and hushed tones, and having to say how he felt every five seconds. McAllister's style was a lot more interesting, and he'd liked it, and her, right away. Trusted her, because of her openness and humor, and her confidence. She'd said she wouldn't let him fall apart and she hadn't, but somehow she'd gotten him to open some doors that should have stayed closed. Double-bolted and chained.

He wished he hadn't brought up Gillian, and he spent a moment trying to shove her back inside the small compartment in his brain where he'd kept her since her murder. He was getting quite a collection of secret little compartments, and he was having more and more trouble keeping them all locked. He hoped Hutch would leave his set of lockpicks at home, because he just didn't have the energy to fend him off. If he couldn't, and Hutch fell apart, there would be no saving either of them.

He must have taken longer than he thought. He hadn't heard Hutch come up the stairs or open the door, but he was standing there watching him, waiting patiently. For one second he wished Hutch would come to him, kneel down in front of him and stretch his arms toward him, put them around him and warm his frozen center, and tell him he'd be okay, that they would both be okay. So he stood up fast and turned away, to banish the wish, keep it out of his eyes where Hutch would surely see it, respond to it. And if he did, then Starsky would fall into those arms, and be lost.

"This is what you're taking?" Hutch said, surveying the array of sweatshirts, short sleeved T-shirts, long sweatpants and cutoffs, sneakers, flip-flops, two Mets caps. A down jacket. A sleeping bag, three blankets, and two pillows. Three grocery bags full of . . . "Oh, come on, you don't expect me to eat this shit, do you?"

"I'm sure you've got that car full of shit that you don't expect me to eat, either." Starsky fell gratefully into their routine. Banter away any hint of trouble. Taunt each other relentlessly. Pretend we're fine. "Let's go, Barney."

"I thought you were Barney, and I'm Andy."

"Just so long as Aunt Bea bakes that apple pie, you can be anyone you want."

He loaded Hutch up with his stuff, picked up the single remaining bag of groceries, and followed him out.

---

"Did you ever love me?"

"Jo, of course I love you." The sun through Starsky's kitchen window lit her hair from behind. He figured she'd placed herself there deliberately, knowing how it would make her seem to glow. He looked into her eyes, and didn't like what he saw reflected there. It wasn't love.

"I suppose I should be grateful that you're at least trying not to hurt me. I should tell you, though, you're not too good at it." She reached a hand behind her head, and pulled her shining hair forward over one shoulder. Not for the first time, Starsky was amazed at how aware of her looks she was, even in the middle of a fight, in the middle of fucking, in the middle of anything and everything. It had attracted him at first. Now it just looked like what it was—dramatic effect. She'd do better with him now if she turned it off.

He shook his head. "I'm not doing this again."

"Doing what? What are we doing? What do you want to do?" She stepped close and he could smell her hair, flowery, sweet. "You don't want to talk, you don't want to fight. What's left?" She lifted her face and touched his neck lightly with one finger, trailing it forward down his collarbone. He stepped back.

"No."

"No?" she said. "Did you just say 'no'?" He couldn't tell if she was angry or maybe she was going to attempt a seduction.

"I have to get to work." Not really, not for hours, but he had to get out of there.

"No you don't."

"All right, then I have to get out of here."

She put her hand on his arm, gripping it hard enough to leave a mark. He fought an urge to shake her off.

"What happened, Dave? When did it change?"

"I don't know. I didn't mean for it to."

"No. I'm sure you didn't."

She leaned back a little and her hair fell behind her shoulder and down her back. Maybe that was all it was for him, all it had ever been—the way she looked, the way she moved. Love was easy when the girl was pretty and moved like an athlete, and . . .

"Jo—" he said. Nothing else came into his brain.

"I know. Hutch is waiting."

"Yes."

"Fuck you, Dave."

"That's pretty hostile, even for you."

"Fuck Hutch, too. That's what you really want to do."

He stared at her and she glared back, daring him to speak. There was nothing to say to that.

"Starsky."

"What?" he said fuzzily. His head hurt.

"We're here, buddy. Wake up."

"I wasn't asleep." He wished he had been. He put a shoulder to the car door and shoved hard twice before it would open, and he nearly fell out when it did. "Shit," he said.

"What's the matter?"

"Whacked my knee. When are you going to get that fixed?"

"Get what fixed?"

"The door, dummy."

"It opens, doesn't it?"

"Just give me that." He took an armful of groceries from Hutch and limped up the three steps to the front door of the cabin, exaggerating the lameness heavily, so Hutch would feel bad. "Got the key?"

"Should be right here under this rock . . . yep. Catch."

Starsky grabbed the key out of the air, nearly dropping the bags, and turned to the door. "Uh, you open it," he said.

"Starsky, don't be a baby."

"I'm not. My arms are full. You open it."

They both stood staring at the door, looking at the flecks of red still faintly visible in the wood grain. No Satanists around this time, painting creepy red symbols on the door, no rattlesnakes in sight. Still a feeling of dread that neither could shake, and that neither would acknowledge to the other.

Finally Hutch stepped up. "Give me the key," he said.

It turned easily in the lock. He pushed open the door and they peered inside. It was dark—all the curtains were pulled—and after the bright afternoon sunlight they had trouble seeing the interior.

"Go on in, why don't you?" Starsky asked.

"You go in, why don't you?"

"Well, somebody has to go in."

"Oh for crying out loud."

Still he hesitated, until Starsky gave him a push and he stumbled over the doorjamb.

"Son of a bitch," he said.

"Find the lights," Starsky said. He fumbled around by the door, and found a switch, but no lights came on. "Oh great, no electricity."

Hutch found a small table lamp by a low-backed couch, and flipped it on, looking sinister with the light shining up under his chin.

"You're such a pessimist," he said.

Starsky put the grocery bags down on a metal enameled kitchen table and went to open up the curtains and windows.

"Musty in here," he complained. Hutch didn't respond so he turned fast, his heart suddenly beating crazily. "Hutch!" he yelled.

From outside, Hutch called out, "What? I'm out here!"

Ridiculously embarrassed, Starsky went out again and helped Hutch carry in all the things he'd brought. Piled in the middle of the cabin's tiny living space, the stuff left little room to move around.

"Find the phone and call the sheriff while I put this all away," Hutch said. He crossed to the refrigerator in the little galley kitchen, took a deep breath and opened it fast. "Oh my God! Starsky!" he shrieked, and backed away.

Frozen in place, Starsky had trouble speaking. "What? What is it? Hutch! Talk to me."

"Starsky . . . help . . ."

"Shit shit shit," Starsky said, unlocking his feet from the floor and taking a flying run toward Hutch. He pulled the door back out of Hutch's grip and looked in, ready for . . . anything, but not for what he saw. He came as close to hitting his partner as he ever had. Hutch was laughing.

"Oh, oh. I wish I had a picture of the look on your face, Starsk. Oh my God."

"You! You!" Starsky couldn't think of a bad enough word. "You thing! Never do that to me again." He turned away and tried to catch his breath.

Hutch collapsed back against the sink. "I'm sorry," he said, without sincerity. Then he looked at the back of Starsky's head, and changed his mind. "Oh, Starsky, I'm sorry." He put a hand on Starsky's shoulder, and felt the muscles tensing under it. "Starsky. Come on. Please. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too." He took a step away and Hutch's hand fell off his shoulder. Without thinking, without anything at all, he turned back and put his arms around Hutch's neck, pulling him into himself. The feel of Hutch's arms around his waist was solid, grounding. "Been gone a while," he said into Hutch's ear. "I'm coming home. I'll be there soon, I promise."

Hutch tightened his hold and nodded against Starsky's face.

---

"Looks different, doesn't it?" Hutch said as they pulled into the dusty little town.

"Sure does. This the same place?"

Last time they'd been there, the village had seemed like a ghost town. The few people they'd run into had been pale and frightened, hostile. The sheriff had been antagonistic, his wife withdrawn. Now there were people sitting in small groups in front of the shops, the shops themselves open with chatting customers stepping in and out, smiling and waving to each other. The gas station sported colorful banners, and the tiny general store had some fresh produce on a table under an awning out front.

"There's Tyce, over there," Hutch said, and pulled in beside the gas station to park.

A big man in a beige uniform waved at them and called into the general store.

"Rache, they're here!"

A comfortable-looking woman in jeans and a T-shirt came out, smiling widely, and Tyce put his arm around her waist and went to meet Starsky and Hutch. Standing in the middle of the unpaved street, he shook hands with each of them, still holding his wife.

"Sheriff Tyce," Starsky said. "Mrs. Tyce, great to see you. Sorry it's for such a bad reason."

"So formal?" the sheriff said. "Thought we agreed on Joe and Rachel last time."

"Of course," Starsky said, and gestured toward some of the businesses. "The town looks great."

"It always did. You just saw us at our worst. Now you're seeing the real deal." Rachel Tyce had one of the best smiles around, and she obviously liked to flash it. "You boys are coming to dinner tonight. Lizzie insisted on cooking for you. She can't wait to see you both."

"How is she?" Hutch asked seriously.

"She's fine for a kid who got kidnapped by a satanic cult and nearly murdered. Still has nightmares, but they're getting few and far between. She's got a boyfriend now. Good kid, too." She grinned. "He looks a bit like you, Dave, matter of fact."

"I always knew she had good taste," Starsky said.

"He's coming to dinner too," Rachel said. "I'll see you boys later, then. Joe's got some files for you to look at. Six o'clock too early? He'll give you directions."

With a friendly wave, she stepped back into her store, and greeted some customers by name. Starsky and Hutch turned and followed Joe out of the street and into the building that housed the sheriff's office, a small gift shop, and a bait and tackle business. Starsky shuddered and hoped Hutch wouldn't make him stop in there later.

The sheriff's office was small, only one extra chair aside from the sheriff's and the too-familiar cage in one corner. The usual clutter of office machines and an array of Wanted posters were the only decorations.

Hutch went to lean on the file cabinet, leaving the chair for Starsky so he could get off his knee.

Joe pulled a file from the top drawer under Hutch's elbow, and a cardboard evidence box from a high shelf, and shook his head over it. "Never thought I'd see you guys back up here at all, much less for this case." He put it down on his desk, and said to Hutch, "You might as well sit here so you can both look it over. I've got a couple of runs to take care of. Be back in an hour or so. Rachel will send some coffee over for you if I know her. Make yourselves at home, of course." He scratched the top of his head. "Lizzie knew those boys. They were a little older, but they all used to hang out together, swimming and boating. Nice kids, all of them." He got to his feet.

"Thanks, Joe," Hutch said. "This is great."

"I'm off. See you."

"This file is huge," Starsky said, after Joe had gone. "Pretty damn thorough."

"Do you think we should question Lizzie?"

"Might have to."

"I hope we don't."

"Look at this." Starsky held up a heavy brown paper evidence bag.

"What've you got?"

"Cast of a footprint. Here's the tag." He read: "Cast of left foot of probable male weighing approximately 190-200 lbs. and approximately 5'11". Print found .3 meters to right of outdoor shower located on south side of house. Several similar prints in vicinity but none clear enough for casting. Footwear appears to be a casual or athletic shoe, well-worn sole, notch or hole located in lateral heel edge. No shoes belonging to house occupants found to match." He handed the report to Hutch. "Here's some photos, too."

Sharp high-contrast prints showed the clear outline of a shoe print next to a ruler that indicated that the shoe was a size 11. The rest were of the blurred prints of different sizes, and some of bare feet—probably of the boys—and others showing the location and position of the prints in context.

"Anyone here need some coffee?" Rachel Tyce pushed open the door with her shoulder, and held out a thermos and a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

"Ah, you're a goddess, Rachel," Starsky said, smiling and taking the cookies.

"I think Joe keeps some mugs in the bathroom," Rachel said, and edged herself around the desk to get them.

"Want one?" Starsky held the bag of cookies out to Hutch, and jiggled it. Hutch took a few cookies and put the bag on the desk.

"I sure hope you boys can find something," Rachel said. She leaned against the edge of the desk and folded her arms. "Joe was devastated over this case. He didn't sleep for a year, and still has bad dreams sometimes. He's not the type to mind if someone else does what he couldn't. He just wants justice done, and some closure for that family. They were nice people before all this happened. Now they're just as dead as their son." She shook her head sharply. "You find that boy's killer, and we'll all sleep better." She grinned at each of them. "No pressure though." She laughed light-heartedly as she left the office. "See you tonight!"

Starsky smiled after her, and turned back to the evidence box. He laid out the rest of the its contents: plastic bag containing one yellow rubber flip-flop with small bloodstains on the top surface; dirt-stained white cotton handkerchief, no distinguishing marks or monograms; all of Brian's clothing that had been left by the shower, ready to put on—cut-off denim shorts, blue and white striped cotton stretch jersey, white cotton briefs, dark green sneakers; a large green bath towel with a wide blue zigzag pattern.

"Here's the rundown in the file," Hutch said. "The flip-flop was considered to be 'probably the victim's' as none of the family members had claimed ownership. The other one never turned up. Bloodstain on flip-flop determined to be B positive, a relatively rare blood type. Neither Brian nor any of the Morton family are B positive." He looked up. "I'm B positive."

"Put you on the suspect list, then." Starsky said. "Why'd this get pushed to Metro? This investigation was solid. There just wasn't anything to go on."

"I guess the family didn't think a small-town sheriff with one deputy was good enough."

"Well, I don't know what we're going to find that Joe didn't uncover already."

"Never know."

"We should check in with Dobey, and see what happened with Allen's hypnosis."

"I'll call." Hutch picked up the phone and dialed. Dispatch answered and put him through to Dobey. He raised an eyebrow to Starsky but there didn't seem to be another extension, so Starsky just shrugged and went back to reading the file.

"Dobey here."

"Hi, Captain. It's Hutch."

"Solved the case?"

"No, sorry.

"How's my cabin? You two haven't burned it down yet, have you?"

"Not yet, no."

Starsky looked up, hearing the laugh in Hutch's voice, and he smiled.

"Then what do you have for me?" Dobey always seemed to shout into the telephone. Hutch held the phone away from his ear, as he usually did.

"We're just going through the sheriff's files and evidence. They put together a good investigation, but there just doesn't seem to be anything here. We're going up to the Mortons' cabin tomorrow. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Pretty damned lucky if you find anything after all this time," Dobey said.

"Do you know how Allen's hypnosis went?"

"Haven't got the report yet. I saw him when he came in, though. Nice kid."

"Yeah, nice family."

"That it?"

"Yes, Sir. We'll check in again tomorrow around the same time. Sooner if we come up with anything."

"Good. And Hutch, how's Starsky doing?"

Hutch almost looked over at Starsky, but checked himself in time. "All right. No problems so far."

"Good," Dobey said again. "Take it easy then."

"We will," Hutch said, and hung up.

"Anything?" Starsky asked.

"No. Allen did go in today but there's no report yet."

"Well, I can't see anything else we need here. Maybe we should . . ."

Tyce came in, took off his sheriff's hat, and nodded a greeting.

"How're things going?"

"Your investigation was topnotch, Joe, but we don't see anything more than you all saw at the time."

"Well, I'm not surprised. Kind of disappointed. I was hoping—fresh eyes—you know."

"Not done yet."

"No." Tyce seemed to looked back in time for a moment, and then dragged himself back. He handed a piece of paper to Hutch. "I wrote directions for you. Make sure you don't nibble before dinner, or Rachel will smack the backs of your heads." Starsky reached over and pretended to hide the bag of cookies.

"Get out of here, then," Joe said, laughing. "Your captain called this morning and told me to make sure you took some down time, so get out and do it or he'll have me strung up."

They gathered up the files and put them in order, and left in good humor, waving at Joe as he watched them from the doorway.

"You lucked out on dinner, Gordo," Hutch said as they left the Tyce's house around nine that evening.

"Didn't hear you complainin'." Starsky leaned back and patted his belly. "Ain't been this full in a long time. Apple pie. She read my mind."

"It was good to watch you eat."

"It was good to be where no one knew about Joanna."

Hutch patted Starsky's arm and gave it a squeeze.

"Thanks, Hutch."

"For what?"

"I don't know. Just—thanks."

"Sure, buddy."

The drive back to Dobey's cabin was short, but it was full dark by the time they got there.

"You left the lights on," Starsky said.

"Didn't want you to be scared."

"Didn't want who to be scared?"

"All right. I did it for both of us." He turned off the car and they waited, Starsky in disgust, while the engine, with a few grunts and a sigh, chugged itself to sleep. The swelling sound of crickets stopped them for a moment to listen, and they heard the soft hooting of an owl. Seconds later, a small cut-short squeak got them moving again.

"Nature," Starsky said. "So soothing."

They went inside, each pretending not to check the corners for owls or bears or worse.

"Still early yet," Hutch said. "What do you want to do?"

"What'd you bring? Cards, Monopoly?"

"I've got some cards in there somewhere."

"Few rounds of Rummy then, and hit the sack early?"

"Sounds good. Beers cold yet?"

Starsky took his courage in hand and went to the fridge to check. He brought back a bottle each, shoved aside a sleeping bag and a large knapsack, and took a seat on the couch opposite Hutch.

"Long day," he said. He picked up the deck of cards and dealt them out, and they played in silence for a while until Hutch rummied the first hand.

"Enough?" Hutch said. "One more hand?"

"Nah, I'm falling asleep here. Let's call it a night, get an early start over to the Morton cabin." He yawned loudly. "Flip you for the bed," he said.

"You had the couch last time. You can have the bedroom."

---

Not too much later, Starsky lay widely awake in the black dark. He'd dozed, then come back to full awareness, but he hadn't heard anything odd. It was just his brain again, infuriatingly unwilling to turn itself off. He could see nothing but a faint paleness from the window, so he closed his eyes.

"Starsky! Look out!" Hutch's shout reverbed in his memory.

Before he could look to see what was coming, he was flying. Utter confusion, swirling dark images of cinder blocks and garbage, and a sudden appalling crack as he hit the pavement. In some part of his brain he got ready for the pain he knew had to follow a sound like that. Tires squealed, taillights flashed at the end of the alley, a smell of scorched rubber—and running footsteps, coming toward him fast. He couldn't move, couldn't defend himself. His gun had flown away as he'd fallen and he couldn't see where it had landed. He tensed, ready to fight as best he could, no matter the pain.

"Starsky. Oh shit." Hutch skidded up beside him and dropped to the ground, touching his face, moving his jacket, looking for blood. "Starsky, breathe. Take a breath. Come on, buddy."

"Can't move. Hutch. What happened?" He saw Hutch in silhouette, the headlights of the Torino behind him.

"Son of a bitch drove straight at you. Didn't you hear him?"

"No. Sanders—almost had him."

"Shhh, don't move. I'm going to get help." Hutch sprinted up the alley to the Torino, and shouted into the handset. "Officer down, need assistance!"

In a kind of disconnected way, Starsky could hear him trying to speak coherently, to give their location. Seconds later Hutch was back, breathing hard, too hard for such a short run.

"What hurts, buddy?" he said. "Can you breathe? Just don't move."

"Not going to. Leg. Don't touch."

"I won't."

"How do I look?"

"Good, Starsk. You look good. Don't talk, now."

Sirens in the distance drew closer and he reached out for Hutch's hand. It was already there to meet his, and he felt better.

Lying in the dark on the lumpy bed in Dobey's cabin, Starsky felt his right knee begin to ache. Six weeks in a knee brace, two weeks out, and some killer physical therapy had gotten his dislocated knee back into useful shape, and only Hutch knew it still hurt. He was glad they were on a cold case. He wasn't sure he could run yet, back up Hutch the way he needed to. This case was giving him more time. He flexed the leg in the dark but it just throbbed.

He gave up trying to sleep, knowing after all the nights since Joanna's death that it did no good to lie there and think. He got up and moved slowly to the doorway, a darker patch of black, and into the living room. Hutch lay sprawled on his back, one arm over the back of the couch, the other hanging down to the floor off the side. Shirtless, he was as guileless as an innocent child, and Starsky stood over him for a long time, matching his breaths, listening to the small sounds he made, watching his eyes moving under his lashes as he dreamed.

He went outside, and listened to the intense quiet, and felt a need to sit with it, in it, to be part of it. He could see faintly the start of the sandy path that led through a narrow band of trees to the lake, and he followed its pull to the water, and sat on the narrow beach, leaning back against a smooth boulder. The little breeze felt cool, patting his bare chest and sneaking through his hair to his scalp, soft and fingerlike. The moon was tiny and new, the stars brighter and nearer than he'd ever seen them. He leaned back against the boulder, staring upward. It was beauty so elemental that he couldn't place himself in it and he felt himself lose touch, float off, lost and alone.

"Starsk."

The whisper was so small that he wasn't sure he'd actually heard it. He nodded his head just in case it was real, and put his right hand up into the air. Hutch's hand took hold of his, strong and warm, and Starsky tugged, pulling Hutch down beside him. He leaned into Hutch's arms, skin to skin, and felt himself enfolded, safe.

Eventually, Starsky had to straighten his right leg.

"Sore?" Hutch asked quietly, and rubbed it a little.

"Yeah. That feels good." He shivered in the suddenly-strengthening breeze. The lake rippled on the surface, and sent back bits of pale reflected light that danced on Hutch's arm. Starsky watched the tiny lights in silence for a few long minutes.

"I'm so tired," he said.

"Tell me. Please, Starsk."

"I didn't love her."

"No."

"At first I thought I might. She was fun and free like a wildcat is free. She made me laugh, and what else is there?" He picked up a handful of sand and let it sift through his fingers the way he had in McAllister's office. "You knew her right off, didn't you?"

"I saw something in her that I didn't like, but I never could put my finger on it."

"She liked to set us against each other, tried to make me choose all the time."

"You didn't fall for it, did you?"

"No. That's what made her so mad, I think. But why kill herself? Why not just tell me to fuck off, and then go on her way?"

"She didn't mean to die. You were supposed to rescue her."

"And then what? Was that supposed to bind me to her? 'Stay with me or I'll kill myself'?"

"Something like that."

Starsky played with the sand, drifting it onto Hutch's bare leg, watching it pile up a little and slide off the sides.

"Hutch."

"What, babe?"

"I would have been able to save her if my knee hadn't gone out on me. I would have, and I wanted to."

"God, Starsky, I know that."

"Her note . . . I read it and I ran."

Hutch sat up and moved around some so he could look right at Starsky's face. In the dark, all he could see were glints and shadows.

"You ran, and you tried, and it isn't in any way your fault that she took her game too far."

"She thought it was funny. She was waiting for me and I busted through the door onto the roof, and she was sitting there, posing on the wall. Posing for me, and smiling."

"Sounds just like her."

"I thought maybe that was all she wanted, just to see that I would come to her, and that was the end of it, but she stood up on the wall, turned her back to the street and laughed. She laughed." Both his hands were full of sand now, compressed tight under his fingers. "She laughed and she lost her balance and if my knee had been sound, I'd have reached her. What the hell was she thinking?"

"I talked to her that morning," Hutch said.

"You did?" Starsky leaned back and stared. "You never told me."

"I didn't want it to be worse. It was already bad enough."

"What did she say to you?"

"She said she felt like she was living with both of us, but that we were only living with each other." Hutch stopped.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know any more, but he said, "What else?" He let the sand fall from his hands.

"I told her what I thought she wanted to hear, but I was lying, and she knew it. And I told her not to make you choose between us." Hutch swallowed hard. "She said she was going to break it off with you that night. I swear, Starsk, I swear I didn't know what she was going to do."

"Oh my God. You aren't guilty of anything. You don't think that, do you?"

"I wanted her out of our lives so badly. I didn't care how but I wanted her gone."

"Oh God, Hutch."

He didn't really know how they got from sitting apart and staring horrified at each other to holding each other so tightly that he wasn't sure where he ended and Hutch began. He could think of nothing to do but hold him tighter, and he did, pulling him in as hard as he could.

"It's okay," Hutch whispered. "It's okay. I want . . . you're going to be okay. I'm right here."

"I was going to say that to you," Starsky said, and he didn't know if he was laughing or crying. "Who's taking care of who, huh?"

"I'm thinking it's a little of both."

"Don't let go."

"I won't. Don't let go."

"I won't." And then, "I, uh, I gotta move my leg."

"Go ahead," Hutch said, without releasing his hold.

"Can't."

"I'll do it, then." Hutch let him go with a squeeze and a smile, and sat back and away. He went back to rubbing Starsky's knee, and Starsky turned a little and leaned back against the big boulder. It felt cold against his skin.

"Let's get some blankets and just stay out here all night," he said.

"You want to sleep outside?"

"You'll watch over me, won't you?" Starsky said seriously.

"I will."

"I'll watch over you, too."

It sounded like a vow.

They'd gone back, careful in the dark, following the sandy path that almost seemed lit from underneath. In the cabin they'd gathered sleeping bags and sweatshirts, a couple of beers, some of Starsky's junk food, and a few of Hutch's apples and a peach. Had briefly discussed taking one or both of their guns back with them and, feeling brave, had decided against.

Back on the narrow beach they ate and drank, and laid out their sleeping bags and blankets, joking about Boy Scouts and talking quietly about nothing of any consequence, and eventually Hutch drifted off. Starsky lay awake on his back, face to the stars, still unable to sleep.

Something was different, though. That awful sense of obliteration had dissipated, as if the soft breeze had stirred the embers and found the last tiny spark that had hidden itself away so deeply that he had been sure of its extinction. His wakefulness now was of a different quality, calm and clear. He felt very small lying there under the stars, yet at the same time expanding, opening back up. He turned on his side, and lifted up onto an elbow, and watched Hutch sleeping again, as he had earlier in the cabin.

That guy can sleep anywhere, any time. Must be nice.

What little moon there had been was gone altogether now. Hutch's face was just a pale outline against his blanket, and Starsky reached out a gentle finger and touched his partner's hair, light as the breeze.

Love you, Hutch.

He put his head down, and slept.

---

First awake just after dawn, Hutch rolled onto his side and up on his elbow. He looked sideways at his partner, sure he'd be lying awake and exhausted, or worse, not there at all. But Starsky slept soundly, his blankets tucked up around his head. His tangled hair had some sand in it and a piece of a pine needle. Hutch reached out to brush it away, and stopped, afraid of waking him. Instead he put his hand on the edge of Starsky's blankets, and laid there a while watching him sleep.

Starsky was on his way home and everything felt different now.

Love you, Starsk.

For a moment he thought he'd said it out loud and that he'd wake Starsky, who needed so badly to sleep. He held his breath a moment, waiting, but Starsky didn't move except for the small rising of his chest as he breathed.

He sat up suddenly, a wave of heat stoking up inside him and around him. Oh my God. He stood abruptly and walked a little way down the beach, blindly, steps faltering. Oh my God. It's you. It's you. He turned to look back at the still-sleeping form. It's always been you.

The sun rose above the line of trees surrounding the lake and fell on his partner's face, and Starsky opened his eyes.

"Hutch?"

"Right here, babe." Hutch went back to the blankets and kneeled down. "You slept."

"Yeah." Starsky rubbed his face and sat up, pushing the blankets away. He eyed Hutch. "You gotta pee, or you just happy to see me?" he said, grinning.

"Uh, first one, then the other." His own voice sounded normal, that was something.

"Same here. Which tree you want?"

Behaving like ten-year-olds helped. Who could pee the farthest and the longest? They agreed on a draw. After that, they stood at the edge of the lake. Ten-year-old boys could skinny dip, and Hutch bent down and stepped out of his shorts.

"Race you," he said.

"Hey, no fair. I'm crippled." Starsky tripped on his underwear.

"Should have switched to boxers like I told you!" Hutch taunted, already in the water. "Easier to get out of on the run."

"Ah shit, it's freezin'." Starsky yelped as his toes hit the water's edge.

"You sound like a girl." He sent a wave and a splash at him, laughing.

Starsky took a running plunge in, and circled Hutch under the water, making a wide ripple on the mirror surface. When he popped up he was grinning hugely, and, unexpectedly, Hutch felt dangerously close to crying.

"God, I missed you," he said.

"Me, too."

For a moment they looked at each other, hair plastered to their heads, shivering, standing waist deep in the lake under the rising sun.

Starsky fell back in the water and floated, arms out, head tipped back.

"There's no one else in the world, is there?" he said. "Hutch. There's no one but us."

Starsky lay in the water like an offering. Hutch felt dizzy and splashed out onto the beach. He fell onto his rumpled up sleeping bag and sat with his knees up, and put his arms on them, and his head on his arms. He could hear Starsky's swimming strokes coming toward him, the wet uneven steps on the sand, and then the hand chilly on the back of his neck.

"You okay?"

Hutch nodded.

"You want some breakfast?"

He lifted his head and looked up, blinking at the drips falling off Starsky's body onto his face. He reached up and laid his hand flat on Starsky's stomach, expecting him to step back, shocked. Instead, Starsky put both his hands on top of Hutch's and pressed in, and took a long breath, and closed his eyes.

"Starsk."

"Yeah. Come on, Blondie. I'm buyin."

Starsky hauled him to his feet, and they picked up the sleeping things, shaking the sand out, and the remains of their late-night snack, and their underwear, saying nothing.

Hutch felt like singing, so he did as they walked back up the path to the cabin, wrapped up in each other's blankets.

"Hutch." Starsky stopped at the steps of the little porch.

"Yeah, babe?"

"I . . . Everything's different, isn't it?"

"I think so."

They went in, never thinking to check for snakes.

---

Hutch straightened up the living room while Starsky made breakfast. Few words and few looks, just sideways glances and grins, and Starsky could barely remember how cold he had been inside himself such a short time before. He was on fire again, and so barely contained that he was sure the flames were visible in his eyes to anyone who might look there. And each time he looked at Hutch, into Hutch's eyes, he felt stronger, and wilder, yet at the same time still and calm, more sure of himself than he had ever been.

Still without saying much, they cleared up the breakfast things, bumping into each other from time to time, embarrassed and feeling silly about it.

"Better get going," Hutch said.

"Ready when you are."

They locked up the cabin and drove to the Morton place, Starsky reading off the directions as they drove. A barely visible driveway with a small plain sign that read "Morton" appeared on the right, and they turned in, passing through a patch of dense woods ending at a wide clearing.

"That's what they call a cabin?" Starsky shook his head as they approached. "Dobey's cabin is a cabin. This is some kind of mini mansion. This ain't a fuckin' cabin."

Even Hutch was impressed. A long drive under towering old-growth trees ended at a huge clearing. Straight ahead were lawns big enough for polo, sloping down to a wide sandy beach along the lake. A raft bobbed a hundred feet out from the end of a dock where a wooden catboat lay alongside, sails furled around its boom, tethered by a couple of long white lines. On the transom was the name "Serenity" in fancy black script, and underneath, "Pine Lake," in smaller, but just as fancy, letters.

To the left of the clearing was the house, wood framing a lot of glass, reflecting morning sunlight off itself so that the interior was invisible, and the windows seemed golden. Wide stone steps led to a light-colored wood front door. It looked inviting, as if it wanted its guests to come in and sit down and admire its view.

They walked around to the back of the house to where the outdoor shower stood.

"This shower is bigger than my whole bathroom," Hutch said.

"Nice, huh?"

"How'd anyone sneak up on this kid in the middle of the day, and no one heard anything?"

"Where's the kitchen? Everyone was about to have lunch, weren't they? We need to see the layout of the house."

"We're early. The caretaker won't be here for another ten minutes."

They began to walk around the house, two feet from the walls and two feet apart, each closely examining the three foot wide area in front of them as they moved. Hutch held the photographs of the footprints out so they could both see them.

"I think this is where that footprint was," Starsky said, just beyond the shower enclosure. He bent down to scan the area more closely and saw a glint. "Come here and see if you can reach this. I can't bend down enough."

Hutch came up beside him and crouched down to look where Starsky was pointing. In the small space between them Starsky felt something like a pulse beating in the air in time with his own. He looked up, unsettled, and met Hutch's eyes.

"You the detectives?" said a raspy voice behind them. They both turned, startled. "I'm Walt. Mr. Morton said to meet you."

Hutch stood up fast, Starsky a little slower. Hutch tried to brush some dirt off his hands, and ended up wiping them on his jeans before offering one for a shake. The caretaker's grip was surprisingly strong for such a rickety-looking old man.

"Detective Hutchinson," Hutch said. "This is Detective Starsky. Thanks for coming out to meet us."

"See some ID?"

Starsky took out his badge and held it out, and Walt peered at it through reading glasses that perched halfway down his nose.

"Yours?" he said to Hutch.

Smiling, Hutch offered his for examination, and, satisfied, Walt turned friendly.

"Bad thing happened here," he said. "Me and Susie, that's my wife, we couldn't believe it. Still don't, sometimes. Susie cooks dinners and cleans when the Mortons are here. She went over that night to cook, didn't know what had happened. Everything was in an uproar." He took out a key ring. "Come on. I'll let you in."

They followed him back around the house, trying not to look at each other. Up the inviting front steps, and into the house.

"This is incredible," Starsky said.

"Breathtaking."

The high ceiling rose to a skylight that seemed to pour in more light than there was outside. High windows looked out onto the lawn and down to a wider view of the beach and lake. No neighboring homes were visible. The house felt warm and comfortable, all wood and soft colors. There were books on built-in shelves and magazines on tables, and a jigsaw puzzle in progress on a table in a corner. There could be grand balls in the slate-tiled front room, or there could be intimate fondue parties in the light pine-paneled living room—both seemed completely possible there.

"How much time do they actually spend here?" Starsky asked Walt.

"The summers, most weekends the rest of the year."

"Nice."

Walt gestured to them. "Here's the kitchen."

Hutch went to the windows by the small breakfast table and looked out. "No view of the shower from here," he said.

Starsky looked out the window over the sink. "Not from here, either. We should have turned the shower on before we came indoors."

"I'll get it," Walt said.

"Walt, while you're out there would you shout something?" Starsky said. "Anything, just a few words."

"Sure thing. Be right back."

They sat at the table and looked out, waiting. Starsky unlocked the window and slid it open and waved as Walt passed by outside and nodded to them.

"I feel like there's something fizzing inside me," Starsky said.

"Like Pop Rocks."

"You've never had Pop Rocks."

"How do you know?"

"I know everything." For that he got The Look.

There was a loud clicking noise and a hum somewhere outside.

"Water pump?" Hutch said.

"Sounds like."

"I don't hear the water running, do you?"

"Nope. Guess they really couldn't hear anything from here, especially if they were talking or had any appliances running."

Walt came back by the window. Starsky pushed it shut and locked it, and they stood up and went to meet him at the front door.

"Did you hear me?" he said. "I hollered good and loud."

"No. We heard the water pump come on, that was all," Starsky said.

"Guess that answers that. No one could have heard a thing," Hutch said.

"We need to walk around the area some more, Walt," Starsky said. "I think we're all set inside if you want to lock up and go."

"I got some gardening to do anyways. I'll just get on with it. Stay out of your way. Yell if you need anything."

"Thanks for your help, Walt. Appreciate it," Hutch said.

Walt crossed the drive and went into a rustic garden shed. Starsky and Hutch walked back to the shower in the opposite direction around the house, still examining the ground carefully. The foundation plantings in the front ended around the back, where there was a wide deck surrounding a screened porch. Back at the shower, Hutch stepped in and turned off the spray. Starsky returned to where he thought he'd seen something glinting, something metallic. He found a stray stick and scratched around to the right of the shower near where the footprint had been found.

Hutch scrunched down and dug around with his hands. "What'd you see, anyway?"

"Probably nothing. I just thought I saw something shiny."

"There."

"Son of a bitch, will you look at that." With the end of the stick, Starsky lifted a dirty silver chain with some kind of religious medal on the end. "Should have brought my camera. And I didn't think to bring any evidence bags. Shit."

"You were just a little distracted."

"Little bit."

"You're blushing."

"So 're you, Blondie."

"Maybe I am, but at least I thought to put an evidence kit in the trunk of the car."

"You're so smug."

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

"Wouldn't move for the world." Starsky watched as Hutch walked away from him, as he had thousands of times before, admiring the way he moved, the way his arms swung as he walked, the way he held his head a little forward, the way his hair wisped around his ears.

Everything's different now. He sat on the step leading up to the shower, and turned his face up to the sun, eyes closed, basking. Everything's the same as it's always been, dummy. He heard Hutch returning, and stayed as he was, and smiled.

"Now you're the one looking smug."

"Feeling smug."

"Wake up, then, Smuggo. Let's bag this up and keep looking."

Starsky stood reluctantly, lifted the chain and pendant with the stick, and held it up so they could look at it.

"Looks like a saint. Not my strong suit."

Hutch leaned forward for a better view. "St. Christopher. Patron saint of travelers."

"Aren't the Mortons Jewish?"

"I thought so. Don't know about the Phillips family. We'll get Dobey on it when we call in."

Hutch held the bag open, and Starsky dropped the necklace in. Hutch folded down the top, and sealed it with a piece of red and white evidence tape. He wrote on the bag the date and time, address, the location where they'd found the item with a little diagram, and signed his name across the seal. He folded the bag and stuck it in a pocket.

"So where'd the kidnapper come from, and where'd he take Brian?" Starsky said. "From the lake seems too obvious but we should take a look."

They walked down to the beach slowly, looking carefully at the surroundings, seeing nothing of any particular interest to the case. Hutch stopped at the edge of the lawn to admire some roses and a well-established perennial bed.

"Walt knows what he's doing," he said.

"You should have a place where you can have a garden."

"Someday. At least I have the greenhouse, but I'd love to see all my plants out on a screened porch. They'd be so happy."

"They could talk to the birds through the screen."

"And feel the breeze." Hutch stopped and looked at him. "Hey. Don't joke about my plants." He bent down to take his sneakers and socks off, and steadied himself with a hand on Starsky's arm, the way he always did, without thinking.

Starsky felt a strange buzz on his arm under Hutch's hand. Everything's different now.

"Everything's different now," Hutch said.

"Exactly what I was thinking. How'd you know?"

"I know everything."

Starsky didn't have a Look like Hutch did, so he settled for the biggest grin he could manage. The one he got back almost knocked him off his feet and he stood there for a moment, swaying a little, listening to his pulse in his head.

Not thinking about Walt up there by the house, he put his hand in Hutch's hair, against the side of his face, and Hutch leaned into it.

Starsky said, "'Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change.'"

"Who said that?"

"Thomas Hardy."

"I didn't know you read nineteenth century British novels."

"Thought you knew everything."

"Smarty-pants."

"Know-it-all."

"Kind of hard to concentrate on the job just now," Hutch said.

"Tell me about it."

"We'll talk tonight."

"Back to work, then."

"Yeah."

Starsky waited for Hutch to move, but he didn't, so he gave him a little shake, dropped his hand, and turned to walk up the beach.

About twenty yards along, he stopped. To the left in the woods was the faint remains of a path, and to the right, a still-buried metal post leaned out over the sand.

"Could have been a small boat tied up here, and the kidnapper went up there through the trees to the house," he said.

"Can't see the house from here," Hutch said. "How would he know when to make a move? There wasn't any kind of routine to follow. It had to be opportunistic."

"Random?"

"Maybe."

They turned up the path, Hutch in the lead; Starsky slowed down by the steep bluff and the sand.

"My physical therapist will be annoyed." He tried to hide the fact that he was also a little out of breath.

"Don't tell him."

"Smells good here. Piney."

"'I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine . . .'"

"Who said that?"

"Hamlin Garland."

"Never heard of him."

"I'll lend you some of his books."

"Okay." Starsky pulled some pine needles off a tree and sniffed at them, and put them in his pocket. "If the perp came up this way, how'd he get Brian back down to the beach. The kid weighed a hundred and twenty pounds or more."

"That's what they call a mystery, Starsk."

"Oh yeah? Who said that? Agatha Christie?"

"Nope. Pure Hutchinson."

"I can see the shower from here. Go stand in there and see if I can sneak up on you."

"All right."

Starsky took the opportunity to get his breathing back to normal. He was going to have to start working out again soon, or he'd end up completely out of shape and useless. It was the first time in weeks that he'd thought about it, the first time he'd cared about it. It felt like taking a deep breath after nearly drowning.

Hutch had gone inside the shower and turned the water back on. Starsky darted as best he could across the thirty feet or so of lawn and onto the small shower platform. He peered around the doorway and found there was a simple maze instead of a door, meant to provide privacy. He could see Hutch's bare feet below the partial wall. If I were going to kidnap a kid, I'd have something to hit him with, or knock him out somehow. How do I know which way he's facing? Hutch's feet are turned away, toward the showerhead. Maybe the handkerchief the team found had chloroform on it or something. The kid would've been a foot shorter than Hutch. He stepped suddenly around the wooden wall, and put an arm around Hutch's neck, and a hand over his mouth. Hutch cried out, startled.

"Shit, Starsky. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Told you I was gonna sneak up on you."

"Well, you did."

"Guess that answers that, then."

"You can let go now."

"Oh. Sorry." He let Hutch go and stepped back grinning, and Hutch turned off the shower again, and brushed some stray drops off himself.

"Time for lunch?"

"Let's go."

They found Walt and asked where there was a good burger to be found nearby, thanked him again, and headed out.

---

The luncheonette Walt had recommended was kind of funky, with license plates all over the walls, and antique firearms mixed with occasional vicious-looking farming implements, and, on each table, little stuffed animals. The food was good, though, and Hutch watched Starsky eat a while before even starting on his.

"Appetite's back," he commented.

"And how," Starsky said. "Wish this place was closer to Bay City."

"Bad news for Huggy if it was."

The place was crowded and noisy with locals who all apparently knew each other. A few of them eyed the strangers suspiciously, but most nodded a friendly greeting.

Every time he looked at Starsky, Hutch wanted to smile, so he kept his eyes away, and kept his comments light and inconsequential. They couldn't talk about the case with so many interested ears around them, and they couldn't talk about themselves either, and there wasn't much else of any interest at that moment. So he just ate steadily and looked around the walls, and fought to keep the little smiles from bubbling out of him.

It wasn't only this new turn in their relationship and all it might mean; it was much less complicated than that. Starsky was back—full force—and for the first time in months, Hutch felt put together, able bodied and competent, where for so long he'd felt so abandoned and alone, and just as incapacitated as Starsky with his bad knee. He hadn't blamed Starsky, but that hadn't kept him from feeling adrift and lost. It was as if he'd been in a leaky and slow-sinking boat, and now he was back safe on land, steady and grounded, whole.

He felt a sharp tap on his ankle and jumped.

"Earth to Hutchinson," Starsky said. "Come on down from the stratosphere. Time to go."

"Sorry, buddy."

"Hey, no problem. I kind of went off on a little space adventure, too." He signaled for the check, and flirted with the waitress when she brought it.

Yessir, he's back, no question about that.

They pushed their chairs back and headed out, stopping to look at some of the handwritten notices on a small bulletin board by the door.

"Cabin for sale," Starsky read. "Rowing dinghy. Horseback riding lessons. Winter rental. Free puppies."

"Starsk."

"Chair caning. Caretaking. Babysitting . . ."

"Starsk."

"What?"

"Look at this." Hutch pointed to one of a couple of photographs at the right-hand edge of the board. The scalloped edges of the print were fading to yellow, and there were cracks in the surface.

Starsky moved over to look. "What . . . oh. You think?"

It was a picture of a group of men with fishing poles and creels, two of them holding up their catch for the camera. One of the men had an open-necked shirt, and a chain and pendant clearly visible in the V of the opening.

"I think."

Two of the men who'd been sitting at the counter came up behind them, heading for the door. "You the detectives from Bay City?" one of them said in a deep voice. He had on a tight blue T-shirt, and topped Hutch by three or four inches.

"Yes. I'm Ken Hutchinson, and this is Dave Starsky. You from around here?"

"I'm Willie Pratt, and this here's my brother Wayne." Similarly dressed and even taller, Wayne seemed shy, and nodded without making eye contact. Willie gestured at the pictures. "You know those fellas?"

Hutch thought fast and tapped the image of the man with the pendant. "I think I know that guy from somewhere but I can't place him."

"Oh, that's just Ernie Palmer. How'd you know him?"

"I, uh, I think he knows someone I know."

"Funny running into him here, huh? You should stop by and give him a shout. Bring a sixer, he'll be your friend for life."

"Might just do that. Where would I find him?"

Willie obligingly gave clear directions, and Starsky wrote them down in his pocket notebook.

"How's the investigation going? We all sure felt bad for that kid. Nothing like that usually happens around here. Ain't the sort of excitement we prefer."

"No, I wouldn't think so."

"Well, you fellas keep up the good work. C'mon, Wayne." Willie took his brother's arm, and they went out to a dusty blue pickup and drove off.

Starsky and Hutch stared at each other for a moment and then at the photograph again.

"Can you believe that?" Starsky said. "You think he could be our guy? That just seems way too easy."

"Let's go find out."

"Better call Joe and let him know where we're headed."

There was a pay phone around the side of the restaurant, and Starsky made the call. Hutch unfolded a map on the hood of the LTD and found that the cabin where Brian's body had been discovered was not very far from where Willie had told them they could find Ernie.

Starsky came back around the corner, and Hutch watched him walk, admiring the swing of his shoulders, and the way he held his head back and a little to one side. He was squinting in the sun, and smiled as soon as he saw Hutch watching him.

"You do that a lot, you know," Starsky said as he got to the car.

"Do what?" Hutch asked innocently.

"That. Watch me."

"Oh I do, do I?"

"Yeah. And I watch you. All the time."

"I know." He opened the driver's door and got in.

Starsky tried to open his door and it stuck again. He yanked on it, and it popped open, creaking loudly. He got in without even complaining.

"You've never said anything."

"Never really thought much about it until lately."

"Me neither."

As he drove out of the parking area, Hutch stuck out his right hand, feeling awkward and hesitant and more than a little weird, and Starsky took hold of it and squeezed, and held on.

---

The cabin where Brian's body had been found was closer, so they stopped there first. No one had lived there for years, and ownership was murky. Joe had told Starsky it was unlocked, and that they could go on in if they wanted to, but not to expect much. It wasn't much, in fact, Starsky thought, wrinkling up his nose. A slightly lopsided one-room camp with a broken chimney at one end, it squatted in a small clearing, the towering trees around it providing a deep cover of cool darkness, even on such a hot, bright day. They knew from the map that the lake was only a few hundred yards away through the trees, but from the house there was no indication of its direction, or even of its existence. Starsky pushed open the door and they went in.

"Nothing but mice and squirrels," said Hutch, looking around and sniffing the dead air inside. "Your favorites."

"This place is crumbling to bits." Starsky walked around the walls, kicking aside bits of unidentifiable trash, and waving his hand in front of his face. "Nothing here but dust."

"The original team did a pretty thorough search, and didn't find anything."

"They didn't find the necklace either."

"No, assuming it was even there when they searched." Hutch went to a filthy window and looked out. "I'll go get a flashlight. Can't see much in here."

Not wanting to stay alone with the squirrels, Starsky followed him out, close behind. Hutch looked back at him, amused.

"Don't laugh at me," Starsky said, affronted.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Uh, I'll go around the outside, you can do inside."

"Sure. I'll take the squirrels. You can have the bears."

"Maybe we better stick together."

Hutch stopped in midstep and turned to face him. "That's the plan, Starsk," he said.

"Hutch." Starsky took a step forward and stopped, arms out a little to the sides, and Hutch closed the small distance between them with a sound in his throat that Starsky couldn't identify. Hutch's arms folded around him as they had a hundred times, and he held him back in the familiar way he always had, but this, this was indescribably new and strange. He felt a sensation deep inside that was a little like fear, a little like panic, so he held on tighter and put his face next to Hutch's.

"I love you, Hutch," he said distinctly.

"I love you, Starsky," Hutch said into his ear.

"You as scared as I am?"

"Terrified."

"Let's go bag some bears so we can get home."

Hutch let him go and stepped away, and touched the side of his face very lightly. Starsky swallowed hard and grinned, and went back inside the cabin.

More kicking of trash, and examining corners, and Hutch said, "There's nothing in here. Where's the woodpile? That's where we should be looking."

Back outside, the door pulled shut, and some deep breaths cleared out the smell of dead rodents and moldy leaves. They turned left out of the door and around to the back of the cabin. The woodpile was across the small yard, almost swallowed up by the nearby undergrowth. More kicking of leaves and a hard sneeze or two turned up nothing but some odd looking funguses, and they gave up. For form's sake they walked all the way around the yard at the edge of the woods, looking for anything, and finding nothing at all.

They went back to the car and strategized.

"Think we need backup?" Hutch said. "Good ol' Ernie could be trouble, and we don't have jurisdiction here."

"Probably won't even be there. Let's go back to the town and get some beer and go see what's what. We can back off if he's ornery."

"Ornery? You learning a new language?"

"What's wrong with ornery? It's a good word." He gave Hutch's arm a shove. "Joe knows where we are, anyway. Let's go."

Hutch started up the engine and drove down the short path that served as the driveway, and headed back to town for the beer.

"Sing that song again, the one from this morning," Starsky said.

He leaned back in his seat and listened to Hutch's voice. It fell around him like warm rain, clear and sweet.

He remembered that feeling later, and wished he'd said something about it to Hutch when he'd had the chance.

---

Ernie's place was quite a few steps up the ladder from the last one, but lost points for the rusting carcasses of tractors, cars, and lawnmowers scattered about. Hutch pulled in and parked next to a battered pickup truck.

There was a well-started vegetable garden off to the left, and some chickens scratching at the bottom of the fence surrounding it. A big floppy dog wagged a long tail at them without bothering to get up.

"Dog," Starsky said, moving around to Hutch's other side, away from it.

"Hi, fella," Hutch said, and the dog rolled over onto his back, and looked at them beseechingly. "He's a softie, Starsky. Look at him. Go rub his belly."

"No thanks," Starsky said.

A man appeared at the door of the cabin. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" he said, smiling congenially. He looked nothing like the man that Willie had identified as Ernie. This guy was shorter, rounder, balder.

Starsky held out the six-pack of Budweiser. "Willie Pratt sent us. We're looking for Ernie. Think we know a friend of his. Is he home?"

"He's on his way home now. Bring in that beer and you can wait for him." The man stepped back and held the door open.

"I'm Dave," Starsky said, "and this is my buddy, Ken."

"Steve," said their host. He reached for the beer, and Starsky handed it over.

"Wait in there, if you want," Steve said, pointing to a room off the small hallway.

Starsky stepped over a pile of old newspapers and some boots, Hutch following behind him.

"Where you guys from, anyways?" Steve asked.

Starsky went through the doorway into the back room and headed for a chair by a window.

Behind him, Hutch said "Bay City. We're up for a long week—"

A loud thump and an inarticulate grunt had Starsky spinning and reaching for his gun before he had time to even register the sounds. As he turned, Hutch fell forward to the floor, and Starsky dove behind a green couch, heart pounding and thoughts swirling.

"Hold it! Police!" he yelled, and moved fast, arms straight out, gun ready. Steve and another man were already out the front door, and Starsky let them go, a dreadful fear overwhelming him so that he could think of nothing but Hutch.

"Hutch. Oh God, Hutch. What the hell happened? Huh?" He checked for a pulse and breathing, and then looked frantically for a phone, not really hoping for one, and when he saw it, he didn't expect it to work. When it did, he couldn't remember the sheriff's number and he pulled at his hair in frustration. He dialed zero and barked into the phone who he was and where, and that a police officer was down.

The operator calmly asked him to wait where he was, and said the sheriff would be right along, and an ambulance as well. He banged the phone down and raced back to Hutch, and fell to the floor beside him, ignoring the flare of pain from his knee. Had Ernie been hiding, and waiting for them? Willie must have warned him somehow. If they'd come here first. If they'd accepted Joe's offer of backup. If he'd . . .

"Hutch, wake up. Hutch. Please." I love you. Don't do this to me now. He didn't know who he was begging to, he only knew that this was intolerable.

"Starsky."

"Oh God, I'm right here, babe. You're okay. Joe's on his way with an ambulance.

"What happened?"

"We got ambushed. I think Ernie was here."

"Ernie?"

"Or Steve. Just take it easy, Hutch. Where you hurting? Your head? Let me see it." He leaned across Hutch's back and saw a thin line of blood. Mouth suddenly dry, he pushed the hair aside gently and saw a large swelling, and a small cut. "You're okay, Hutch, just a whack on the head." He tried to swallow, tried to get his heart to slow down.

"What happened?"

"You got hit on the head, buddy. Just lie still."

"I got hit? Who hit me?"

A nameless fear crawled into Starsky's belly and took hold there, twisting and turning.

"It's okay, it doesn't matter. I'm right here." He wanted to take him in his arms, hold him and rock him, but he didn't dare move him. What if his skull was fractured? What if his neck was broken? Oh God, Hutch.

"Where are we?"

"We're up at the lake. You're okay."

"Did I get shot?"

"No, buddy. Just a whack on the head." He pushed some stray hair away from Hutch's eyes.

"Starsky."

"Yeah, babe?"

"What happened? Did I get shot?"

"No. I think you got a concussion. Shhhh. I love you."

"Love you, too, Starsk. You okay?"

"I'm fine. Don't talk."

"My head hurts." He moved an arm around and tried to feel the back of his head.

"Yeah, you got hit. Don't move, Hutch. Please."

"I got hit on the head?"

"Yeah, good place to get hit, huh?"

"You okay?"

"I'm fine. Try not to talk."

Why was it taking so long for Joe and the ambulance to get there? It seemed like hours.

"Beer."

"You want a beer? I don't think—"

"Prints."

"What?"

"Prints."

What the hell is he talking about? Starsky began to feel sick. He looked around, feeling frantic again, and found a purple afghan, and pulled it down off the chair and over Hutch's shoulders.

Hutch stretched his arm out and wrapped his hand around Starsky's ankle.

"Prints. Beer."

"What are you . . . oh. Steve's prints on the beer. I don't know why everyone says you're so dumb."

"You."

"Me what?"

"You, not me."

"Oh, really?" He felt immeasurably better, but where the hell was Joe? They were helpless—and sitting ducks—if Steve and Ernie came back. Why didn't they shoot at us? He looked around the room again and saw a gun rack over the couch. It had two hunting rifles on it.

Hutch seemed to relax a little, and Starsky put a hand on top of his, that was still holding onto his foot.

Hutch groaned. "I hear sirens. What happened?"

Starsky's stomach churned. "It's for you, baby. You got a concussion. You're going to be fine." Between them, they'd had enough concussions for Starsky to know that asking the same questions over and over wasn't too abnormal, but still, it was terrifying.

"What time is it?"

"Around 3, I think." He looked at his watch. "It's 3:20."

"Call Dobey."

"I will. When we get to the hospital I'll call him."

"Starsk."

"Hutch, please try not to talk. They're here."

"I love you, Starsky." It was a whisper, and he closed his eyes, and smiled.

"I love you, too, Hutch." How could he feel so elated and so powerless at the same time? It was completely unsettling.

Joe shouted to him from outside.

"In here, Joe. All clear."

Joe rushed in, gun drawn, and pale. He holstered his revolver and dropped down beside Starsky on the floor.

"What the hell happened?"

"Ambush. Hutch was behind me, and somebody hit him. They took off. Steve somebody, and maybe Ernie Palmer."

"Shit. I thought he'd be harmless. Hold on a sec." He pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and spoke into it, telling the emergency team to come in. "We just have a volunteer team here, but they're good, Dave, don't worry. Well trained. They'll take care of him."

The medics came in and shoved Starsky aside, and poked and prodded at Hutch, and eventually loaded him onto their stretcher and took him out to the ambulance. Starsky went out with them, and took Hutch's keys, and the evidence bag with the chain and pendant in it, still in Hutch's pocket.

"I'll be there right behind you, buddy," he said, and to the medics, "Take good care of him."

"He'll be fine, Dave," Joe said, and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. He wasn't all that much older, but Starsky felt comforted anyway.

They went back into the house, and Starsky told him of the day's events and finds.

"We brought the beer for a decoy. If you can lift some prints it'll place Steve What-his-name here at the scene today."

Joe took the six-pack carefully, marked it as evidence, and set it aside. They found a large flat board lying near where Hutch had fallen, and they took that as well. Starsky described Steve, and Joe nodded.

"Yep. I know him. I'll get my deputy to round him up."

"Why didn't they shoot at us? Or take off before we even got here?"

"Don't know. I'll ask them." He grinned. "Don't complain."

"No." Starsky grinned back. "I didn't see much of the second man, only his back as they took off. I can't describe him."

"Probably Ernie. His wife'll be home soon. She'll be a problem–bit theatrical."

Starsky flashed on Joanna's blue eyes and flying hair. "I know the type."

"Did you fire your weapon?"

"No."

"I'm going to call the state fellas for some backup, search the place, get some photos," Joe said. "You go on to the hospital. It's just a little cottage hospital, but the staff's good. They'll keep him overnight, probably. He'll be fine."

He radioed in to the State Barracks, and told Starsky how to find the hospital, and gave him another reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Starsky hesitated.

"I don't think I should leave you here alone, Joe. Don't want two of you to watch over tonight."

"Maybe you're right. I wouldn't have thought this would happen and it did. No point in playing Superman, I guess." He grinned and started taking photos of the front hallway and the room where Hutch had fallen. "They'll be right along and you can get going."

Starsky tried to concentrate on a systematic search of the living room, but he found himself standing in the middle of the room holding a Redbook magazine, and staring at the floorboards. He put the magazine on a cluttered coffee table and sat down on the couch. It was comfortable, and had an unexpectedly pleasant view out of a large window into the woods. A couple of chickens walked across the brown grass, stopping to scratch here and there, heads down, intent.

Joe came over and sat sideways next to him. "He'll be fine."

"I know. It's just . . . a lot's gone down the past few months."

"Thought I saw a limp on you."

"Yeah. Got run down by a perp. Dislocated my knee. I've only been back a few days."

"And now this."

"We weren't paying attention."

"Takes a while to get back up to speed when you've been out."

"Still."

"You like to beat the crap out of yourself, don't you?"

Starsky laughed.

"I'm gonna sic Rachel on you," Joe said. "She's got more experience than anyone on the planet at knocking sense into a man who likes to beat himself up for stuff he isn't guilty of."

"You're lucky to have her."

"Good thing is, I know it."

The hand radio squawked on Joe's belt, and Starsky stood up fast.

"Go on to the hospital. We'll take over here and I'll meet you later."

Joe introduced Starsky to the two state troopers who filled the doorway and front hall, Starsky tipping his head back to look them in the eyes. They shook hands formally, and turned sideways so he could get past them.

Outside, the big dog still lay in the shade by the house, still wagging his tail. "Sorry, dog," Starsky said politely. "Gotta go."

He half expected Hutch's car to refuse to start, but it roared to life, as if it wanted to get to Hutch as much as Starsky did. They took off together down the dirt drive.

---

The hospital reminded Starsky of the house on Haunted Hill, with a better paint job—more like someone's home than what it was, at least from outside. Inside, though, it was all bright white walls, nurse's stations, and curtains partitioning two bays for emergencies. Starsky saw a hallway stretching off to the right, with four or five doors leading into patients' rooms, and another straight ahead with signs reading "Doctor's Offices" and "Lab" and "X-ray." The familiar smells of disinfectant, alcohol, and illness assaulted him, as they always did in every hospital he'd ever set foot in, and he wanted very much not to have to be there.

The glass-enclosed nurse's station by the emergency doors was empty, but there was some activity going on behind one of the drawn curtains, so Starsky headed that way, and stood listening, not sure if he should go in. A tall man in a long lab coat stepped through the opening and looked at Starsky standing there. He slung a stethoscope around his neck and approached.

"I'm Detective Starsky. Is that my partner?" Starsky put out a hand for a shake, and the man returned it with a firm, cool grasp.

"Yes. I'm Dr. Farrell. Your partner has a moderate concussion and a small laceration that won't need any sutures. He's had x-rays, which were clear, but we want to keep him overnight for observation because he's still a little disoriented. He should be fine, though."

The doctor wore a tied-dyed T-shirt under his white coat and seemed very young to Starsky, but he looked confident and capable, and Joe had said the staff was good, so Starsky tried to relax.

"Can I see him?"

"Sure." Dr. Farrell pulled the curtain back for Starsky and followed him into the exam area.

Hutch lay on the gurney with his head slightly elevated, and turned away from Starsky. A motherly-looking nurse finished taping a bandage on his head, and cleaned away the small amount of blood. She patted Hutch's shoulder and smiled at Starsky, nodded at the doctor, and stepped out. Hutch didn't move.

"Is he awake?" Starsky asked quietly.

Hutch turned when he heard Starsky's voice, and flashed a smile at him. For a second, Starsky thought his legs might not hold him up, and he stumbled the few steps to Hutch's side.

Dr. Farrell said, "I have another patient to see. If you have any questions, one of the nurses will find me."

Starsky nodded without taking his eyes off Hutch's face. He didn't notice when the doctor left.

"Hi, Hutch," he said.

"Hi, Starsk."

There didn't seem to be anything else to say, or the need for it, and Hutch closed his eyes. Starsky found a metal kick stool, hooked it with a foot, and sat on it. It was uncomfortable but he stayed there, watching Hutch's face. He let his mind drift among the muffled sounds of voices and machines outside the curtain, the way he often had when sitting watch beside Hutch.

The nurse came back in and smiled at Starsky. "I'm Barbara," she said. "We're going to move him to a room now. It's just down the hall." She turned to Hutch and spoke gently. "Mr. Hutchinson, can you open your eyes for me?"

"I'm awake," Hutch said irritably. "I can walk."

"How about we compromise on a wheel chair? I'll get you one." She smiled again at Starsky as she went past him, and he grinned back.

Hutch tried to sit up on his own, and ended up groaning, with one hand on the top of his head. Starsky stood and pushed away the kick stool, and tried to figure out how to lower the sidebars on the gurney.

"You'd think between us we'd know how to do this by now," he said.

Hutch tried to help him find the button, but gave up and lay back. "Oh, my head," he said. "I'm going to clobber that son of bitch when we find him."

"Get in line, pal." Starsky found the button and the side rail fell with a small clacking sound.

He held out an arm, and Hutch grabbed on, letting Starsky pull him up. He tried to swing his legs around, and got stuck in the sheet that was over them. Starsky untangled him, and snuck a pat and a squeeze onto one shin. Hutch grinned and immediately groaned again.

"Shit," he said, without much emphasis.

Barbara returned with the chair, and Starsky helped her transfer Hutch over, getting in her way more than anything.

"Where's my clothes?" Hutch said.

"Already in your room." She patted his shoulder and started pushing him away down the hall. Starsky started to follow, but one of the other nurses called to him, and held up a phone.

"It's the sheriff for you," she said.

Starsky looked at her nametag. It read "Margery," and he thanked her by name, and took the phone.

"Joe, it's Dave. Everything okay?"

"Oh, yeah. We moved off down the road a bit, and the nitwits came right on home from back in the wood lot somewhere." He laughed. "You won't believe this one, but we just walked up to the door and knocked, and Ernie opened it right up. Morons."

Starsky laughed, too. "Lucky for us."

"How's your partner?"

"Holding his head and vowing revenge."

"Well, might not be necessary. Ernie swears he thought you were some guys from Reno collecting money for his bookie or something. Said no one warned him about anyone. We checked with Willie and he said he hadn't told Ernie anything about meeting you guys."

"Ask Ernie if he has a necklace with some kind of religious medal pendant."

"Hold on . . .."

Starsky listened to the voices, but couldn't make out what they were saying. He picked a pen up off the desk and clicked it open and closed, open and closed.

"Yeah," said Joe. "He's got one matching that description. Wearing it now."

"Shit. We were way off, then."

"Yep. Looks like it."

"You want to let them go?"

"Yeah. They weren't trying to escape the law or anything, didn't shoot at you, like you said."

"Get them to say they're sorry, and let them go."

"You don't ask much, do you?"

"Hutch'll be mad otherwise."

"You got it."

"Thanks, Joe. Back to square one, then."

"Yep. Oh, almost forgot, Rachel said she'll bring you something to eat in an hour or two."

"I said she's a goddess, but maybe she's a saint instead."

"Both."

"Yeah. Thanks, Joe. Talk to you later."

Starsky tossed the abused pen on the desk, hung up, and went to tell Hutch the latest news, but found him asleep already. He tore a slip of paper from his notebook and scrawled a message: "Gone to cabin. Be right back. Don't go anywhere." In the quiet room, the afternoon light from the window made Hutch's face look young and calm, and incredibly beautiful, and Starsky's pulse slammed into high gear. He put the note under Hutch's hand, and turned away, shaken. And then, somehow, he found himself in the hallway, sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the wall. He put his head down on his knees, and jumped when the two nurses appeared seconds later, shaking his shoulder and asking him if he was okay. He looked up at them, and tried to smile.

"Yeah, sorry. I just . . . you know, lost it for a second there."

"He'll be fine," Barbara said.

"I know. Been through a lot worse. Just, you know."

"You're not hurt, are you?" Margery asked. "I saw you limping."

"No, old injury. Just reaction." He moved to stand up, and found it was a little harder to do than he expected, and the nurses ended up lifting him between them so expertly that he didn't even take in how he got to be standing up. He kissed each of them on the cheek, and thanked them, and got beaming smiles back, and offers of tea or maybe some cake left over from one of the doctors' birthdays.

"I'll take a rain check, ladies," he said. "I'm going home to get a few things. Be back in an hour or so." He knew they were watching him as he went through the wide ambulance bay doors, so he made sure not to limp, and even swaggered a bit. He wished he had his Torino parked out there—it kind of spoiled the effect to get into a car like Hutch's. He made the best of it, though, and waved as he pulled out of the parking area. They were still standing just inside, and they waved back.

---

Something kept pounding the back of his head relentlessly, enough to drag him back from wherever he'd been to wherever he was. Which was nowhere that he knew of. It wasn't dark, but he couldn't see anything familiar, or hear anything but a soft soughing noise, and distant muffled voices. He couldn't think who he was, either, and his heart began to race. He sat up, and groaned loudly.

"Oh my head." Everything suddenly clicked on, and Hutch fell back into himself and remembered where he was.

"Starsky?"

No one answered.

There was a piece of paper in his right hand, and he squinted at it. "'Be right back'," he read. "When does that mean?" He felt lonely, and laid down with a small grunt. Not going anywhere, Starsk.

The next time he woke up, he felt better. The jackhammer in his head had tamed down to steady dull beat, and he was clearheaded. He could hear Starsky talking quietly to someone, and he lay there, eyes still closed, listening to Starsky's voice as if he'd never heard it before. He'd woken up other times in other hospital beds to find Starsky asleep in a chair close by, or holding his hand and staring at his eyes as he opened them, or half-sprawled across the end of the bed over his legs, but he'd never woken to the sound of his voice, calmly talking to someone else like that. It was the most comfortable sound he'd ever heard. After a while he got curious, and opened his eyes.

Immediately, Starsky said, "Hey Hutch, you're awake."

"You're a master of the obvious, Starsk."

"Rachel's here. She brought us some dinner. You hungry?"

"Hi, Rachel," Hutch said, and tried sitting up. His head stayed still, so he went ahead with the plan. "What time is it?"

"Around 7 or so. You want a sandwich?"

"Got anything to drink?"

"Water, juice, ginger ale?"

"Ginger ale."

Starsky busied himself with finding a cup and a straw.

"How's the head?" Rachel asked.

"Not as bad as I thought it would be. Down to a dull roar already. I don't see why I have to stay here."

"Better safe than sorry. You'll be fine tomorrow," she said. "Joe's gotten clunked a few times, though only once by an actual bad guy. Don't tell him I told you that." She laughed.

Starsky poked him on the lip with the straw, aimed again, and got it right. Hutch hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the soda was gone and he wanted more, and Starsky poured it without him asking. It was a small thing, and nothing new, but Hutch felt a surge of something so strong and important that he was sure Rachel would see it, taste it. Starsky looked at Hutch's hands, and then at his face, and seemed about to collapse. Hutch lay back, unsettled.

"I'm going to leave you boys now," Rachel said. "Joe and Lizzie have probably already eaten something godawful." She patted Hutch's hand, and kissed Starsky on the cheek, and left.

Starsky closed the door gently behind her, and pulled the curtain, even though the other bed was empty. He dragged an ugly padded chair close beside Hutch's bed and sat leaning forward, and reached through the side rails for Hutch's right hand.

"You okay?" Hutch said.

"Yeah. You?"

"I am now."

"The nurses come in every fifteen minutes to gawk at you."

"You timing them?"

"Four minutes."

"Not much time, four minutes."

"Yes it is. It's forever if . . ." He put his head down, and Hutch reached across and tugged on his hair.

"I'm sorry, Starsk."

"For what?" He looked up.

"For being careless, for getting hit, for not being on the beach under the stars with you tonight."

"I've already snagged the blame for you getting hit, so you ain't claiming that one, and the other—we still have two more nights." He kissed Hutch's hand. "And then—"

The outer door opened, and Starsky let go and leaned back fast in his chair. By the time the curtain opened and Barbara peeked her head in, Hutch was breathing normally, and feeling like he probably looked normal, though what that exactly was, he didn't really know anymore.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Barbara said. "I was going to have to wake you up around now anyway. I heard you got some dinner smuggled in by the sheriff's wife, so you probably won't want anything now?" She looked over at Starsky, and raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged. "I'll bring it anyway." She grinned and opened the curtain back up on her way out.

Only the dull pain in his head kept Hutch from laughing outright. "I feel like I did when I was fourteen and my mother caught me making out in the closet with Sarah Jane Kendall."

"Thirteen, Linda Martin."

"It's going be a long night, buddy."

"You can sleep through most of it, you lucky dog."

"Did you call Dobey?"

"Yep. Fill you in later."

Barbara brought a dinner tray in and set it down on a rolling table. "Here's something for the headache." She handed Hutch a little paper cup, and poured some water.

Hutch hesitated.

Starsky said, "What's the pain killer?"

"Just Tylenol. It probably won't help much. Would you like an ice pack for the back of your head?"

"No thanks." He looked at Starsky, and when he nodded, went ahead and swallowed the capsules.

"We have pretty good food for a hospital, you know. There's only one other patient, and you got a real meal there. Eat it, you'll feel better." She looked at Starsky. "Visiting hours are almost over."

Starsky straightened up. "I'm not leaving."

"We'll take good care of your partner, but you aren't allowed to stay all night. He needs to sleep."

"He'll sleep, but I'm not leaving."

"Mr. Starsky . . ."

"Barbara. I'm not leaving."

Hutch looked from one to the other as if they were at Wimbledon, a little smile in his eyes. Barbara drew herself up and stuck her chin out, but Starsky had the look of a badger that something was trying to drag out of its den. It was the stare-down to end all stare-downs.

Barbara disintegrated under the laser blast, and retreated in defeat.

"I didn't mean to break her spirit." Starsky tried to look contrite.

"Don't feel bad. She never had a chance anyway."

"No chance at all."

Hutch pulled the dinner tray closer and started to eat. "Hmm. Not bad."

Starsky took a look and helped himself to some meatloaf. "We can save Rachel's sandwiches for later."

"What did Dobey say? Glad you called him and not me."

"He didn't even seem surprised you're in the hospital. I think he was glad it was one of us damaged and not the cabin."

Hutch laughed, and had to put a hand to his head in consequence. "Any news?"

"Yeah, they got a tail on Sloan already but nothing interesting yet. And the report's back from Allen's hypnosis. I guess he was able to come up with a few more details, but nothing of any help."

"It was a long shot."

"Yeah. Whichever way we turn we end up nowhere. I called Huggy, too, but he wasn't there."

"We'll find something."

"You sleep if you feel like it. I've got Allen Morton's box with Brian's stuff to go through, and Joe's case file. I'll give it a more thorough read."

Hutch put his head back and closed his eyes, and tried not to grimace, but Starsky must have seen some small flash of pain, because he was there by his head moving the pillows and touching his hair.

"You want that ice pack?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Where's the button?"

"No, don't call the lion back in. I'll go get it."

Hutch smiled, and drifted, and by the time Starsky came back, he was asleep again.

As uncomfortable as the chair was, to Starsky it was a whole lot better than staying alone at the cabin. For once he wasn't holding a vigil by a hospital bed not knowing if he'd ever talk to Hutch again, or if he'd soon be making plans to bury him. This wasn't how either of them had wanted to spend the night together, but he'd take it any day over a night of heart monitors and oxygen tents.

He took a deep breath and pulled up the box of Brian's things that Allen had lent them. One by one he took them out and laid them on the rolling table. Used as he was to going through the artifacts of a dead person's life, he still felt sad, as if he'd known Brian and felt the loss of him. We'll get him for you, kid. Might take a while, but we'll get him.

First out were some well-read paperback books: Asimov, Clarke, Bradbury, Heinlein. A quick flip through the pages of each one turned up nothing. No loose notes, no four-leaf clovers, not even a bookmark. They became a tottery pile on the floor beside Starsky's chair. A small box held some chunks of rocks that Starsky thought were amethyst, rose quartz, tiger-eye, and maybe some petrified wood or agate. Another stone had been cut in half and polished, and had concentric bands with some tiny crystals in a hollow in the center. None of them looked particularly valuable or unusual. He lined them up on the table. A plastic model of the Starship Enterprise, meticulously glued and painted, got Starsky's attention. Bet you would have moved on to schooners someday.

Rolled up posters of Earth as seen from the moon, an almost life size black and white of Illya Kuryakin, a smaller one of Mr. Spock, and one of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid that made Starsky grin. An 8 by 10 autographed photo from Buzz Aldrin carefully framed. A formal portrait photo of Brian and his parents, and two of Brian and Allen at the lake, arms around each other's skinny shoulders, Allen's wide smile silvery with braces. A wallet-sized photo of a pretty girl with long brown hair, parted in the middle, about the same age as the boys. No name on the back. Probably a school picture. A girlfriend? He would find out.

Barbara came in to check on Hutch. She gave Starsky a tentative smile, and he winked at her, and her smile got bigger.

"How long has he been asleep?" she whispered.

"Maybe twenty minutes, half an hour."

"I won't wake him up then. I see you're busy. Working on Brian's case?"

Starsky nodded. "Not much progress yet."

"You will. That tragedy, that can't go unpunished."

"No. We'll find something. We'll get him."

She smiled and left, taking away the dinner tray and the unused melted ice pack.

Starsky looked at Hutch dozing, mouth open a little, face muscles calm and smooth. He thought about Allen and Brian, so uncomplicated, so sure of their friendship. Would they still be friends? Would they have been lifelong buddies?

What was it like to lose your best friend? He and Hutch faced that possibility every day, understood it, accepted it, or so they thought. They didn't ever talk about it, not even after close calls. It was one of those elephants in the kitchen. They just pretended it wasn't there, and stepped around it and went on with whatever they were doing. Death was so entwined with their lives that they played with it sometimes, delighted in beating it, acceded to it when it won, and had learned how to pick up whatever shards it left behind, and to go on from there. Always together.

But now . . . if he lost Hutch now . . .

A wave of something massive and impenetrable took him over and he succumbed to it as if it were a physical pain in his core, unable to beat it off. He put his hands to the back of his head, gripping handfuls of hair, and bent forward over himself, silently begging it to leave him, to let him go. When it finally subsided, he found himself shaking and hot, crying as if he were grieving for the loss of Hutch, who wasn't lost, but who could be someday, surely would be. Or who would be left behind, alone and empty, which was just as bad. Better to go out like Butch and Sundance, guns blazing, forever together.

Hutch slept on, and Starsky, exhausted, put his head against the back of the uncomfortable chair and closed his eyes. He tried to think about something else, and not about crazy shit that might never happen, or not any time soon. There was something a lot more interesting to think about, and without even moving, his pulse picked up and he felt the same stirring he always did at the beginning of a new relationship, the excited promise of love and happiness and good . . . well, okay, might as well face it. What about sex?

Thinking back over years, he could remember times when boys had crossed his path who had been more than just pals, and the usual adolescent jacking off behind the school had been more compelling than he liked to admit later. Once in a while there had been a boy who'd wanted more than that, and Starsky had learned a few things about himself and the mysteries of sex that he'd never fully integrated with his adult self. After high school he'd gone after women with lust, and often love, and sometimes with his whole heart, and never thought much about those boys with their hot skin and their frightened eyes.

But the way he always felt when he watched Hutch in that secret way, maybe that was more—significant—than he'd ever admitted to himself. Maybe that was why he'd responded so strongly to learning about John Blaine. Maybe it had hit him a little too close to home. Hutch had been much less troubled by Blaine's homosexuality than he'd been himself. What of that?

How many times had they seen each other naked, showered together at the gym or at work, and cared for each other's injuries and illnesses in the most intimate of ways? There was no one else, not even a woman, that he'd ever let see him that vulnerable, no one else who'd ever been so trusting of him.

He'd never kissed any of those boys. Never thought of it, never wanted to, and neither had they. He tried imagining a lip lock with Hutch—if he could maybe get him to shave off that moustache first—a full and open kiss, a prelude. What would Hutch's kiss feel like and taste like? He smiled as his cock lurched a bit in response. Had Hutch thought about it yet?

And what about women? He didn't think he'd want to stop fucking women. He didn't really think Hutch would, either. They weren't gay, they were . . . what were they? Was there a label? Did there need to be one?

Wake up, Blondie, we need to talk.

Sighing, Starsky picked up the packet of photos and looked through them. More family pictures, more pictures of Brian and Allen. One of . . . he stopped and stared. The girl with the long hair—he picked up the smaller picture from Allen's box and compared them. It was definitely the same girl, at some kind of lawn party. She was in the background, sitting alone near a group of better-dressed girls. She looked distant, a little sad. There was no name on the back.

Wake up, Hutch. I think I found something . . .

He put the photos back in the envelope, with the two of the girl on top, and slipped it inside Joe's file. He made a list of things he wanted to check on, and stuck that in the file, too. Then he ate one of Rachel's sandwiches, and started to read one of Brian's books, Childhood's End, choosing that title because of the simple irony of it. After a few minutes, he kicked off his sneakers, and put his feet up on the end of Hutch's bed. Less than ten minutes after that, he was asleep.

---

Around midnight, Barbara whispered to Hutch and shook his shoulder, and he opened his eyes.

"Sorry. Have to make sure you're able to wake up. How are you feeling?"

Hutch did an internal survey. "Not too bad. Just feels like any headache now. Thirsty, though."

"I'll get you some juice and some more Tylenol." She glanced over at Starsky. "How can he sleep like that?"

"He's done it before. We're both sort of used to hospital chairs."

"Not a great thing to be used to. I'll get him a blanket."

She slipped out the door, and Hutch lay back, trying not to let himself wake up too much. The only sound he could hear was the background hiss of the hospital itself, and occasional small snores from Starsky, whose head was tipped far back so that his mouth had fallen open. He almost looked like a victim they'd seen once who'd had a broken neck. Hutch closed his eyes, swallowing hard.

Barbara tiptoed back in, poured him a glass of juice, waited while he drank it, and then held up a blood pressure cuff. Hutch stuck his arm out, and she took his pressure, nodding, and then his pulse.

"You're fine," she said. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

He nodded and sat up, expecting his head to protest, but it stayed quiet, and he made the round trip without incident.

Barbara put the blanket very gently over Starsky, and shook her head at him.

"I'm going home soon," she said. "I'm past the end of my shift. Say goodbye for me."

Hutch nodded and thanked her. She glided back out, leaving the door open a crack.

The table light was still on, and Hutch could see that Starsky had been working earlier. Had he found anything? Not all that interested in the case at that moment, he decided against taking a look at Brian's things, and opted instead for watching Starsky's face. He'd moved out of that awkward dead-looking position, and now looked a little more comfortable, if it were possible to be comfortable sleeping in a chair like that. Hutch wished fiercely that they were home or anywhere other than there, so he could wake Starsky up and hold him and they could talk. And touch.

Sometimes he'd thought vaguely about that constant need to touch his partner. Starsky had been so withdrawn the past few weeks since Joanna had died—unreachable, untouchable—and Hutch had felt just as lost without the constant contact, the reassurance it had always brought him. Whenever they'd been at odds it was always the worst part for him, that loss of the physical connection. He had never once wondered why, or what its importance was, until now.

What had happened between them, this immense shift in the direction of their lives? And why now? And what now? Was it just a passing thing, brought on by one too many unbearable losses? One too many insupportable tragedies? Always they had relied on each other for support, both physical and emotional. Nothing had ever been too much for them to work through, until Joanna. Starsky had blamed himself, just like he always did, but he'd turned away from Hutch, and for the first time, Hutch hadn't been able to get through and pull him back. Not until he'd gone to see McAllister. She'd been able to get through to him, where he hadn't. Maybe some things were just too much to lay on a friend, and maybe there were some things a friend just shouldn't try to dig up.

Knowing Starsky, it wasn't all out yet, either. Sometimes he needed a long time to figure things out before he could talk about them. Maybe there was more that Starsky hadn't told him, something he knew Hutch wouldn't want to hear.

Just tell me, Starsk. There's nothing you can't tell me.

That couldn't be right, though. Last night, when Starsky had finally talked about Joanna, that had been the moment. Starsky had dropped his defenses and let Hutch through, and there couldn't be anything more. And if there were, surely Starsky would tell him when they finally had a chance to be alone together.

Alone together. An odd phrase. They were alone together all the time. And now he could hardly contain himself with the need to be alone together with Starsky.

Wake up, Starsk. I miss you.

By the time Starsky did wake up, he'd be so pretzeled and grumpy he probably wouldn't want to talk at all. Well, Hutch thought he knew a few ways to deal with that. An unexpected twitch and jump in his groin made him smile. How could anyone go traveling through life and be so unaware of his own real feelings? He remembered the first time his cock had pulsed when he'd been watching Starsky.

"Flip you for bad cop," Starsky'd said. "You call it." He'd finished off a Hershey's chocolate bar, and licked his fingers, and then his lips. And Hutch had gone hot and turned fast to the coffee machine, completely confused and embarrassed.

And that little incident of years before had immediately gotten shoved so deep inside that it had never showed itself since. Until last night.

He didn't think he was gay. He loved falling in love with women, courting them, making love to them, smelling their hair and touching their skin. In his entire life there had never been any other moment of sexual interest in a man, at least not that he'd ever been aware of. And Starsky—first pick for the Olympic Fucking Team—no one could be less gay than Starsky. Well, they'd figure it out. Soon, I hope.

He was sleepy again. How could he be so sleepy? His headache was down to almost nothing and he felt pretty normal, just this sleepiness. Oh well. That's what happened when you got whacked on the head. Might as well give in. Morning would come sooner that way, and they could get out of there and go home. Alone together . . .

Familiar early morning sounds of every hospital everywhere, and for a second Starsky couldn't remember if he was the one admitted, or Hutch. His right knee was killing him, his neck felt like it had turned a new angle, and his head was pounding as bad as if he'd been the one to get hit. He groaned and tried to sit up straight.

"Rise and shine, buddy," Hutch said. He pointed to a coffee cup and held out a piece of toast. "Red jelly, your favorite."

"How'd you turn into Little Mary Sunshine all of a sudden?"

"Well, I just woke up and saw you there all bent and twisted, and I figured you'd be in a lot worse shape than I am. Looks like I was right."

"Nice." Starsky tottered to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. Nothing in it could be good. By the time he made it back to his chair, he was straightened out and ready for the coffee. Hutch, however, had eaten his toast and red jelly.

"Sorry, pal. I owe you one."

"What time is it?" he said, not bothering to look at his own watch.

"Time to go. I'm discharged. Just waiting for you."

"You should have woken me up."

"If a doctor's visit, a nurse bringing breakfast, and some poor guy out there shrieking to high hell didn't wake you, how was I supposed to do it?"

Not quick enough to think up a smart answer, Starsky instead started to gather Brian's stuff.

"Found something interesting here," he said. "I'll show you later." He looked around for Hutch's clothes, and spotted them folded up on the counter by the sink. "How's the head? Need help getting dressed?"

"Fine and no, but I'll take the help anyway."

"Oh, yeah? What kind of help, exactly?"

"Are you flirting with me, Starsky?"

"What if I am? Gonna make something of it, Blondie?"

"No, sir, no. No, I'm not."

"Come on, then. Get dressed and let's get the hell out of here."

Starsky could barely wait while Hutch got himself together, and he buttoned his shirt for him, and pushed his hair back off his forehead. It wasn't anything he'd never done before, but his fingers tingled now, and the little shy looks they gave each other were unfamiliar. Strange to feel silly at anything that happened between them, but maybe that was all part of it. All so normal, and all so new. What was going to happen later? If Hutch would just hurry up, they could get out of there, and he could get him tucked in on the couch in Dobey's cabin, and feed him tea with papaya pulp and lizard livers and they could talk. Finally, they were going to be able to talk.

They took the time to thank the nurses, and Hutch signed some papers and listened patiently to aftercare instructions, and Starsky promised not to let him drive, or sleep more than five or six hours without waking him and checking that he was okay, and no alcohol for a few days and nothing but Tylenol, no aspirin, and don't get the cut on the head wet for 24 hours, and Starsky felt like screaming. Finally they could go, and Hutch asked the nurses to say goodbye and thanks to Barbara and Margery. They walked out without looking back.

---

"Honestly, Starsky, you're worse than my mother. Worse than your mother, even." Hutch had chosen to act annoyed, which meant he wasn't. "I'm fine now. No headache at all."

"Just shut up, will you? I've been looking forward to this all night. I deserve it." Starsky rotated his shoulders and bent his neck from side to side, and tried to look pitiful. "I just want to get you on the couch and bring you some tea, is that too much to ask?" He found a multicolored afghan on the back of a chair, and tried to throw it over Hutch.

"It's ninety degrees out, for crying out loud. Probably higher in here. I really don't want a blanket." He sneezed and put a hand to the back of his head. "And it's dusty. Get it off me. Come on."

Relenting, Starsky took the thing away, and tossed it back on the chair amidst a little cloud of particles that glimmered in the sunlight coming in through the open windows and front door.

"I'll make you some tea, then." He did a quick search of the kitchen. "Uh, no tea. I can't believe you didn't bring tea."

All his plans were being dashed, one by one. Time to make new ones. Hutch should have a shower and some clean clothes, and they could go out and sit in the front yard in the shade and talk. He could make some lunch later, and they could look at the photographs, and make plans for the next bit of the investigation, and then later . . . He tried imagining "later" and his insides responded on cue. First things first, though. There was all the time in the world for later.

Hutch, ever practical, was on the phone, describing the whacking of his head in great but unfactual detail, considering he didn't even remember most of it.

"Who you talking to?" Starsky asked.

Hutch covered the mouthpiece. "Huggy. Shhh."

Shit, forgot to call Huggy. "Give me the phone."

Hutch leaned away from Starsky's hand, and made "get away" motions.

"Come on, I want to talk to him."

"Cut it out, Starsky . . . Sorry, Hug, what was that?" He looked Starsky in the eye. "I couldn't hear you."

Starsky backed off.

Hutch listened for a while, and said thanks, and hung up.

"Hey, I told you I wanted to talk to him."

"Well, I talked to him." Hutch grinned. "He said to say hello."

"That's just mean."

"Next time maybe you'll think about it before you harass me while I'm trying to talk on the phone."

"Next time maybe there's something else I'll be thinking about, big guy . . . "

"Guess maybe you don't care too much what Huggy had to say, then?"

"Quit your evil grinning, pal." He picked up Hutch's legs and slipped under them onto the couch, resting his hands on Hutch's shins. They were heavy on his thighs and his knee protested faintly, but he didn't consider moving. "What'd he say?"

"He got a line on Todd Sloan. Looks clean, not even a misdemeanor. Nothing remotely as complicated as a kidnapping."

"Another false lead, then?"

"Another?"

"Oh shit, I didn't tell you. Joe caught up with Steve and Ernie right after we left for the hospital. They thought we were collectors and they didn't feel like paying up. No priors, not trouble makers. Ernie had on that necklace from the photo in the restaurant. I told Joe to let them go."

"You what? That guy whacked the shit out of my head. Not to mention stole last night."

"I told him to make them apologize first, if that helps any."

"Starsky, you . . . you . . ."

"You want me to give you a hug now, don't you?" He leaned over sideways, still bound in place by Hutch's legs, and stretched out his arms.

"Maybe, maybe not."

"I'll take that as a later . . ." He dropped his arms and sat back. "So, what about Sloan?"

"Call Dobey. See if the tail turned up anything."

"I get to call Dobey?"

"Starsky, make the call."

"Yes, master." He dialed Dobey's home number, and got no answer, so he left a message with the answering service, and called into the station. He wasn't there, either, but the dispatcher said they'd find him and have him call back.

"Well, that's all for now then." He rubbed Hutch's legs, and looked around the cabin. It was still small, still cluttered with all Hutch's paraphernalia, still dark. Starsky wanted to go outside. "You want that shower now? I'll make us something to eat and we can sit outside. We can hear the phone from there."

Hutch swung his legs away and stood up. Starsky watched for signs of pain, or shaky balance, and saw nothing bad, so he stood up, too, and followed him into the bathroom. It was very small, just a stall shower, sink and toilet, and room for one only, but Starsky squished himself in anyway.

"Starsky, what the hell are you doing?"

It seemed obvious. "Helping you take a shower."

"Get out of here. Now."

"But—"

"Out!"

"Okay, okay."

At a loss, he started to make lunch, but it was only nine or so, just a little too early. Then he tried picking up all their gear lying around, but there wasn't any place to stow it, so he left it there after all. After that, he poked around a little and found some folding metal-framed lounge chairs, and carried them out front, and set them up side by side, close together, facing toward the lake. He couldn't see it from there, but it was the idea that counted. He went back inside and got a towel and a pillow and took them out for Hutch to lie on.

Hutch still wasn't out of the bathroom, but the shower wasn't running any more. He knocked on the door.

"You okay in there?"

"Yeah. Go relax somewhere. I'll be out in a minute and you can have a turn."

Go relax somewhere. He's got to be kidding. He leaned against the wood-paneled wall opposite the bathroom door and crossed his arms and tapped his fingers. Hurry up, Hutch, come out of there.

The door opened, and he stood up off the wall, arms still crossed.

"What the heck did you do?" He wanted to smile and laugh, but he was too stunned. "What'd you do that for?"

Hutch laughed at him. "Forgot what my upper lip looked like, did you?"

"Yeah, I did, matter of fact. Why'd you do that?"

"It was time for a change, don't you think?"

"I don't know, I kind of liked it. Sort of got used to it, anyway."

"I'll grow it back, then."

"No! No, that's perfectly all right." The urge to touch the empty space where the former moustache had been was strong and he unfolded his arms and reached out an unsteady finger, and pressed it to the skin above Hutch's lips.

"Starsk."

Starsky forgot for a second that he owned a pair of legs, because there didn't seem to be much of anything holding him up. That had never happened to him before, never before, and he took a stumbling half step forward, his eyes on Hutch's that were burning into his. He felt Hutch's hands hot on the sides of his face and it seemed like there was nothing in the world anywhere but Hutch's eyes and his face and his mouth . . . We're really going to do this, Hutch. Hutch, are you sure? I have to tell you . . . wait . . . Oh . . . God, Hutch.

Into that moment, the telephone rang, and shattered the capsule that had surrounded them, and dropped its pieces all around them like bits of broken diamonds.

"Jesus Christ," they said together. Hutch sounded a little strangled and Starsky felt the same way. They leaned into each other, foreheads touching, and started to laugh.

"Unbelievable," Hutch said. The phone rang again, mockingly, as if it had stuck its tongue out at them and was laughing maniacally.

"It'll be Dobey. You want to get it, or should I?" Starsky said.

"I don't think I can make it over there. You get it."

"Oh, like I can walk? Okay, I'll go. You're the injured party here."

He did have feet still, he could feel them thunking on the floor, could see them still attached at the ends of his legs. They just felt odd, too big, or too small—something. The phone rang again.

All right! Give me a second here.

"Starsky," he said into the receiver.

"Dobey, here.

"Hey, Cap. How you doing?" He didn't dare look at Hutch. He wasn't sure he sounded anything like himself, either.

"How's your partner?

"Good. He's right here."

"Well, I've got some news for you and you aren't going to like it."

"Go ahead." Now he looked at Hutch and shook his head. His stomach drew up into a tight little ball and started bouncing off the rest of his insides.

"Allen Morton never came home from a party he went to last night. Hasn't been seen or heard from since he left the party around two in the morning. Parents swear he's not the type to disappear without letting them know, and they want us to start a search. It hasn't been twenty-four hours, of course, but I'm inclined to go along, all things considered."

Starsky put a hand over the mouthpiece and said to Hutch, "It's Allen Morton. He's missing."

Hutch stared at him for a moment, then came up close and put his head near the phone so he could hear, too. Starsky tipped the phone out a little.

"I need you both back here right away. I'm assigning this to you. Is Hutch able to work on this, or do I need to put another detective on to work with you?"

"No! I mean, no, he's, he's fine, Cap. We're on our way. We'll head straight back to the Morton house. Tell them three hours, tops."

"Check in with me after you talk to them. Dispatch'll find me."

"Okay. See you soon."

He hung up, and turned to Hutch.

"Damn," Hutch said.

"Well, that's that, then. Back we go."

"You go take your shower and I'll get everything ready," Hutch said, and started to gather all the things they hadn't gotten to use.

"Don't carry anything out," Starsky said. "I'll do it. I'll just be a few minutes."

"Starsk."

"Yeah?"

"Just . . . Starsk."

"Yeah. Me, too."

Against orders, Hutch took some things out while Starsky had his turn in the shower. Some kind of unseen force was determined not to leave him and Starsky alone together. He found the two beach chairs side by side where Starsky had put them ready for later.

"Aww, Starsk." That's what it was, the whole thing of it was, well, that Starsky had done that, that little small thing. He looked at the two chairs and daydreamed a little, how they would have come out with some coffee and lounged for hours, and then after that . . . well, "after that" was the stumbling block. He couldn't get over the wall in the way of "after that" so he just stood there, holding the armful of sleeping bags and blankets that they'd never bothered to roll back up. He was still standing there a few minutes later when he heard Starsky come outside behind him, and felt long arms creep around his waist, and then the point of a chin on his right shoulder. He could smell soap and feel the wet ends of Starsky's hair on his face as little pinpoints of cold, and he leaned back, sighing.

"We look happy lying there on those chairs, don't we?" he said.

"Let's take 'em with us."

"We can't do that!"

"Sure we can. Dobey'll never miss 'em. We'll sneak them back up here someday, he'll never know."

"So you actually want to come back here, then?"

"With you? Yes."

"With you, yes, me, too."

Starsky said, "Better call Joe while I load up. Tell him what's gone down."

When Hutch came back out, Starsky was finished, and in the driver's seat. Hutch locked the cabin, and stowed the key under its rock, and took a last look around at what they were leaving behind. He had to yank on the car door to get it open, and then he had to endure the smirk on Starsky's face when he slid into the car. He decided to ignore it, and pulled the door closed. It didn't catch, so he yanked it harder. Starsky made no comment, very loudly.

"Never thought I'd be sorry to leave this place," Starsky said, looking in the rearview as he drove out.

"It's different now."

"'Thou has left behind Powers that will work for thee,—air, earth, and skies! There's not a breathing of the common wind That will forget thee; thou hast great allies; Thy friends are exultations, agonies, And love, and man's unconquerable mind.'"

"You amaze me, Starsky. Absolutely."

"Well, girls seem to like it when you quote Wordsworth at them."

"How come I never knew you had all this literature stuck inside you?"

"You know now. Got a lot more where that came from, too." He started the car and they moved off down the pine-needled lane out to the main road. "What'd Joe say?"

"Mostly words they don't let you say on the radio. He said we could keep the file and bring it back or send it by courier."

"Wish we could have stopped by again, told Rachel and Lizzie goodbye."

"We'll take them out to dinner next time."

"How's your head?"

"Good as long as you don't hit any bumps."

"Sleep if you want. Might as well."

"I'm fine. Not sleepy."

The next time Starsky looked over at him, Hutch was sound asleep.

Part II

The motion of the car changed from rocking to rough as it crossed the invisible line from desert valley freeway to desert city streets. The sound was different, too, a higher-pitched hum that created an unpleasant ping inside Hutch's head, and woke him up, dry-mouthed and uncomfortable.

"Where are we?" He rubbed at his face, feeling the odd sensation of his fingers touching skin on his upper lip. It was already a little rough and itchy.

"Almost there. I just got on the Santa Monica Freeway. Have you home in a jiffy."

"A jiffy?"

"Yeah, it's like, you know, popcorn."

"Right. Popcorn." He was thirsty.

"Here's some water, if you're thirsty." Starsky held out a plastic bottle, and Hutch took it from him without comment. It was warm but he drank most of it.

"Thought we were going straight to the Mortons'."

"I am. You're still a head case."

"I'm sorry. I can't seem to stay awake very long."

"Not your fault. Remember last time I had a concussion? I couldn't keep my eyes open either."

"Oh yeah, you fell asleep in the middle of saying something. And sitting up. What was it? Can't remember, but it was funny."

"I don't remember, either," he said. "I'll take your word for it on the funny stuff, and I'll cover for you at the Mortons'."

It didn't seem like a very good idea. But if he couldn't stay awake, what could he do?

"All right."

The next thing he knew, Starsky was poking him in the arm.

"Wake up, Cinderella, your coach is about to turn into a pumpkin."

"Damn, I fell back to sleep?" He felt fine. When was he going to wake up? "What time is it?"

"A little after noon. Made good time." Starsky double parked and hopped out. "I'll get all your stuff in for you. You go lie down and go back to sleep."

Up the stairway to his apartment, and the key in its familiar spot over the door, and inside, and Hutch felt unexpectedly glad to be home. Something about his own walls, his own familiar space, after the shifting of the planets they'd been experiencing. Barely two days. His home was still there, still the same, even if he was fundamentally changed.

Starsky came up behind him and dropped the pile of sleeping bags in the middle of the floor, and went back outside.

"Hello, plants," Hutch said, and made the rounds, touching each one in greeting. "Water you later, I promise. Wait'll you hear what's going on . . . you won't . . ."

"Who you talking to?"

"Uh, no one."

"Hi, plants," Starsky said. The box of Brian's things, and Joe's case file landed on the kitchen table.

"Starsky!"

"What?"

"That's, that's—you talked to my plants."

"Figured I'd better start being nicer to them. You know, want them to like me."

Hutch was speechless.

Starsky took a step toward him. "I'm going to switch cars, leave yours at my place. We can pick it up later."

"Starsk."

"I'm going to stop at Huggy's on my way home tonight and get us some burgers."

"Starsk."

Another step closer. "Then, after we have dinner I'm going to take a shower, and then you are."

"Jesus."

There was no space left for another step. "And then you're going to tell me exactly what you think of all this, and I'm going to tell you."

"Starsky—"

"And after that maybe you won't be quite so sleepy."

"I—"

Starsky stepped back. "Gotta go, Blondie. Eat something and sleep some more. I'll call you later." He was gone, the door catching behind him, his steps down the stairs growing fainter—and he was whistling.

After that after that. "Jesus, Starsk," he said to the empty space. Was that what Starsky did to women? His cock throbbed. Apparently "after that" was not going to be much of a problem. If he could stay awake long enough.

Putting away the gear that had never gotten used, and his clothes and bathroom things, didn't take too long. He drank some more water, ate some cheese and crackers left over from his last date, and sat on the side of his bed thinking of all the things he should be doing, wanted to be doing. But his eyes closed and he thought, just half an hour, and maybe then he'd be able to stay awake for more than three seconds at a time. He lay back, feet still on the floor, and thought about Starsky. He couldn't manage anything coherent, it was all just a blur of images and memory snips, sounds and smells. He drifted off.

When the phone woke him, he swore out loud. There had to be a better way to communicate, some way that didn't shrill in your head and stop you in your tracks from whatever you were doing. On the other hand, maybe it was Starsky.

He sat up, feeling stiff muscles creaking. How could he have slept like that without moving? His feet tingled.

He found the phone.

"Hutchinson."

"You still asleep?"

"Yeah. What time is it?" He rubbed his face.

"You keep asking me that. Where's your watch?"

"Right here, but I'd rather just ask you."

"It's around five. You been asleep all this time?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Hungry?"

"For what, exactly?"

"Why Mr. Hutchinson, I do believe you're flirting with me."

"Who is this?"

"Very funny. Guess you didn't get walloped in the humor department."

"Where are you?"

"Still at the Mortons'. Whole thing's a fucking mess, Hutch. The kid's still not home, the Feds are here putting in taps in case there's a ransom call, the house is a disaster area. I'm in Morton's office on his private line, but they want me out so they can set up the tap in here, too."

"Where's Dobey? Is he pissed off?"

"Why? Cause you ain't here? Told him you needed another day. He was fine with it."

"Is he there?"

"I have to hang up. I'm going to head home in an hour or so, once the taps are in and the Feds take over." He spoke to someone else, but Hutch couldn't make out the muffled words. "They're kicking me out now. Listen, if you still need to sleep, don't worry about it, okay? We'll . . . I have to go. See you in a hour."

The line went dead before Hutch could say anything. He looked around, and got himself up and moving. Maybe if he didn't sit down again he could stay awake, because if Starsky thought he was going to sleep through another night without . . . whatever it was they were going to do, then he was just nuts.

Puttering around for an hour wasn't too difficult. The plants got watered and petted, the bed sheets got changed, the bathroom got tidied up, and he shaved again. He even dug out some candles and set them around the living room, unlit but suggestive.

Finally he settled on the couch with a can of Tab left from some flight attendant's layover, some more of the cheese and crackers, and a Sports Illustrated. He was wound up, almost shaking, with little adrenaline rushes sending his insides rocketing around. All because Starsky was going to be here in a few minutes—Starsky, who came over pretty much every single day.

The hour came and went, and then two, and no Starsky.

He finished off the magazine and switched on the television, wondering why he hadn't thought of it before. He could probably pick up some news of Allen's disappearance. All he could find, though, was a rerun of Get Smart, and he watched it for a while, laughing.

Where the hell was Starsky? He got up and called Huggy at The Pits.

"Good question," Huggy said. "He called around six and ordered up some cheeseburger specials to go, and never came to get them. Gone cold by now."

Something icy and sharp leaped onto the base of Hutch's spine, and stuck its claws into the muscles of his lower back.

"It's after eight. He was supposed to be here two hours ago."

"He's probably still working on that lead, is all."

"What lead?"

"Gave him some info when he called, something about that dude Sloan spotting the tail and he's fixin' to split."

"He would have called."

"He always call you when he's gonna be late?"

"No." He would have called tonight, though. "Hug, I'll call you back."

"I'll be here. Later, my man."

Where the hell was Starsky? Hutch stood frozen for a second, unable to manufacture any kind of rational explanation. He would have called tonight.

He tried calling Metro. The desk sergeant hadn't seen or heard from Starsky, and Dobey was still in the field. He tried a patch-through, but Dobey didn't pick up.

"Find him, will you, Lodge? Have him call me at home. Tell him it's urgent."

"You got it."

Hutch's head began to pound, and it had nothing to do with the remnants of the concussion.

This isn't good. I know this is not good.

There was no real point to it, but he dialed Starsky's number anyway, prepared to read him the riot act for scaring the shit out of him like this.

There was no answer.

He could think of no reason on Earth why Starsky would be late, and not call, and not come back to him as fast as he possibly could. He began to wander around the apartment, completely at a loss. At least he wasn't sleepy—far from it.

Starsky, where the hell are you?

This time when the phone rang he was glad of it, and picked it up before the first ring had finished.

"Starsky?"

"No, it's Dobey. You wanted to talk to me?"

"Hi, Captain. Is Starsky with you?"

"No, he left the Mortons' a couple of hours ago. Said he was headed to Huggy's and then to your place."

"Well, he isn't here, and I haven't heard from him."

"Hold on, I'll see if anyone knows anything."

Hutch listened to Dobey's shouts, and wiped his hands on his legs over and over, and they still seemed cold and slippery.

"Hutchinson?"

"Yes."

"Best I can tell is he left at twenty past six, and Dillon said the same thing, that he was going to pick up some dinner and go play nursemaid to you. You need more time off?"

"No. I was still groggy this afternoon, that's all." He stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to go over to his place and see if he left anything there."

"He's probably just off on some tangent. You know Starsky." Hutch almost laughed at that. "Keep in touch, then. "

"I will."

He was halfway down the stairs before he remembered that Starsky had taken his car.

Damn it, Starsky. I knew this was a bad idea.

He went back up and called Huggy again.

"He show up?"

"No. I need a favor."

"You got it."

"He took my car with him. It should be at his place. Any chance you could ferry me over there?"

"On my way."

Hutch could do nothing but pace while he waited for Huggy. After a few minutes he went down to stand in front of his building, but then he was afraid Starsky would call and he'd miss him. Surely Starsky would know he'd go looking for him? He couldn't be in two places at once, but he couldn't just sit and wait, either. He was going to wring Starsky's neck for him when he finally showed up, never mind his apologies and good excuses.

Oh, Starsky, where the hell are you?

Huggy pulled up and Hutch had the door open before he'd even stopped.

"Man, you're really worried, ain't you?" he said by way of a greeting.

"Yeah, Hug. I have a very bad feeling. This isn't like him."

"I got The Pits covered, so where to?"

"Starsky's place, first. He was going to switch cars and go to the Mortons' house."

"Ain't they involved in that case you got me looking for Sloan on?"

"Yes. Their son is missing, too, since last night." He swallowed hard. "Oh, God, Huggy. I have a very bad feeling about this."

"Relax, Hutch. He's just out tomcattin' or something. He'll show up with some sweet chick and her girlfriend, and you'll all have a good laugh."

Hutch almost choked. "I don't think so, not this time."

The familiar ten-minute drive to Starsky's place seemed to take hours. Hutch's hands began to ache, but he couldn't relax them. Huggy stayed silent, but sent him occasional glances, and lines grew on his forehead.

The LTD was parked just where Hutch expected it to be, and the Torino, of course, was gone. They went up the side stairs to Starsky's apartment, and Hutch let them in, warily, carefully, as if they were entering the den of a dangerous perp.

No Starsky, no nothing. Just some unopened mail on the coffee table, his overnight bag on his bed, and on his pillow a small pile of pine needles. Hutch's knees gave out on him and he fell onto the edge of the bed and picked the needles up. He'd been frightened for Starsky before, more than once, but this—there was nothing to focus on, no one to interrogate, no one to smash up against a wall and to demand answers from. No one to threaten, or to plead to for his partner's life.

"What you got?" Huggy said from the doorway.

"These pine needles. Starsky picked them off a tree at the Mortons' place up at Pine Lake. He must have had them in his pocket."

"So? What's it mean?"

"Nothing, really. It's nothing." He took the needles as a souvenir, and he put them on his pillow. Oh, Starsky, where the hell are you? He put the handful of needles to his nose and caught their scent, and then put them in his pocket. "Let's go."

"Where to?"

He had no idea. He looked at Huggy, and saw his own panic start to reflect back at him. Huggy wasn't one to look scared, and it didn't suit him.

"Back to my place, I think. That's where he'll call. He was going through some evidence when I was in the hospital. Maybe he found something."

The drive back to his place, Huggy following, happened without any real consciousness. The car got him home on its own, stopped in the right spot, turned itself off, and bucked a little to shake him out.

Huggy appeared at the driver's side door. "Gettin' out?"

"He's not here."

"Did you think he would be."

"No."

"Come on, let's go in, see what we can see. There's got to be something."

"Huggy."

"Hutch, c'mon, man, come on out of there."

He tried to move. He wasn't going to find out anything sitting in the car, but he felt paralyzed. Finally Huggy dragged open his door and took hold of his arm, pulling at him. He got out and stood up straight, feeling cold and sweaty. This wasn't helping. Get a grip, Hutchinson.

"Pull yourself together, dude, c'mon."

"All right."

He led the way up to his door. Inside, all the camping gear stared at him from the floor where Starsky had dumped it, and he looked away, and stepped around it.

Without asking, Huggy did what he seemed to feel most comfortable doing—putting food and drink into his friends. He made some strong coffee, and hunted around for something edible. Looking a little beleaguered, he made some organic peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Hutch wouldn't eat them.

"Okay, now, this is getting ridiculous," Huggy said. "We ain't going nowhere or doing nothing until you eat something. You get all dehydrated you're no use to him."

Hutch took a sandwich and tried to eat it. He could barely swallow.

The box of evidence was right in front of him. He began to take everything out, looking at what Starsky had examined the night before, trying to see what Starsky had said he'd found. There didn't seem to be anything, just the artifacts of a dead fourteen year old. Action figures, posters, photographs.

Hutch opened Joe's file. A list in Starsky's round scrawl made him stop, his stomach clenching. He read:

whose necklace?
from kidnap or there afterward? signif?
mortons—Jewish?
allen hypn results
who's the girl?
when was party in the photo?
connections sloan to ernie?
tell H . . .

I love you, too, S.

Huggy said, "Got something here." He had the big file in front of him on the table and he spun it around so Hutch could see it. Two photographs of a girl with long hair, parted in the middle. Huggy tapped the bigger one.

"See that dude there behind those girls?"

Hutch looked closely. "Who is it?"

"That, my man, is your guy Sloan."

Hutch sat back in the chair. "How do you know?"

Huggy just gave him a look.

"Right. Sorry." Huggy grinned at him. "Can you stay here in case he calls? I want to go after Sloan."

"You still don't look too steady on your pins. Sure you should drive?"

"No, but I can't stay here and do nothing."

"Guess not. But I'm going with you. You ain't here, he'll know why."

"All right." Hutch took a sharp breath. "Let's go."

---

Neither Hutch nor Starsky had ever really questioned where or who Huggy got his information from, and Hutch didn't ask now. He just felt incredibly grateful that Huggy knew where to look for Sloan, and what the guy looked like, and how he might react. And that Huggy had dropped everything once again to help them.

"Do we ever thank you, Huggy?"

"Not in so many words, but the Bear knows."

Hutch turned to look at him briefly, and nodded. "Thanks just the same."

"Don't. It's what we do."

"Okay. Still . . . thanks."

"You can front me a beer when we find Starsky."

"You got a deal."

"Maybe pay up your tab, too, while you're at it."

"Don't push it, pal."

"Got you to smile, anyway. All I was after."

Hutch followed Huggy's finger-pointed directions and pulled up around the corner from the senile-looking hotel where Huggy said Sloan was living.

"Now what?" Huggy said.

"Honestly? I have no idea. You got one?"

"Want me to go knock on his door? If he's in there, I'll ask for Sam or something, like I got the wrong place."

Hutch considered the plan, and couldn't think of anything better. "If you're not back in five, I'm coming in."

Starsky had been right about how long four minutes could really be. Huggy took at least that long, meandering his way across the street like he owned it. He went around to Hutch's side. "Not there. Funny thing, though, door's wide open."

"Huggy . . ."

"Gift horses, Hutch, gift horses."

"Right."

The glass front door opened onto a linoleum-floored hallway, and grimy walls. A sound-asleep fat man in a stained and straining black T-shirt teetered on a wooden chair behind a once-fancy iron grill topping a counter. Hutch could see mail cubbies with hand-printed name labels, and keys on plastic tabs. He raised an eyebrow at Huggy, who just grinned and lifted a shoulder. The desk man never budged as they walked past him and up the stairs.

"Wait out here." Hutch said. "I don't want you involved in this."

"Too late, man."

"Well, then, I need you to watch for anyone coming in. Whistle Dixie or something."

"Whistle Dixie?"

"Or something, Huggy. Just let me know if someone comes, okay?"

Huggy took up a position halfway down the hallway, started to lean against the wall, and changed his mind, making a face. Hutch drew his gun and stepped cautiously into Sloan's room.

No one there. Nothing much else there, either. He holstered the Python.

The usual lumpy bed, stained covers. Corner sink crusted with nameless gunk. Burglar gates on windows so filthy that the light from the street lamps came in only dimly, offering no assistance. Hutch found a lamp on a beat up maple desk, and switched it on. It didn't help much.

Nothing on the desk seemed to provide any clues to what Sloan was up to. A couple of Daily Racing Forms. Some scribbled numbers on pink paper that looked like telephone messages. In the drawers were a few pens and some cigarette packs, a half-empty bag of M&Ms. In the wastebasket a crumpled up Fritos bag and the wrapper from a sandwich. On the floor next to a horrible brown leather chair a six-pack of Bud, three full, three empty.

Bedside table drawers yielded nothing but underwear that he didn't want to touch, some socks, and the requisite Holy Bible. Hutch flipped through it.

Something fell out and fluttered down, landing on his foot. A photograph, and Hutch stopped short. It was the girl with the long hair. Was she connected to Sloan somehow? A daughter? Niece? He put it back in the Bible, not knowing where it had fallen from, and hoping it hadn't marked some passage that meant something to Sloan. Surely the guy wasn't a Bible type.

A rack for clothes served as a closet, but there was precious little on it. Just a couple of pairs of jeans with empty pockets, some reeking button down shirts, and a T-shirt or two. No shoes on the floor. No jackets, no sweatshirts.

Hutch pulled out his notebook, and hunted in his pockets for a pencil. He thought of asking Starsky for his, and endured the realization of how stupid that was, and how futile. He used one of Sloan's pens, and copied all the numbers from the message slips. Maybe one would turn up something. He looked blankly at the pen, and then put in his pocket.

A last look around didn't turn up anything new. No one lurking behind draperies, no Colonel Mustard with a candlestick in the library. No clues. He went out and pulled the door closed.

Huggy raised an eyebrow, and Hutch shook his head.

Back down the stairs, past the still-sleeping attendant, and out to the LTD in silence. Hutch got in heavily, and stared at Huggy. "No matter which way we turn, there's just nothing to find. We couldn't come up with anything at Pine Lake, and we're not going to find anything here. What the hell is this? What do I do now?"

"Nothing in there at all?"

Hutch told him about the picture and the telephone numbers. "I'm going to call these in, have the numbers run. Maybe we'll recognize one. By a miracle."

"That girl, who you think she is?"

"She must have known Allen and Brian."

"Allen?"

"The kid who's missing now, Brian's friend. This is all connected. Maybe Allen was supposed to be the original target. Why would they wait six years to try again, though?"

"What about that dude who fingered Sloan to begin with?"

"Freddy something. Good, Hug. I'll get someone on him, too."

"Food."

"What?"

"Time for food."

"Let me just call this in. I promise to eat after that. What was that guy's name?" He waited, and it floated into his brain. "Burke. Freddy Burke."

He picked up the radio handset and called into Metro. Lodge was still on dispatch.

"No sign of Starsky, yet?" he asked.

"No. Nothing so far." Hutch tried to act like he was on any old case. Matter of fact, emotions checked at the curb. "Listen, I need some phone numbers run, can you get someone on them?" He read them off. "And a guy named Freddy Burke. He might be in jail, or maybe not. I need his whereabouts. That's a priority, okay?"

"You got it."

"And I think we better have an APB or at least an Attempt to Locate on Starsky. Can you reach Dobey and clear that with him?"

"Roger that."

"If I'm not in the car, I might be at The Pits." He gave Lodge the number there. "Please, Lodge, put a hurry-up on this, will you?"

"Sure, Hutch. Of course." He signed off.

Hutch turned to Huggy. "Let's go eat something."

All those days when Starsky wouldn't eat, and Hutch had watched silently as his clothes had gotten looser, and here he was now—in the same leaky boat again, and just as unable to eat as Starsky had been. Huggy had a point, though, so he made the effort, but it was impossible.

Huggy took the uneaten food away without comment, and tried a milkshake, heavy on the ice cream. That seemed more manageable, and Hutch swallowed without tasting it at all.

His brain had gone south without him. He could come up with no ideas, no plans, no rational thoughts. The other way around and Starsky would be out rousting as many bad guys as he could collar, pulling every trick in his book, kicking over every—

"Hutch!" Huggy held out the telephone. "Captain Dobey."

Three steps to the bar in one second flat. "Yeah, Captain?"

"Hutch, we found his car."

The people at the bar seemed to be disappearing down a misty tunnel. Huggy's face materialized in front of him, eyes on his, steadying him.

"Where?"

The address Dobey gave him wasn't far from Sloan's rooming house. He and Huggy hadn't gone that way, hadn't seen it.

"On my way." He handed the phone to Huggy. "I'll call."

"I'll be here."

The drive back to Sloan's neighborhood took less time than it had earlier. The siren and the Mars light helped, but the high-pitched moan grated on Hutch's last nerve, and cranked up his tension even more. And the black-and-whites and Dobey's anxious-looking face didn't bring it back down.

Dobey walked toward his door as he pulled up alongside the Torino.

"Hutch," he said. "You need to know. There's blood."

He shoved past Dobey and some uniforms he didn't even see, and drew up by the driver's side—Starsky's side—of the Torino. Got to get that cleaned up before he sees it. He'll go ballistic.

He turned away.

---

Starsky had lost track of time. Had it been hours, or days? Not days, definitely not. He couldn't remember much about how he'd gotten there, just an odd smell and being dragged by his arms, and a feeling of falling—nothing much else. But if someone didn't come and let him loose, he was going to embarrass himself. That made him angry. Even Simon Marcus's goons had let him tend to his body's needs.

In books they never talked about the need to pee. If you were tied up somewhere in the dark, and no one answered when you shouted, and you had to pee really pretty bad, what the hell were you supposed to do about it?

It was getting hard to think about anything else.

At least—as far as he could tell—he had no punctures, no bizarre angles in the middles of long bones, no deep-inside aches.

Eventually he decided he'd have to just let the inevitable happen. There wasn't going to be much he could do about it pretty soon, anyway.

Above him, a door creaked open, letting in a blinding slice of light. He glanced around and got his first look at where he was. Some kind of basement. He was attached to the rail at the bottom of some wooden stairs and—Oh for crying out loud—apparently by his own handcuffs.

He caught his breath sharply. Allen Morton lay in a shapeless heap near his feet. Blood covered his face and hands, but he was breathing, moving. And he groaned.

Someone started down the stairs. Two someones. They seemed very big from Starsky's vantage point, and they both had guns, one that looked like his own Beretta, and now he was really pissed off.

"Don't try anything, cop, and maybe I'll be a nice guy."

"Cop? You don't mean me, do you?" Starsky tried on his confused innocent look. "I ain't a cop."

"Shut up, Starsky."

"Okay. Well, it was worth a try." They had his gun and his cuffs anyway, and probably his badge and ID, too, so there hadn't been much point in it. He mentally flipped through his repertoire and picked Compliant Hostage. But first . . . "Any chance there's a men's room in this fine establishment?"

The men looked at each other. Apparently they hadn't thought about that little problem.

One of them nodded. The other walked over to Allen, bent down, and touched the nose of Starsky's gun to the kid's kneecap.

"Give a thought to what you'll be sorry for if you try anything funny, cop."

"You must be Sloan, right?"

The other guy went around behind him and unlocked the cuffs. He said, "I'm Sloan. He's Hanson." Starsky pulled his arms forward and winced as his stiff shoulders tried to unlock.

Oh man, wait'll I tell this one to Hutch. He chewed the inside of his lip. Hutch would be pretty frantic by now. If he was even awake. Sorry, buddy. Dinner's probably cold by now. Sloan yanked him to his feet and forced his arms around. He snapped the cuffs closed again, but at least they were in front, now. Much better altogether.

"Upstairs," Sloan said. "Hanson hears a peep, and your kid's missing a knee bone."

Starsky's own knee growled in sympathetic protest as he stumbled up the stairs.

"On your right."

There was a bathroom at the top of the stairs, windowless and tiny. Starsky had no chance to look around, to try to get some idea of where they were, before Sloan pushed him in.

"Enjoy yourself while you can," he said.

What the hell did that mean? Starsky decided not to think about it until after he took care of business. Not so easy with hands cuffed together, but not impossible. The relief was tremendous, and his brain seemed to kick back on in gratitude. He drank some water out of his cupped hands and went out.

"So what's the deal, then, huh, Sloan? What am I up against here, anyway?"

"Shut up."

"Not too friendly of you."

"Go on back down."

Starsky expected a hard shove and got ready to twist sideways when it happened, but Sloan just leaned the gun into his back with a steady pressure.

At the bottom of the steps, Sloan pointed to the floor and pulled out the key to the cuffs. Getting tethered again was the last thing Starsky wanted, but resisting wasn't going to do any good, and would only escalate the situation. He sat down where he'd been before, and Sloan unlocked one cuff and dragged it through the riser and around the wide stringer before snapping it onto Starsky's other wrist. It was a horribly awkward position—hugging the stringer—but, surprised to have his hands in front of him, Starsky scratched his nose.

"What now?" he said.

"I keep telling you to shut up. If you want anything to eat, or a toilet to piss in, then shut the fuck up."

Hanson said, "Hey, Todd, the kid's waking up."

"Well, find something to tie him up with, then."

Hanson dithered around, poking into corners and through some shelves full of paint cans and clutter. Starsky watched as he missed or ignored a role of copper wire, a ball of twine, and his own belt and shoelaces. Apparently Hanson was not the brains of this duo. Good to know.

"Can't find anything."

"Fuck." Sloan didn't bother to look around himself. He unlocked one of the cuffs again, and said, "Drag him over here, then, asshole."

Allen made small grunting sounds as his head dragged along the concrete floor, but gave no sign of fighting back when Hanson pulled up his arm. Sloan unlocked the right handcuff from Starsky' wrist, dragged his arm through the riser between the bottom two steps, and attached the open cuff to Allen's left wrist. A lost opportunity. Well, a free hand or two had to be some kind of bonus, even if they were now cuffed to each other and to a wooden staircase. Starsky looked down, away from the men.

They clumped back up the stairs, leaving Starsky alone in the dark with the unconscious Allen, and fighting a wave of dread mixed with a level of rage he had rarely experienced in his life.

---

"Huggy, I'm really scared."

"I know, my brother."

"Starsky's somewhere hurt or . . . And I'm just sitting here."

"Give me that file again, and I'll look it over. Maybe I can see something in it."

Hutch pushed the file across his kitchen table, and followed it with a hard slamming fist. Huggy started in surprise, and looked up.

"Sorry," Hutch said.

"You do what you need."

"Thanks." He drummed his fingers on the table, and picked up the mug of coffee Huggy had made for him. It was all he could do not to smash it against something. "I'm going to call the lab again."

"They said they'd call as soon as they know anything."

"Why hasn't there been a ransom note for Allen? Is Starsky part of all that, or is this something else altogether? If it is something else . . . God. What are we supposed to do?"

"We're doing it."

"I'm going over to the lab. Maybe I can help Cheryl with something. Do something."

"You should try to get some sleep while you can."

"I can't sleep anymore."

"Then rest."

"You rest. If they call, tell them I'm on my way there."

Huggy nodded and Hutch left him alone.

The best thing to do when driving was to concentrate on the road. That way you didn't hit anything or end up where you didn't mean to go. Hutch concentrated all the way to Metro and up into the lab, and Cheryl Jennings met him at the door with a big hug and a comforting kiss on his cheek. He tried to smile.

"It's not Starsky's blood, Hutch."

He might have seen a lab stool behind him, he didn't remember, but he had to sit anyway, or fall. It was there but it rolled out from under him and he half fell anyway, catching himself with an arm thrown over the edge of the sink.

"Oh, God."

"It's AB positive. Starsky is Type O." She found a clean glass and filled it with water from the tap. "Drink this."

He gulped it down, and swiped at his shirt where it spilled.

"Allen Morton is AB positive," Cheryl continued. "It's a fairly rare type, so chances are pretty good it's his. They're still processing Starsky's car, now."

"I'll go down there."

"Stay here a while. You really don't look very good. Let's talk for a minute."

"This is worse than when he was poisoned, Cheryl. We had something to fight against that time. This, this is just some kind of invisible entity that has my partner in its grip and I have no idea—there's nothing I can do."

"You're doing all you can." She pulled up a chair and gestured to Hutch to sit. It was a relief not to have to hold himself up anymore.

"I'm not functioning right. I'm not doing what we do. I'm falling apart."

"I heard you got a pretty good concussion less than forty-eight hours ago. I think you're expecting too much too soon." She moved around behind him and pushed his head forward so she could look. "It's still bruised and swollen back here, Hutch. Ease up on yourself." She came back around and sat on the rolling stool in front of him.

He shook his head. "There's no time for that."

"The forensics team is working hard. Let them find something for you to focus on. Take a few minutes to regroup."

"I know you're right. It's just, I don't know where he is. If he's even—" He wouldn't say the rest out loud, but he looked at Cheryl's face, and saw that she understood. Everything. "Cheryl, I—"

"I know, Hutch. I understand. It's all right. He'll be all right."

"Can I use your phone? Huggy's back at my place."

"Of course."

He dialed his own number and waited for Huggy to pick up.

"Detective Hutchinson's answering service. How may I be of assistance?"

"It's me." Hutch actually smiled. "It's not Starsky's blood, Hug. It's probably Allen Morton's."

"Well, not so great for the poor kid, but may I still say 'good'?"

"Yeah, you sure can." Huggy had a way of voicing other people's thoughts, the things they wouldn't say themselves. "See anything in the files?"

"Nope, not yet. Gonna catch me some shuteye now, though. I'll be here when you get here. Norma Jean'll open up for me later if I ain't back yet."

"Thanks, Hug. See you." Norma Jean? Hutch wondered briefly what kind of T-shirt she would wear, or maybe a rippling white halter dress, or . . . he pulled his thoughts back before they went off somewhere way too weird. He was really losing it.

He had another hug for Cheryl and whispered a thanks in her ear. "I'll call you if anything breaks," he said. "Thank you again. For everything."

She yawned and grinned, and handed him a business card from a small bowl on her table. "This has my home number. Call me no matter . . . no matter what. Any time." She turned back to her table and started putting things away. Hutch headed for the garage.

No one would look at him when he got there. What was it with people? Why did everyone look away when they knew you were in trouble? He could have used some eye contact and reassuring nods.

"Anything? he said to the nearest coveralled investigator.

"You Hutchinson?" he said, and Hutch nodded. "I'm Simms. Got a couple things to show you. Don't know if they're significant yet."

Hutch moved up closer, and leaned in through the open passenger side window.

"See this blood?" Simms said. "It's a transfer. Someone got blood on them and smeared it here. See this pattern? It's a wipe, not a spatter."

"Dr. Jennings said it's probably Allen Morton's blood," Hutch said. "Any ideas how they got Starsky? He wouldn't have gone without a fight."

"Maybe they doped him? I'm guessing more than one actor—gun to his head and then some kind of inhalant or injection."

Oh, God, no. Oh, Starsky.

"Injection?"

"Of some kind of anesthetic or sedative. Either that, or they had some way of convincing him to go with them. Where would they get hold of drugs like that, though?"

"If they had the kid with them he wouldn't have risked trying to fight, especially if Allen was injured."

"They've already crossed a line if this is Allen's blood."

"Yeah." Hutch watched Simms work for a minute or two. "Why hasn't there been a ransom demand yet? For either of them?"

There was nothing else to do but wait. Hutch couldn't stand the thought of going home, so he just watched and waited quietly, and tried very hard not to think.

---

"Is anyone here? Hello?"

The low voice pulled Starsky out of an uncomfortable doze. "I'm here, Allen. It's Dave Starsky."

"What are you doing here? Where the hell am I?"

"I don't exactly know where we are, but you got kidnapped sometime yesterday, and I got invited to the party sometime earlier tonight. We're in the basement of a house, but I don't know where."

"I remember, now. I was going to a party and . . ." Allen stopped, and Starsky listened to him breathing a little faster and sharper.

Don't panic on me, kid. We don't need that, really we don't.

"You hurting anywhere?" Starsky said. "You have blood on your face and hands."

"Blood? Where?"

"All over your face."

Starsky felt a tug on the handcuffs as Allen lifted his hands.

"I think I just got a cut on my forehead. I don't feel anything. How long have I been out?"

"Don't know. As long as I've been here, anyway, which is four hours or more, and I don't know how long I was out, either."

"What's going on?"

"I was kind of hoping maybe you knew."

"You're the detective."

"Oh great, a smartass for a roommate."

"Better than a dumbass."

"True, kid." Starsky actually chuckled. "You're okay." Thank God for small favors. He might actually be of some use.

"I saw their faces."

"Yeah, so did I." Starsky had seen their faces, and knew their names, and he couldn't figure out any good ending to a story in which kidnapped victims knew who'd snatched them. "Don't think about that now."

"You have something else I can think about?" Allen said.

Starsky could hear and feel small movements as Allen sat up and tried to find a comfortable position. From experience, Starsky already knew he'd be unsuccessful.

"Well, tell me anything you remember about today, or even yesterday. Any little thing you can think of."

It was odd sitting all cramped up in the pitch dark, talking quietly about their own kidnappings, with someone he couldn't see. Starsky kept trying to look around, look at Allen, but there was nothing but blackness.

"I remember coming downstairs and telling my parents I was leaving, that I'd be late and not to worry." He let out a kind of strangled laugh. "My mom said she'd make me a nice breakfast in the morning before I headed back up to school. My dad asked if I wanted to play some tennis and I said no. This is nothing—you know—it can't mean anything." He stopped talking and moved his legs, bumping into Starsky's knee. "Man, I'm starving. What'd they do to us? Are they coming back?"

"Who knows? What happened after you talked to your dad?"

"I went to a party. I don't remember leaving it."

"Same thing here, more or less. I was headed back from your house, on my way to my partner's place." He had a vague memory of Huggy telling him Sloan was on the run. Had he gone after him? "I was supposed to pick up something to eat." And later I was supposed to do a few other things, too. Hutch, need a little help here. You awake, pal?

"You were at my house today?"

"Yeah. The Feds are there, putting in a wire tap and wrecking the place. Your parents called you in missing in the morning when you didn't come home, and because of the investigation into Brian's murder, my captain decided not to wait twenty-four hours."

"My mom, is she okay?"

"She was putting out tea and stuff to eat, and smiling at everyone. Your dad was tense, but he was holding on and being helpful." Starsky had been impressed with the Mortons, in fact. "Brian's father was there."

"Not his mother?"

"No."

"I'd have been surprised if she had been." Brian paused, and a small vibration came through the cuffs to Starsky' wrist. "This is bad, isn't it, Detective."

"Just call me Dave. I think it might be pretty bad, yes."

"So then, what?"

Starsky had no answer for him.

---

Simms kicked Hutch out and sent him home like some child. He seethed all the way back to his apartment, knowing how irrational it was to be so enraged at a guy who was not only just doing his job, but doing it for him, and for Starsky.

He found Huggy asleep on the couch, and crept around, trying not to wake him. All the things from Allen's box were spread out on the table, and the untouched evidence bag on top of the closed file.

Shit, I never took the necklace in for processing. How could I have been so stupid?

Back to Metro, then, with the bag holding the necklace from beside the outdoor shower, and back to the crime lab, where he handed it over with an explanation and an apology. He drove back home again, reluctantly, to try to rest for a couple of hours until he could legitimately go back again.

Huggy still slept, long arms elegantly draped across his stomach, ankles decorously crossed, and one of Hutch's bath towels over his chest and shoulders for a blanket. Hutch crossed to his bed and kicked off his shoes.

He'd already slept most of the day, and some of the evening. He was wide awake, with a sour stomach and a heavy head. He couldn't calm himself, couldn't stop imagining all the possible scenarios that this day could bring, and none of them seemed at all likely to have a happy ending.

He looked around for something to focus on, to distract himself, and he saw the sleeping bags still piled where Starsky had left them. He went over and picked up the one Starsky had slept in, and pulled it around his shoulders, surrounding himself with it. He sank to the floor on top of the blankets and the other sleeping bag, and stayed there, open-eyed, waiting, until it grew light, and Huggy stirred and stretched.

"'Morning," he said. "You sleep at all?"

"No."

"Time is it?"

"I don't know. Six, maybe."

"You going to make coffee?" Huggy sat up and scratched his stomach.

"Sure," Hutch said. He was stiff and creaky, but it was time to get going. It had been a very long night. "Help yourself to the shower. I'll find you something to wear if you want."

Huggy disappeared and Hutch started the coffee. He looked through the things on the kitchen table without much hope of seeing anything new, and packed it all up. All this stuff, and for what? None of it had been of any help. He would take it to Metro and have Dobey look it over, and maybe pull in another detective for another pair of eyes, not that it would do any good.

But he would find Freddy Burke. Before anything else, he would find Freddy Burke.

The upper door opened again and a light came on, startling them both. Starsky put a hand over his eyes to block the light, and tried to sit up into some kind of dignified position. He couldn't find one. Allen sat up, too, his forehead creasing and lips tightening. The dried blood on his face made him look movie-monster-like, especially when he got a look at the amount of it on his hands.

Hanson and Sloan clumped down the stairs, brandishing guns and a small box. Also a paper bag that smelled good, and Starsky's stomach rumbled loudly. When Allen's joined in, he almost smiled, and he gave the kid a sideways wink. It seemed to help, because Allen's forehead smoothed out a little.

Sloan held the paper bag out in front of them, just out of reach.

"Hungry?" he said with a sarcastic leer.

Starsky said nothing, but Allen's stomach squawked again, and he pressed his free hand to it.

"Hanson there's got a little reading material for you." Sloan waved Hanson over impatiently. Maybe they were getting on each other's nerves. That could be useful. "You want to eat and go to the john, you do what we tell you."

Hanson looked around and found an old wooden milk crate, and upended it near Allen. On it he put a tape recorder, and busied himself setting up the microphone, turning the thing on, and testing it.

Sloan pulled a newspaper out of the box and handed it to Allen. "When I tell you, you say your name into that microphone. Then you read the name of the paper and the date, and the headlines and don't say anything else."

Allen looked at Starsky, wide-eyed and near panic, and Starsky nodded, trying to keep his own face still and calm.

"Don't look at him, asshole," Hanson said. "He can't help you."

The paper trembled and rustled in Allen's hands, and his skin went pale and blotchy. He swallowed over and over, making a small sticky sound in his throat.

"Ready," Hanson said, and held out the microphone.

Allen tried to speak, and nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "My name is Allen Morton," he said finally, and read that day's date and the headlines, his voice wavery at first, and then stronger. No mention of the kidnapping.

As soon as he finished, Hanson switched off the recorder, and Sloan snatched the newspaper away. Starsky watched the color come back a little as Allen took some deep breaths. He gave a little tug on the cuffs, hoping Allen would take it as he meant it. Good job, kid, you did good. Now what?

Sloan stood up and pointed his gun right at Starsky's gut. Hanson unlocked the cuff on Allen's wrist and dragged him to his feet. Allen stood swaying, and nearly sat again unintentionally, but apparently found some core strength and stayed upright. Gun still on Starsky, Hanson gestured, and Starsky, unprotesting, put his arms up, still silent as Hanson tethered him around the stair banister again. And then, with a shove, he ushered Allen up the stairs.

"Your turn, cop," Sloan said.

For a long moment, Starsky was certain that Sloan meant something else, something bad, and final. He could smell his own sweat, and felt it slide down his back. But Sloan just pulled a piece of typing paper from a pocket, and held it out in front of Starsky's face.

"Same deal," he said. "Say your name, and read this."

"What if I don't?"

"Only need one of you. Your choice."

"All right."

"You're a pushover, cop. Wish I'd known it was going to be so easy. Would've grabbed you sooner."

"Just hold the thing up."

Sloan turned the recorder on, and put the paper in front of Starsky's nose so that Starsky had to tip his head back to focus. He read, "My name is David Starsky. I have been told that a ransom request has been made. If you pay the amount requested, Allen Morton and I will be released unharmed. If you don't, we will be killed. I have no reason not to believe the truth of this promise." He looked up at Sloan. "They're never going to buy this, you know."

"That'll be your problem, won't it?" He stopped the tape and rewound it, cutting out Starsky's ad lib commentary.

"No, it'll be yours. Because my partner will come after you so hard and so fast your head'll spin, and you'll never have a chance to enjoy your money."

"You talk awful tough for a cop who's tied up by his own handcuffs, and got his own fucking gun pointed at his breadbasket."

"You better know how to use that thing. It's got a kick like you won't believe. Learned it from me."

"We'll see who's got the biggest kick, won't we?" Sloan lifted his arms and took aim at Starsky's head. "Say your prayers."

Hutch, I'm so sorry. I love you. Hutch.

He stared into Sloan's eyes, unblinking, and waited.

Above him, Allen took a sharp hard breath and yelled "No!" His footsteps sounded uneven as he tried to run down the stairs. "No, don't!"

Sloan dropped his arms and grinned. "Whatever you say, boy." He leaned down and poked at Starsky's arm. "That was fun, huh, cop? Had you goin' there, didn't I?"

Starsky put his head back and dragged in some air. He blinked a few times and flexed his fingers. "Yeah, good one, Sloan. You got me good." He lifted his head.

Sloan smiled broadly. "Next time maybe a different outcome. You just never know."

Hanson made a face. "Thought you said not to mess around."

"Told you not to mess around. Didn't say nothing about me."

Hanson transferred the cuffs from Starsky's wrists to Allen's and Sloan switched his aim. Allen went pale again.

Starsky could barely stand himself up. Between his shaking legs, sound asleep arms, and throbbing knee, he was no match for one, much less two crazies. No chance he was giving that away, though. He put on his swagger and went up the stairs.

---

Freddy Burke was easy to find. He was right downstairs being processed for yet another minor possession charge. Hutch apologized on the fly to two people he almost knocked over, and barely made it down the flight of stairs with both ankles intact.

There were no empty interrogation rooms.

Some short pacing and fist clenching didn't clear any of them out, so he opened the door of the nearest one, ignoring the shocked and furious glare of the interrogating detective and his smirking subject.

"Out," Hutch said.

"What the . . ." The detective practically spluttered. "Hutchinson, get the hell out of here. I'm in the middle of an interrogation."

"I need the room. Now, Brady. I need the room."

Brady looked more closely at Hutch's face and eyes, and nodded. He gripped his prisoner's forearm and gave it a yank. "Get up, scum, we're done." The guy stood up slowly and slid by Hutch, grinning foolishly up at him as he passed. Hutch caught a whiff of foul breath and stepped back out of his way.

Freddy seemed to think he was getting sprung, and smiled widely at Hutch until he saw where they were headed.

"What is this? I didn't do nothing." He stopped at the door of the interrogation room, so Hutch gave him a shove to the mid-back and followed him in, slamming the door behind them.

"Sit." He pulled the chair out and pointed, and when Freddy hesitated, he grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and dragged him over.

Freddy sat hurriedly, and put both hands flat on the table. "What?" he said. "What'd I do?"

Hutch walked in small circles behind him, unable to settle, unable to sit and be calm. The only way he could keep himself in check was if he kept moving. I'm acting like Starsky. Calm down, Hutchinson. Think.

Freddy tried to look over his shoulders as Hutch moved, and finally gave up and slumped back in the chair.

Hutch pounced. "Todd Sloan," he said. "Tell me what I need to know about Todd Sloan." He thought he sounded relatively calm, but Freddy cringed as if he'd been hit from behind. Hutch walked around the table, and with his hands supporting him, bent forward toward Freddy.

Freddy looked down and away. "I don't know who that is."

"Look, shit-for-brains, I don't have time to fuck around with you. A week ago you plea-bargained yourself out of here by passing information on Todd Sloan, and here you are right back again. If you don't tell me what I need to know, and tell me now, there's nothing on this earth that's going to save you from the hellhole I'm going to send you to."

Maybe he'd overestimated the little bastard. Freddy looked about to keel over. Hutch reached across the table and grabbed a bunch of shirt and pulled.

"Listen, Freddy. You're in big trouble. Big trouble. I've got a missing partner, and you know what that means? That means I'm pissed off. I think you know who's got him, and where, and if I have to beat the living shit out of you to find out, I will."

Released from Hutch's grip, Freddy fell back, pasty and sweating. "I d-don't know what you're talking about. I just smoke a little pot, sell it to some frien. . ."

He must have seen something flash behind Hutch's eyes that was a lot more frightening than anything else he'd ever thought of, because when he tried to continue, nothing came out of his mouth. For a second Hutch thought the little rat might pass out, so he tried on a smile.

"Sorry, Freddy. I'm not going to hit you, I promise. I'm just feeling a little frustrated because I know you can help me, and I don't understand why you're holding out on me. I'm sure you realize how important it is that you cooperate. Not for my sake, you understand, but for yours. This is big, Freddy. Don't fuck yourself into a hole you can't climb out of." He swallowed a few times and rested his arms on the table. "You help me, and I'll help you. That's how it works, I'm sure you know that."

"What kind of help? What's in this for me?"

Don't lose it again. Just don't. "Well, Freddy, I thought you understood that. What you get is that I don't throw the book at you for aiding and abetting, conspiracy to kidnap and m-murder a police officer—"

"Murder a police officer! No. I never had nothing to do with it. I just told him what the car looks like and where Starsky lives. That's all, I swear."

"Told who, Freddy?" Just keep breathing. Just breathe. "Who did you tell this to?"

"Sloan, I thought you knew that. I told Sloan."

"And how did you know so much about Starsky?"

"He arrested my sister-in-law's cousin, and we, um, we did his car. Keyed it."

"That was you?" He had no memory of arresting Burke. One cold case solved anyway. Starsky's going to kill this ratshit. "You keyed a cop's car? Are you crazy?"

"We were that night."

"Okay. Okay." He had the guy now. He pulled some photographs from his pocket and laid them out in front of Burke. "You know any of these people?"

"What are you doing with those? Where'd you get those?"

"I'm asking the questions here. You know her?"

"That's Sloan's kid. My brother's wife is her aunt."

Hutch was much too tired to figure out the relationships. "What's her connection to Brian Phillips, then?"

"How the hell do I know?" Freddy looked a little less sick, a little more confident. But he made the mistake of looking up, and meeting Hutch's eyes. He looked away fast. "Um, I don't know. Really. Looks like they had some kind of party. Maybe she just went along with someone else." He stopped, and drummed his fingers on the table. "Wait, I think . . . Yeah, I think Sloan was working that party, bartending or something. He worked at some shipyard and he moonlighted as a bartender. I remember it was funny back then, hiring a guy like Sloan to serve drinks at a kid's party."

"Yeah. Funny." Hutch sat back, trying to think clearly, trying to figure this all out. It didn't lead him anywhere useful. "What do you mean, a guy like Sloan?"

"Sloan's bad. Really really bad. He's, he don't care about nobody. I heard when he was a kid he got off on stealing people's dogs and skinning them alive, and leaving the skins on the people's front steps."

This is the guy who has Starsky? And Allen? Oh God.

"Where is he now?" Hutch held his breath. If Freddy gave the address of the horrible room he and Huggy had visited, then he was back to square one again.

"I don't know." He leaned forward when Hutch gave him a look of disbelief. "I swear I don't. He's got a room he uses near Venice, but that ain't his house."

"Who does he run with now?"

"He's gonna kill me. He finds out and he'll kill me."

"What do you think is going to happen to you if you don't tell me?" Hutch got up and walked slowly around the small room. Next to Freddy, he leaned against the table, crowding him, leaning over him, breathing on his face. He made himself speak slowly, calmly. And he smiled. "I'm going to throw the book at you, Freddy, for all the things I said before, and if that doesn't do the trick, I'll find a few more things to throw into the pot. And you'll never see the light of day again. Know what they do to little assholes like you at Cabrillo, Freddy? Assholes like you?"

"I swear I don't know nothing."

"Want to try that again, Freddy? Think about it now."

Freddy folded. "All right, all right. Some guy named Hanson, but I swear, I swear to God that's it. I don't know his first name or where he lives. I swear to God."

"Good, Freddy. That was good. I won't forget, I promise." Hutch patted the side of Freddy' face, not all that gently, and Freddy gave him a kind of sickly little smile. "Why don't you relax for a few minutes, and someone will come and take you back to processing."

Hutch forced himself to stay calm while he found a uniform to go and deal with Freddy, and then he ran.

"Do you like being a cop?" Allen's voice sounded small and young in the dark.

"Never wanted to be anything else." Except maybe right now, just for right now.

"I wanted to be a geologist."

Starsky felt gut-punched. The kid was giving up.

"Allen, listen to me, you're going to be whatever you want. I told you not to worry and I meant it. It'll be okay. We got a lot going for us."

"I know. The FBI. Your captain and the entire Bay City Police. Your partner." Allen pulled on the handcuffs. "Except that we're starving and thirsty, and they haven't been here to let us upstairs in hours. What if they aren't coming back?"

"What's the worst thing that can happen, huh?"

"I don't want to think about it."

"There you go. What's the best thing you can think of right now? Tell me that."

"My girlfriend's eyes."

"You got a girl? You never told me."

"Haven't exactly had time, have I?"

Starsky laughed. "What's her name?"

"Caroline. She has the most amazing eyes. I'm going to ask her to marry me."

"Congratulations, kid. That's terrific."

"You can be best man. For Brian."

"I'd be honored. For Brian and for you."

"You got a girl?"

"I . . . did. She, well, she died a few weeks ago."

"Oh man, Dave. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, thanks." Starsky breathed deeply. He didn't want to go down that road, not with Allen, not handcuffed in a basement waiting for the return of a man who was probably going to kill him. Not while he ached for the sight of Hutch's eyes. "Tell me about Caroline."

To Starsky's relief, Allen let himself be deflected.

"She's a math whiz. Wants to be an astronaut. Maybe she'll be the first woman in space—she could do it. She must be going crazy. I hope my mom called her, or maybe I hope she didn't."

Starsky felt a small vibration in the handcuffs, and after a moment he realized Allen was crying.

"It's okay, kid. Your mom will take care of her."

"I know. It's not just that. It's Brian. We always said we'd be friends for life, and we'd be each other's best man, and godfathers to our kids. Is this what Brian went through, too? Did Sloan leave him alone in the dark like this? He didn't have anyone to talk to, and he must have been terrified."

Hutch, I'm not alone, and I'm not terrified. I know you're on your way. Just get here soon, will you? I lied. I'm kind of terrified.

He reached his free hand around and tried to pat Allen's shoulder, and instead got his nose straight on. It wasn't exactly comforting, but it made the kid give a stifled laugh, which bubbled and grew until they were both infected and howling.

"New rule," Allen said, when he could talk again. "No laughing on a full bladder. Oh my God."

"Good rule. I second the motion." Starsky leaned back against the stairs. His butt was cold and tingling. He felt around for the hundredth time as far as he could with his free hand, looking for something, anything to use to break the stair step, or any weak spot, or anything at all to keep from just sitting and waiting like a useless lump. There had to be a way out. There was always a way. He still couldn't find it.

"They're going to kill us, aren't they?" The laughter was gone, and Allen's voice was low and desperate.

"Allen, look at me. Are you looking at me?" They both started to laugh again. "We are going to get out of this. I swear to God we will. You hear me?"

"I'm nodding." That got them going yet again until they were both gasping and groaning. "I'm going to try to squeeze between the steps again. I must have lost a couple of pounds by now."

Starsky twisted himself around, and Allen climbed under the stair railing. In the dark, Starsky couldn't figure out where to move to, where to put himself, but Allen grunted and kicked, and pulled hard on the cuffs and Starsky's arm.

"Pull me!"

Starsky braced his feet against something and pulled. "Come on, come on, come on."

"Almost . . . keep pulling. Oh, my bladder. . . . Shit. my belt's caught, hold on. . . . okay, pull . . . if I get stuck now this is going to be embarrassing."

"If you get stuck now it's going to be worse than that, kid." He pulled hard, and fell back suddenly with a thump as Allen jerked free.

"Holy shit, Batman. We did it." Allen breathed hard. "We did it. Um, now what?"

At the top of the stairs, the door opened.

---

None of the phone numbers that Hutch had copied from Sloan's desk seemed to be of any significance. Minnie had come in to help out, and had tried them all for him—one was to the telephone company, and none of the others answered at all. Minnie had hugged him and said she'd track them all down and let him know what they were.

Dobey had gone through the contents of Brian's box, Joe Tyce's case file, and the photographs, and had tracked down some of the things on Starsky's list of questions. The Mortons were, in fact, Jewish, and none of them had ever owned a necklace with a religious medal. Mrs. Morton had remembered that Susie, her housekeeper up at the cabin, had worn one like that, and had lost it, but she couldn't remember when. She'd called Susie to check, saying she was glad to have something to do. It had been Susie's after all, lost only a year or two earlier. Another dead end.

Hutch had driven out to the Phillips's home, and Mrs. Phillips had stared apathetically at the photograph of the long-haired girl at the garden party, and then looked away, stone-faced. Mr. Phillips, just back from the Mortons' house, had come through, though. The party had been Brian's fourteenth birthday celebration, and Mr. Phillips had told the bartender he could bring his daughter with him, by all means. She'd sat quietly by herself the whole afternoon, he'd remembered, even though some of the kids had tried to talk to her, to include her. He'd said he didn't know why Brian would have had her picture, and then he had cried. Hutch had turned away from him and left, feeling coldhearted and ashamed of it.

The FBI had been given all the information Hutch had, and they had updated him and Dobey on their complete lack of progress.

Dead ends everywhere. There was no place left to look, no more rocks to turn over. Hanson seemed to be a phantom—even Huggy hadn't dug up anything on him yet. Maybe it wasn't even his real name.

In the early afternoon Hutch had called Joe Tyce to tell him what was going on, and to ask him to see if he could try to turn up any links between Sloan and Ernie Palmer, though it was a long shot. Joe had been shocked, and had put Rachel on the phone. Hutch had felt better after talking to her, but now her calming influence had worn off and he was back to fist pounding and yelling. No one in the squad room would look at him.

The door to Dobey's office opened fast, and Hutch stood up.

Dobey said, "Get over to the Mortons'. They've got a ransom note."

Hutch was on his way before Dobey had even finished speaking.

Almost to his car, he heard running footsteps behind him and he turned fast, hand to his gun. It was Cheryl. She stopped short and put her hands up in front of her, and he relaxed, smiling.

"I'm glad I caught you," she said, breathing a little hard. "Simms found a hypodermic under the seat. I got Type O blood from the needle, and the solution was some kind of anesthetic. My assistant is running it now, but it's not . . . not poison or narcotics, or anything." She stopped and caught her breath, and looked at him closely. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He looked into her eyes, pulling reassurance from her smile. "I'm on my way to the Morton place. They've gotten a ransom demand."

"Oh, God, Hutch." She took his hand and squeezed it, and he kissed her cheek.

"I'll call you," he said, and slid into the car. He watched her in the rearview for a moment, seeming to grow smaller as he tore out.

It wasn't very long before he realized he couldn't remember how to get to the Mortons' house. Starsky had driven there last time, and Hutch hadn't paid enough attention. He finally found the right road, but the gated entrances all looked alike. He pulled over to call into Dispatch for the address, but a brown Ford Galaxie appeared, moving fast. Thinking that only Feds would drive a car like that in this neighborhood, he followed.

"Now that's what I call good detective work," he said to the absent Starsky when the Galaxie turned in at the right drive. "Impressive, huh?"

He had to identify himself at the gate, and drove in, stomach churning, imagination running away with him.

At the front door he showed his badge yet again, explained again who he was and why he was there, and was finally escorted into the same room he and Starsky had interviewed the Mortons in. Was that only five days ago? It seemed impossible.

The beautiful room was in complete disarray—the piano moved back against the wall and covered with papers, chairs brought in from other rooms, elegant desk covered with electronic equipment. Black–plastic-coated wires snaked everywhere. Men in dark suits stepped in and out of the French doors looking extra serious. No sleeping cat in sight, no tray of tea and cookies. No sign of the Mortons.

He felt disconnected. This was all about someone else—someone's missing child—not his missing partner, not his best friend, not his life. He felt himself slip into detective mode, and his brain began to work properly for the first time in two days.

One of the suits approached, hand out collegially, grim smile appropriate to the situation. To Hutch, the guy looked about eighteen—a younger version of himself.

"Detective Hutchinson? I'm Special Agent Lowell," he said. "Call me Andy." He gestured toward the cluttered desk. "We got a tape recorded message and a typed note. Go on over there and Jim will fill you in."

"Thanks, Andy. I'm Hutch." He wound his way over to Jim, trying not to trip over anything, and introduced himself.

"Here's the note," Jim said. He had a very strong southern accent. "It's a copy, the original's being processed. I'll play y'all the tape in a minute."

Hutch read: "This is a ransom note. We have Allen Morton and Detective Starsky in our possession and will not hesitate to kill one or both of them if our demands are not met. We want one million dollars and will not negotiate." There was more about where to drop it and when, and how, but Hutch stopped reading.

He looked up at Jim. "Has Morton seen this?"

Jim nodded and ran some fingers through his short hair. "He, of course, wants to just pay it, no questions asked."

That was what Hutch wanted to do, too, but he balked at giving in to some lunatic psycho. That wasn't the way he and Starsky operated.

"I'm following some good leads," Hutch said. "How much time do we have?"

"Eight hours. You know anything about this actor?"

"Yeah. He's a psychopath. Tortured animals, the lot. I think he's a habitual but we haven't linked him to anything else so far, not even to Brian Phillips's kidnapping."

"Careful? Or just lucky?"

"And not stupid."

"No." Jim fiddled with the tape deck. "Ready to listen?"

"Go."

Allen's shaky voice filled the room, and everyone looked up for a moment, and then went back to whatever they'd been doing. Hutch's mouth went sticky, and his hands felt cold. Had the Mortons listened to this?

There was a small gap, and Hutch assumed that was all, but suddenly Starsky's voice hit him hard. "My name is David Starsky . . . " Oh God, Starsk. Is this the last time I'm going to hear your voice? No. Absolutely not. You just hold on. You hear me? You hold on.

"That's your partner, right?"

Hutch nodded. He didn't dare speak.

"Bad deal." Jim said, and looked sympathetic, but Hutch didn't want that. No need for that. He didn't need sympathy.

Jim continued, "We don't hear any unusual sounds, nothing in the background. Can you make out anything in your partner's voice?"

Hutch listened again, and then again, but there was nothing. No hidden message, no code words. Starsky's voice sounded calm and strong. Normal. But he hadn't been able to communicate any kind of information. Suddenly Hutch felt a huge and irrational anger well up in him—anger at himself, and at Starsky. How could Starsky have let his guard down like that? What had possessed him to go looking for Sloan without backup, without telling Hutch or anyone else what he was going to do. And how could I have let him out of my sight? I never will again. Never again. Even as he had the thought, Hutch knew it was ridiculous.

He straightened up and turned to find Lowell, and bumped into Mrs. Morton, who'd been standing behind him.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," she said. And then she held out her arms and Hutch stepped toward her, like he would toward his own mother, and they held each other tight for a long moment, oblivious of the men working around them. He felt immeasurably comforted.

"Starsky'll take care of him," he said, stepping back. "I'll find them, I promise, and they'll be okay."

"Yes," she said. "I know they will. Thank you."

He looked again for Andy Lowell and spotted him by the doors. "I have to go, but I'll be in touch. Try not to worry." He gave her another quick hug, and she nodded and stepped back. He watched her walk out through the French doors, and stand still in the middle of the stone patio.

Andy was on the phone, but when he saw Hutch, he put it down. "That was Captain Dobey," he said. "Someone named Huggy, is that right? This Huggy has some information for you. I've got a number to reach him at."

Hutch looked for paper and a pencil, and once again nearly turned to ask Starsky for his. Why do I keep doing that? But the action tripped some internal switch and he remembered pocketing one of Sloan's pens. It was there in his pocket, still, and he dug it out, and wrote down the number that Andy read out to him.

The pencil had writing on it. He looked more carefully. Time stopped, and then restarted, and Andy looked up.

"You all right?" he said.

"Look at this pen," Hutch said.

Andy read the gold lettering: "'Hanson Brothers Auto Body'. There's a number." He yelled for Jim. "Jim, got a phone number for you. Track it down right away, will you?" He almost trotted across the floor, and gave him the pen.

Hutch stood still as the agents moved around him like wraiths, purposeful, but without substance. I've had that pen since yesterday. A whole day wasted while Starsky—

"Got it," Jim said, and handed a piece of paper to Hutch.

Before Andy could react, Hutch was off and running, and a shouted "Wait!" didn't stop him. Andy caught up with him in the cobbled driveway, though, and grabbed his arm.

"You aren't going off alone," Andy said. "That's how your partner got in trouble."

"Get in then, but understand this is mine. We do it my way."

"Agreed, but let me tell the AIC where we're going." He turned to go back inside, and stopped when Hutch got into the car. "Detective Hutchinson, use your head. Wait for me, or I'll have you stopped before you can even get to the gate."

Furious and burning, Hutch nodded. Andy ran in to find the agent in charge, and was back in minutes with a portable radio. The wait hadn't quieted Hutch's impatience, and he started the LTD and was rolling before Andy had the door closed. Andy made no comment.

"Shit," Hutch said, and slammed a hand against the steering wheel. "I didn't call Huggy." He picked up his radio handset and called Metro. "I need a patch through," he told the dispatcher, and read out the number Huggy had left for him.

"Go ahead, Detective," the dispatcher said.

"Huggy?"

"Hutch man, I got some goods on that Hanson guy for you."

Andy raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, Hug, go ahead."

"First of all, watch your back. He likes to stick sharp objects into people's kidneys. Second of all, he ain't from around here, he's newly arrived. Got some brothers in the area, and that's brothers, not bruthuhs, you dig, that he's staying with."

"We've already got an address. We're on our way there, now."

"Good. He's got himself attached at the hip to Sloan, don't know how they met up, but word is he thinks with his fists. Be careful, man."

"I will, Huggy. Thanks."

"Hey, Hutch."

"Yeah, Hug?"

"Nothing. Just, keep in touch, man, okay?"

"Sure, Huggy. I will." Hutch put the handset on the clip.

"So who's this guy 'Huggy' then?"

"He's a friend. He seems to know everything that goes on in this town, or can find it out. When this is over, Starsky and I'll take you over to his restaurant for the best burger you've ever eaten."

"Restaurant?" Andy sounded skeptical, but when Hutch nodded confirmation, he grinned. "Good deal. I'll hold you to it."

"Starsky can pick up the tab."

---

Starsky tried to shove Allen behind him, but they got tangled up in the cuffs. They ended side by side, cuffed hands behind them.

"Leslie?" Allen said. "Is that you?"

"You know her?" Starsky squinted up at the figure standing in the light at the top of the stairs. "Who is it?"

The girl stopped half way down and stared. "Who are you?" she said.

Starsky wondered why she didn't turn and run. Most women would if they found two strange men in a basement. Suddenly he realized who she was. The girl with the long hair, the one from Brian's pictures. She looked exactly the same. Was she friend or foe?

"It's me—Allen. Don't you remember me?"

"Allen Morton? What are you doing here? Who's that?"

Starsky gave a warning tug on the handcuffs.

Allen said, "That's Dave. Don't you remember him either?"

Kid, forget about rocks. You'd make a great cop.

"No. What are you doing here?"

What are you doing here, is the more important question. Starsky kept quiet.

"Uh, well, long story. You don't happen to know who owns this house, do you?"

"Of course I do. It's my house. Our house. My parents are out of town, and I came home to pick up some things."

Allen looked at Starsky, apparently out of ideas. Starsky decided it was time to take control. Friend or foe, which one? Better run with foe.

Leslie started to go back up the stairs.

"Leslie," Starsky said. "We need your help, okay?" He took a step forward, and Allen moved with him. "We, uh, we had a little bet going with a guy we met at a, a bar, and well, we lost. This guy, he said he was a friend of your father's, and he's making us stay in the basement for the, uh, payment." Man, that was lame. Hungry, thirsty, and very tired—none of that was conducive to thinking fast on your feet.

"We really need to use the rest room, though," Allen added, sounding a little desperate.

"Come up, then," Leslie said. She went back up to the top of the steps.

Allen looked at Starsky, and Starsky looked back for a short beat, and then they followed her fast right up the steps, Allen in the lead, nearly dragging Starsky behind him.

Starsky wanted to just get out of there. Allen didn't seem to understand that they were still in serious trouble. Allen pulled him toward the bathroom."

"Allen, let's just go. Leslie doesn't want company."

"But—"

Leslie said, "Are you handcuffed together?"

"Part of the joke. Long story, like we said."

"Where's my father? Did he do this? Oh my God, not again."

"What?" Starsky's alarm bells, already jangling wildly, began to shriek like air raid sirens. Out. We have to get out of here. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

"You have to go," she said urgently. "You have to leave. Now."

It was already too late.

Hanson Brothers was a well-appointed and successful-looking concern. It was clean and tidy, with only a very faint smell of oil—nothing like every other grimy garage Hutch had ever seen. It was the kind of place Starsky loved, where you could rent space and tools, and work on your own car to your heart's content. Every bay was in use, the clinks and clanks of tools a regular beat against the loud rock and roll music coming from a huge boom box. The guy in the first bay pointed an oil-blackened finger toward the office when Hutch asked for the owners.

The glass office door was open, and a guy in clean gray coveralls lounged feet up on the desk, talking into a phone about carbs and belts or something. He held up a finger and put his feet down on the floor when he saw them come in. Hutch felt like grabbing the phone out of the guy's fist, but that probably wouldn't start him off on the road to cooperation, so he restrained himself.

The man hung up the phone and smiled.

"Any chance you're one of the Hanson brothers?" Hutch said.

"Oh sure, I'm Ralph. What can I do for you?"

"We're looking for your brother, I think. He might be hanging out with a guy named Sloan."

"Shit, what'd he do now? Rob a bank? Knock over a convenience store? Where do I go to bail him out?"

"No, actually, Ralph, we think he might be involved in a kidnapping."

"Oh fuck. Wait a sec, let me get my brother." He stepped around the desk and past Hutch and Andy, and hollered, "Raymond, get the fuck in here."

A man who looked like Ralph's identical twin came in, wiping his hands on a red rag.

"What?" he said.

"These guys are looking for Ronnie."

"You cops?" Raymond said.

Hutch showed them both his badge, and Andy showed his ID.

"Feds, too?" Raymond said. "Shit. What's he done? Stole a car?"

"We think he's kidnapped a young man and a police officer," Andy said. "We're hoping you'll help us."

Ralph and Raymond exchanged some silent communication, and Raymond shrugged. "He's screwed himself good this time. I ain't covering his ass for something like this."

"Do you know this man Sloan? Todd Sloan?" Hutch showed them the picture from the garden party.

"Yeah, very bad dude. We knew he was going to be trouble. That's his daughter there. Poor kid."

Andy said, "Do you have an address for this Sloan?"

Hutch held his breath.

"No," Raymond said.

Hutch let out his breath hard.

"But," Ralph said, "I know where his house is. I can tell you how to get there, or show you."

"His house?" Hutch said. "Not the dive on Culver?"

"No, it's in Torrance. Here, I'll write it down for you."

Hutch waited in agony while the brothers argued and consulted, and finally came up with directions that they swore would get them to the right house, even without the address. Andy took the paper from Ralph, thanked them for their cooperation, and sprinted after Hutch, who was already halfway to his car.

As soon as Andy got in, he picked up his portable radio.

"No," Hutch said, already moving out fast.

"We need backup, you know that."

"No. You call in backup and we'll end up with a massacre. You agreed to do this my way. Either do it, or get out now."

Andy hesitated, and Hutch hit the brakes hard. "As agreed, or get out now. I mean it."

"As agreed, then."

Hutch nodded and accelerated. He picked up the radio and called Dispatch. Lodge was back on duty.

"I'm on a strong lead," Hutch told him. "Clear the decks for me, will you? I don't want to use lights and siren, and I don't want to get pulled over." He told Lodge the general area they were heading for. "Thanks, Lodge, I owe you."

"Just find your partner."

"I will." He put the handset down and concentrated on not running over anyone.

"Where'd you learn to drive?" Andy gasped.

"I didn't."

"Exactly." Andy wedged a foot against the floor boards, and a straight arm against the dash. "Nerves of steel, that's what I have."

Hutch actually laughed.

"So tell me what your partner is likely to do when we bust in."

"Assuming this is even where they are (it has to be, or . . .) and assuming he's able to do anything, he'll protect Allen with his life. Whatever goes down, that's what he'll try to do. If I can see him, and get him to see me, he'll either follow my lead, or let me know I should follow his."

"How will he let you know?"

"You ever worked with a partner?"

"We work in pairs, but not always with the same partner, no."

"Starsky and I have been partners for seven years. If we can see each other, well, I can't explain it. If he sees me, he'll let me know."

"Complicated."

"No, not really."

"You guys are rogues, aren't you?"

"Our captain would agree. We just do what we have to."

"I checked you out. You have some interesting methods, but you look real good on paper."

"We don't like bad guys, and I particularly don't like these bad guys."

"Wouldn't have guessed," Andy said. "You two are more than partners, aren't you?"

Hutch stopped himself from turning to look at Andy. Surely he didn't mean what that sounded like. "Starsky is my best friend," he finally said.

Andy nodded without irony. "I think this is the exit we want." He began to read off directions. "I don't know why I'm doing this, and I'll probably get my wrists smacked, but I'm in it up to my eyeballs now, so tell me what you need from me. Where do you want me?

"We're going to have to scope out the place first, so stay back and be ready for trouble, and watch my back. If shit starts flying, then you can call your cavalry, but we're going to try to shut this down without them. You'll have to make the arrests, or we'll have to wait for the county guys."

"Okay, then." He consulted the Hansons' directions. "That's the house, there."

It was just as Ralph had described it. Nondescript, single-level adobe, two-car garage, all curtains drawn tight. It definitely didn't look like the home of a serial kidnapper and murderer. More like maybe an English teacher's.

Three agaves and one lemon tree grew in front of a bay window, just as Ronnie had said. One red Volkswagen Rabbit in the driveway, and one blue Ford Escort on the street in front. No sign of any activity. No neighbors in yards. No barking dogs, no gardeners. It seemed to Hutch like a movie set deserted for the day. He drove past the house and parked in front of a similar one halfway down the block.

I'm here, Starsk. Do you hear me? I'm here, now.

Worst-case scenario didn't begin to cover this situation. Starsky felt himself sort of go over the top with his panic, and he came out on the other side calm and cold.

He stepped in front of Allen and took a long breath. This spotless, pretty kitchen was a ludicrous backdrop for gun-wielding psychopaths.

"Sloan," he said. "I'm telling you, there is no way in hell you can get away with this. Let the kid go now and I'll do everything in my power to help you. Put down the gun and let the kid go. Now."

Sloan didn't put down the gun. "Gotten away with it before," he said. If he shot the Beretta from there, the bullets would plow through Starsky's body like it was soft wax, and right on through Allen's, too.

"Dad, please," Leslie said.

"What are you doing here, Leslie?"

"I thought you and mom were away. I came to get some more of my things."

"Get them and get out."

"Dad, no."

"Listen to him, Leslie," Starsky said, low and clear. "Just go."

Hanson, who had appeared to be pretty damn stupid, changed his demeanor in the space of a second, and said, "She can't leave now. She'll call the cops." Not the stupid one after all.

"No, Dad, I won't. I never have. I still won't."

She started to edge around behind Allen and Starsky, and made it almost to the back door beyond the bathroom before Hanson made a run and grab for her. He put his hand in her hair, twisted it a few times around his fist, and dragged her back to the yellow and white kitchen where everyone stood in a frozen tableau. Sloan said nothing and Leslie began to cry.

"Shut up," Hanson said. He pulled her over to a bank of drawers and opened a few until he found what he wanted, a long knife that glittered when he turned it toward her throat. She stopped whimpering immediately.

Sloan said to Hanson, "You're a dead man, motherfucker."

Starsky looked beyond Hanson to the daylight outside. Something had moved past the window.

Sloan took a step toward Hanson and his daughter, gun still ready and still dangerous, and Starsky moved sideways a step, trying to get Sloan's back to the window. He could feel Allen shaking behind him.

"You just take care of your hostages, and I'll take care of mine," Hanson said, and kissed the side of Leslie's face. She closed her eyes.

Through the window behind Hanson and out of Sloan's sight, Starsky saw movement again, and then he was sure.

"Sloan, Hanson," he said loudly. "Be smart here. Let the two kids go, and we'll talk."

"Way past talking, cop," Sloan said. "Time for action. I was going to have you read today's headlines, but now I think we'll just skip that part and get right to the finale. We got what we needed from you already."

Hanson laughed. "Excellent. This little peach is just some icing on the cake."

"You're going to let this guy do your own daughter?" Maybe Sloan was playing Hanson. Or maybe he really didn't care about his child. Had she known about Brian? About others?

"Not like he ain't done it before."

Allen tensed and brought up a tight fist. "What is wrong with you, man?"

Starsky pulled hard on the cuffs and Allen turned his furious gaze on him. For a second, Starsky thought the kid might even take a swing at him.

"Allen," he said. "Stow it."

Allen dropped his arm, but Starsky could feel his angry tremors like aftershocks.

The doorbell rang. No one moved a muscle for a long minute, and then it rang again.

"Hello!" came a muffled shout. "I think my dog is locked in your garage! Hello?" Starsky actually had to try not to grin. Some hard knocking followed, and then the doorbell rang again, several short bursts. And again.

"Shit. What the fuck is this now?" Sloan gestured to Hanson to go answer the door.

"Your door, asshole."

"My gun, asshole. Answer the fucking door. Leave Leslie here."

Hanson let go of Leslie's hair and she seemed to try to keep herself upright, but couldn't manage it. Her father didn't even look at her as she slid to the floor, and ignored Allen when he pulled Starsky toward her and knelt down beside her. Hanson clumped heavily through the kitchen and down a short hallway to the front door. From where they were, Starsky couldn't see the door at all.

Hanson opened it a crack and said, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Hutch spoke, and Starsky held still, straining to listen. Sloan took a step forward and put the gun to the side of Starsky's head, and pressed hard, and Starsky stopped thinking altogether and concentrated on not moving. Leslie made a small noise and Allen pulled her head toward him and held her with his free arm. He looked straight up into Starsky's eyes, and Starsky looked back, steady and controlled. Allen swallowed and nodded once, hard.

"My dog's been missing, and I think I can hear him in your garage," Hutch said from the door. "Can you open it up for me, let me call him?"

"There ain't no fucking dog in there."

"I'm pretty sure he's there. Can you just open the door so I can check? My kid's been crying for days. It'll just take a second."

Hanson, apparently gone temporarily back into stupid mode, stepped out and closed the door behind him.

One down.

Starsky's muscles began to spasm and he could no longer hold himself steady. When his head finally bumped against the mouth of the gun, Sloan flinched.

Thoughts flared like a roman candle through Starsky's brain: Hutch . . . can't do anything cuffed to the kid . . . I should have told you how I felt about the song, Hutch . . . I love your voice . . . I'm sorry about Gillian . . . don't want to leave you now not now . . . please be okay . . . there's nothing I can do about this . . . watch out for Allen he's a good kid . . . tell my mother . . . I love you I'm sorry . . .

The kitchen seemed to get bigger around him, and he to get smaller. Odd sensation, and with it, time seemed to slow to nothing. His brain wasn't integrating what he saw, just flashing images—Allen's eyes, Leslie's hands, Sloan's eyes narrowing and his muscles tensing, and then a sound that engulfed him, and it was his own voice rising as he brought his free arm up faster than thought and threw his own weight and Allen's right after it. Sounds of breaking glass and screaming, and he was lying on top of Sloan and Allen on top of him and Leslie was beside him, screaming almost in his right ear. He couldn't move and Allen was a dead weight . . . dead weight oh, God . . .

"Starsky!"

He turned his head to the voice and tried to look up, to say he was okay, but he couldn't move, and then Allen groaned.

"Hutch."

"Don't move."

Would if I could but Allen . . .

Starsky tried to see Hutch, to see why he shouldn't move. Not a rattlesnake, couldn't be that.

Allen tried to push himself up.

"Allen," Hutch said. "Don't move."

Starsky turned his head and figured it out right off. Leslie, not two feet away to his right, had her back against the cupboard doors under the kitchen counter, her hair tangled around her face and falling over her arms. And in her hands the Beretta, steady and unwavering, aimed at her father's head and Starsky's, only inches away.

"Get off him," she said, without looking away from her father's face.

Allen rolled himself off of Starsky's legs and tried to sit up. He pulled on Starsky's arm.

"Get off him."

Starsky stayed put. "Leslie, don't. Let us take care of this. Put the gun down."

"I said to get off him."

Hutch said, "The police are outside. He's finished. Put the gun down and let us take him."

"You don't understand."

"I think maybe I do," Allen said. "Leslie, come on. Don't give him this, too. Come on. Brian wouldn't have wanted this. Please."

She looked up and wavered, and Hutch stepped forward, left hand outstretched.

"Give him the gun, Leslie," Allen said. "Everything's going to be okay now."

She put the gun in Hutch's hand, and slumped back. Starsky put a heavy arm across Sloan's throat, and Allen tugged at his other hand, pulling him a little as he crawled over Starsky's legs to get to Leslie.

Things happened fast after that. A man in a suit who looked familiar and who seemed to know Hutch came in fast and slammed some cuffs onto Sloan—see how you like it, pal—and Starsky finally rolled off and sat back against the cupboards. His arm stretched out toward Allen's, and he watched as Hutch pulled Sloan's other arm around so the guy in the suit could put the cuff on his other wrist. Neither of them was very gentle with him.

The suit pulled a hand radio out of a pocket and spoke into it.

Hutch turned to Starsky and their eyes locked.

"Lost your key?"

"Yeah. Can I borrow yours?"

"Sure."

Starsky dragged his arm up, Allen's with it, and Hutch stepped over Sloan and unlocked the cuffs, first Allen's, and then Starsky's. He held them for a second, staring at them, and then gave them to Starsky, who took them with steady hands, and put them in his back pocket.

"You okay?" Hutch said.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah."

He stuck out his other hand and Hutch hauled him upright. Not caring who thought what, he pulled Hutch into himself and held him tight.

"I thought I'd never see you again," he whispered into Hutch's ear.

"Me, too."

Allen stood up. "I, uh, well, sorry, but I really have to pee."

Starsky started to laugh. "Just hurry up, kid." He stepped back from Hutch and pointed his thumb at the guy in the suit. "Who's your little friend?"

Hutch made formal introductions. Andy offered his hand for a shake. "We met at the Mortons' house," he said.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry."

Andy waved the apology away. "Got the cavalry coming." They could already hear sirens. Allen came out of the bathroom and went back to Leslie, and Starsky took his turn. By the time he came out, the house was full of uniforms and he could do nothing but glance at Hutch, meeting his eyes for fleeting moments. For now, it was enough.

---

Even Hutch didn't want him to go, but they ended up at Torrance Memorial's emergency room anyway. They waited with Allen and Leslie until the Mortons arrived, running, and took him in their arms. Allen grinned at Starsky over his mother's shoulder and then buried his face in his father's arms.

Leslie stood silent nearby, a police officer beside her. Starsky went to her.

"What's going to happen to me?" she said. "Am I under arrest?"

"No," Starsky said. "There'll be an investigation, but I don't know what'll happen." He tried to put a hand on her shoulder but she moved away and looked down. "Hutch and me'll do everything we can for you. I'll talk to the D.A. It'll be okay. Try not to worry about it." He looked around the overcrowded emergency department. "Is your mom coming?"

"She's in Vegas. They were both supposed to be there." She shook her head and blinked fast a few times. "I don't know if anyone's found her yet. My roommate's coming, anyway." She looked up. "Is Allen okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine. A little hungry and thirsty, that's all."

She nodded and looked down again, and the officer assigned to her found her a chair. She sat down without looking at him or thanking him. Starsky asked the officer for paper and a pencil, and wrote the number of the Metro station on it.

"You need anything, you call me, okay? Call this number any time and the dispatcher will always find me or Hutch. You call, you got that?"

She nodded and took the paper but he doubted he'd hear from her. He'd never seen anyone as boarded up and abandoned as she was. Maybe they could get Perkowitz to go talk to her.

Hutch said, "Starsk, the nurse wants you to come in now." He turned to Leslie. "Thank you. I mean that."

She never looked up.

Starsky knew the routine: clothes off, ridiculous blue gown on, Hutch making jokes about air conditioning, and the requisite rolling of the eyes.

He sat on the edge of the gurney, legs dangling, feet swinging, and the nurse took his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. She asked him to put his hands out in front of him, palms down.

"You have a tremor in your hands," she said.

"Just hungry."

"I'll get you some juice and something to eat right away. The doctor will be in to see you in just a minute."

Everything seemed a little surreal. So many people—cops, hospital staff, reporters. For a second, Starsky thought it was the aftermath of the Simon Marcus case, and he put a hand up to his face where he'd been burned by one of Marcus's followers. The tremor in his hands suddenly increased, and Hutch came to him fast, and put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"You with me, Starsk?"

"Yeah, just got a little . . . felt a little weird for a second."

"You thinking about Marcus?"

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

"The way you touched your face just now."

"When the doctor comes in—if he tells you to wait outside, don't, okay?"

"I won't, buddy."

The nurse came in with a tray. "Most important thing is to get fluids in you. Drink all the orange juice, and eat the toast slowly, okay?"

"Thanks."

She put the tray down, and put a paper straw in the juice, and went out.

"Did you get anything to eat at all?"

"A couple of burgers and some water. Wasn't as bad as all that. You've fasted longer than that on purpose. I was already hungry when I left the Mortons, though." He drank down the juice, unable to stop once he'd started. "You must have gone crazy when I never showed up with dinner."

"Pretty crazy, yeah." He pushed some of Starsky's hair back, and it felt dry and gritty.

"I probably stink, huh?"

"Not to me."

"Where's that doctor? I want out of here."

"Right here. Sorry to keep you waiting." The doctor had gray hair, and a gray face. He shook hands with Hutch first, then Starsky. "I'm Dr. Townsend."

Starsky answered all his questions calmly, and breathed deeply, and flexed his elbows and knees. Opened his mouth wide, and offered each ear for perusal. Said where he was, and who, and what day it was, though he got the date wrong. Named the president and the capital of California. Closed his eyes and touched his forefingers to his nose, and to each other. Followed a bright light with his eyes, and counted backward in steps of seven from one hundred.

"I think you'll live," Dr. Townsend said. "Your blood pressure is a little low, that's all. Drink a lot of water, tea, juice. If you feel dizzy or sick, or you get a headache you can't get rid of with a couple of aspirins, or you have difficulty urinating, you come back immediately and we'll give you fluids. Okay?"

"I don't have to stay here?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then yeah, okay." He pushed himself off the gurney. "Let's go."

"Ah, Starsk, forgetting anything?"

The doctor grinned.

"What?" He looked at Hutch, and at the doctor, and at himself. "Oh."

Hutch handed him his clothes.

When they came out into the waiting area, Starsky felt like turning and running away up the corridor, and out some back door into a quiet alley. The Mortons were still there talking to a reporter. Mrs. Morton went to Hutch and hugged him.

"Thank you," she said. "You kept your promise." She turned to Starsky. "We can't even begin to tell you how grateful we are. Allen said he'd never have got through this without you."

Starsky hugged her, too. "Tell him I feel the same way about him."

"We'll see you soon, won't we?"

"You bet. I have to keep my eye on that boy."

She smiled and patted his arm, and turned back to her family.

Captain Dobey pushed his way through a small crowd of photographers.

"Good work, Hutchinson," he said.

"Hey, what about me, Cap?" Starsky said.

"I'll deal with you later, Starsky. How many times do I have to tell you not to go off without backup?" He poked Starsky's arm. "Glad you're okay, son." He smiled. "Now get back to Torrance PD and give your report to the D.A., and then go home and get some rest."

"Yes, sir," Hutch said. "We will."

"Hey," Starsky said. "There's Huggy." He waved him over. Huggy sauntered up, grinning widely, and handed Starsky a heavy bag.

"What's this?"

"Oranges. Couldn't think what you'd want, and I thought, that's what I'd want. So I brought 'em." He looked from one to the other. "I have rendered Starsky and Hutch speechless. Get me one of those reporters over here, quick."

"You're beautiful, Huggy," Starsky said. "Thanks for coming all the way down, man. And for everything."

"Only took me twenty minutes to get here. And anyway, ain't no sheen to the scene without you two around." He examined Starsky. "You look a lot better than I expected."

Starsky had a hard time not looking at Hutch and smiling.

"Been through worse, believe it or not."

"I believe, man." He looked around at the throng of people. "Come by The Pits and have something to eat. My treat."

Hutch said, "Tomorrow, Hug. Starsky owes one of the feds a dinner."

"I what?" Starsky said.

"Andy. I told him you'd buy him a bleuburger after I rescued you."

"After you what?"

"Rescued you. I did, so you owe him a burger."

"Excuse me, pal, but you did not rescue me. I was already in complete control of the situation when you lost your dog."

"He lost a dog?"

"Long story," Hutch said. "I'll tell it to you tomorrow."

"No, I'll tell it to you tomorrow. Make sure you get the correct version."

"Hutchinson!" Dobey yelled. "Get going like I told you."

"Yes, sir." He grinned at Huggy. "Better get going like he told us. We'll see you tomorrow, Hug."

Starsky watched Hutch and Huggy exchange a silent communication, and then, suddenly, an embrace, hard and short. Huggy pulled away, blinking and nodding.

"Later, dudes." As he left, several reporters tried to follow him, but Dobey headed them off, and Huggy escaped through the back door of the emergency room.

The Torrance police station was newer than Metro, but didn't have as much character. It was odd not to see anyone they knew, but nice to be treated like visiting dignitaries. Everything still felt a little out of sync to Starsky, lights a little too bright, sounds a little too loud, people a little too big. He felt uncharacteristically self-conscious about his disheveled appearance, and he was still convinced he smelled horrible, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He felt naked and vulnerable without his gun. It had been taken as evidence—along with the cuffs that he shouldn't have put in his pocket—and it would take a long time to get it back. He'd have to sign out a police issue for the interim, or buy another Beretta.

And his badge. No sign of it anywhere. To say nothing of his credit cards and driver's license. He didn't even want to think how long it would be before he could get the Torino back.

He didn't want to have to deal with any of it, but at least he didn't have to do it today. Just get through the report and get home, that was all he could focus on for now.

A civilian aide showed them to a conference room, and offered tea or coffee. Hutch asked if there was a commissary.

"I'll go find you a sandwich, buddy," he said. "Be right back."

It was all Starsky could do not to ask him to stay, but, for one thing, he was hungry, and for another, he wasn't going to let the aide hear him beg his partner not to leave him.

Starsky asked the aide for some water. While she was gone he tried to put his thoughts in order so he could make his report and they could get the hell out of there. No one but Hutch seemed to understand how badly he needed to go home. He would have given anything to just walk out, but it would only have put off the inevitable.

Hutch came back with food, and they ate, not talking much. Finally, apologizing, the D.A. came in with a stenographer, one of the detectives who'd responded to the call to Sloan's house, and someone who took photographs of Starsky's bruised wrist, nodded, and withdrew.

The D.A. turned on a tape recorder, said the date and location, and gave everyone's names for the record.

It was only a routine report; depositions and hearing would come later. Starsky tried to stay calm and matter of fact. He spoke in short sentences, and left his usual flamboyant commentary by the wayside. Hutch sat across the corner of the table from him. If he just looked at him, told it to him, it wasn't so bad.

When he got to the parts about Sloan putting the gun to his head, Hutch seemed to have a little trouble sitting still, so Starsky made sure to keep his feelings and reactions out of it all, and his muscles loose. If he stayed calm now, so would Hutch. And anyway, he wasn't about to let himself go to pieces in front of fellow officers and a district attorney.

Finally his part was over with, and Hutch went through his: locating Sloan's house, luring Hanson outside, and his arrest. The scene in the kitchen—Leslie's actions, and Allen's part in talking her down, and finally, Sloan's arrest. To Starsky, it all felt like Hutch was relating the events of a movie he'd seen. None of it seemed to have any real connection to Hutch or to himself.

Afterward, they got through the handshakes and congratulations, and made their way out of the station to Hutch's car.

"That was horrible," Starsky said.

"I think you left some of it out."

"Yeah."

Starsky was almost afraid that Hutch would try to get him to tell him the missing pieces, and he couldn't yet, not yet. But he didn't say anything, just drove fast and in silence, and Starsky was grateful for it.

---

It seemed like they were back to where they'd started. Hutch listened to the shower and waited until it must have gone cold, until he couldn't wait any longer and went in without knocking.

"Starsky?"

He pushed the shower curtain back.

"Oh, Starsky." He knelt on the tiles. "Come on, buddy, get up."

Starsky didn't look up, didn't move, just drew tighter into himself on the floor of the tub under the fast-cooling spray. Hutch saw the bracelet of bruising around his wrist and the scrapes in red relief against the purple and yellow. He pulled a towel down from its hook, and leaned in to turn off the water.

"Come on. I've got some supper ready for you."

Starsky still didn't move, but he started to shiver, and within seconds was shaking so badly that Hutch thought for a bizarre and panicked moment that there was an earthquake. He put the towel around Starsky's shoulders and tried to tug him upright.

"Don't make me pick you up and carry you. Because I'll do it."

Starsky stood up with some difficulty, and stepped out of the tub. Hutch pulled him into his arms, and rubbed his back hard. He grabbed another towel and put it on top of the first.

"I'm okay," Starsky said, through clenched teeth.

"Sure you are. Come on and get in bed and I'll bring you some food."

Starsky let him pull him over to the bed, still shivering. Hutch found him a sweatshirt and pants and some socks, and tugged them onto him, feeling his icy skin and the hard ridges of bones. He'd lost so much more weight in such a short time.

Even under the covers, the trembles and shakes persisted, and Starsky was so cold. Hutch kicked off his shoes and got in next to him, pulling the blankets up over both their shoulders, and Starsky turned to him, grabbing and pulling, as if he were trying to crawl inside and away from whatever he was thinking, feeling, remembering.

"Oh, Starsky." All he could do was hold him and feel his body close to his, and touch his skin, and wait.

Slowly the trembles calmed and stopped, and Starsky's breathing became slow and regular, and because Starsky slept, Hutch finally could, too. He drifted away, his face close to Starsky's, breathing in his breath, and giving him back his own.

When he woke up, Starsky was gone. He moved fast and called out, and Starsky met him at the doorway. Hutch leaned against the wall, breathing a little fast.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I was hungry."

"Jesus, Starsky."

"Want some? It's good."

"I know. I made it." He smiled, and Starsky grinned back around a mouthful of cold spaghetti.

"Where'd you find the ingredients? I didn't have any of this here."

"Yes, you did. You don't even know what's in your own kitchen."

"Don't need to, do I? Long as you do."

"No, I guess not." Hutch made himself up a plate, and they moved to the couch.

They sat close together, and kept bumping elbows as they ate, so Starsky got up and moved around to Hutch's other side.

"One of the many problems of being a lefty," Hutch said.

"Solved it."

"Yeah." He watched Starsky eating, and when he finished, took the plates to the kitchen. He filled a large glass with water and brought it back with him. "Drink it."

Starsky drank some and put it down on the coffee table.

"The doctor said you have to rehydrate, or you're going to end up back at the ER for IV fluids."

"I'm fine. I—"

Without any warning, Hutch felt his face start to burn and his muscles go rigid. "Don't you dare. Don't you do this to me."

"Hutch! What are you—"

"Don't you dare try to do this alone, tough it out alone like that. Not again."

"Hutch, I—"

"I waited for you for weeks, and you were fine, every day you were fine." He got up and started pacing, pounding on every surface with the side of his fist as he passed it. "When you finally told me what happened on the roof, and I watched you sleeping outside, and all that day, and that night in that damned hospital and . . . and . . . and then you said you'd be here at six, at six, Starsky, and it's way, way past six, and four hours ago you were shaking so hard I thought you'd fall and I wouldn't be able to catch you, and now you're acting like nothing happened, like you're an hour late, and you just better not do this, Starsky, I'm telling you . . . "

Starsky was apparently stunned into silence. That wasn't what Hutch wanted. What he wanted was . . .

"It was worse for you, wasn't it?"

"No." He looked again at Starsky's swollen wrist. "You're the one who was chained up. Threatened and starved."

"I knew I was okay. You didn't know where I was or what was happening to me. When Forest had you, that's how I felt. But I was just hungry, nothing else. I knew the whole time that Sloan had me what you were going through, but you had no way of knowing what was happening to me. It was worse for you." He stopped, and Hutch took a long breath. "Come here."

Hutch shook his head and turned away, so Starsky went to him instead.

"You had to sit there this afternoon and listen to me make that goddamned report and, yeah, it was bad, I'm not going to say it wasn't. But the worst of it was that I was so terrified of leaving you." He took a step closer but Hutch wouldn't turn to him, wouldn't look at him at all. "Allen talked to me about Brian, and what it had felt like to lose him. He's never gotten over it, he never will, really, and I listened to that and I only thought about you."

Hutch felt like he'd turned to stone. He wanted to turn and look at Starsky's eyes, but his feet were stuck in place and his muscles weren't taking orders from his brain.

"Sloan put the gun to my head—my gun to my head—and I thought about you, and that's all it was for me, just you. I didn't care if I bought it, I only cared that you'd be alone, and all that we wanted, it was all being taken away, and you'd be left alone and no one would have known what you'd really lost."

Finally his feet unlocked, and Hutch could turn himself around.

"But now I'm here with you and you're not alone, and Hutch, I'm fine. Please believe me, I'm fine."

It was only two steps, but it seemed to take forever, and then the empty space between them was nothing at all. Starsky's arms around him, there was nothing else, there had never been anything else.

"Come on, let's go back to bed. We got a lot to do tomorrow."

Starsky's bed was too big. They didn't need all that space. All those blankets were too much now. They pushed them away and got under the sheets.

"How's that, now?" Starsky said from inside his arms. "Feel better?"

"Mm hm."

"Want to take my next appointment with McAllister?"

"Yes." He gave a choking kind of laugh, and Starsky pulled himself in closer.

"You smell good."

Hutch said, "The whole time, every minute, this was all I could think about. That I'd be going through the rest of my life knowing this was what I'd missed, that I'd been so blind and missed it all." He touched Starsky's face. "I don't know what to do, Starsk."

"Do you want to? Now?"

"I don't know. I . . . We never talked."

"Do we need to?"

"No. I guess not."

"I know what to do."

Hutch pulled back a little and looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Done it before, when I was a kid."

"Guess we should have talked."

"Talk later. Got better things to do right now."

"Starsk."

"Lift up a little."

Hutch pushed himself up and Starsky tugged the ends of his shirt out from under him, pulled it off him somehow. He sat up and pulled at the sweatshirt that he had put on Starsky only a few hours earlier when he had been so cold—now he seemed like a bonfire, huge and out of control. Hutch stopped, fascinated by the heat of it, the impact of it on his own skin.

Impatient, Starsky pulled his own clothes off and then attacked the rest of Hutch's. Hutch felt like his body was someone else's. He tried to move and turn, but he couldn't seem to do anything useful.

"Hutch."

"What?"

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Put your hand here."

He couldn't move his hands. "I—"

Starsky took hold of his wrist. "Look at me, Hutch."

Starsky's face was in shadow above him.

"I'm looking."

"What do you see? What do you see when you look at my face?"

Hutch put his hand up to touch it. It felt rough and bristly under his fingers. "I see everything I ever wanted."

"When I look at myself in the mirror, I see you there, next to me, all the time, and that's what I look at. You, next to me. I always have. I never thought about why." He swallowed hard and Hutch touched his throat where it moved.

"Now you know why?"

"Yeah. Put your hand here. Go ahead, Hutch. It's just me. It's okay."

Starsky's grip on his wrist tightened, and when Hutch looked at his eyes, he smiled. He let go of himself, reaching out, and Starsky was there. He always had been.

"Yeah," Starsky said. "See? It's okay."

"God, Starsky."

"Your hands. Put them here. This is yours, now. All of this is yours now."

And then there was nothing that could keep Hutch's hands away from what he wanted.

Starsky lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes, and he spoke again, his voice low, almost dreamlike. "Your hands, they're like big warm blankets, they cover me. Yeah, that's it. They're my hands, now. Like that. Oh God."

Starsky's fingers were in his hair pulling him down, pushing him down. The taste of him salty and fine. His skin soft and his lips against it, soft and fine there, and there rough under his tongue.

yes he likes that oh God Starsky your skin and mine

Fingers in his hair so strong and his mouth everywhere on Starsky's skin. His own skin seeming to pulse and Starsky's hands on his back gripping and pushing into his center like a fire.

the taste of him, oh God, the taste of him

The feel of him so strange and the smell of him so different, his voice low above him—yes, Hutch—pulling him, pushing him—yeah like that, and like that

oh God Starsky come for me I want you to

His own body throbbing and pulsing it was happening now it was now and Starsky said Hutch oh God, his hands tightening on Hutch's face, and Hutch Hutch. There was nothing in the world, nowhere in the world but Starsky moving in his hands, in his mouth, and the taste of him.

He listened to Starsky's hard breathing. He couldn't think. His body felt bigger somehow, not his own, his skin some kind of receiver, everything touching him sent straight through where it swirled together and engulfed him from inside.

He looked up finally, when he felt he could.

Starsky said, "You sure you never did that before?"

He couldn't smile. His mouth wouldn't work.

"Can you move?"

He could move, at least a little. He rolled over and lay on his back and looked up.

Starsky moved, too, a leg over Hutch's, his rough chest against smooth skin, and his face right above, mouth open, breathing hard.

He could feel Starsky's heart beating against his own in counterpoint, and his breath hot.

his body covers mine

He put his hands up, one on each side of Starsky's face and moved with him, Starsky's arm beside his, light against dark, his head moving down, and his mouth there and stopping there and there.

oh Jesus, Starsky, there, and

Starsky's muscles sliding and moving under his hands, Starsky's arms along his thighs, his hands strange and big, rough and solid. Starsky's back hard against his own hands moving, and then his mouth.

oh God yes

Starsky's hands everywhere, his own hands hot on Starsky's arms pulling him, pushing him.

He put his head back and listened to the sound he was making. It didn't sound like his own voice, so low and animal-like, and not like any sound he'd ever heard before. He flexed his fingers in time with it, Starsky's head under his hands moving, and Starsky's hands moving around him, gripping him hard with his hands and his mouth.

oh God like that yeah like that oh make me come Starsky, I want you to

The whole of his body and Starsky's moving and lifting, all of his insides liquid fire.

it's now oh God, Starsky

His fingers tightened against Starsky's face as his body expanded.

When he could think again, he looked down along his body and loosened his grip, and Starsky looked up at him and smiled.

He waited for his brain to start making sense of the world again.

Who am I now? "Oh my God."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Starsky laughed and moved up beside him. "Come here," he said.

Hutch's body felt entrapped in something heavy and strong but he managed to turn himself into Starsky's arms. Everywhere their skin touched he felt shivery and warm.

"Worked out pretty well, didn't it?" Starsky said.

"Pretty well."

"Go to sleep."

"Don't go anywhere."

"I won't, Hutch. Not going anywhere."

"Don't go anywhere."

"I won't."

---

This time there was a difference to the shower sounds: Starsky was singing softly in concert with the water. Hutch smiled and stretched mightily, his toes reaching off the end of the bed, and his hands meeting both sides of it. He put his face into Starsky's pillow and breathed in slowly. It wasn't enough.

He rolled over and got up, a few muscles creaking. He massaged his jaw, aroused again just by thinking of the reason for its soreness, and went into the bathroom.

Starsky stuck his head out from behind the shower curtain.

"Get in here," he said.

"Good morning to you, too, Starsk." He smiled.

"Yeah, good morning, Hutch. Get in here."

Under the spray his skin came alive. The heat of the steam, the slipperiness of the tub floor and sides. The cold surprise of the shower curtain where it touched his thigh. The look of Starsky's face, wet and grinning, and the feel of his hands on his hips, pulling him in. Hutch reached his hands down and took both their cocks, both in his hands together.

Starsky leaned back against the wall, reached up, and turned the shower spray so the water fell right on them. It stung, distant and faint, on the cut on the back of Hutch's head. He put his head down so their foreheads met and bumped, and Starsky began to move in his hand, forward and back, slowly, slowly. Hutch looked down between them, mesmerized.

"Got an idea, Blondie."

How could he even speak? This all seemed so easy for him. Hutch was still a little too enthralled by the strangeness of it to be able to talk and think at the same time.

"What is it?"

"Turn around and assume the position."

"The what?"

"The position, officer. Turn around. Put your hands against the wall, there, under the shower. Don't spread your legs, though."

"You going to frisk me?"

"Yep."

Starsky began to rub his back with a bar of soap. Hutch recognized the scent—Starsky's scent—spicy and clean. Up and over his shoulders, and along his arms, and Starsky pressed tight against his back to reach his hands. Back up his arms and down his chest, stopping here and there for a moment, and pulling in against his belly, and down. Hutch waited for the feel of soapy hands on his cock, and it jumped in anticipation, but Starsky moved on past, down the outsides of his thighs to his feet and then back up the insides. Hutch moved his legs apart.

"No, keep them together," Starsky said, his voice low and a little strained. "

Hutch wasn't used to surrendering the lead with women and it felt strange and disturbing now, but he realized in some hazy way that Starsky knew he needed time to get used to all this, and was giving it to him. Hutch began to lose himself again, the way he had the night before.

Starsky stood and leaned into his back, all along his body. Hutch felt the roughness of his chest as he moved, and when he realized what Starsky had in mind, he looked down, the water streaming down over his face. Starsky's cock slid between his legs and began to move, back and forth, back and forth, slowly, bumping up and forward against his balls. He watched his own cock grow bigger and harder and when Starsky's hand came around and took it into his hot grasp his legs began to shake and he became sure he wouldn't be able to stand up much longer.

"Oh Jesus Starsky."

Rough chin against his shoulder, Starsky's chin, a small pain, a distraction, an enhancement. Starsky's breath on the side of his face. He lifted his head to the spray, opening his mouth, unable to make a sound, unable to move. Starsky's hand tight on his cock playing and teasing, his other hand wandering upward, moving lightly everywhere, teasing him, pressing against him, his face close and almost whispering.

"See, you're like me, you're like my own body, I do this to you and it's like I'm doing it to me. I'm going to come soon and you're going to feel it like it's you and then I'll make you come, too, and it'll be like it's me."

The words in his ear and the water beating on his face reverberated and made him dizzy. He felt the world spinning; only the sound of Starsky's voice and the press of him against his back held him down.

Behind him Starsky began to move faster, pushing against him and through him faster and harder, making sounds deep in his throat.

He looked down again, transfixed, at Starsky's hands on him, like his own hands, like his own hands on himself, no difference, his body no different from Starsky's, moving together, swelling and surging—Starsky was right, he could feel him begin to come like it was himself, the sound of his voice a growl or a moan, deep and low.

"Oh God, Hutch."

The feel of Starsky's hands suddenly gripping tight, the sound of Starsky's voice without words, the weight of Starsky's body as he came, falling into him, holding him tighter, moving with him and saying his name.

He had to move, forward and back in Starsky's hand, he had to move faster and harder, and Starsky's hold on him tightening, and his other hand under his balls lifting and tugging, and when he came, the world fell away until there was nothing but Starsky, his voice and his hands and himself on fire under the pounding water.

His arms began to shake and he turned around and leaned back against the tiles.

"Good idea, huh?" Starsky said.

---

Starsky couldn't stop smiling. He put a mug of coffee in front of Hutch, drank some of his own, and started making toast.

"Don't know how I'm supposed to keep my hands off you all day," he said.

Hutch smiled. "Maybe we better go under cover."

"Satin or velvet?" The toast popped up and he pulled it out, hissing and shaking his fingers.

"I like that idea, but I meant under cover. Like we're cops who haven't just fallen hard for their partner."

"Got names?" He put the plate of toast down and sat at the table. He loaded his with butter and jelly, and ate it in a few hungry bites.

Hutch ate his a little more decorously, but it was gone just as fast.

"I was thinking, Starsky and Hutch."

"Good names. Which one do you want to be?"

Hutch laughed, and Starsky grinned.

"I'll be Hutch so I can look at Starsky all day long."

"If you keep looking at Starsky the way you're looking at him right now, he's not going to be able to keep his hands off you."

"So we're right back to where we were."

Starsky reached over and put his hand on Hutch's face. "See, I'm lost already. I just have to touch you."

"Worse if we had to get up and go off to different jobs."

"Yeah. Good point. Done with your coffee?" He gathered up the plates and mugs, and started to wash up. "You almost ready?"

"Don't we get any sick leave?"

"I was out for two months already. And you're fine, remember?"

He heard the scrape of Hutch's chair, and his steps, and before he even felt the touch, his skin went electric. Hutch's arms came around him, and his body moved up against him, solid and strong. He leaned back.

"It's weird that you're bigger than me, you know, makin' love. That you're taller. Not used to that. It feels strange."

Hutch pulled the front of his shirt up and put his hands underneath it.

"It's weird you have all this fuzz on you, and you're as flat as a pancake."

"You keep doing that, mister, and we're going to need that sick leave after all."

"Can't help it. Can't keep my hands off you."

"That's supposed to be my line."

"Mmmm."

Hutch's hands roving his chest, and his mouth against the side of his neck, were already deranging Starsky, and when Hutch's mouth began to move in small steps down and up, to his ear, and around and down, and those hands moving upward under his shirt, up to hollow of his neck, it was too much and he let go of the side of the sink and turned inside Hutch's grasp.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" he said.

"I'm thinking I want to put my hands on both sides of your face and kiss you so hard you won't be able to think of anything at all."

"Uh, yeah, that was it. You gonna do it, then?"

Hutch's mouth was hard against his before he could close it, and the feel of his hands on the sides of his face, holding tight, fingers digging in and holding him so tight he couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. His head pressed back, and Hutch moved forward with him, pushing him hard against the sink counter. His hands slid around Hutch's butt and pulled him in, and no, he couldn't think. He could only feel that his body wasn't his anymore, it was gone from him now. Hutch's mouth on his and his tongue against his, the taste of him, coffee and toast and something else, something else . . .

Hutch pulled away. "So what were you thinking, then?" he said, breathing hard, grinning.

"I don't . . . I wasn't . . . can't remember."

"Good. Let's go to work."

This time at Metro they got smiles, congratulations, high fives, and, from three of the Homicide detectives in the squad room, actual applause. Starsky liked it a whole lot better than the stares and tears he'd gotten the week before. He grinned, and shook hands, and accepted shoulder claps, and watched Hutch out of the corner of his eye doing the same.

Finally Starsky looked up and saw that Dobey was watching, too, so he tapped Hutch's arm and gestured in Dobey's direction.

"When you boys have finished signing autographs, get your butts in here," Dobey said.

"Uh, we're done, Cap," Starsky said. "Sorry."

They followed Dobey into his office, taking their natural places, as always. So much had changed, so much had happened, since the last time they'd sat there, just a week earlier, and yet, everything seemed so normal. Each of them in their places, and himself feeling the way he was supposed to—part of the team, part of their world. He hadn't been aware of how shut down he'd really been until now, like the first realization that you finally felt better after days of the flu.

"You two are responsible for more of my gray hairs than all the other detectives under my watch put together," Dobey said. "Starsky, you're lucky I don't suspend your ass, and Hutchinson, you ever pull a stunt like that again, well, I hope your uniform still fits you, that's all I'm going to say about it. You got a federal agent in trouble, too, not that he doesn't have a mind of his own. He'll be lucky if he doesn't face disciplinary action."

Starsky fought to keep from grinning or, worse, looking at Hutch and laughing outright. Dobey turned his stare on him, full force, and he straightened himself up in the chair and tried to act repentant.

"Sorry, Cap," he said, eyes down. "I promise never to get kidnapped again."

"Next time I rescue Starsky," Hutch said, "I promise not to drag any federal agents along."

"You did not rescue me. I thought I made that clear."

"Oh, I suppose you—"

"Hutchinson, get out there and do your paperwork. You've both got a debriefing at noon with the feds, and Starsky, you're with McAllister in ten minutes."

"What? Cap, I don't need to see . . ." His protests withered under Dobey's glare. "I'll, uh, I'll just get some coffee, then . . ."

"Get going," Dobey said, and turned to the pile of papers in front of him.

"Yes, sir," Hutch said, and stood up.

"Sure, Cap," Starsky said, still fighting the laughter that threatened to sabotage him.

Dobey looked up from his desk. "Edith said to give you each a hug. You can consider it given. Now get out of here."

Hutch got to the door first and held it open for Starsky, gallantly ushering him through. He pulled the door shut behind him, and collapsed at his desk. "You trying to kill me in there?" he said.

"Oh my God," Starsky spluttered. "I couldn't help it. 'Suspend your ass.' I just couldn't help it." He looked at Hutch's expression, and his eyes, and suddenly losing control, shook helplessly at his desk, overwhelmed with laughter.

When Hutch joined in, Starsky nearly doubled over, and the other detectives looked up, smiling.

---

"I can't believe I'm talking to the same man," McAllister said. "You look completely different."

"It's been a hell of a week." Starsky took the same chair he'd used during his first session. He played with the sand again, and flashed on Hutch's bare starlit leg. Maybe he'd never put his hands in sand again without making that connection.

"I confess I thought you'd be a complete wreck."

"Nah, a little bit of kidnapping's nothing to a big tough cop like me."

"If you'd said that last week, I'd have started thinking up ways to break through your denial, but now, well, I think I believe you."

"I have a confession, too." He looked down at his hands. "It wasn't the best experience of my life."

"Tell me."

He meant to tell her, had even looked forward to letting it out, but when it came right to it, he couldn't. He tried to look up, to at least say something.

After a long minute, McAllister said, "What was the worst thing about it?"

"Worrying about Hutch." He said it without even thinking. And then he worried about treading dangerous ground. How could he tell her about any of it without telling her what had happened between him and Hutch?

"You worried more for him than yourself."

"Yeah."

"Can you tell me more about that?"

"Kind of hard to explain."

"I think I just heard a door slamming shut."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you just retreated, and you slammed the door behind you."

"It's just that it's, well it's kind of . . ."

He stopped, and she seemed to be considering something.

"I read in your file," she said, "that you were kidnapped once before. I'm not sure I've ever known of anyone who's been kidnapped twice."

"Guess I'm just irresistible to kidnappers." He grinned, and when she didn't grin back, he felt awkward, almost ashamed.

"The effects of being kidnapped are very complex. You didn't get any psychological support after the first one, did you? There's no record of it."

"Hutch was there."

"I meant professional support."

"Hutch is a professional."

"Dave, you're being deliberately obtuse. I think you know what I'm talking about. The effects of being kidnapped, especially for a police officer who's used to being in control of things, are very complicated. Damaging even."

"You saying I'm damaged somehow? I don't feel damaged."

"How do you feel, then?"

"I'm pissed off is how I feel."

"At the man who kidnapped you?"

"No! At myself for letting it happen. And then when it did, for being so . . . so . . ." His voice dropped to almost nothing. "Scared. For being so scared."

"You shouldn't have been scared?"

"I guess it wasn't so much that as that I couldn't do anything. I was useless. And helpless."

"And Hutch was injured, and you didn't know if he was okay, or if he would be able to find you?"

"Yeah. How'd you know about Hutch being injured?"

"Psychic."

That made Starsky looked at her crinkled-up eyes, to see if just maybe she wasn't joking, and he smiled back and relaxed.

"You're something else, you know that?"

"Yep. I know that." She smiled some more. "I also know a lot about kidnapping. Do you want to hear some of it?"

"I guess so."

"First of all, what happened wasn't something you could have controlled, or you would have."

"Logical."

"So how'd they catch you?"

"The first time I was, uh, using the facilities, and I think I just got hit from behind."

"Was there any way you could have imagined that that would happen?"

"Considering how crazy Marcus and his followers were, we should have known they'd do something."

"But that particular thing, kidnapping a police officer, and in that place in that way, could you reasonably have expected to know it could happen?"

"No."

"So how could you have prevented it?"

Starsky had no answer.

"Could Hutch or Captain Dobey have imagined it? Warned you in some way? Are either of them in some way to blame?"

"No, of course not."

"If Hutch had been the one taken, would you have been to blame?"

"Oh."

"You wanted to say yes, but you saw the logic. Am I right?"

"Yeah."

"And this time? How did it happen?"

"I don't remember much of it. I was headed home to take care of Hutch, and I got word that our suspect was about to run, so I think I went to find him, to follow him."

"The report said you were drugged, probably with an inhalant."

"Yeah, I have a vague memory of a funny smell, and being dragged."

"Okay, so we'll agree that if you hadn't tried to play Lone Ranger, you might not have gotten yourself caught. Otherwise, you might not have been grabbed. You made a mistake. Do you accept that?"

"Yeah, that's what I've been saying."

"Have you ever made mistakes before?"

"Of course."

"And bad things have happened as the results of those mistakes?"

"Sometimes."

"Will you ever make a mistake again?"

Her eyes were shining, and he knew where she was headed. He played along.

"No."

"What, never?"

"Well, hardly ever."

They both laughed at that. She was really very pretty when she laughed.

She said, "Okay, then. Will anything bad ever come of your future nonexistent mistakes?"

"Sometimes."

"Despite your best efforts."

"Yeah."

"Okay. We've got that established. Now, what if your partner screwed up? And something bad happened. What would tell him?"

"If he screwed up, I'd say so. If he hadn't done anything wrong, I'd say that. He'd still feel guilty, and I'd spend hours, days maybe, trying to convince him he wasn't."

"Would he believe you? Accept it?"

"Never has."

"Ah ha. I see a symbiosis here."

"Where?" He pretended to swat at something on her desk. "There. Got it."

She laughed again, and he sat back, satisfied.

"You know what I mean," she said, and when he nodded, continued. "You each get to wallow in shame and guilt, and you get to listen to your partner try to jolly you out of it. You get some benefit out of it that way. Attention, sympathy, empathy."

"I never looked at it like that."

"You each tell the other what you know is the truth, and the other refuses to believe, until the situation is reversed."

"Yep."

"Okay. We're making headway, now. We've accepted that the first time you were kidnapped, you did nothing wrong, and couldn't have prevented it. The second time, you did make a mistake, and could have prevented it. But once caught, what could you have done differently? Anything?"

"I don't really know. Once I knew Allen was in it, too, I didn't have a lot of choices."

"So because you had another person's life to be responsible for, you didn't do things you might have done otherwise? Like what?"

"How come you ask so many questions? Aren't you supposed to just sit there and let me talk?"

"You want to try that instead?"

"No."

"Go on, then."

"All right, all right. I might have fought harder." He took a long breath. "I didn't resist at all."

"How was that a mistake?"

"I should have done anything I could to get away."

"Like a POW?"

"Yeah. Like that."

"Different scenario entirely. But either way, it's a researched fact that once caught, people who resist are the ones most likely to be killed. People who stay calm and cooperative, who try to talk to their captors, to make some kind of connection with them, are more likely to be released."

"These guys were going to kill us no matter what. They made no attempt to keep us from seeing them. They told me their names."

"We don't know a lot about Sloan yet, but it seems certain you're right. But if you'd resisted at all, don't you think he'd have responded violently? Neither of you got hurt, except a few bruises."

"Brian died."

"The first victim."

"Yeah. Why'd they kill him?"

"I read the file when I learned you were missing, so I could try to help out with some kind of profile of the kidnapper."

"You did? Thank you."

She waved away his gratitude. "I think that Brian probably struggled, and they tried to cover his face to keep him quiet. I think he might have died by accident. There's no way of knowing yet whether Sloan would have killed him anyway. If Brian was his first, then probably not. Once that line was crossed, though, it was more and more likely he'd kill again." She looked Starsky in the eye. "My opinion is that you both would have been killed."

"But we weren't."

"Why do you think that was?"

"Luck. Timing. He put a gun to my head twice—once in the basement, and I was sure he was going to shoot. Allen yelled to him to stop, but I don't think that's why he didn't pull the trigger."

"What was that like for you?"

"It was like I was spinning in the opposite direction from the rest of the world. At first I was furious that I was going to be killed with my own gun, and then I felt frozen, and I was sorry to be leaving Hutch because I knew he was going to feel responsible, and that he, he might not ever get over it."

"Did you think about death?"

"Not really. Not like it was about to happen to me, or what it would be like or anything. Just how it would be for Hutch."

"What else?"

"The second time Sloan did it, I was even more sure. I didn't see any way around it. And by then Hutch was there, he was outside, and he'd see it, or see me right after, or get killed himself in front of me. I don't even really remember exactly what I thought. It was mostly just a mess of quick things, like a slide show. Too fast to see the pictures clearly."

"Then how come you're not dead?"

"I don't remember thinking about it. I just acted on instinct. I just moved and yelled, and rammed Sloan's arm as hard as I could, and I fell on him, and we got lucky."

"If you hadn't done that, what would have happened?"

"He would've shot me, and everyone else he could hit, too."

"So that wasn't a mistake, then?"

"No. But it would have been if it hadn't worked out that way."

"No. It wouldn't. It would still have been the right thing to do at that moment, even if it hadn't worked out. There was no chance at all otherwise. You saved your own life, and everyone else's. First by not doing anything, and then by resisting as hard as you could, at the only time you actually could."

"Yeah."

"And, if you want to really pull this out farther, if you hadn't screwed up and gotten yourself grabbed in the first place, then you wouldn't have been there to save Allen's life. We've already established the fact that Sloan would likely have killed Allen."

"So I should be glad about screwing up?"

"Yes. Why not?"

"You have the most bizarre sense of logic I've ever heard."

"You're buying it, though. I can tell."

"I'm buying it, but I don't know if I'll keep it very long."

"That's what I'm here for."

For a moment, Starsky thought about the advantages of weekly visits and all the things he could drag up for her to dissect and dispel. Trouble was, she was too good at it, had broken through his defenses almost immediately, and had gotten him to talk to her when he'd been so unwilling to talk at all, even to Hutch. He considered himself pretty good at getting reluctant suspects to spill their guts, but she couldn't go around shoving people against walls, or threatening them with life in the slammer. So how had she done it? And she'd influenced him in subtle ways that he couldn't fully identify. He liked her style, though, felt comfortable with it. He could get too comfortable.

"You're gone again. What was it that sent you running like that?"

"Nothing, really. I was just thinking about weekly visits forever, and how deep you could dig. You're too good at it."

"Well, thank you. Is there something for me to dig for right now?"

"Tell me more about what happens to people who get kidnapped." It wasn't what he really wanted from her, but it felt a lot safer than going in almost any other direction.

She seemed disappointed, but she said, "What exactly do you want to know?"

"Do they ever get over it? Ever stop worrying it'll happen again?"

"They?"

"We. Me."

"The loss of control over your own life is a very powerful experience, maybe even more so for someone in a power position like yours. You're supposed to be the one with the gun, the one in control, in command. All of that was forcefully taken from you. You might become hyper-alert, which maybe isn't a bad thing. You might become depressed or irritable, have trouble sleeping, lose your appetite. Don't be surprised if you have nightmares and flashbacks, too. And you also might have a loss of confidence, of nerve, which could be debilitating, even dangerous for you and your partner. If that happens, you need to call me right away. I can help you deal with it."

She looked at him for a few seconds, and he looked back briefly, and then away.

"What is it, Dave? Has it already happened?"

"No, no, it's not that. I feel better now than I have for months. I kind of went a little crazy yesterday when I got home, shook like a leaf, but Hutch was there. I got through it. We talked a lot. We've talked a lot all week." He pushed away the ripples in his gut when he thought of what else they'd been doing. He was going to have to learn to keep it out of his head when he was out in the world. They both would.

"Can you tell me about it?"

"We talked about Joanna. I finally told him what had happened when she fell, what it felt like. It was a relief to tell him. I don't know why I wanted to keep it in like I did. Afterward it was like the sun rising." He looked up and saw her nodding. "He was so mad at me for shutting down on him. I would have been mad at me, too. Don't know how he put up with it."

"What did he say about Joanna?"

"Well, you'll laugh, but he said he felt guilty, too."

"I won't laugh, but why am I not surprised?"

"We're okay. I'll be lucky if he lets me out of his sight now, though."

"Is he afraid for you?"

"I think so. I know what it was like for him, both times, not knowing what had happened to me, or what shape I was in. He's gone missing a few times and it was the worst imaginable nightmare not knowing where he was. He was hurt bad, or sick, those times, and he must have been sure I was in the same shape. He kind of went off on me for going after Sloan without telling him."

"Will he talk to you about how he felt?"

"Yeah, he will. He doesn't shut down like I do. I asked him if he wanted my next appointment with you, sort of a joke, and he said yes—joking, too—but maybe . . ."

"I can see him if he wants, but it might be better if he goes to someone else. It's usually not a good idea for one therapist to work with both partners."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, it could create a conflict of interest, and it can be confusing to remember what's confidential, and who said what."

"What if I said you could tell him anything I told you?"

"That might make a difference. Is it important to you that he see me?"

"It's up to him, I guess. I'll ask him again. For real." He wanted something to fiddle with, but he couldn't see anything within reach.

"What are you thinking now? You switched gears again."

He shook his head a little and grinned. "How the hell do you know all the time?"

"I told you. I'm—

"Psychic. Yeah, right. I think you're more than that." He stopped again, weighing his options. "I think . . . there's something . . . I want . . ." He looked at his hands and tried again. "I told you about . . . "

"What's keeping you from telling me whatever it is that's on your mind?"

"I just don't know if I want to talk about it, if maybe it's better to just forget it and move on."

"Isn't that what you were trying to do with Joanna's death?"

He looked at her, surprised.

She said, "That didn't work for you very well, did it?"

"No." He hesitated again, and she stayed silent, giving him time. "Okay. It's, remember I told you about Gillian, Hutch's girl that got killed because of me."

"I remember."

He was very glad she didn't try to go into all the reasons why it wasn't his fault. It somehow made it easier.

"I tried to bribe her, to get her to leave, so she wouldn't have to tell Hutch what she was, what she did for a living, that she'd lied to him, so Hutch wouldn't ever have to know. She wouldn't take the money I offered her, and that's why she decided to tell him. And she was killed, and I never told Hutch. What I did. Why she got murdered."

"You said you kept seeing the look on his face when he first saw her dead, at night when you couldn't sleep."

"Yeah. And I've been thinking about it even more this week, and wanting to tell him, but what would it do to him?" And what would it do to us?

"Have you thought about your reasons, first for not telling him, and now for wanting to?"

"At first it was because I didn't want him hurt even worse. If he hated me for it, that would have hurt him. And it would have been the end of our partnership, and our friendship. I was afraid of losing that."

"And now?"

"Now I'm afraid if I don't tell him, it'll kill us anyway, because I should have told him. I shouldn't have done it at all, but I should have told him."

"You think it was another mistake?"

"Yeah. Big mistake. Two of them."

"What if it had been the other way around? He'd made this mistake. Would you have wanted him to tell you?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"How would you have reacted?"

"I would've been furious. But eventually I'd have understood why."

"Can you give him that chance? To be furious, and to understand?"

"It's been so long. I've been keeping it from him all this time, so there's that, now, too."

"And he wouldn't understand that, either?"

"He said something about wishing that Joanna would get out of my life, out of our life. That's what he felt so guilty about, wishing her gone, dead even, the same day she died. And he didn't tell me that right away because he didn't want to make me feel worse than I already did."

"Sounds pretty similar."

"Not really. Not even close to what I did, or why. So you're saying I should tell him."

"I'm not saying either way, but I think you already know what you're going to do."

"Yeah."

He tapped his fingers on his leg.

"There's something else?"

There was so much more, and he couldn't tell her any of it. Amazed that he wanted to, he chose to retreat again, into something easier, something safer.

"Not really about my shit, but I keep thinking about the kids, how all their lives got so screwed up because of one sicko freak. Leslie Sloan—God, I can't even stand to think what her life's been like. How could Sloan go around acting like some kind of perfect family man, with a wife and a nice house? And a daughter he treated like shit. Worse than shit. Brian's dead, and God knows what he went through. Allen wondering that, too, all his life, and having some idea now of how bad it must have been for his friend."

"You and Allen shared a pretty life-altering experience."

He smiled. "Yeah, he wants me to be best man at his wedding. How 'bout that?"

"There you go, another good thing comes out of your screw-up."

"Yeah. So what about them all? Do you think they'll be okay?"

"Allen will be. He had you there, and he has good family support. I don't know about Leslie. It won't be easy for her."

"Should I try to talk to her? Would it help her any?"

"I can't really answer that. Give it some time, and see what happens."

"Okay."

She seeming to be thinking again, looking at him for a long moment, and then she glanced at a clock on her desk.

"Well, Dave, I think you're sprung."

"What?"

"You're off the hook, you're getting out of here. I'm signing you off."

"You cured me, huh?"

"I don't know if there actually is a cure for you." She grinned. "And I doubt I can take the credit for it anyway, but I think you fulfilled your requirements. You're cleared."

"So that's it?"

"You know you can come in for a tune-up any time you need to."

"Good to know. I just might take you up on that." Who'd have thought in a million years he'd be sorry to be done with getting shrunk. "This has been, well, not the worst thing I've ever been through."

"You're welcome, Dave."

He stood up, and she came around the desk. They shook hands formally, and smiled.

Just that debriefing to get through, and then maybe life could finally get back to normal. Well, whatever normal was now. Starsky went looking for Hutch, and found him in the squad room talking to Minnie.

He signaled to Hutch not to give him away, and snuck up on her from behind. He wrapped her in a big hug and kissed the side of her face.

"Thanks, sweetheart. I know you came in on Sunday to help out."

She patted his hands affectionately and then elbowed him to make him let go of her. "You know I can't refuse you guys anything."

Hutch waggled his eyebrows at Starsky. "She can't refuse us anything, Starsk."

"Ask her if she'll—"

"Hey!" she said. "Watch it, buster." She picked up some files from Hutch's desk. "I'll let you boys buy me some coffee later if you have time."

"You got it. See, we do anything you want us to."

"Yeah, yeah. Big talkers." She grinned. "Good to see you back, Starsky."

"Hey, quit looking at Minnie's ass," Starsky said, as she walked away.

"I will if you will."

"Ah, forget it. Go ahead and look."

"How was therapy?"

"Man, there is something about that woman."

"You didn't tell her . . ."

"No, of course not. Did you think I would?"

"No, but she seems to have a way of getting you to—"

"Spill my guts. Yeah, she does seem to do that. I'm done though, unless I want to go in again. She said she'd see you if you wanted."

"I don't need to see her."

"I didn't say needed, I said wanted."

"You think I should?"

"She's good."

"Maybe I will."

"I said she could tell you anything I told her."

"Really? Like what?"

"There is something. Not here."

"Starsky, come on."

"Sorry. I shouldn't have said anything until we could talk. But not here."

Hutch nodded, accepting. "You ready for the debriefing?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I have a dentist appointment I'd rather go to. Gotta have some teeth drilled. Without novocaine. Rather go to that."

"D'you think they have time for me, too?"

Starsky slumped a little in his chair. "Might as well get it over with." He brightened. "We can take Andy over to Huggy's after."

"Something to look forward to. Let's go."

---

The debriefing had taken hours but was done with and behind them. It was funny, but the more he told the whole sequence of events, the more distant he felt from it, like it hadn't really happened to him at all.

Andy wanted to meet the virtuoso who produced the best burgers in Bay City while foraging around amongst the undergrowth for obscure information.

"Do you always talk like that?" Hutch said.

Mouth full, Andy grinned.

"I don't get it," Starsky said, half a beer already inside him. "How does a bad actor like that stay completely under the radar for more than ten years and no one thinks he's anything but 'such a nice man, such a good neighbor, always so helpful'?"

All along the length of his left leg, Hutch could feel Starsky's heat. He pressed a little harder against him and took a huge swig of beer.

"Pass me the salt, will you?" Andy said. "You guys are right. Best burger I've ever had."

"You shouldn't use so much salt, you know," Hutch said, handing it over. "Federal agents have been known to fall over dead, right in the middle of shootouts, because they had too much salt in their diets. Known fact."

Starsky began to tap his heel very lightly against the side of Hutch's foot.

"Hey, Huggy." Starsky waved a paper napkin in the air. "Come on, there's nobody else here, it's the middle of the afternoon. Get over here and have some lunch. I'm buyin'."

"Sloan did okay until he hooked Hanson." Andy took a huge bite of his burger. "He really should have thrown that one back in the river."

Huggy carried over a plate and sat next to Andy, across from Hutch.

"Thrown what?" Huggy said.

"Hanson."

"Who?"

"Sloan."

"Oh. Mr. Slimy Dude."

Andy looked back and forth between the three of them. "You guys speakin' the Eeenglish?"

"What you talking about, man?" Huggy swiped some of Andy's French fries when he wasn't looking, so Starsky did, too.

"Hey! You've got your own."

"He likes other people's food better than his." Hutch moved his plate farther away so it wouldn't catch Starsky's eye.

"Tastes better." Starsky leaned across and snagged Hutch's beer mug with his left hand. His right hand trailed behind it, hidden under the table, along Hutch's lap, brushing against his already agitated cock.

"Give me that," Hutch said, rescuing his beer and clearing his throat. "I need it more than you do." He emptied the mug and grinned a little crookedly at Starsky.

Huggy made some kind of signal to Ms. Mountains behind the bar. Her T shirt was so tight that her nipples showed prominently, hovering just above whatever magazine she was thumbing through. She never looked up. He sighed and went off with the empty beer pitcher.

"So," Andy said. "You guys did good at the meeting."

"Just the facts, ma'am. What else could we have done?" Hutch said.

"Made light of it, or gone melodramatic."

"No. Not for this case."

"You think Leslie will be indicted?" Starsky seemed to be obsessively worrying about her.

"I think the D.A. wants to pretend she never existed. She's a mess. I don't think any jury would convict her for not turning her abusive scum of a father in, considering how he brainwashed her. Any defense lawyer would put her on the stand and just let them all look at her. She'd barely even have to speak."

"We talked to Perkowitz this morning," Hutch said. "She's going to advocate for her, and try some outreach."

"Who's Perkowitz?"

Another tap on the ankle from Starsky almost made Hutch choke, remembering how well each of them "knew" her. If Starsky didn't knock off the under-the-table submarine routine, he was going to have to excuse himself for a few minutes. Except he couldn't stand up in public just then.

"She's, uh, she's a friend," Hutch said. "Works in juvie. We've worked with her on other cases. She'll get through to Leslie. She's good at what she does."

Andy smiled. "I'll bet," he said.

Huggy came back with a full pitcher and sat down again.

"How's the kid doing?" he asked. "Allen."

"He'll be all right," Hutch said. "Got his head screwed on straight, and he didn't get injured. Good parents." They all nodded. "Also has that hero action going on. Talking Leslie down like that, that was impressive. That'll help."

Starsky went silent and Hutch watched him fall inward. Andy and Huggy started discussing something about batter on potatoes before frying them and didn't seem to notice. Hutch put a hand on Starsky's forearm.

"Starsk? You okay?"

"Yeah." He looked up, eyes staring, and for some reason Hutch felt afraid.

"Come on, buddy, time to go."

Huggy looked up and met Hutch's eyes. He nodded once, and, standing up, started to clear away the remains of lunch. Andy, apparently pretty fast on the uptake, made leaving motions, too.

"I better get going," he said. "Meeting with the AIC. Wish me luck."

Everyone said good luck, and goodbye and see you at the hearing, and Huggy punched Hutch in the arm.

Outside, Andy looked at Hutch, concerned, and Hutch lifted his shoulder and shook his head. Starsky just climbed into the LTD and said nothing.

"I'll keep in touch," Andy said.

Hutch drove to his place. It was closer. Starsky didn't say a word and Hutch felt cold. The stairs seemed steeper than usual, and at the top, Starsky waited, silent, while Hutch unlocked the door.

Inside, Starsky looked around as if he'd never been there before. He walked to the pile of sleeping bags, still in the middle of the floor, and then to one of the unlit candles that Hutch had put out when he'd waited for Starsky, who'd never arrived. He picked it up and turned it around and around in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Hutch."

"Oh, Starsky, no." He didn't know what to do, or what to say. All he could think of was to hold him tight, so he went to him, afraid of being pushed away, but Starsky let himself be drawn in.

"You were right about everything," Starsky said. "I never should have screwed up like that."

"Sit down. Come on."

Starsky sat obediently on the couch and put his head back, arms slack, eyes closed. Hutch sat on the coffee table in front of him, knee to knee.

"I was terrified," Starsky said. "The whole time. I kept slipping back and forth, not knowing for sure if I was in a cave with Gail, or in a basement with Allen, or maybe even really somewhere else altogether, and it all kept sliding around. I thought I was going crazy, and I had to keep from letting Allen know. And then he would talk to me about his life, about his girl, and Brian. If he hadn't been there, if I'd been alone, I might, I might have . . ."

Hutch didn't know whether to hold him, or stay still. He didn't dare say anything. Starsky lifted his head, eyes open now, but unfocused.

"I kept thinking, 'you and Brian? What about me and Hutch?' And I felt so selfish. But they were kids. Nothing they had together held a candle to what I feel for you, and how I would feel if I lost you. And I knew you'd feel like that if you lost me, and I was scared, Hutch. For you. And enraged at myself for being so goddamn stupid. For taking this away from us." He stopped, breathing hard. Hutch reached forward and took hold of his hands, and still said nothing.

"I kept thinking how I felt when you—when Forest had you, not knowin' if you were alive or dead, or what. And when you disappeared last year, no sign or trace of you, until that kid heard you on the radio, and I knew how you felt while I was stuck in that basement doing nothing, just waiting for Sloan and doing nothing. And I knew he was going to kill me, I knew it. And I was terrified." He stopped and seemed to try to get hold of himself. "I'm sorry. I'm not making any sense."

"It doesn't matter."

"McAllister said this might happen to me. I just didn't really think it would."

"Mr. Tough Guy."

"Yeah. Real tough."

"I'll get you some water."

"Make it a double."

Hutch got the water, and, over his shoulder, watched Starsky put his hands to his eyes and press in hard. He brought the water back and handed it over, and sat where he'd been before.

"Hutch, there's something else. Something I've wanted to tell you for a long time."

"I'm listening."

"No, it's not that easy. It's not just this—Sloan thing—or, or us."

Hutch reached for his hands again but Starsky pulled back and tried to stand up. Hutch's knees were in the way and he pushed past him, and went back to the pile of sleeping bags. He stood over them, unmoving.

"Starsky, I love you."

"Hutch—"

"Starsky. I love you."

"Oh God, Hutch, don't. Please."

"I love you, Starsky. Just tell me. I've known there was something. I knew. Just tell me. I love you."

"The day Gillian was murdered—"

"Gillian." That was not in any way what Hutch had expected. "What about her?"

"I went to see her that day. I tried to talk her into leaving town. I thought if she just left, maybe you'd never have to know. You'd just think she'd gotten cold feet, or a job or something. I tried to bribe her, offered her money."

"You did what?" He stood up, knocking the table away behind him, and looked at Starsky's back. "Turn around and look at me. Turn around."

Starsky turned slowly. His face was pale and looked flat and shiny, like some kind of bizarre reflection of himself instead of the real him.

"She wouldn't take the bribe. And so I told her, 'He has to know. You tell him, or I will.' And she said she would and that she loved you. And then Huggy called and . . . "

"Why the hell would you do that?"

"I thought, I think I thought, I wanted to protect you."

"Protect me. You thought I needed you to protect me." He held up his fist, and pointed his finger at Starsky's face. "You stay here. I have to get out of here. You stay here, do you hear me? I do not want to come home and have to go trying to find you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

He didn't even close the door behind him.

I shouldn't have told him. Should have kept it to myself and lived with it.

And now Hutch was gone and Starsky was left worrying about having to go and find him, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

What was he supposed to do now? And how long would he have to do it?

He sat down on the blankets on the floor and prepared to wait. He'd left the water on the coffee table and wanted it, but he didn't get up to get it.

He looked around the room. He remembered when Hutch had found the driftwood, and how they'd dragged it up the beach together. There were photos over there on the table near the kitchen. Starsky knew what they were without looking. Pictures he'd taken himself, and one of himself and Terry taken at Disneyland, next to the Teacups. Hutch's parents, and his sister at her wedding reception.

"Hey, plants," he said. "Got any ideas for me here?"

It was an odd vantage point. He'd never looked at the room from that angle before. There was some dust under the table.

He changed positions a little and realized his knee hadn't said a word. He thought back. It hadn't throbbed or ached since before they'd gotten out of the basement. He flexed it a few times. Well, that was one less pain to think about.

He could hear cars and people talking down on the street below. He should have closed the door but he didn't get up to do it.

How long was Hutch going to stay away? How bad was it going to be when he came back?

Gillian. What if she hadn't been killed? What would have happened? Would Hutch have been able to work through knowing the truth about her life? Would they still be together? Married, maybe, by now? Or would the betrayal have been too much for him? Would he have tried to deal with it? Or walked away?

Hutch wouldn't walk away from him. Starsky was more sure of that than of anything he had ever known. But how were they going to get through this, and where would they be on the other side?

How long was Hutch going to be? It seemed like he'd been waiting for hours, but when he looked at his watch, he found that less than fifteen minutes had gone by. It was going to be a very long afternoon.

He thought about Hutch's legs moving over on top of his own, pressing him down. Hutch's wet body in front of him and the feel of his hands, the texture of his skin, the smell of his neck. The feel of his cock in his mouth and the sharp bitter taste of him when he came. It was like nothing else. He was lost in Hutch; there was no way out. He didn't even want to try to find a way.

"I would have done the same thing." Hutch stood in the doorway, slanting sunlight behind him making him seem huge and dark.

Starsky's heart began to beat again. He could feel it, hear it. He got to his feet.

Hutch said, "I would have done the same thing, for the same reason, and I wouldn't have told you either." He stepped in, and pulled the door closed. "I'm sorry I took off. I was just stunned or something. I shouldn't have left you here like that."

"It's all right."

"You're my best friend, Starsk."

"Come here."

Hutch stepped over the blankets and into his arms.

"Why'd you tell me now?" he said into the side of Starsky's neck.

"Because I was ashamed of it, and it kept flicking into my head, and it wasn't right to have done something like that and not have had the guts to tell you. I didn't think we could be us if you didn't know that I could do something like that to you."

"Do what? Love me enough to risk everything for me?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"I love you."

"I love you, too. More than anything. Ever." He stepped back. "You know that, right?"

"I know it."

Hutch put his hand on the side of Starsky's face, and touched the faint scar under his right eye where Marcus's disciple had burned him. Starsky felt his touch like the Santa Ana wind, powerful and hot. He leaned into it and it held him, strong and steady. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Hutch's lips felt light as air on his face, just there under his eye, like the feel of a small flame. He lifted his head and looked into Hutch's eyes.

"So what do you want to do now?" he said. "Play some Rummy? Monopoly?"

"Strip poker."

"Where's the cards?"

"Don't need them."

Hands reaching, getting in each other's way. Bumping and pushing. Buttons undone, shirt pulled off. Holster unclipped and off. T-shirt stretched over his head, and off. Belt buckle stubborn, but undone and off. Hands moving, dragging downward.

"Step up," Hutch said. Adidas off.

"Lift your arm up," Starsky said. "Where's the buckle?" Hutch's gun slid away across the floor somewhere.

"Pick up your foot." Socks flying.

Zipper stuck. "Come on. Come on."

"Help me." Pants inside out, but off.

"Ow."

"Sorry. Lean back there."

"Oh, geez, Hutch, do that again, oh yeah."

Half-leaning, half-sitting on the arm of the couch, he looked down at Hutch kneeling before him. He watched the top of his head moving, felt his lips and tongue trailing around and up, stopping and starting. He heard little sounds—his or Hutch's, it didn't matter—rising and swelling, and his cock lifted and jumped.

Seeing Hutch's hair from above enchanted him. He bent down and put his mouth in it, pulling it in his teeth. Hutch's shoulders bunched and moved below him, shining in the late sun. He slid his hands down along Hutch's neck, pressed and stroked down his shoulders, down his back, and Hutch groaned into his belly and moved down, nipping and licking, his hands on Starsky's waist, pushing him back.

The feel of Hutch's hands on his waist, on his belly, like nothing else, big and rough, the power of them inflamed him. His put his hands over Hutch's and moved down with them.

"Your hands. Hutch, I love your hands."

Hutch tightened his hold and moved his mouth back and forth from one hand to the other, pulling at Starsky's skin and hair with his teeth and tongue. Starsky began to feel a little frenzied.

He tried to push Hutch's head down, and Hutch took hold of his wrists, hurting him where the bruises were. He didn't care. There'd be more bruises and he didn't care.

Hutch lifted his head and met his eyes. "Say it again, Starsky."

"I love you."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

He said it again and again and Hutch took him in his mouth and moved with him in time with his words, holding his wrists and making those sounds.

"Oh, Hutch. Oh God, I love you." When he came, it was like all his insides had melted and drained down, and shot themselves all out into Hutch's mouth. He sagged and Hutch let him go, following him to the blankets. He put his fingers into Hutch's hair and breathed. "I love you."

Hutch lay half on top of him, their legs tangled together and in the blankets. Starsky could feel the scratchy sand in them, and took a deep breath. He tried to lift his head, to see why Hutch was shaking.

"Are you crying? Why are you crying?"

"I don't know. I didn't mean to."

Starsky rolled himself out from underneath, and coaxed Hutch over onto his back. He kissed his face and his eyes, and tasted his tears.

"Do you know what I am?"

"Yes."

"Say it, Hutch."

"Mine. You're mine."

"That's right." He kissed his throat. "Say it again."

"You're mine."

He kissed the center of Hutch's chest, over his heart, and he let his hands wander, stopping and playing, tapping and stroking. "Say it again."

"Mine."

He moved down and pushed Hutch's legs apart, and took his cock into his hand, feeling it swell and harden. He tapped the base of it with his fingers and put his lips to the underside of it, breathing on it lightly, like the breeze from the lake. Hutch put his hands into Starsky's hair and pulled.

Starsky let his tongue wander, and let go of his thoughts. He teased at the skin around the sac, and behind it, breathing in Hutch's scent. So different from a woman's. It was like himself, so like himself. He knew Hutch's body like it was his own.

Mine. You're mine. I love you.

He put his mouth suddenly down onto Hutch's cock, listening to the gasping breaths that resulted, and pushed his finger gently down beneath, between, and inside.

He'd never heard anyone make a sound like that.

"Ah Jesus, Starsky. Oh my God."

Hutch's fingers tightened in his hair. Starsky tapped his finger inside and pressed his thumb into the skin outside and Hutch lifted himself, arched himself into Starsky's mouth and tightened himself around Starsky's finger.

He said "Oh fuck, oh Jesus, Starsky," and came hard, his body arching and flexing, his breathing loud and ragged.

Starsky grinned around the pulsing cock, and tried to swallow. He took his mouth away, and his hand, very slowly, and Hutch jumped a little and groaned.

"You're mine."

"I love you."

He laid his head down on Hutch's stomach, where he could breathe him in, and fell asleep, Hutch's fingers in his hair.

---

---

The lake glimmered in the moonlight, and made small sounds where it met the sand. Somewhere to the right a frog began to bellow, and a chorus arose, deafening, and oddly musical.

The sand was still warm from the day's heat, and the big boulder felt good against Starsky's back. He picked up a small stone and turned it in his hands, seeing tiny lights reflected from its surface. He held it out to Hutch.

"Look. It has stars inside it."

"It's like you. Stars." Hutch kissed the little stone and put it in one of his shoes for safekeeping. "I'm going to put it with your pine needles."

"You have my pine needles? I thought I lost them."

"I have them. Probably shouldn't have taken them, but while you were missing, they helped."

"I thought about them. Kept wishing I hadn't taken them out of my pocket. If I'd had them, it would have been easier. A little." He leaned closer into Hutch's side. "Now I'm glad that you had them instead."

"What time do you want to go into town tomorrow?"

"Let's get some breakfast before the closing. Maybe Joe and Rachel can meet us."

"Our own cabin by the lake. I never would have thought you'd go for that."

"Wouldn't have if you hadn't promised to go in first every time we come up." He rubbed his bare back against the stone, easing an itch. "Wish we could take this boulder with us. There isn't anything to lean against on our beach."

"There's me and you."

Starsky turned his head and smiled. Hutch leaned over and kissed him.

"You cold?" Hutch said. "Do you want to go in?"

"No. I could stand to be under a blanket, though."

"Your sleeping bag, or mine?"

"We got mine all full of sand. I'll take yours."

"Me, too."

"Wouldn't want it, otherwise."

"How did this happen? I still can't believe this has happened."

"Believe it." Starsky turned a little in the sand so he could look straight on at Hutch. "It's as real as the wind on your face." Starsky kissed his cheek, light as the breeze.

"As real as the stars in the sky." He kissed Starsky's eyes.

"And the moon."

An owl hooted, very close by, and made Starsky jump a little. Hutch laughed.

"Come on, get in the sleeping bag."

Starsky crawled in, and Hutch squeezed in with him, twining their arms and legs together.

"You're mine."

"I love you."

Softly, slowly, they drifted off, and the owl took flight and soared away over the lake, soundless under the midnight sky.

**************************************************************

Email Rae: sevencatday@gmail.com

The inspiration for this story came from a song by Lowen and Navarro. Please visit their website at http://www.lownav.com.

Something to Believe In (Lowen and Navarro)

When I saw you for the first time
Eyes the color of the ocean
Somethin' moved inside of me
Long forgotten, lying broken.

Now I can't turn away
Watchin' you as you lie sleeping
Can you hear winds of change
Is this something to believe in?

Lost direction in the darkness
I couldn't stop myself from running, running
I could feel the sun on my back
I was scared to let the light in.

Now I can't run anymore
Now I see this gift you bring me
Can you hear winds of change
Maybe this loser's luck is turning.

Now I can't run anymore
Now I see this gift you bring me
Can you hear winds of change?
Is this something to believe in.

I will carry you in my heart
I will hold you in my memory
You could be a million miles away
When I call you will hear me.

Performance notebook