Winds of Change

part 2

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, drymouthed 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 sixpack 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."