TITLE: Time in a Glass 
AUTHOR: SunnyD
EMAIL: sunrize83@gmail.com
DISCLAIMER: Portions of this story consist of actual dialogue 
from the episode "A Coffin for Starsky." No copyright 
infringement was intended.


Time why you punish me? 
Like a wave crashin' into the shore 
you wash away my dreams. 
Time why you walk away? 
Like a friend with somewhere to go 
you left me cryin'. 
Can you teach me about tomorrow 
and all the pain and sorrow runnin' free? 
'Cause tomorrow's just another day 
and I don't believe in Time. 

Time -- Hootie and the Blowfish 


Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was dreaming when the phone rang. A strange dream where 
Starsky and I had followed a couple of big time drug dealers into a 
warehouse. We were hiding behind packing crates, just waiting for 
money and heroin to change hands so we'd have enough cause to 
bust the creeps. Trouble was, the waiting just seemed to go on and 
on for hours, time stretching like saltwater taffy until my whole 
body ached from holding so still. Then, just when I didn't think I 
could stand another minute, the fire alarm went off.

Now here's where the dream got really weird. Suddenly the air was 
thick with clouds of black smoke, making my eyes sting and 
choking the breath from my lungs, even though only a moment 
earlier there hadn't been the slightest hint of fire. I heard footsteps 
as the bad guys ran for their lives, then the voice of my partner, 
high with panic.

"Hutch!"

I stumbled to my feet, coughing and wheezing, knowing that we 
had to get out fast. My stomach did a long, slow roll as I realized I 
couldn't even see my own hand in front of my face, let alone... 

Starsky!

The fire alarm transformed into the trilling of the telephone on the 
bedside table. I rolled onto my back and fumbled for the receiver, 
bringing it to my ear without ever opening my eyes.

"H'lo."

Silence. No answering greeting, no "sorry, wrong number," not 
even a dial tone. Irritation drove away some of the fuzziness and I 
propped myself up on an elbow to squint at the clock. 4:01. In the 
morning. Jeez, was this someone's idea of a joke?

"Hello? Who's this?"

I was just about to slam the receiver back onto the cradle when a 
soft sound stayed my hand. Breathing, harsh and ragged, as if 
someone were struggling for air. Abrupt, irrational fear slammed 
into me like a freight train. I opened my mouth, but never got the 
chance to speak.

"Hutch...help."

Weak and thin, consonants slurred, but I'd recognize that particular 
voice anywhere, under any circumstances. I bolted upright, 
pressing the phone tightly to my ear.

"Starsky? Starsky, what's wrong, are you hurt? Talk to me, 
partner."

No response, just a muffled thud and then silence. Not even the 
soughing of his breath for reassurance.

Okay, I'll admit it. I went a little crazy. I have vague memories of 
carrying the phone around, wedged between my shoulder and my 
chin, shouting and swearing at poor Starsky to pick up the damn 
phone and answer me as I pulled on some clothes. I couldn't bring 
myself to hang up. Just putting the phone down, terminating my 
only connection to him so that I could drive to his place, was one 
of the hardest things I've ever done.

It's nothing short of a miracle that I didn't wreck my car on the way 
to his apartment. The streets were mostly deserted, which was 
fortunate since I ran every red light. My thoughts were all tangled 
and jumbled--snapshot images of the smoke and terror from my 
dream mixed with the countless real life threats we encounter 
every day. And through it all, over and over, those words kept 
echoing in my head:

Hutch...help

I pulled in tight behind the Torino and took the stairs two at a time. 
I raised my fist to pound on the door, then froze when I saw it hung 
ajar, spilling a pale swathe of light onto the top step. Up until that 
moment I'd been functioning as a friend, consumed by the need to 
reach Starsky, to verify that he was all right or help him if he 
wasn't. That four inches of space between the door and the jamb 
brought me to my senses, snapped me into cop mode. I drew my 
gun and nudged the door the rest of the way open.

Other than a light over the stove, most of the apartment was bathed 
in shadow. Still, I know the place like the back of my hand, and 
was able to move unerringly through the living room to the 
bedroom. I risked calling out Starsky's name, my own voice 
sounding odd in the eerie silence.

In the bedroom the first thing my eyes settled on was the empty 
bed, the sheets rumpled and twisted. I flicked on the light, saw the 
phone cord dangling from the nightstand and the crumpled form of 
my partner. A quick, sweeping glance to be sure we were alone, 
then I holstered my weapon and dropped to my knees.

"Starsky."

I was afraid to touch him at first. Starsky is a bundle of energy, 
perpetual motion. To see him lying pale and still made my heart 
twist in my chest. I tentatively ran my fingers through his dark 
curls, looking for a lump, blood--something to explain why he was 
lying, unresponsive, on the floor. Had he fallen out of bed, hit his 
head? The open front door flashed through my brain, defying such 
an innocuous explanation.

When I couldn't find any sign of injury, I gently turned him over 
and pulled him into my lap. The warmth of his body, and the soft 
moan he uttered, slowed the pounding of my heart.

"Starsky," I murmured, feeling up and down the length of each arm 
for broken bones. "C'mon, wake up, buddy."

Dark eyelashes fluttered and his lids cracked open to reveal just a 
hint of blue. His mouth moved, and I could see the nearly 
superhuman effort it took for him to form words. "Hutch...help 
me." 

"I'm right here, Starsk, I've got you." I tried to mask the tremor in 
my voice, to make it as soothing as possible. "What's wrong, 
buddy, are you hurt? You've got to tell me what happened."

His hands fluttered, fingers scrabbling to grasp my jacket as he 
struggled to open eyes that had slipped shut while I was talking. 
"Hutch...help...shot."

A chill raced up and down my spine. "Shot? Someone shot you? 
Where, Starsk?" I eased him out of my arms and examined him 
from head to toe, only becoming more confused. No gunshot 
wound, no blood--in fact, there didn't seem to be a mark on him.

The whole time I was checking Starsky over he was trying to grab 
hold of me, mumbling words that were so badly garbled I could 
barely understand them.

"Mask...laughing...no shot...can' move...hours..."

All at once his words clicked into place. I used my thumb to 
carefully pry open his right eye. It was glassy, unfocused, and the 
pupil was huge, black nearly swallowing blue. Starsky was 
referring to a hypodermic, not a gun. He'd been drugged.

Hands shaking, I snatched up the phone and called for an 
ambulance, then hauled him back into my lap to wait. He kept 
trying to slip back under, but I wouldn't let him--lightly slapping 
his face, shaking him, forcing him to answer questions. I could see 
there was something else he wanted to tell me, but whatever he'd 
been given made concentration nearly impossible.

"Who was it, Starsky? Did you see his face?" I'd been badgering 
him for information in the hope of keeping him conscious. So far it 
was working--sort of. He hadn't gone back to sleep, but he was 
pretty fuzzy and not making much sense. I heard the first wail of a 
siren in the distance and pushed a little harder, knowing help was 
only minutes away. "Why did he drug you?"

He fought to focus on my face, fingers knotted into the leather of 
my jacket in a death grip, and his lips moved. "Po...po..."

"Portrell? Is that who it was? Mickey Portrell?" My blood boiled 
and my head filled with ideas of just what I'd do to Mickey when I 
got my hands on him.

Starsky's fingers curled around my wrist, tightening to the point of 
pain and capturing my attention. "No. 'S...po...poison."

The paramedics chose that moment to burst into the apartment. 
They surrounded Starsky and started taking his vital signs, 
unceremoniously shoving me out of the way. I sank back against 
the bed, resting my forehead on my knees. 

Poison? 

After several minutes of leaving me to my own troubled thoughts, 
one of the paramedics, a kid who didn't look old enough to shave 
let alone take care of my partner, tapped me on the shoulder.

"He's been drugged, some kind of barbiturate. It's a fairly heavy 
dose but not dangerous. We're taking him in to Memorial."

"He told me he was poisoned," I said through numb lips.

The kid frowned, sneaking a quick glance at his partner before 
answering. "They'll do a full blood work-up at Memorial. He's 
stable for now."

For now. Two little words that said it all.

"I'm coming with you," I told him.

His frown deepened and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but we 
don't allow family members to ride in the ambulance. If you get 
your car you can follow..."

I had my badge in my hand as soon as I heard the apology, tempted 
to pull my gun as well. "I'm a cop, and that's my partner. Wherever 
he goes, I go--got it?"

"This isn't an emergency, Tim, we can bend the rules a little. Let 
him ride along."

I sent the slightly older, obviously wiser paramedic a grateful look, 
then stood to help them load Starsky onto the gurney. He was out 
again, not even twitching as they strapped him in. A clear image of 
him after the shooting in the restaurant flashed before my eyes, his 
face chalk white, so frail looking, and I mentally gave myself a 
slap. This was different. Starsky wasn't being held hostage by hired 
killers, losing more blood with every passing second. He was safe 
now, on his way to the hospital where a doctor would figure out 
whatever poison he'd been given and administer the appropriate 
antidote. By tonight we'd probably be back at Metro, rehashing old 
cases and going through old files to figure out who'd want to hurt 
him.

I tried hard to tune out the siren's nerve-wracking whine, busying 
myself with tucking the blanket under Starsky's chin. The initial 
surge of adrenaline generated by his cry for help was wearing off, 
leaving me bone tired and sick at heart, a dull headache throbbing 
behind my eyes. Starsky was more than just my partner and best 
friend, he was closer to me than a brother. What hurt him hurt me, 
and I couldn't seem to shake the black cloud of uneasiness that had 
overshadowed me ever since I'd awakened from that blasted 
dream. The overwhelming feeling that Starsky...

NO! He's safe now. Everything is going to be fine. 

I kept repeating it over and over in my head, like a mantra, all the 
way into the emergency room. Maybe if I said it often enough, I'd 
start to believe it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At first I thought I was dreaming. There I was, sound asleep, when 
I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my arm. Felt like something stung 
me or bit me. I sat straight up in bed, rubbing it and kinda lookin' 
around, thinking maybe there was a bee in the room. 

I hate bees.

Last thing I expected to see was some flake with a stocking over 
his head standin' next to my bed. I rolled away, hoping I could get 
outta bed and across the room to my gun before the guy could stab 
me a second time. Then things got really weird.

Everything turned blurry, and tryin' to move was like swimming 
through molasses. I blinked and shook my head--big mistake. I was 
flat on my back before I knew what hit me, struggling to keep open 
eyelids that felt as if they had thirty-pound weights attached to 'em. 
Someone started laughin' like he'd heard the funniest joke in the 
world and a minute later Stocking Mask was leanin' over me, 
holding a needle. It was like looking through a funhouse mirror--
his face, the nose and ears all flattened by the mesh, and the needle 
looked huge while everything else wavered in and out of focus.

I was terrified of that syringe. Loopy as I was, I could still 
remember Hutch sweatin' and shiverin' in my arms as I nursed him 
through withdrawal. I fought to move, to yank my arm from his 
grasp and crawl away, but it was like my body no longer belonged 
to me. I was helpless to defend myself, helpless to stop him. I just 
lay there like a baby while he rammed the needled into my arm, 
never letting up on that damn cackling.

"You got twenty-four hours to live, Pig. Count 'em. Twenty-four." 

The words bounced and echoed through my head. Sounded like 
when we'd play cowboys and Indians in the drainage pipes when I 
was a kid, yelling and screaming at each other until the concrete 
vibrated or a cop came to chase us out.

I watched Stocking Mask cross my bedroom and walk out the 
door, my ears ringing and my stomach churning from the 
dizziness. My eyes kept slipping shut and I really wanted to just let 
go and sleep, but something was naggin' at me. What had he said? 
I shoved at the darkness that continued to sneak up on me, 
determined to concentrate. 

Twenty-four hours? For me to live? What was in that shot? Oh 
God, poison?

Hutch!

Somehow I was able to move, to roll toward the table next to the 
bed. A little corner of my brain recognized that the display on the 
clock read 3:58, but my target was the phone. It looked a million 
miles away but I flung my arm out as far as I could, trying to snag 
the receiver. Smooth move--I lost my balance and ended up on the 
floor, still tangled up in the sheets. I was so dizzy and mixed up I 
felt like cryin', but as messed up as my head was, one thing was 
still clear--Hutch would take care of me. If I could just reach the 
phone...

I concentrated on the nightstand and the three cords trailing down 
to the floor. There was really only one, of course, but my eyesight 
was pretty goofed up by Stocking Mask's drug. I heaved my arm 
up, tangled my fingers in the plastic, and pulled. The crash of the 
phone hitting the floor was one of the sweetest sounds I ever heard. 

I could barely feel my own hands as I fumbled the phone into a 
position where I could see the buttons. The numbers kept melting 
and running together, but after four years I could dial Blondie's 
number in my sleep--which I nearly was by that time. Don't know 
if you'd call it praying, but I just kept repeatin' the same words in 
my head as I listened to the phone ring. Kinda like when you're a 
kid and you say "Cross my heart, hope to die..." Only for me, it 
was:

PleaseHutchhelpmePleaseHutchhelpmePleaseHutchhelpme...

Funny thing was, when Hutch actually answered I couldn't seem to 
make my mouth work. All those words dancing around in my thick 
skull and I couldn't get 'em past my lips. So even though my brain 
was saying "Hutch, I need help, some creep just shot me up with 
some kinda poison and I can't move," all that I could squeeze out 
was "Hutch...help." Saying those two little words was more tiring 
than chasing a punk ten blocks on a hot day. The darkness that'd 
been hangin' around the edges of my vision sorta took over, and I 
guess I musta passed out.

I woke up to the feeling of someone's arms around me and the 
warmth of a body pressed up along my back. Everything was so 
mixed up, at first I panicked, sure that Stocking Mask had come 
back to finish me off. Then I realized that whoever was holding me 
was bein' real gentle, checking me over to see if I'd broken any 
bones or if there was a new dent in my head. Little by little, like 
someone turnin' up the volume on a radio, I could hear a familiar 
voice, and then words.

"Starsky. Come on, wake up, buddy."

It took a lotta hard work just to crank my eyes open a crack, but it 
was worth it to see that face. For the first time since I woke up and 
saw the creep in my bedroom, I felt safe. Like everything was 
gonna be okay. I just had to make Hutch understand, but getting 
my lips and tongue to move was nearly impossible.

"Hutch...help me."

I could feel him tighten his grip on me, and he started talking into 
my ear real soft and low, tellin' me how he was right there and 
asking me what happened. I still felt disconnected from my body, 
but I somehow got a couple of fistfulls of his leather jacket and 
tried again.

"Hutch...help...shot."

Brilliant, huh? You try makin' conversation when some flake's 
pumped you full of who knows what. See how much sense you 
make. 

Hutch, God love him, leaped to a completely wrong conclusion. 
Before I could blink an eye he had me laid out on the floor so he 
could look for a gunshot wound. I kept trying to grab onto him, 
make him stop and listen, though I gotta admit I was babblin' by 
then. My brain wasn't working too speedy, but it was a helluva lot 
faster than my mouth. Stocking Mask, the needle, the fact that I 
couldn't even move--it came spillin' out all at once, in a voice I 
didn't even recognize.

I gotta hand it to Hutch, though. Something, somewhere along the 
line clicked into place in that blond skull of his. He took one look 
at my eyes and figured it all out.

Hey, what can I say? I taught him everything he knows.

I think I started to fade out again while he was calling for an 
ambulance. I remember him picking me up off the floor and talkin' 
to me. Thing was, I could hear his voice but none of the words 
made any sense. They were like butterflies fluttering just out of my 
reach, and I was too tired to go chasing 'em. Felt like I was sinking 
down into a deep, warm pool of water, but every time I'd start to 
go under, Hutch'd yank me back by talking in my ear, askin' me a 
question--once or twice by slapping me or shaking me.

I finally decided if he wasn't gonna let me sleep, then I should tell 
him about the poison. I couldn't see his face when he finally got 
the message, but I felt his whole body tense up.

I really wish I coulda seen his face.

Suddenly Hutch was gone and people were poking and prodding 
me, shinin' lights in my eyes and stickin' one of those cold things 
on my chest that they use to make sure you ain't dead yet. I knew 
Hutch didn't want me to go to sleep, but I just couldn't seem to 
fight it any longer. 

I let go, knowin' Hutch would be there to watch over me. 


Chapter 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~


I guess I was in and out for a while. At one point I felt another 
sharp jab in my arm and I panicked--well, as much as I could, 
considerin' how loopy I was. I tried to move, to tug my arm from 
the strong hands, but I just ended up sliding back down closer to 
the darkness. One eyelid pried open to a blinding white beam of 
light. Scratchy cloth wrapping around my upper arm and 
squeezing. Cold metal pressed to the crook of my elbow. 
Something smooth and thin sliding between my lips and working 
its way under my tongue. And through it all, strange voices and 
sounds that droned on like white noise, without any meaning.

Hutch! Where was Hutch? I wanted to call his name, to reach for 
him, but the best I could manage was a pitiful whimper, my fingers 
opening and closing on air like the mouth of a dyin' fish. A voice 
broke free from the general buzzing, sharp, angry. Then a large 
hand slid into mine--solid, warm, comforting. Familiar.

Hutch.

His voice in my ear--low, soothing. I couldn't understand what he 
was sayin' any more than I could the others, but it didn't matter. I 
fought to tighten my fingers around his, to hang on even though I 
was sinking fast again. Hutch was my lifeline. If he was close by, I 
was safe.

Simple as that.

Without knowing it, I drifted off to the sound of his voice.

When I finally woke up again the fuzziness was gone. I just lay 
there for a minute, keeping my eyes closed, tryin' to get a handle 
on where I was, what was going on. Didn't take long for me to 
figure it out.

Hospital.

Damn.

I hate hospitals. No, I mean I really, really HATE hospitals. First 
off, they smell funny. Kinda like the gunk our janitor used to use 
when some poor unfortunate schmuck would puke in school. You 
know, the stuff that made you feel like tossin' your own cookies. 

Plus, they won't leave you alone. I mean, there you are, sick or 
hurt, and they keep poking and prodding and sticking you with 
needles. Not to mention the fact that they give you pills so you can 
get some sleep and then wake you up fifty times during the night to 
make sure you're still breathin'.

And nurses? Some of 'em might be angels of mercy, but not the 
ones I seem to wind up with. And let me tell you from first hand 
experience--you do NOT want to cross one of 'em. They can turn a 
sponge bath into a completely humiliating experience and take 
your temperature in places that I don't even wanna think about.

I opened my eyes, glad to see that things were stayin' put and the 
blurriness was gone. An annoying beeping and the feelin' of sticky 
things on my chest told me I was hooked up to some kind of heart 
monitor. I stared at the light over my head for a minute until 
someone cleared their throat. I turned my head and saw a guy with 
gray hair and a white coat standing off to my right. Guess they 
dress 'em like that so you know who's the doctor.

"Detective Starsky, I'm Dr. Franklin. How are you?"

I started to prop myself up on my arms, a little dismayed to find 
'em weak and rubbery. "I dunno, Doc. How 'bout you tell me?"

He pushed me back down without having to work hard at it. "Not 
yet, Detective. Your body is still throwing off the effects of a very 
powerful narcotic. Let's take it slow."

Hearing him use the word 'narcotic' was like a kick in the teeth. 
Suddenly all the fear that had been waitin' in the wings while I 
distracted myself by thinking how much I hate hospitals came 
crashing down on me, and I could hear the echo of Stocking 
Mask's laughter.

You got twenty-four hours to live, Pig. Count 'em. Twenty-four.

I felt a little light-headed for a minute, and it must've shown on my 
face 'cause the Doc was at my side in an instant and a nurse had 
her pretty little manicured hand wrapped around my wrist, takin' 
my pulse. 

"Detective?"

"'M all right." I sucked in a gulp of air and forced the fear back into 
the box where I keep emotions I don't want to deal with. 

Later. Not here, not now, and especially not in front of strangers.

I shook myself free of the well-meaning angel and looked Franklin 
squarely in the eye. "Doc, I need you to level with me. Whoever 
did this, drugged me, made some threats. I gotta know if he was 
just blowin' hot air."

I knew things were not good when Franklin's eyes skittered away 
from mine. "Suppose you tell me just what kind of threats."

Doctors. Sometimes I swear they're not so different from the street 
punks Hutch and I bust. Both've perfected the art of answerin' 
questions without sayin' a thing.

"He indicated that he'd done something to decrease my life 
expectancy." I didn't try to mask the sarcasm. "The figure he gave 
me was twenty-four hours."

"Detective Starsky..."

I cut him off before he could waste more time. "Just Dave. And I 
want it straight."

He pursed his lips, then nodded. "Analysis of your blood showed 
two separate chemical compounds. One was, of course, a sedative. 
Something that would render you incapable of fighting your 
attacker."

"And the other?"

"A toxin. Most likely from the organic chloride family."

The fear was banging on the lid of the box, but I just sat on it.

"Toxin. You mean like a poison?"

Franklin poked his glasses up on his nose with his index finger. 
"Yes."

"Just what will this toxin do to me?"

Franklin pushed at his glasses. "It blocks the impulses in the 
central nervous system and..."

"English please, Doc."

He sighed. "Excessive perspiration, muscle cramps, difficulty 
breathing, impaired vision..."

I chewed that over for a minute. The simple answer to the problem 
didn't jive with the expression on the doc's face, but I had to say it.

"Well...if it's a poison, then there must be an antidote. Right?"

"Unfortunately, Detective..."

"Dave."

He blinked at me, momentarily derailed. "Dave. Unfortunately, it 
isn't that simple."

"Never is," I muttered under my breath.

"There are many variations of the particular compound used. And 
we can't formulate an antidote with any certainty without knowing 
the exact composition. That requires the original solution."

Twenty-four hours, Pig. Count 'em.

"Doc." My voice quavered. I stopped, swallowed hard, and 
continued. "Are you tellin' me there's nothin' you can do? That I'm 
gonna die?"

I almost felt sorry for Franklin. He squirmed a bit, but then he met 
my eyes. "I'm telling you we'll need to run more tests. There are 
methods of narrowing down the possibilities. But..."

"Odds."

"Medicine is not an exact science, Detective, I..."

"Dave. Odds."

He sighed and his shoulders slumped. "Ninety percent. Against."

Well, I asked for it. Suddenly I was ice cold in spite of the glaring 
lights overhead. I was gonna die. It was practically written in 
stone, there was nothing anyone...

Hutch.

"My partner," I said, my voice hoarse. When Franklin looked at me 
blankly I added, "Tall, blond, makin' a pain in the ass of himself?"

Understanding flooded Franklin's face and for the first time I saw 
his lips actually quirk a little in the hint of a smile. "He's right 
outside. I'll get him."

"NO!"

That pulled him up short, like jerking a puppet's strings. His 
eyebrows lifted in a silent question.

"Doc, I need... I can't..."

All at once my eyes were burning and my throat felt like there was 
steel bands around it. I glared up at the light, breathing in through 
my mouth and outta my nose. When I was sure I could go on 
without blubberin', I looked back at the doctor.

"I need you to tell Hutch what you just told me."

Franklin frowned and started to shake his head. "I really think it 
would be better coming from you. He's your friend, he..."

"He's my best friend," I said fiercely. "Close as a brother--closer. 
That's why I can't tell him." I tried to grin but I think it came out 
pretty lopsided. "I hate soapy scenes." The smile slid off my face. 
"Please."

The doc just looked at me for a long time. Hutch evidently got 
tired of coolin' his heels out in the hall, 'cause he chose that exact 
minute to come walking in. He was wearing that face, the one he 
uses when he's been worried sick over me but ain't about to let me 
know it. Instead he pastes on this big, dopey grin.

"Hi, Buddy."

All I could manage was a little nod before I had to turn away. If I 
kept looking at him, seeing that smile, I'd never be able to hold it 
together. I looked up at Franklin. Begging.

He adjusted his glasses and glanced at the monitor. "There's no 
affect on your heart yet. We'll be sending you upstairs for some 
more tests. You can sit up and rest for awhile now." Then he 
walked over toward Hutch.

"Doc, I'd like to talk to him."

That's my partner, not about to let hell, high water, or a guy in a 
white coat keep him from me when I'm hurt. I held my breath.

Franklin stopped him with a hand to his arm. "In a minute. But first 
I'd like to ask you a few questions." He steered him out into the 
hall without looking back at me.

Thank God.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours. That's how long I waited, never letting the treatment 
room door out of my sight. I think they were the longest two hours 
of my life.

Have you ever noticed how Time is fluid? Oh sure, I know that it's 
supposed to be a constant, a universal invariant. But sometimes I 
think that's all just a load of crap. That we don't really understand 
Time at all, are just as mixed up as the folks who thought the Earth 
was flat. Because, I swear to God, Time never passes at exactly the 
same rate.

Take our all too infrequent vacations, for example. One minute I've 
got three or four glorious days spread before me--plenty of time for 
hiking, fishing, and baiting my city-loving partner who I've conned 
into accompanying me. Blink of an eye and it's over, with only 
Starsky's scratching and whining about bug bites to prove that we 
ever left Metro. You just can't tell me that Time didn't play a dirty 
trick by speeding up.

It goes both ways, of course. If Time can fly by like a hawk on the 
wing (or Starsky in the Torino), it can also creep along like 
molasses in Minnesota. Several times during those two long hours 
I was certain it had stopped altogether, only the hands on my watch 
convincing me otherwise.

Barely.

They'd let me stay with him in the beginning. Well...they hadn't 
been able to make me leave. Starsky was out cold for the entire trip 
in the ambulance, but when they finally got him into the ER and 
started working on him he woke up a little. No wonder, with two 
nurses and a doctor hooking him up to an EKG, drawing blood, 
and checking his temperature and blood pressure. I can only 
imagine what I'd do, waking up dizzy and disoriented as hell with 
all of that going on around me. Probably exactly what Starsky did--
panic.

Poor guy couldn't move, couldn't really talk. Best he could do was 
mumble something so garbled that no one could understand. The 
doc and the nurses just kind of ignored it and kept going about 
their business. They were so wrapped up in their jobs that no one 
thought to kick me out, so I just stood back and watched. 

Until I saw the hand.

Starsky's left hand, the one he does everything with, was opening 
and closing as if he was trying to grab hold of something. Or 
searching for something. And suddenly I understood. It was me he 
was reaching for, and my name that he kept trying to say over and 
over.

I'll admit it now--shoving that nurse out of the way was pretty 
rude. But at the time I didn't notice. My senses had narrowed until 
all I could see was those pitiful, grasping fingers; all I could hear 
was Starsky trying to call for me. I bullied my way to my partner's 
side, slid my hand into his, and started talking into his ear. I can't 
even remember what I said. Some of it probably didn't make a 
whole lot of sense, but I doubt he could really understand me 
anyway. What was important, what I knew he needed, was to hear 
my voice. To know he was safe. That I was right there with him, 
and I wouldn't leave.

The nurse was understandably ticked off, and the doctor wasn't 
much happier. He put his hand on my shoulder, clamping down 
hard.

"Sir, I'm afraid family isn't allowed in the treatment room. You'll 
have to leave."

I never let go of Starsky's hand, though my whole body stiffened. I 
turned my head and gave the doctor a look I've perfected for when 
it's my turn to play "bad cop."

"My name is Detective Hutchinson, and this man is my partner. As 
long as he needs me, I'm not going anywhere. Now if you want to 
keep that hand, I'd suggest taking it off my shoulder. Right now."

He let go like he'd been burned, and when he adjusted his glasses I 
saw his hand shake a little. "Very well. We'll work around you--for 
now anyway."

I could see Starsky was fading out again. His hand would start to 
go limp, then tighten up as if he was fighting sleep just so he could 
hang on to me.

"It's okay, buddy." I kept my voice soft and low, not only to soothe 
Starsky but to try and maintain a shred of privacy. "You can let go 
if you need to. The doctor's going to take care of you and I'll 
always be close by. No one's going to hurt you any more--they'll 
have to go through me first."

Wasn't long before he was out for the count again, and I no longer 
had a good reason to keep the doctor, whose name turned out to be 
Franklin, from kicking me out. And that's just about when Time 
decided to slow to a snail's pace.

Finally I couldn't stand it another minute. I snuck a peek through 
the window and was surprised to see Starsky awake and talking to 
Dr. Franklin. I figured that was my cue to join them, since it didn't 
seem like Franklin was going to issue a personal invitation.

My stomach felt twisted into knots, but I made sure to plaster on a 
smile before I pushed open the door. Starsky turned to look at me, 
and I was struck by the fact that his face held absolutely no 
expression.

"Hi, buddy."  I silently congratulated myself for sounding relaxed.

The corners of Starsky's mouth turned up just a bit and he raised 
his chin. The next minute the blank face was back, though, and it 
seemed like his eyes were everywhere but on me. He gave the 
doctor an odd look and Franklin started talking, but he was fiddling 
with his glasses like he'd done when I threatened him. Something 
about that bothered me, but I needed to concentrate on what the 
doctor was saying to Starsky.

"There's no effect on your heart yet. We'll be sending you upstairs 
for some more tests. You can sit up and rest for a while now."

Franklin turned and walked toward me. I held up a hand to stop 
him. "I need to talk to him."

"In a minute. But first I'd like to ask you a few questions."

I was chomping at the bit to talk to Starsky, especially now that he 
was lucid, but we'd each been injured in the line of duty often 
enough that I knew the drill. Questions about insurance, the limits 
for active duty--all the red tape. Starsky and I had handled it for 
each other so many times it was routine.

Except when Franklin got me out in the hallway, he didn't start 
asking any of the questions I expected. Nothing about filling out 
paperwork or instructions after discharge. Instead he asked me if 
we'd been partners a long time. Said Starsk had told him I was his 
best friend. I was only half-listening at first, my mind on catching 
the creep who was responsible for hurting my partner and making 
the last few hours a living hell. It didn't help that I couldn't figure 
out where Franklin was headed, why he'd dragged me out into the 
hallway to discuss my friendship with Starsky. When he finally cut 
to the chase, I felt like I'd been sucker punched.

"I don't think your friend is going to make it. His relatives, any 
other close friends should be notified."

"Wha..." I almost laughed at first--must be some kind of a bad 
joke, right? Then I got angry. "Well of course he's going to make 
it, you've got him in a hospital, don't you, you're running tests on 
him, he..." Franklin was stone-faced, but compassion shone 
through his eyes. My stomach plunged as if I'd just dropped thirty 
stories in a runaway elevator. "Does he know?"

"He asked me to tell you." Franklin's eyes crinkled. "Said he hates 
'soapy scenes.'"

God, I could hear it, could picture Starsky saying it. He's a funny 
one, my partner. Emotions on his sleeve when it comes to those he 
cares about, always ready to share their pain. But when it comes to 
his own hurt, his own fear, his own heartbreak, Starsky holds his 
cards close and guards them jealously.

He held me, sweat with me, ached with me, and even cried with 
me when I was so deep in withdrawal I could barely remember my 
own name. It still shames me when I think about how I treated him 
during that time, though I know he's never held it against me. Did 
he really think I'd let him get away with keeping me at arm's 
length?

Think again, Starsk.

This time when I walked back into the treatment room I couldn't 
quite muster a full smile. Starsky was sitting up, bare legs dangling 
over the edge of the gurney, and he looked...fine. Completely 
normal, no different from the man who dropped me off at my place 
last night and roared home to catch one of those bad horror movies 
on TV. For a split second a cruel little glimmer of hope rose up in 
my chest and a seductive voice whispered in my head.

Maybe the doctor's wrong, maybe he doesn't know what he's 
talking about. Doctors make mistakes all the time, look at that guy 
in Detroit who had the wrong kidney removed. Maybe...

I remembered Franklin's face, the way he met my gaze straight on, 
with a mixture of bluntness and compassion. And that spiteful little 
ray of hope turned on me, the edges sharp like a shard of broken 
glass.

Starsky was dying. And somehow, some way, I was going to save 
him. Nothing else mattered.

"How ya feeling, huh?" I couldn't seem to meet his eyes. I couldn't 
seem to keep mine from checking the clock.

"Okay. Could even think I dreamed it all." His voice told me he 
felt as awkward as I. What is it with men anyway? We care deeply 
but we have such a hard time expressing it. 

Stick to the case, to finding the guy with the answers, I told myself. 
I tried not to sound like I was questioning a victim, but it was hard. 
Everything was mixed up, wrong. Starsky wasn't supposed to be 
the one giving a statement. The one assaulted and... 

And the crazy part was, I could tell he was trying to make things 
easier on me. As if I were the one handed a death sentence! Using 
expressions like "not rowing with both oars at the time" to distract 
me from the horror of picturing him drugged and helpless while 
the creep injected him. Helpless, but not oblivious. If I... 

When. When I got my hands on the punk, I planned on making him 
very, very sorry.

When Starsky admitted that he thought he knew the guy, I 
savagely stomped on the hope that wanted to return.

The facts. Concentrate on the facts.

"Doctor Franklin. What about the twenty-four hours? Does it 
hold?"

"If it's a progressive type poison, yes, its term could be predictable. 
The blood sample taken at the puncture indicates a poisonous 
compound--probably of the organic chloride grouping. 
Unfortunately, it could be any one of fifty varieties, and we can't 
prescribe the antidote with any certainty until we know the exact 
composition. Is that plain enough?" Franklin's expression was 
apologetic.

I just wanted to be somewhere else. Any place but in a hospital, 
listening to the high odds against my best friend living to watch 
another cheesy horror movie.

Starsky remained stoic through Franklin's little speech, but the 
white-knuckled grip of his fingers on the gurney betrayed him. 
"The part about the poisonous compound was, thank you."

I, on the other hand, felt anger rising inside of me like a living 
creature. I was abruptly furious with Franklin, and the medical 
profession in general. 

"You know, it's amazing. You're well, you think they've got a 
miracle cure for everything. You get sick, they can't even cure the 
common cold." I knew I was snarling, unloading my frustration on 
the wrong man, but I didn't care.

Franklin must have had plenty of experience dealing with upset 
family members. Rather than taking offense, he started spouting 
his suggestions for trying to treat Starsky. None of it sounded 
particularly pleasant. Starsky's bleak expression broke through my 
fury and I placed a hand on his shoulder, wishing I could offer so 
much more.

Four years with the man, and though in some ways I know him 
better than I know myself, he can still surprise me. I wasn't 
prepared for his cool, controlled reply.

"Doc, pursuing our own, as they say, line of expertise, my partner 
feels he can deduce certain things faster than you can. I mean, 
that's part of his job."

I saw right where he was headed and tried to cut him off at the 
pass.

"That's right, but you're not going anywhere."

No one ever said my partner wasn't stubborn as a mule. "Look, 
you're thinkin' the same thing I am. We look for some flake with a 
mean laugh who knows exactly what was in that shot, right?"

Stubbornness I can resist, but not that pleading, vulnerable face. 
More than once Starsky has left me in awe of his courage under 
fire. Today it staggered me. He was trying so hard to keep it 
together, to think things through logically. To be a cop and not a 
victim.

"Right."

"Well, while I'm still feelin' okay..."

How could I possibly say no?

"We find him and ask him."

Doctor Franklin, of course, was not pleased with the turn of events. 
He pulled off his glasses and started arguing, trying to convince 
Starsky to stay put and let him do his job. My partner didn't seem 
fazed by his warnings, but I was already on shaky ground and 
questioning my own decision. Starsky, still in that calm, practical 
voice, cut to the chase.

"Doc, I appreciate what you're sayin', but what it really comes 
down to is one question. Can you guarantee that if I stay here 
you're gonna be able to come up with the answer in time?"

Now there was a question I was anxious to hear the answer to. If 
Franklin felt he had a good chance, some level of confidence that 
he could crack the code to this poison and cure Starsky...

The doctor's eyes slid off to the right and then dropped to the floor. 
So much for that theory. Starsky just plowed ahead.

"Okay, then I'd like to take a shot at it. Now if we don't score by, 
uh..." his eyes darted to the clock on the wall, "ten o'clock tonight, 
I'll come back and give you another crack at it, okay?

My chest tightened at his words. Oh God, Starsky, what are we 
doing?

Franklin just raised his eyebrows and dipped his head, obviously 
not happy but knowing when he'd been beaten. Starsky turned to 
me without stopping to take a breath.

"Find my pants."

It threw me for a minute, but I rallied. "Ah...got your watch." I 
pulled it out and offered it to him.

Starsky put on a wounded expression, as if I'd insulted that striped 
tomato of his. "You forgot my pants?"

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. His pants? I find him 
out cold on the floor and he really expected me to have 
remembered to bring him a change of clothes?

"You mean you want me to hit the streets with no pants, no badge, 
no gun, no dignity? Whatsa matter with you?" When I still couldn't 
come up with a snappy reply, Starsky turned to Franklin. "You 
believe him?" He stabbed a finger at me and stalked out of the 
room, dripping with righteous indignation.

Franklin, mystified by my partner's behavior, just gave his head a 
little shake and put his glasses back on. And then it all clicked into 
place and I saw exactly what my friend was up to. Smokescreens 
and mirrors. Get me all worked up over a pair of lousy pants and I 
might not worry so much about the poison slowly working its way 
through his body.

Ah, Starsky. You don't have to do this.

Well, the least I could do was play along. For now.

I hurried after him. "You know, you're right, Starsk? I shoulda left 
you lying on the floor while I decided which pair of your equally 
crummy blue jeans to pack." Heads turned as my friend stomped 
past, his gown flapping in the breeze.

Dear God, I love him is what I thought.

"They're all lookin' at ya," is what I said.


Chapter 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

It felt good to be out of the hospital, behind the wheel and taking 
charge instead of handin' control over to a bunch of people with no 
sense of humor and a never-ending supply of needles. Back in the 
treatment room, when the doc was breaking the bad news, I almost 
felt too scared to move. It wasn't the thought of dyin'--though I 
gotta admit I'm pretty addicted to breathing. I mean, Hutch and me, 
we face that possibility every time we strap on our guns and hit the 
streets. A cop who ain't afraid of catching a stray bullet while 
busting up a robbery, or gettin' knifed by some strung-out hype 
desperate for a fix, is either crazy or just plain stupid. It goes with 
the badge.

That doesn't mean you gotta dwell on it. Spend all your time 
worryin' about your own skin and you'd not only be a danger to 
yourself, but to your partner. I guess what I'm saying is you gotta 
look Death in the eye, tip your hat, and go about your business. 
And I'd always been able to do that, 'til now.

This...this was different. My body slowly but surely falling apart, 
betraying me. Excruciating pain, losing my eyesight, my ability to 
even suck in a breath of air? And Hutch, my partner, my best 
friend, the guy who'd step in front of a truck if it'd save my life, 
forced to watch it all, knowin' he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Probably blame himself, too. If there's one trip Blondie's got down 
to perfection, it's guilt.

Sometimes I could swear he had a Jewish mother.

Hutch picked up the mic and called R & I, askin'--no, tellin' poor 
Charlie to pull all our cases from the last five years and put 'em on 
our desks. By the time we got there, no less.

Now don't get me wrong, I was feeling every tick of the clock too. 
But do you have any idea how many wiseguys Hutch and me have 
busted over the last five years? It didn't really surprise me when 
Charlie started squawkin'.

Around the station word is that I got a helluva temper, while Hutch 
tends to be more calm and easy-going. Of course, that's all a load-a 
bull. Okay, I'll admit I got a short fuse, but Hutch ain't no 
ambassador of good will either. Give him flack, especially when 
he's operating in what I like to call "white knight mode," and you 
better protect the family jewels. Poor Charlie had no idea what he 
was openin' himself up to.

"Collins, we'll be there in twenty minutes, that's how long you've 
got." He said it in that cold voice he usually saves for rapists and 
killers.

I turned to look at him, keeping my voice light. "Hey, take it easy. 
He's got no way of knowin' what's goin' down." 

That's what I said out loud. My eyes tried to tell him more, the 
words I felt deep down inside but couldn't speak.

I know you're scared--I'm scared too. Don't fall apart on me, I 
need you too much.

Hutch didn't say a word to me, but some of the lines around his 
eyes smoothed and his death grip on the mic relaxed.

"Do it, will ya Charlie? It's that important. Captain Dobey'll 
confirm. Have him call Receiving Hospital and check on Starsky."

He put the mic down and I felt his eyes boring into the side of my 
head. "Have any second thoughts about leaving the hospital?"

Oh, just a couple hundred in the last ten minutes.

I kept my eyes on the road. "Do you?"

Hutch glanced out the passenger window. "I could be wrong." His 
sharp gaze returned to my face. "But then I'll be walking around 
tomorrow."

Hard not to wince at that. I was tryin' to keep my mind on the here 
and now. Thinking about what lay around the bend was too scary. 
"Well, the doc was pretty straight about our chances."

"Yeah."

For some reason, I'm not sure why, I had a sudden, clear memory 
of another time in our lives when it felt like the whole world had 
turned on us and left us hangin' out to dry. I don't know if the smile 
reached my lips, but I felt it in my heart.

"As I see it, it's who do we trust time."

Once again Hutch didn't say anything. But then, he really didn't 
need to.

Me and thee. I don't think they've invented a word that could 
define what's between us. I could say he's like a brother, but Nick 
and I have never shared the kind of bond that's between Hutch and 
me. Nicky is my little brother, and I love him, but I don't 
understand him--I never have. And he sure as hell don't know the 
first thing about me. To tell you the truth, sometimes I'm not even 
so certain he likes me.

Hutch does. Oh, he plays jokes on me, gives me a hard time, but 
his eyes tell me the truth. We've laughed together. And we've cried 
together. I can't say that about any other person in this whole 
crazy, messed up world. It's scary, bein' known that well, all your 
hidden fears and deep, dark secrets. No one can hurt us as bad as 
we can hurt each other. And we have.

 It ain't exactly like the kind of love I have with Ma either, though 
there are similarities. I know Ma'll keep lovin' me no matter what I 
say or do. But with Ma, there's also the flip side--responsibility. I 
felt it the most when Pop died. Suddenly it all fell on my shoulders 
to be the man of the house. I used to envy Nick 'cause Ma would 
still baby him like a little boy. From the night Pop was killed, she 
treated me like a man.

But I wasn't.

Hutch? He takes me as I am and don't ask for much in return. And 
he lets me lean on him...a lot. It's not easy for me. Usually by the 
time I do, it's 'cause I got nothin' left. Sometimes he comforts me, 
and sometimes he gives me a swift kick in the pants. And I trust 
him to know which one I need.

Me and thee.

I was still thinkin' deep thoughts when Hutch suddenly sat up 
straighter and pointed across the street.

"Hey, is that Huggy?"

I hung a U-turn and pulled up to the sidewalk where Hug was 
standing, then followed Hutch outta the car. Huggy tipped his head 
when he saw us, those teeth flashing in a grin.

"Hey, what it is?"

"Got a job for you." 

Hutch wasn't gonna let grass grow under his feet, I could see that. 
Problem is, even though Huggy's our friend, you gotta handle him 
right. Nobody likes bein' told what to do, 'specially a...businessman 
like Hug.

"Hey, I'm gainfully employed."

Hutch and I made a point of lookin' Huggy and his less than 
cosmopolitan surroundings over before we both raised our 
eyebrows in a "you can't be serious" expression. Huggy was not 
amused.

"Honest! Got a job as a travel agent. It's a hard buck but an honest 
one. Need any airplane tickets?"

Hutch didn't crack a smile. "What have you heard about a hit going 
down?"

I swallowed but it wasn't easy. My throat felt like the Sahara and 
that disconnected feeling, the one that came over me when the doc 
told me about the poison, was back. Who'd a thought I'd be 
investigating my own murder? It was like some crazy movie on the 
late, late show.

"On who?" Huggy asked.

I looked at him, careful not to show how I was feeling. "Me. 
Sparing the grim details, some guy got into my house last night 
and gave me a shot."

Well, it ain't often you can surprise Hug. I just wished I could 
enjoy that look on his face. Under the circumstances, it wasn't too 
funny.

"You gotta be puttin' me on."

I shook my head. "I don't think he was puttin' me on either. Need 
your help, Hug."

What you really need is a miracle whispered a nasty little voice in 
my head. I mentally flipped it the bird.

"You gotta ask? I'll do anything I can. Something'll turn."

I didn't want to see that expression on Huggy's face, or the look in 
his eyes. I hated it, and I loved it.

I refused to look at my watch the rest of the drive to Metro.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I tried to keep my eyes on the scenery out the window. It wasn't 
easy--I'd catch them wandering over to Starsky like steel to a 
magnet. He seemed to be feeling just fine, but I couldn't help 
watching and waiting for the first signs of the poison, feeling like 
some kind of vulture.

We had an argument about who would drive. I'd called Dobey at 
the crack of dawn, explained what was going down, and asked him 
to have one of our boys in blue drop Starsky's Torino at the 
hospital. I don't know what came over me, asking for the striped 
tomato instead of my own car. Guess I was so worried about Starsk 
at that point I would've done just about anything to make him feel 
better.

Either that, or I was suffering from sleep deprivation and couldn't 
be held responsible for my actions.

When we reached the Torino, Starsky still grumbling about his 
missing pants while giving an old lady in a wheelchair a free show, 
he crossed to the driver's side and held out his hand.

I just stared at him as if he'd asked me to eat one of those greasy 
burritos he's so crazy about.

He glared right back. "Keys!"

My head was moving before his mouth stopped forming the word. 
"Uhn-uh. I'll drive."

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "It's my car, and I'll 
drive."

I was getting truly pissed at him now. I understood what he was 
trying to do when he yelled at me about the pants, but this was 
going too far. An hour ago he'd been in la-la land, and now he 
intended to get behind the wheel? And what about the poison? 
What if it started affecting him while he was hotrodding down the 
street? No way was I going to sit there and...

The hand reaching for the keys trembled. Just a slight tremor, and 
Starsky immediately clenched it into a fist, but it was already too 
late. His guard had slipped enough for me to snatch a glimpse of 
what lay beneath the surface anger--a man desperately afraid of 
losing control. Who needed to take charge, even of something as 
simple as driving his own car.

I put my hand on his arm, no longer angry. "Starsk, I'm just not 
sure..."

"Please, Hutch." He turned his head, but I could see his throat 
working. "You gotta trust me to know what I need. And right now, 
I need to drive my own car."

There are times when, despite what my head tells me, despite 
common sense, I simply can't say no to him. He's like the tide, an 
irresistible force of nature that pulls me along no matter what good 
intentions I may have for standing still. Sometimes it's the child in 
him. Starsky doesn't talk much about the time after his father died, 
but I've been able to piece together a pretty good picture of how 
much his life changed. He was a kid forced to grow up fast--too 
fast. That's probably why there's a little boy still hiding inside him. 
Cynical and street tough as he can be after all we've seen, in many 
ways he holds onto the wonder and simplicity of a child. Which is 
precisely why this hardened cop, fed up with the euphoric 
sentimentalism of the Christmas season, braves the crowds every 
year to get his partner a present.

Other times, it's his spirit that does me in. Starsky is a truly good 
person, and that's a rare find. Believe me, I know. I see the dregs of 
society every day, enough hatred, selfishness, envy, and mean-
spiritedness to destroy what little faith I still have in humanity. 
Starsky keeps the spark alive. You know, most cops will spout the 
standard party line about the reason for becoming a police officer--
wanting to make a difference, to help people, to protect the 
underdog. Starsky is the genuine item. The real deal. He's a sucker 
for someone in need, willing to not only hand over the shirt off his 
back, but to risk his own life if necessary. Like I said before, when 
the chips are down, he's the bravest person I know.

He'd been through the wringer that morning, been given news no 
man should have to face. A lot of guys would just lay down, either 
give in to self-pity or give up completely. Yet there was Starsky, 
barely an hour after taking a sucker punch to the gut, picking 
himself up and dusting himself off, that damn stubborn streak 
driving him to hunt for his own killer.

How in the hell could I say no?

I tossed him the keys, irritated by the lump in my throat. "Better 
get in the car before you get arrested for indecent exposure."

Starsky glanced over his shoulder at a couple of staring nurses, 
obviously on their way home after the night shift. "Hey, ain't you 
ever heard of Chippendales? Plenty of ladies'd pay money to see a 
show half this good."

"Just goes to prove there's no accounting for taste." It felt great to 
be on familiar ground, Starsky acting like his old self. If only...

I shook my head and headed for the passenger door. Thoughts like 
that were a dead end, a waste of time.

We stopped by his place so that he could swap the white dress for a 
ratty pair of blue jeans and pick up his gun. Then we headed for 
headquarters, sun in the sky and Starsky behind the wheel, just like 
any other day. Except, of course, it wasn't.

Starsky caught me checking up on him from the corner of my eye 
and his brow furrowed. "Willya quit lookin' at me like I've grown 
an extra head? You're makin' me jumpy. I crash this car and we 
won't need to find my late-night visitor."

Having him snap at me like that was actually just what I needed. It 
reminded me he was still there, still alive. That old saying "Where 
there's life, there's hope" might be trite, but it gave me something 
to grab onto. I reached for the radio, figuring I'd get the ball rolling 
before we got to the station.

"This is Zebra 3, patch me through to R & I."

Normally I'd have made some small talk with Charlie Collins. He's 
a good guy, and he loves talking about his new granddaughter. To 
hear him tell it you'd think the sun rose and set, just for her. I didn't 
feel much like shooting the breeze, though, all things considered. I 
figured just this once Charlie would have to swap stories with 
somebody else.

Somebody whose partner wasn't slowly dying right next to him.

"Charlie, this is Hutch. Pull out every case we've worked on in the 
past 5 years and have them on our desks when we get down there."

I didn't really expect Charlie's response, though I guess I should've.

"No chance, Hutch. Everybody wants everything yesterday. Have 
you any idea of our workload?" Indignation dripped from his 
voice--I didn't have to be there to see the scowl on his face.

I'd be damned if he was going to give me any lip about those files. 
Our request better override any others or I'd go down there 
personally and make sure it happened. With my gun, if necessary.

"Collins, we'll be there in 20 minutes, that's how long you've got." 
I used my interrogation voice, the one that went with the "bad cop" 
face I'd given the doctor earlier.

Starsky looked over and gently reminded me I was kicking the 
dog. It took the wind out of my sails and reminded me who I was 
talking to. Charlie deserved better.

I did my best to patch things up before I signed off, then went back 
to not watching Starsky. Finally I couldn't take it any longer--I had 
to ask the question that had been bugging me since we left Doctor 
Franklin and his gadgets behind.

"Have any second thoughts about leaving the hospital?"

He wouldn't look at me but I saw his fingers squeeze the steering 
wheel more tightly. "Do you?"

Thanks for turning the tables on me, Starsk. I wanted YOU to be 
the one answering that question.

"I could be wrong. But then I'll be walking around tomorrow."

I had to deflect, to put off the feelings the question stirred up. 
Starsky and I are both real good at sidestepping emotional land 
mines with a smart mouth. Helps avoid those "soapy scenes."

Starsky didn't take the bait. "Well, the doc was pretty straight about 
our chances."

"Our." Not "my." The fact that I knew he hadn't even thought 
about it, that it had come out as natural as saying my name, made 
my chest feel tight and my eyes burn.

"Yeah."

Starsky still didn't look at me, but something in his expression 
changed. I would've sworn he was smiling, but his mouth never 
moved. "As I see it, it's who do we trust time."

I looked out the window and kept my breathing nice and steady. 
Starsky wasn't looking for an answer--he knew the list was short.

Me and thee

The only person I'd ever trusted enough to let all the way inside. 
Who knew the dark as well as the light. Who celebrated my 
successes as enthusiastically as if they were his own. Someone 
who not only put up with my black moods, but cared enough to try 
and drag out of them--sometimes kicking and screaming. Who 
would trek through the woods and eat health food if it would keep 
me happy.

Who would take a bullet if it would keep me alive.

I couldn't imagine life without him. 

I wouldn't.

Just then a familiar figure caught my eye and distracted me from 
my morose thoughts. I straightened up and took a closer look.

"Hey, is that Huggy?"

Starsky didn't waste breath answering me, he just slammed the 
Torino into a U-turn, tires screeching, and pulled up to the corner 
where Huggy was standing.

You would've thought I'd learned something after riding Collins so 
hard, but that itchy, impatient feeling was back. I plunged in with 
both feet, and Huggy responded accordingly--by dragging his.

"Got a job for ya."

"Hey, I'm gainfully employed."

Gainful employment. As a travel agent. Huggy tries on new careers 
like a stockbroker tries on suits. It almost coaxed a smile onto my 
face when I realized Starsky and I were giving him the same look 
of disbelief.

One thing I can say about Hug, though. His loyalty is absolute. 
When the chips are down, when Starsky and I need his help the 
most, he turns from a streetwise hustler to a powerful ally. A lot of 
people underestimate him, and that's a big mistake.

I watched his face as Starsky gave him the bare bones of what had 
happened, and I knew he'd use every means at his disposal--every 
snitch and hooker, junkie and hustler--to turn something for 
Starsky and me. I just hoped it would be enough.

We'd already lost six hours.


Chapter 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

When we got to Metro we saw Charlie was doin' his best. The 
stack of files on our desks might not've been five years' worth, but 
it was a good start. We wound up hauling 'em into Captain Dobey's 
office so we could spread out a little and get comfortable. It was 
pretty hard not to feel discouraged when you looked at all those 
folders, but each of us took a stack and dug in.

Charlie brought in the last of the files as we were sittin' there 
reading. He set 'em on Dobey's desk, but turned to me before he 
left.

"Sorry about the static."

"'S okay." Last thing I wanted was for Charlie to feel guilty. I'd 
looked at the clock before I could stop myself, and I didn't like 
what I saw. "Eleven thirty-six."

Seven and a half hours gone and there we were, sittin' on our tails, 
buried in paperwork. I was tryin' hard to concentrate, but it wasn't 
easy.

"Always did think you were a clock watcher."

Ha, ha. Excuse me if I didn't exactly appreciate Dobey's sense of 
humor. I glared at him before looking down at the file in my hands.

"Now come on, Dave. There must be something you remember 
about this guy. Eyes? Hair? Build?"

Oh man. Things really were looking grim if Dobey was calling me 
by my first name. I couldn't look at him, had to lighten things up 
somehow.

"Ya hear that? He called me Dave," I said to Hutch, who was 
sitting behind me. Sitting in just the right spot so he could keep an 
eye on me without me seeing him. 

Gimme a break, Hutch! How dumb do you think I am? 

At least he picked right up on what I was tryin' to do and played 
along. "What some people won't do to get on a first name basis."

"Really."

I glanced up and the captain had that look on his face--the one that 
said he saw right through my wisecracking and still expected an 
answer.

Hutch and me had Dobey figured out about a week after he became 
our captain. See, even though he tries to come across like a tough 
guy, a real grizzly bear, it's mostly for show. He really cares about 
each and every cop reporting to him, and he's stuck his neck out 
for us more times than I can count.

Grizzly bear? More like Teddy bear if ya ask me.

He was still waiting so I left off readin' the file in my hands and 
tried to sort through the muddled pictures in my head.

"All right, let's see. Vaguely, a white male, thirty-five to fifty, 
medium build...any or all possibly inaccurate." I slammed the 
folder shut, madder than hell but unable to do much about it.

Angry at the sick bastard who violated my home, the place I'm 
supposed to feel safe, and got his jollies outta givin' me a death 
sentence.

Angry at Franklin for not bein' able to offer me something more 
than spending the last hours of my life layin' around a place I hate, 
playing human guinea pig.

But most of all, angry at myself for my own helplessness. For not 
bein' able to do a little thing like give a clear description of the 
creep. 

For not stoppin' him in the first place.

"We'll pull the computer cards and run them against that make. 
That way we can eliminate the, uh, short, fat, black, and female." 
The captain got up and headed for the door. "Then we'll run them 
against the in prisons, hospitals, out of towns..." He was out the 
door but still talking--more to himself than either of us, I think.

Not a minute later, Cheryl, who works in the lab, opened the door. 
"Hutch."

Hutch followed her out of the room, tossing a "Don't go away" 
over his shoulder at me.

Yeah, right. Like there was anyplace for me to go. Maybe I'd up 
and take that vacation to Tahiti I been plannin', huh? Or find 
myself a lady and go dancing. 

Don't know why they bothered to go into the squad room. It's not 
like I didn't know what I was in for, what to expect. Did they really 
think they were protecting me by discussing it behind a closed 
door?

Part of me wanted to be mad at Hutch but I didn't have the heart. I 
knew he was feelin' just as frustrated and helpless as me--maybe 
more. It's a terrible thing when a man can't back up his own 
partner, and this poison was a threat Hutch couldn't fight. Not with 
fists or a gun, anyway.

Ah, hell, maybe it was for the best that he hear the gory details 
from Cheryl. I sure didn't want to be the one to tell him, and pretty 
soon...

Pretty soon he was gonna see for himself.

Hutch gave me that dopey smile again when he came back from 
the squad room. Nice try, but it didn't exactly hide the fact that he 
looked shaken by what Cheryl had told him.

Join the club, buddy.

The captain came in right after with three names the computer had 
picked as most likely to be our guy. Vic Bellamy, Janos Martini, 
and Al Wedell. Three no-taste bums who'd be just as happy to 
waste Hutch and me as look at us. Reading their rap sheets, staring 
at their ugly mugs just fueled the anger that had been building 
inside of me all day. For the first time, I didn't want to catch the 
creep who poisoned me just to save my life.

I wanted to get my hands on him and make him pay.

Bellamy was the only one of the three that we had a current 
address for. Things were pretty quiet in the car on the way to his 
apartment. Not much to say, I guess. Both of us hopin' that 
somehow we'd get lucky, that good old Vic would have a 
hypodermic or a stocking mask stashed somewhere in his place. 
Both of us thinkin' about what Cheryl had told Hutch, wondering 
when the first signs of the poison would show up. Both of us 
knowing there were things to tell each other, but lacking the nerve 
to say 'em out loud.

Bellamy lived in an apartment building across town, in a less than 
reputable neighborhood. Three flights up, and Hutch took 'em at a 
jog. By the time we got to the top I was panting. I swiped at the 
moisture on my upper lip with the back of my hand and headed for 
number thirty-one.

I pulled my weapon and waited for Hutch to get into position. We 
don't even think about it any more, it's as natural as breathin'. 
Hutch goes high and I go low, standard operating procedure. 
Something I could count on, even now.

Hutch wrapped on the door with that cannon he calls a gun. "Open 
up! Police!"

A voice--sounded like Bellamy as far as I could remember--called 
out, "In a minute!"

Now I was the one feelin' antsy, and just standing there waiting for 
ole Vic to invite us in was gettin' on my already frazzled nerves. 
Right there, on the other side of that door, could be the answer we 
were looking for. "We'll look awfully stupid if he goes out the 
back," I told Hutch.

He must've agreed with me, 'cause he stepped back, giving me just 
enough time to flick off my safety before he kicked in the door. 
We both stuck our heads around the doorjamb, half expecting to 
see Bellamy heading down the fire escape. Or maybe a gun aimed 
at our heads.

Definitely not what we found.

Bellamy was sittin' in a wheelchair, his left leg encased in a cast 
from foot to hip. He flung his arms up in front of his face.

"Don't shoot! I told you in a minute!"

A woman with mousy brown hair dressed in a bathrobe and 
slippers came burstin' into the room. "Vic! What's going on?" Her 
voice had all the charm of ground glass.

Bellamy must've realized we weren't gonna shoot him, 'cause he 
went from scared to belligerent in a matter of seconds. "I dunno, 
ask them!"

When I could finally drag my eyes away from that shiny white 
cast, I saw Hutch was just as stunned as me. We just stared at each 
other for a long minute. My heart was thumping double time and 
the gun felt heavy and useless in my hand.

Hutch looked over at the woman and holstered his gun. "How long 
has he been in that cast?"

She tipped her chin up and her voice was ice cold. "Four weeks. 
Why?"

Oh God. Felt like someone sucked all the air outta my lungs and I 
couldn't seem to fill 'em back up. I guess I didn't realize till that 
minute how much I was hopin' Bellamy would be the one. 
Scratching him off the list left only two more chances, and the 
damn clock just kept tickin'.

Bellamy's lady was too fulla righteous indignation to notice. "Hey, 
what is this?" she demanded in that same, shrewish voice.

I looked at Hutch, not even tryin' to keep the pain and 
disappointment off my face. "How 'bout strike one?"

I didn't look back to see if he was following me out the door. I 
couldn't. About all I could manage was to put one foot in front of 
the other. Sometimes, to just keep movin' is the best thing you can 
do. And the hardest.


~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~


Charlie had done a damn good job of pulling files for us. We took 
them into Captain Dobey's office, supposedly so we could spread 
out. I knew the captain well enough to realize he was also doing 
his best to shield Starsky from the stares--both curious and pitying. 
I managed to grab a chair behind and to the left of my partner, 
which provided me with an unobstructed view. I could keep an eye 
on him without him figuring out what I was up to and getting 
pissed off.

He'd made it more than clear that he didn't want any special 
treatment--no hovering and no coddling. I respected that, I really 
did. In fact, I knew that if I were in his shoes, I'd feel the same 
way. Treating him like he was made of glass would only wind up 
making him feel sicker. The mind is a powerful force on the body, 
and the longer Starsky could function normally, the better he could 
fight the poison.

I knew all that--in my head. My heart was a little slower in 
catching up. It was torture to watch and wait, wondering when the 
first symptoms of the poison would start to manifest themselves. 
Every hitch of breath, every shift of his body put me on the alert. 
Could he be feeling sick? In any pain?

Would he tell me if he were?

It didn't help that I had no idea what the poison would do to him. 
Doctor Franklin had obviously filled my partner in on the 
unpleasant details before I joined them. And Starsky wasn't 
talking.

So once we'd reached his apartment and he was changing clothes I 
had put in a discreet call to Cheryl Jennings, who was a chemist in 
the lab at headquarters. I asked her to call the hospital and talk to 
Doctor Franklin, see if she could get a handle on just what we were 
up against. Cheryl's father was a chemistry professor at the 
university, a brilliant man, but unstable. His son, Cheryl's older 
brother, had been killed during an attempt to arrest him for dealing 
drugs on campus, and Professor Jennings had been having a 
difficult time accepting it. It was a shame, too, because he was 
alienating his daughter, the only child he had left.

Even though Starsky was doing an incredible job of holding 
himself together, I could see cracks appearing. Oh, he pulled his 
usual smartass routine, gave Dobey grief about using his first 
name, but his heart wasn't really in it. I know Starsky too well for 
him to fool me. To tell you the truth, I don't think he fooled Dobey 
either.

The captain left to run Starsky's description of his assailant through 
the computer, so it was just the two of us in the office when Cheryl 
beckoned me to join her in the squad room.

"Hutch."

Starsky's eyes rested briefly on Cheryl before dropping to the file 
in his hand. I got up quickly, feeling more than a little awkward. I 
knew he realized why Cheryl wanted to see me, and I knew if he 
objected, he'd say so, but it still felt a bit like going behind his 
back. I just couldn't bear the thought of hearing the unpleasant 
details with him sitting right there. 

I wanted to think our decision to take the conversation into the next 
room was based on our desire to spare Starsky. I had the nagging 
feeling that it was actually to spare us.

"Don't go away," I told him. Never let it be said I'm not a master at 
coming up with an inane remark.

I poured Cheryl and I some coffee. I was feeling the effects of the 
sleepless night, and it was good to be doing something.

"Whatcha got, Cheryl?"

She looked at the clipboard in her hand. "The hospital analysis of 
the chemical traces at the puncture. Chlorohydrine and what might 
be bromoacetone--they couldn't get a fix on the rest." Her voice 
was business-like and her face gave nothing away.

I handed her the mug of coffee. "Level with me."

"Normal body functioning depends on the central nervous system 
transmitting automatic impulses--to see, to breathe, to sweat, to 
swallow, cough..." Cheryl paused. When I nodded, she dropped her 
eyes and her teeth sank into her lip. "Oversimplified, certain 
progressive poisons attack the central system and block the 
impulses."

I didn't want to hear the rest, but I had to. If Starsky could face up 
to the worst, then so could I.

"What happens?"

Cheryl obviously didn't enjoy telling me any more than I liked 
hearing it. "Uncontrolled perspiration, distorted vision, loss of 
coordination, difficult breathing, coma. When it gets bad I can help 
the pain some, but..." Despite her words, her face made it obvious 
that any help she could give would be minimal.

Dear God. Every word was like a knife in my heart, almost more 
painful than I could bear. This was the load Starsky was carrying?

I tried to shake off the nearly crushing sense of hopelessness, to 
focus on a solution. "Cheryl, he's gonna need the best that the 
chemistry field can offer, right? How goes it with your father?"

She turned and set down the clipboard. "Doesn't seem to want to 
see me--or anybody."

Like hell.

"Can you ask him to help?" I couldn't help the edge to my voice, 
even though I knew Cheryl didn't deserve my anger.

She grimaced. "I've already tried, he hasn't returned my call." My 
expression must have screamed desperation, because she reached 
out to place a consoling hand on mine and gave it a little squeeze. 
"Look, I'll go out to the house if I have to."

I mustered a smile I didn't really feel, grateful for her support. 
Before this day ended Starsky was going to need every friend he 
had. Cheryl's determination to help, in spite of the bad blood 
between her and her father, meant a lot.

Starsky looked up as I re-entered the office and our eyes locked for 
a long moment. I could hear his thoughts. 

Now you know.

When the captain came back with the three most likely choices for 
Starsky's attacker, I was anxious to hit the streets. Starsky took the 
wheel, and I didn't bother arguing. To tell you the truth, I was still 
trying to process what Cheryl had told me. I wanted to talk to 
Starsk, to be sure he realized...aw, I don't know. That learning the 
specifics of what he was facing didn't change anything. That I was 
going to be there, right beside him through it all. And that we were 
going to find the sick bastard who poisoned him and the antidote.

That he would be walking around tomorrow.

I wanted to tell him all those things, but I ended up staring out the 
window instead. Staring, and praying to God that Vic Bellamy 
would turn out to be our man.

Looking back now, I could kick myself. I was so focused on 
Bellamy that I temporarily forgot my partner. I took the stairs at a 
brisk pace, Starsky with me all the way. I was on automatic pilot, 
operating the way we always had. It felt right.

It was when we reached the top floor and I turned toward him that 
it hit me. Starsky, who could normally have jogged up all three 
flights without breaking a sweat, was perspiring heavily, his face 
pale. He used the back of his hand to brush beads of moisture from 
his upper lip and headed down the hallway, either oblivious to my 
stare or ignoring it.

Uncontrolled perspiration, distorted vision, loss of coordination...

Cheryl's voice echoed in my head. Much as I wanted to brush it 
off, to tell myself that what I'd seen was the result of physical 
exertion, I knew differently. The inevitable was happening. It 
could only get worse.

We positioned ourselves outside the apartment door and I gave the 
standard police warning. I recognized Bellamy's voice, telling us to 
wait a minute. Part of me was surprised I could remember it, after 
all the punks we've busted since. Part of me was horrified at the 
ice-cold fury it provoked in me.

Starsky looked over at me, his expression rueful. "We'll look 
awfully stupid if he goes out the back."

Like hell.

Kicking in the door was satisfying--just a little too easy. The way I 
was feeling, I could've kept on kicking until it was nothing but a 
pile of sawdust. Any gratification I got disappeared when I saw 
Bellamy, seated in a wheelchair with an extremely broken leg. In 
fact, you couldn't get much more broken and still have a leg.

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

I looked over at Starsky and ached at the lost expression on his 
face. Vic and his lady were both yammering at us, demanding an 
explanation. All I cared about was that my partner looked like a 
little boy watching his shiny new balloon float away.

Anger bubbled up to replace my sorrow. "How long has he been in 
that cast?" I asked the woman, putting away my gun.

If possible, she managed to look even more indignant, folding her 
arms across her chest. "Four weeks. Why?"

I'm sorry, Starsk. I wanted it to be Bellamy too.

"Hey, what is this?" she snarled, her lip curled like a cornered 
stray.

Starsky looked at me, eyes weary and resigned. A sheen of 
perspiration coated his face and the curls brushing his forehead 
were damp.

"How 'bout strike one."

He turned and left before I could answer, but that was all right. 
There really was nothing more to say.


Chapter 5

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Going back down the stairs, I managed to shake off some of the 
disappointment. Most of it was still there, of course. But insteada 
feelin' like an elephant sittin' in the middle of my chest, it sat on 
my shoulders, like a really heavy backpack that I had no choice but 
to haul along with me.

Part of what kept me goin' was the anger. That poison had become 
my enemy as much as the flake who gave it to me, and as long as I 
could still suck in a breath of air I was gonna keep fighting. There 
was no way in hell I'd let Hutch do this alone, without me backin' 
him up. And if the worst happened, if we couldn't find the antidote 
in time, then by God I was gonna go out kicking and screaming.

Hutch caught up with me as we stepped outta the building into 
fresh air that smelled great after Bellamy's stuffy apartment. It was 
a nice day, sunny and warm, and I couldn't help wishing I was just 
about any place else--even trailing Hutch through the woods. Wild 
animals, bug bites, and poison ivy all seemed like pretty silly 
things to complain about now that I might never have the chance to 
spend a vacation with my best friend again.

Hutch turned to me as we started down the cement steps to the 
sidewalk. "Got a feel on him?"

Yeah, I got a feel on him. Don't take no rocket scientist to figure 
out Bellamy, cast or not.

"Same as always, a crook..."

One minute my leg was there, the next it was just...gone. I 
stumbled on the last step and pitched forward. Would've wound up 
kissin' the concrete if not for Hutch. In the blink of an eye one of 
his hands had snagged the collar of my leather jacket and the other 
was braced against my shoulder, draggin' me upright. He held onto 
me for a minute, steadying me until he was sure I wasn't gonna 
lose it again.

My heart was pounding and I could hear the blood rushin' in my 
head. Took me a few seconds to process what had happened, and 
why. When I got hold of myself enough to look up at Hutch, the 
look on his face nearly killed me. So much tenderness and concern, 
so much heartache--over me.

Was I being too damn selfish, makin' him watch me slowly fall to 
pieces? If I'd done like the doc asked, stayed in the hospital, at 
least I might've spared him some grief.

Hutch kept his hand on my back, but I'm not sure if it was more for 
me or him. "Want me to drive?"

I had to stop this, to wipe that look off his face. I put on my best 
wiseguy act. "What, and get us both killed?" I sauntered around to 
the driver's side of the Torino, relieved that both legs were 
working. "Why am I tryin' to make you feel better?"

Hutch's smile, even though it was pretty weak, was worth the 
effort. "You know something, Starsk?" His voice was steady and 
strong, not that overly gentle tone he'd used a minute ago.

"What?"

"It's always toughest on the ones left behind."

See? That's why he's my best friend. A lot of people I know can't 
figure out how Hutch and me got to be so tight. I mean, just look at 
us. We're the opposite sides of the coin! Me, I'm your classic city 
rat, complete with Brooklyn accent. Hutch grew up in Minnesota 
on some kind of farm or something, a country boy through and 
through. I got most of my education knockin' around the streets; 
Hutch went to college. I'm beer, pizza, and Bela Lugosi movies; 
Hutch is fine wine, pheasant under glass, and the ballet.

So how is it that someone so completely opposite from me could 
turn out to be not only my best friend, but the most important 
person in my life?

Beats the hell outta me.

No, really. I don't think I could put it into words if I tried. I just 
know that when Hutch and me met--once we stopped hating each 
other long enough to get to know each other--something clicked. 
Maybe it's as simple as the fact that despite all the outside 
differences, our insides are a lot alike. 

I know I trust him enough to let him see all of me, even the parts I 
wouldn't show my own mother. And the deeper he's let me in and 
the more I've come to understand the person he is, the more I 
respect him and value our friendship. Hutch is the only person I've 
ever known I could say that about. In my experience, it don't pay to 
let anyone own too big a piece of you--you'll only wind up 
disappointed. But Hutch...he's never let me down.

"I'll believe that when I hear it from someone who went first," I 
answered sarcastically, getting' back in behind the wheel.

While Hutch got on the radio with Dobey, I unzipped my jacket 
and tried to wipe away some of the sweat on my face. It kept 
getting in my eyes, making 'em sting, and I could feel it trickling 
down my back. It was a nice warm day, but not that warm. A 
chunk of ice somehow found its way into my stomach. I caught 
myself before I could look at my watch.

The captain's voice crackled over the line. "Yeah, Hutch?"

"Scratch Bellamy." Hutch's reply was matter-of-fact.

"Okay." From the slight pause and a sigh, I could sense that the 
captain was almost as disappointed as us. "Listen, Cheryl's located 
four supply houses that handle the chlorohydrine. I'm getting teams 
out to them."

I saw Hutch glance over at me from the corner of my eye, but I 
couldn't look at him. I'd gotten myself back under control, but it 
was shaky around the edges.

"What about Wedell and Martini?" he asked Dobey.

"No, nothing yet."

"Well, what the HELL are you guys doing down there?"

Hutch's roar took me completely by surprise. Where had that come 
from? A second ago he'd been cool enough to frost the car 
windows; now he sounded like...

Like when we had the run-in with Vic Monte's hitmen and I was 
bleedin' from a gunshot to the back.

Maybe dying.

"What do you mean, what the hell am I doing?" Dobey bellowed. 
"Listen, Hutchinson, I...

"Now you listen to me, Captain..."

How in the hell did I end up being the cool-headed one? I reached 
out and took the mic before my fire-breathing partner could dig his 
own grave, not to mention alienate a man we both consider a 
friend.

Hutch turned on me. "Wait a minute, I'm not through yet."

"C'mon."

His anger actually warmed me a little, at least enough to melt that 
hunk of ice in my gut. It's a good feelin' to know there's someone 
who'd do anything to protect you--even take on a 250 pound, 
seriously pissed off cop. And having to be strong for Hutch took 
my mind off the fact that I was starting to feel kinda achy.

I raised the mic to my mouth. "Cap, you'll have to forgive Hutch. 
He's feelin' a bit skittish."

It did the trick. Hutch ran his hand through his hair and ducked his 
head, something that was almost but not quite a smile on his lips.

Dobey sighed and all the anger left his voice. "Yeah, well...tell him 
I am too."

Okay, it was progress. But never let it be said that I quit while I 
was ahead. Hutch's sheepish expression was just too good to let 
slide.

"Hey. Didya hear that?" Hutch made a face and stretched out a 
hand for the mic, but I pulled it back out of his reach. "Cap, I think 
Hutch wants to apologize."

"Oh, now let's not get sickening about this, huh?" Hutch growled 
and snatched it from me.

I couldn't help grinning to myself. Sometimes my partner is just 
way too fun to play with--and too easy to distract. Gettin' him 
irritated with me was the quickest way to sidetrack him from 
worrying about me.

"What about Martini's old girlfriend, Sweet Alice?" Dobey asked. 
"You got a current address on her?"

Hutch and I just looked at each other, feelin' like a couple of idiots. 
Dobey had just suggested something one of us should've come up 
with right away. I started up the car, glad to be moving again.

"Yeah, I've got an address," Hutch said into the mic. "Why didn't I 
think of that?" The second half was for me, not Dobey. "That's a 
good idea, Captain."

Sweet Alice is a tough one to figure out. She's what you could call 
a "high class" hooker--if there is such a thing. And her name ain't 
just a name, she really is one of the nicest people you'd want to 
meet. Which brings me to the tough part--why's she in the business 
in the first place? I mean, if she'd been a junkie with a habit to 
support, I'd've understood. We see a lot of those, they're a dime a 
dozen. Broken-down, washed-up ladies whose beauty's just a 
memory, if it ever existed at all. They live from fix to fix, makin' a 
buck anyway they can, usually on their backs.

But Sweet Alice wasn't like that. Oh, she'd seen plenty of hard 
times, but the streets hadn't hardened her. She'd helped us out more 
than once, and I'm pretty sure she had a soft spot for my partner. I 
know he had one for her.

Alice welcomed us like we were old friends, 'steada cops who'd 
just chased off her latest trick. Hutch, who'd gone in through the 
back door, let me in.

"Well, howdy Starsky. Y'all come on in and have a drink." With 
that little drawl she sounded more like a Southern belle than a 
hooker.

"Hiya, Sweet Alice."

 "Hey, did you stop by to bust me, or just for a little friendly 
conversation." Her eyes lit up. "I know. You're lookin' for 
someone."

I smiled and nodded at her, ignoring the fact that I was starting to 
feel pretty lousy. I sure didn't want Sweet Alice to know what was 
goin' down, and if my partner thought I was hurtin' he might make 
me go back to the hospital.

"How do you feel about Janos?" Hutch asked her.

Sweet Alice huffed a little and rolled those big, blue eyes. "Oh my. 
Time heals. I just mildly hate his guts now." She chuckled a little.

"Well then you wouldn't mind telling us where he is?" I was letting 
Hutch do the talking since I knew Alice would be more likely to 
confide in him.

A little bit of fear crept onto her face, and from what I'd heard 
about the way Janos treated her, I could understand why. 
"Um...knowin' he wouldn't find out it was me that told ya about 
it?"

Hutch darted a quick look at me. His lips turned up a little bit but 
he looked sad. "Nope."

"Okay. Well, he's got a little business ingeniously called 
'Sexsational Films.' He bought himself a grocery store and he's 
callin' it a sound stage. Somewhere on Chanon Avenue, I think. 
Hey! What's the matter?"

Typical. Obviously ol' Janos hadn't changed a bit. Nothing would 
make me happier than to go over there and bust his little operation 
wide open.

"Thanks, Alice." Hutch headed for the door and after a quick nod 
at Alice I was right behind him. Already my hopes were raisin' 
again, thinking Janos might be our boy.

"Hey, wait, what's the beef?" Alice persisted. "Nothin' trivial, I 
hope."

Hutch opened the door for me. "No, I'm afraid not."

"You all right, Starsk?"

Her question surprised me--surprised us both, I guess. I'd started 
out into the hallway, but I turned back. "Hmm?" I could feel Hutch 
starin' at me.

"Weeell, you just sweatin' all over the place. You got a fever?"

I brushed my fingers across my forehead, a little unnerved when 
they came away dripping. One look at Hutch's face told me he 
wasn't gonna be any help.

"Uh, yeah."

Too soon. God, if you're up there, let Janos be the one.

I ducked out the door before I had to face Alice or Hutch another 
minute.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I caught up with Starsky just as he was leaving the building. I 
really wanted to say something about what had just happened, 
preferably something encouraging. But anything I thought of 
sounded incredibly lame or insensitive.

Don't give up, Starsk, we're gonna find him.

It's not the end of the world, there's still Martini and Wedell.

We've been down this far before and still come through, we'll do it 
again.

Yeah. Right.

I couldn't stop seeing Starsky's face when he realized that Bellamy 
couldn't have attacked him. Starsky can be a little kid at times, and 
as such, he can pout with the best of them. If I had a dime for every 
puppy dog face I've seen on his mug I could quit the Force and 
retire to the Bahamas. But this wasn't anything like that. He was 
trying so hard not to give in to the disappointment, to keep going in 
spite of such a crushing blow. 

I'd do anything to take that look off his face.

Anything.

I searched harder for something to say. "Got a feel on him?"

Yeah, I know. Brilliant. You try coming up with a profound 
remark when your guts are being ripped apart.

Starsky got that look on his face, the one that says, "What do you 
think I think?"

"Same as always, a crook..."

The word "crook" cut off midstream as Starsky took a nosedive 
toward the pavement. I reacted purely on instinct, one hand 
grabbing hold of his collar and the other pushing back against his 
chest. He wobbled for a minute, then seemed to regain his balance. 
He blinked, his expression stunned.

I kept my hand on his back, more for me than for him since he 
didn't appear to be in danger of falling. Thoughts were chasing 
each other through my brain like a dog after a cat. 

Starsky looking winded at the top of the stairs. 

Perspiring as if it were 95 degrees outside, when it couldn't be 
more than 80. 

His near tumble down the steps. 

The wallclock in Bellamy's apartment.

The poison wasn't just theoretical anymore--it was proving itself to 
be very, very real. I couldn't help wondering what it was going to 
feel like to watch my partner, my best friend, gradually come apart 
at the seams. I'd give anything to be able to make things easier for 
him.

Anything.

"Want me to drive?" It was pitifully inadequate, but the best I 
could come up with.

Starsky shrugged off my hand and ambled over to the car. "What, 
and get us both killed?" He circled around to the driver's side. 
"Why am I tryin' to make you feel better?"

Oh, Starsky. 

Even with darkness closing in from all sides, he was worried about 
me. We've both been known to use a little black humor when 
emotions start running too strong. Hell, I'd just done it myself on 
the way in to the station. It's like an intricate dance, with steps we 
both know by heart. We talk without talking. And the damnedest 
thing is, we always know what's really being said.

I mustered a little grin. "You know something, Starsk?"

"What?"

"It's always toughest on the ones left behind." 

See, partner? Two can play that game.

"I'll believe that when I hear it from someone who went first."

Dance completed.

I got into the Torino and picked up the mic to radio headquarters.

"This is Zebra 3 to control. Detective Hutchinson. Put me through 
to Dobey."

I could see Starsky--watching him out of the corner of my eye was 
getting to be a habit--trying to blot the sweat from his face with the 
sleeve of his jacket. It was a given that he'd be feeling 
uncomfortable by now, I just wasn't sure how much. And I sure as 
hell wasn't stupid enough to ask.

"Yeah, Hutch." Dobey sounded almost hopeful. I hated to burst his 
bubble.

"Scratch Bellamy."

He heaved a sigh and began telling me about the effort to get teams 
out to some pharmaceutical supply houses. That was all well and 
good, but not what I was hoping to hear.

"What about Wedell and Martini?"

"No, nothing yet."

I'd heard people use the expression "seeing red" before, but I'd 
never experienced it. At Dobey's words something inside me just 
snapped, and all the pent up rage and frustration came spilling out. 
I was sitting in a car, watching the damn poison slowly but surely 
choke the life out of my best friend, and Dobey couldn't even come 
up with a couple lousy addresses for the scum that might be 
responsible. I wanted to put my fist through the dashboard. I 
wanted to pull my gun and shoot the radio. I settled for screaming 
at Dobey.

I was just getting up a good head of steam when Starsky's hand 
covered mine and took away the mic. "Wait a minute, I'm not 
through yet!"

"C'mon." Soft. Reproachful.

He brought the mic to his mouth. "Cap, you'll have to excuse 
Hutch. He's feelin' a bit skittish." His voice was calm, almost 
gentle, with just a hint of amusement.

It was such a sharp contrast to the bellowing I'd just done, it 
affected me like a slap. I hung my head, feeling a bit bemused by 
the way Starsky had so efficiently taken control.

"Yeah, well...tell him I am too."

That was about the closest thing to an apology I'd ever heard from 
Dobey. He wasn't exactly your "touchy feely" type of guy.

Starsky seemed to be enjoying his role as peacemaker a little too 
much. "Hey. Didya hear that?"

I ignored him and held out my hand for the mic. Starsky pulled it 
away before I could get it. "Cap, I think Hutch wants to 
apologize."

"Oh, now let's not get sickening about this, huh?" I plucked the mic 
out of his hand. Now he really was starting to piss me off.

Dobey either didn't notice Starsky's antics or he'd chosen to 
overlook them. "What about Martini's old girlfriend, Sweet Alice. 
You got a current address on her?"

My jaw dropped and I turned to find Starsky looking at me with 
the same blank expression. 

"Yeah, I've got an address," I told Dobey when I found my voice. 
"Why didn't I think of that?" I asked Starsky. To finish making 
peace, I added, "That's a good idea, Captain."

I like Sweet Alice. I mean I genuinely like her. I know she's a 
hooker, but she's also a sweet, vulnerable, and very pretty lady. I 
know a little of her history--she confided in me once over a little 
beer and a lot of tears after a customer had worked her over. Her 
childhood was normal and happy until her father died and her 
mother remarried. The way her stepfather chose to enforce his 
'parental responsibilities' is a crime that changed a bright, popular 
young girl from a small Texas town into a runaway on the L.A. 
streets. In another life Alice might've been a high-class fashion 
model. Instead she wound up a hooker.

I never stop hoping she'll find something better, but I know in my 
heart she never will. In Alice's mind, she's where she belongs.

I've given up trying to change it.

Rather than bursting in on her when she'd be likely to have 
a...friend, I had Starsky give her fair warning at the front door 
while I circled around back. The look of sheer terror on the John's 
face when he saw my badge would've been funny, if it hadn't been 
so sad.

Alice greeted me warmly, as always. "Hi, handsome Hutch."

I let Starsky in and Alice welcomed him with just as much 
enthusiasm, even offering us something to drink, which we politely 
refused. When I brought up Martini's name she tried to make light 
of it, but I could see the edge of fear in her eyes. Janos, a slimy 
little twirp who picked on anyone weaker than himself, had beaten 
Alice repeatedly until she'd finally gotten enough courage to leave 
him.

I had to promise her the slimeball would never know she was the 
one who told us where to find him. What I really wanted to do was 
promise he'd be missing a few teeth.

"Hey, wait a minute, what's the beef?" she asked as we tried to 
make a quick exit. "Nothin' trivial, I hope?"

Trivial? Only if you consider murdering my best friend to be no big 
deal.

"No, I'm afraid not." I got as far as pulling open the door and 
Starsky was halfway into the hallway when Alice stopped us cold.

"You all right, Starsk?" Warmth and real concern colored her 
words.

Starsky turned back, his face expressionless. "Hmm?"

"Weeeell, you're just sweatin' all over the place. You got a fever?"

Starsky touched his forehead and stared at the droplets on his 
fingers, then looked at me as if I could provide some kind of 
answer. Unfortunately the giant boulder in my throat made 
breathing difficult and speaking impossible. 

He looked back at Alice and nodded, trying hard to offer her a little 
smile. "Yeah."

I followed him out the door. Fortunately, by the time we reached 
the car I'd managed to swallow the boulder and I could breathe 
again.


Chapter 6

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hutch didn't say a word when we got in the car, but I could hear 
those little wheels spinnin' in that thick skull of his. He drummed 
his fingers on his knee and pretended to look out the window, but 
I'd've bet he wasn't seeing a darn thing. 

I just concentrated on driving and hoped like hell he'd keep his 
mouth shut. I knew how worried he must be, and that he was 
probably dyin' to ask how I was feeling--no pun intended. But that 
wasn't what I needed from him right then. I needed to keep 
moving, keep swimming against the current, 'cause if I stopped I 
was goin' under and it didn't seem likely I'd be comin' back up.

Eventually I guess he couldn't stand it any longer. His eyes left off 
perusing the street and locked onto me instead. "Alice was right, 
partner, you don't look so good. Maybe it's time we..."

"DON'T." I didn't expect for it to come out sounding like that. Like 
when I warn a punk not to pull his gun.

Hutch kinda faltered, as surprised as me. "Starsk..."

"I mean it, Hutch."

Sometimes the most important quality for bein' a friend is knowing 
when to push and when to back off. Hutch looked at me for a long 
time. Just when I was convinced he was gonna take me to Metro, 
or worse yet, the hospital, he pressed his lips together and went 
back to looking out the window.

"Chanon's up ahead on the left. If I know our boy Janos, he'll have 
a couple of goons standing guard out front." He didn't sound angry, 
just tired.

I nodded to let Hutch know I heard, but it took me a few minutes 
before I could speak. "Hutch?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

We pulled up to the curb, and sure enough, a couple of two-bit 
losers were loungin' around on the sidewalk. Hutch walked past 
them to the door, then turned around.

"Oops. We gotta go around back."

We headed for the alley that would take us to the back door, but 
Mutt and Jeff stepped in front of us. Hutch smiled at 'em like they 
were boy scouts and not lowlife scum.

"Would you mind moving?"

Mutt and Jeff just stared at us with smug expressions plastered on 
their ugly faces.

I held out my badge. "Does that handle it?" I didn't really expect 
that to work, but we gotta go through the usual dance.

"Got a warrant?" Mutt asked after taking a close look.

I was feelin' pretty lousy by now and in no mood to take crap. "No 
I don't got a warrant," I said, looking at him like he was an idiot--
which he was. I looked at Hutch. "You got a warrant?"

Hutch pinched his nose and ducked his head to keep from grinning 
at me. "Nope."

"Well, that about covers it, huh?" Mutt said, pleased with his own 
razor sharp wit. 

"Yeah." Hutch looked at me, all sincere. "You know something, 
Starsk, he's right. We can't go on in there without probable cause. 
Like stupid here taking a swing at us."

Mutt's smile did an amazing disappearing act, and I had to work 
hard to keep it from poppin' up on my face. I frowned a little.

"Wait a second. Which one of these flakes you callin' stupid?"

Hutch looked 'em both over, playing it to the hilt. I swear, 
sometimes I think my partner should've been an actor. Mutt was 
smiling again but Jeff looked catatonic.

"The creepy looking one."

They looked at each other, and I could tell Mutt was gettin' 
steamed. I shrugged.

"Gotta be more specific."

"Oh, it's the guy that never picks on anyone his own size and gets 
his kicks intimidating young girls and old women."

Works every time. It was all over in a couple minutes and a few 
good punches; Mutt and Jeff dumped with the rest of the trash, 
right where they belonged. You'd think anyone with half a brain 
wouldn't be dumb enough to fall for that old trick--but that 
explains everything, don't it? I warned 'em both they'd better be 
history by the time we came out.

"Can you believe they bought that?" I asked Hutch as we walked 
toward the back door.

The cramps came out of nowhere, knocked me right off my feet. 
I'd had kind of a naggin' ache in my gut since leaving Bellamy's 
place, but this was a whole different ballgame. I'd never felt pain 
like that before, not even when I was shot and bleeding on the floor 
of that Italian restaurant. It blotted out everything else, I couldn't 
see, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe... I locked my arms across my 
body real tight to keep my stomach from creeping up my throat 
and spilling outta my mouth.

Through the haze of agony I felt two arms, strong but gentle. I'd 
folded myself up like some sorta human pretzel without even 
realizing it, as if I could crawl inside myself to get away from the 
pain. Hutch pulled me into his lap, and the warmth felt so good 
after the cold pavement I could've cried. I couldn't stop myself 
from grabbing onto him--his hand, his leg--like a drowning man. I 
heard the hum of his voice as he talked to me, but at first the words 
didn't mean anything.

Didn't matter though, my heart knew what he was sayin'.

Finally the cramps eased up a little bit, though my belly still hurt 
like hell. I realized I was gulping air, so I concentrated on slowing 
down, trying to relax and surf the pain. I had both of my hands 
wrapped around one of Hutch's, squeezing as hard as I could. His 
other hand was curled around my arm, and I think he was grabbing 
onto me just as tight.

"You gonna make it, huh?" Hutch's voice was calm, steady. 
Exactly what I needed to hear.

It felt like someone was plunging red-hot knives into my gut. Hurt 
so damn bad a part me wanted to die then and there, just to make it 
stop. But Hutch was there, holding me, encouraging me, and 
worryin' about me. I had to be strong for him. I had to say 
something to convince him I was okay.

"My stomach hasn't hurt this bad since my Aunt Rosie sent me her 
special chicken soup."

"Easy, easy now, come on. Just try to relax, okay?" Still calm but I 
could hear a ragged edge underneath, and the hand on my shoulder 
trembled.

"She never could get the hang of it. She made great wonton, 
though." I tried to look up at him, to smile, but another cramp tore 
through my gut and I couldn't help wincing.

"Think you can make it? Huh?"

I clamped my teeth together and nodded. "'Kay."

Hutch started to pull me up and the world tilted and spun. I reached 
back and grabbed hold of his jacket and didn't let go, not even 
when he got me on my feet. Every few seconds another spasm 
would twist my stomach into knots, and his firm grip on my arm 
and my chokehold on his jacket was all that stood between me and 
another dive to the pavement.

"Gimme a minute...Hutch." I was hunched over like an old man so 
I slowly straightened up. The cramps had pretty much stopped 
except for a twinge now and then, but there was a steady, gnawing 
pain like a tiger tryin' to chew its way outta my belly.

Hutch didn't rush me, just held onto my arm and watched me with 
those blue eyes that can see right through me. His face looked 
tense and stiff, and I could tell in his own way he was hurtin' as 
bad as me. I forced my hands to open and let go of his jacket, and 
an old standby for lightening the mood popped into my head.

"How do I look?" I snickered a little at my own joke. Sometimes 
it's either laugh or cry, and the first choice definitely beats the 
second.

"You look terrible." Hutch's voice quivered with...something. I 
think maybe he was stuck between those same two choices.

He kept hold of my arm the whole way to the door, lettin' me lean 
on him. When we got there he turned me to face him, but still 
didn't let go.

"You okay?"

Okay? I was about as far from okay as The Big Apple is from L.A. 
My insides felt like they were bein' run through Hutch's blender. I 
was about to face the slimeball who might be responsible. And 
even though he was putting up a pretty good front, Hutch was 
starting to look desperate.

But there was no way I was gonna tell Hutch any of that.

I twisted my mouth into grin and patted his chest. "Yeah."

Rousting Janos was a nightmare. Hutch likes to ride me about my 
tendency toward stubborn pig-headedness, but I used every single 
drop of it to keep from showing how much I was hurting. Walking 
without a hand braced on Hutch; standing straight, not hunched 
over holding my belly; a steady voice and a poker face--climbing 
Mt. Everest couldn'ta been any harder.

I let Hutch do all the hard work, knocking over equipment and 
roughin' up our boy so that he was nice and rattled before we 
started asking questions. I felt a little guilty, but not much. I 
figured with the way I was feelin', I'd better concentrate on staying 
vertical. And I told myself it was a good chance for my partner to 
blow off a little of the steam I'd seen building up.

Janos, of course, was all full of righteous indignation. Claimed he'd 
been at the studio since 4:30. Hutch bullyin' him just made him 
angry, not ready to break down and confess. Hearing him and 
Hutch go at it made my gut hurt worse--if that was possible.

I wanted the nightmare to be over. I wanted Janos to admit he'd 
drugged me. I wanted to go home, climb into my own bed, and 
sleep for a week.

I wanted it to stop hurtin'. Oh God, I'd've done just about anything 
to make it stop.

"Tell him a funny story," I said to Hutch, then walked over to 
where I could inconspicuously lean against some of the wreckage 
my partner had created.

Hutch picked right up on my plan. Janos, who'd been actin' pretty 
tough while Hutch was shovin' him around, turned to jelly at the 
thought of us smashing an expensive camera lens. Suddenly he 
was babbling like an idiot, begging and pleading for us to put it 
down. Thought he might burst into tears when we started tossin' it 
back and forth. It would've been funny under any other 
circumstances.

Right then I didn't feel much like laughing.

The minute Janos really cut loose, I knew he wasn't our guy. I'd 
been pretty foggy when Stocking Mask injected me, but his 
laughter still echoed in my head. Cold, cruel--the spiteful sound 
made it clear he was really gettin' his jollies from hurting me. 
Janos sounded more like a donkey braying.

"Unfortunately, that's not it."

I lobbed the lens at Janos and walked away without lookin' too 
hard at Hutch's face. I didn't have to see his expression to know 
that it looked just like mine. I needed to get out, get away from 
Janos and his flunkies before I lost what little grasp I had on my 
emotions.

No runs, no hits, and two outs. In baseball those numbers put you 
damn close to losing the game.

I walked over to a set of wooden stairs that led up to the second 
floor and just kinda let my legs fold under me. The pain in my 
belly had been bad enough; the ache in my heart was almost more 
than I could take. 

Hutch walked over, not even tryin' to hide his disappointment. 
"That's twelve hours gone."

"Yeah. Pessimist says the bottle's half empty. And the optimist 
says it's half full.

Twelve hours. Of pain even worse than the knife that was slicing 
my stomach into shreds. No longer able to see. To walk. To 
breathe.

Screw it, I was tired of being strong.

"Oh it hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts."

He sat on the step beside me, one arm curled around my shoulders 
and the other pressed to my stomach. I leaned toward him, needing 
to feel his warmth and his solidity when everything else around me 
was fallin' apart. Guess my coordination was already off, 'cause I 
wound up sliding off the step instead.

Like always, Hutch was there.

"I know, I know. Buddy, I'm here. I'm here." 

He pulled me into his arms and held me.  Anchored me. And for 
the first time since the nightmare began, I let go. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
I stewed for a while after we left Sweet Alice. Seemed silly that 
her casual observation would bother me so much, but it did. I could 
shrug off my concern over Starsky's appearance, chalk it up to a 
heightened sense of worry because I knew about the poison. But 
Alice was essentially an innocent bystander, completely unaware 
of Starsky's predicament. Like the child who pointed out that the 
emperor's new clothes were really his birthday suit, Alice had 
dispelled any illusions I might have held about what was really 
going on with Starsky.

He was sick. And it was starting to show.

For about the millionth time I thought about Doctor Franklin. If 
Starsky had followed his advice would we have an antidote by 
now? In letting him be a part of this investigation, had I signed his 
death warrant? Sure, it was Starsky's decision, but I'm not foolish 
enough to think I didn't influence him. If I'd encouraged him to 
stay put in the hospital, to let Franklin do this thing, he'd have 
bitched and moaned but he'd have done it.

At the time I told myself that I needed to support my partner's 
choice because it was what he wanted. But that's only part of the 
reason. Truth is, I couldn't bear the idea that we might spend 
Starsky's final hours apart. If the end was going to come, I wanted 
to be Butch and Sundance, going out in a blaze of glory.

Except the only one going out was Starsky. And I was feeling a 
little selfish. And a lot scared.

I turned toward him, unable to keep it to myself any longer. "Alice 
was right, Partner, you don't look so good. Maybe it's time we..."

"DON'T."

I expected a token protest, but not the icy cold warning. The voice 
that said, "I have a gun and I know how to use it." I stammered a 
little as I struggled to regain my balance.

"Starsk..."

"I mean it, Hutch."

Partner. Best friend. Brother. I know Starsky, when to push and 
when to get the hell out of Dodge. There was so much hidden 
within those few simple words. Hidden to others, but not to me. He 
was hurting, he was scared, and he was determined not to let me 
know. I had to respect that.

"Chanon's up ahead on the left. If I know our boy Janos, he'll have 
a couple of goons standing guard out front."

Starsky just nodded, but I could see his fingers tighten on the 
steering wheel and he swallowed hard. When he finally did speak, 
his voice was low and husky with emotion.

"Hutch?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

I was worried sick about him the entire time we were disposing of 
Janos' hired muscle. Two of the "all brawn and no brain" types 
would normally be a recreational sport for Starsky and me--we 
both love to mess with their heads.

We went through the motions, but my heart wasn't really in it and I 
don't think Starsky's was either, though he put up a good front. 
Getting Stupid to lose his temper was child's play, but Ugly did me 
the favor of throwing the first punch. In the blink of an eye it was 
all over, and Starsky was actually crowing a little about how easy 
it had been. Felt good to hear the smug tone in his voice.

Next thing I knew, he was on the ground.

I could see right away that he must be in excruciating pain. He'd 
curled into a fetal position, oblivious to the fact that he was on the 
pavement, and was grunting in pain. Sounded like someone was 
working him over, punching him repeatedly in the gut. I dropped 
down on one knee and pulled him into my arms.

"Starsky. Hey, hey, hey. Easy, easy, easy."

I operated on automatic pilot, terrified by what was happening to 
Starsky and offering blind comfort the only way I knew how. He 
burrowed into my hold as if he could escape the pain by sheer 
physical contact. I held on tightly, stealing a quick glance toward 
the street to be sure that Martini's two goons hadn't decided to 
come back. Last thing I needed was to be taken out by that scum 
while Starsky was incapacitated.

Starsky stopped squirming and lay in my arms, every muscle in his 
body tense, gulping air like a drowning man. His hands were 
locked onto me with so much desperation, I knew I was going to 
have finger-shaped bruises on my arm and leg.

"You gonna make it, huh?" I asked him.

"My stomach hasn't hurt this bad since my Aunt Rosie sent me her 
special chicken soup."

"Easy, easy now, come on. Just try to relax, okay?" I fought to 
keep my voice steady, but it broke a little anyway.

Starsky was on the ground, wracked with cramps I could still feel 
spasming periodically through his body, and he was trying to make 
me laugh. I knew what he was doing, and why. And even as I 
admired him, I hurt like hell.

I'd never felt so helpless. In the darkest of times, I'd always had a 
plan of action, something I could do. When Starsky was shot, I'd 
bandaged him up and concocted a plan to get us out safely. I was 
worried I might bungle the whole thing and get someone else hurt. 
I was terrified he was going to bleed to death. But at least I was 
doing something.

So far, it seemed like all I'd done was spin my wheels and watch 
Starsky get sicker.

"She never could get the hang of it. She made great wonton, 
though."

Ah, Starsk. I'm so damn sorry.

"Think you can make it, huh?" I asked, still uneasy about our 
location.

He let me haul him to his feet, but he was as shaky as a toddler 
taking his first steps. I steadied him--held him up, really--while he 
struggled to get control of himself and the pain. He briefly pressed 
one hand to his stomach, but removed it and clutched my jacket 
instead. After a long moment he loosened his fists and tried to 
straighten up.

"How do I look?" He even managed a weak chuckle at his own 
joke.

I don't think I'd ever seen him look worse. Voices of reason were 
screaming in my head: This is crazy. He'll never make it. He 
belongs in a hospital.

And I pushed them all aside. Starsky was willing to endure 
agonizing pain to have a stake in his own salvation. Who was I to 
take that away from him?

"You look terrible." The words sent one message, but I put the real 
meaning in my voice.

I kept hold of his arm all the way to the back door, letting him lean 
on me and taking it slow. As soon as we stepped inside, though, he 
let go and put on that cocky swagger that I know and love. The 
transformation was pretty amazing, but I knew he was hanging on 
by his fingernails. 

There was no joy, no amusement from him as I snagged Janos and 
shook him around. Normally Starsky gets a kick out of harassing a 
weasel like Martini, but today he was distant and detached. He let 
me do the talking and just watched.

"Where were you at four o'clock this morning?"

"What are you guys, crazy?" Janos was furious, too mad to be 
afraid at first. "What's the beef?"

I shook him by the collar of his cheap sportcoat. "Don't answer a 
question with a question."

"At my apartment! We started shooting at five, I was here at four-
thirty--ask the crew!" He shoved my hands away.

Starsky, who'd been staring at him as if he were an interesting bug, 
stepped in. "Come on, Janos. You expect us to take the word of 
these flakes on anything?" To Martini I'm sure he sounded same as 
always. To me, he sounded like he'd just run a marathon. "Tell him 
a funny story."

I drew a blank for a moment, then understood. Starsky's words in 
the hospital played through my head.

Well, he had about as mean a laugh as I've ever heard.

"I don't feel too funny this morning, Janos. So I want you to 
pretend that I told you a real knee-slapper."

"What do you guys want?" Still way too calm. Well, I could 
change that.

It was a pleasure making him squirm over that expensive camera 
lens. Suddenly Mr. Cool was running off at the mouth and 
pleading with us both, terrified his little investment was going to 
wind up in a million pieces on the floor. My frustration level was 
skyrocketing, and what I really wanted to be doing to Janos 
involved my fists in a close encounter with his face. Instead, I had 
to be content just to poke him with a stick--so to speak.

It would've been completely understandable if Starsky had 
fumbled a catch and dropped that lens. But I knew he wouldn't.

When Janos started laughing I saw immediately that we had the 
wrong guy. Starsky's face tightened and he sucked in a sharp 
breath of air.

"Unfortunately, that's not it." He tossed the lens to Janos and 
walked out.

When we hit fresh air, Starsky's steps got slower and slower. I 
thought we'd go back to the car, but he wandered over to a flight of 
wooden steps and dropped down onto them.

I just...couldn't seem to find any words. Nearly four o'clock in the 
afternoon. Half of the ridiculously short time my partner had been 
given was gone, and we had nothing. I was tired, frustrated, and 
aching inside, yet I knew it was just a drop in the bucket compared 
to what Starsky was feeling. I walked over to stand beside him.

"Well, that's twelve hours gone." I wished I could snatch back the 
words the moment they left my mouth.

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. You really know how to cheer a guy 
up, Hutchinson.

Starsky, God bless him, took it in stride, the way he had during 
every lousy set back so far.

"Yeah. The pessimist says the bottle's half empty. And the optimist 
says it's half full."

I looked at him. Despite his detour into philosophy, I could hear 
the pain in his voice.

Time in a bottle. I've never really understood that analogy, even 
though Jim Croce has made good money singing about it. Me, I've 
always thought we hold our time in a glass. Some people just let it 
sit there, looking pretty, and never drink from it. Some people 
guzzle it down like beer at a frat party, consuming it without really 
tasting it. And some people just pour it out on the ground, wasted 
and useless. Then there's the rare few who sip it slowly, enjoying 
every single mouthful for the pleasure it brings them.

Starsky's one of the few. He approaches life with an enthusiasm 
that I envy but can't quite duplicate. I'll tell you something, though. 
Since he came into my life, I've started sipping too. I try, anyway.

"Oh it hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts."

He practically fell into my embrace, too miserable to keep up the 
illusion any longer. I held him as tightly as I could while he finally 
allowed himself to fall apart. 

And I tried my damnedest not to think of that half-empty glass.


Chapter 7

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Starsky didn't even argue when I held out my hand for the keys. I 
watched him slide stiffly into the passenger seat, wishing he'd 
whine and complain. The silent acceptance was unnerving, and 
told me more clearly than words how much he was hurting.

Getting behind the wheel felt...wrong. I'd driven his car before, but 
only when Starsky was laid up in the hospital or needed me to 
bring it to him. Never with him riding shotgun beside me.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I drove. He'd been 
quiet since the breakdown in the alley--a little embarrassed, I think. 
Much as I didn't want him to feel uneasy about letting go in front 
of me, I knew I'd've been just as uncomfortable if the tables were 
turned. Starsky and I are more open with each other than most 
guys I know, but even we have our limits. We're still macho cop 
types, after all.

Embarrassment was only a small part of what was going on behind 
those blue eyes, though. Starsky looked terrible. His face had the 
strained, pinched look of suffering, and his normally bronzed skin 
was unnaturally pale. One hand gripped the armrest and the other 
curled tightly around his stomach. Every so often I'd see him 
flinch, as if an unusually sharp pain had slipped past his defenses.

"Stop it."

I blinked and looked over at him, startled from my thoughts. 
"Huh?"

Starsky turned a patient but weary gaze on me. "Stop watching me 
outta the corner of your eye."

I put on my most outraged expression. "Watching you? Why the 
hell would I want to do that? Hate to break the news to you, pal, 
but you're not that fascinating a specimen."

His lips quirked in what might've been a smile if he'd had more 
energy. "My point exactly. Besides, you keep eyeballin' me and 
you're gonna wreck my car. And there's no way in hell I'm gonna 
spend next week..."

Silence stretched long and heavy between us. You didn't have to be 
a rocket scientist to know what we were both thinking. There 
might not be a next week for Starsky.

There might not be a tomorrow.

"Just stop it," he finally muttered, slouching down further into the 
seat.

He must have zoned out for a while, because we were almost to my 
apartment before he pushed himself up, scowling.

"Hate to break the news to you, buddy, but this ain't the way to 
Metro."

Think fast, Hutchinson.

I flashed him a bright smile. "And they said you were just a pretty 
face."

My partner was not amused. His eyebrows drew together and his 
jaw clenched. "What are you up to, Hutch?"

Okay, so humor wasn't going to work. I gripped the steering wheel 
a little more tightly and opted for the direct approach.

"Thought we could stop off at my place for a while. Maybe get you 
some food and a little nap."

Starsky glowered at me. "Are you outta your mind? The clock's 
ticking and you want me to take a nap? But hey, why stop there? 
Let's take a few days off and go to Dobey's cabin for some fishing. 
'Course it's a long drive. Be a shame if I was dead before we got 
there."

"Are you finished?" I kept my voice calm and even, but it wasn't 
easy. Starsky just glared at me.

"Look, Huggy has an ear to the ground and an eye on every street 
corner. Dobey's got half the force out, turning over rocks to look 
for Wedell. There's not much either of us can do at this point but 
wait for something to turn. You barely slept last night, you've eaten 
next to nothing, and you look like hell. It only makes sense for you 
to take a break while you can."

I pulled to the curb in front of Venice Place, switched off the 
engine, and turned to stab a finger at him. "And you damn well 
better not joke about dying again. It's no fun from this side of the 
fence either." My voice shook with fury.

I got out of the car without waiting for him to answer, slamming 
the door because I know it irritates him. The anger felt good, 
cleansing. It was so much easier than the complicated cocktail of 
other emotions I'd been experiencing all day. I stalked around the 
back of car, feeling vindicated, until I saw Starsky awkwardly 
dragging himself out of his seat. The discomfort evident in such a 
simple movement doused the flame of my anger like a bucket of 
cold water.

I caught hold of his arm as he slowly unfolded his body from the 
seat. Once I saw he was steady, I turned toward the building. 
Starsky's fingers knotted in my jacket pulled me up short. I looked 
back into a face filled with remorse.

"Hutch...I...I didn't..." He closed his mouth and gave a little shake 
of his head. "I was outta line. I'm sorry."

I placed one of my hands over his and gave it a squeeze, then 
cocked an eyebrow. "Prove it."

It was obviously the last reply Starsky expected. He released my 
jacket and stared blankly at me. "Huh?"

I turned him toward the door with an arm slung around his 
shoulders--figured it was the most inconspicuous way of helping 
him up the stairs without pissing him off. "You said you're sorry. 
So prove it. Stop fighting me on this and cooperate."

Starsky's expression was wary. "By doing what exactly?"

"Eating whatever I put in front of you and then trying to get some 
sleep."

He looked honestly horrified. "Hutch, I seen what's in that kitchen 
of yours. My stomach already hurts, ain't no way I'm gonna be able 
to keep down desiccated liver mixed with wheat germ and tofu."

We'd reached the door to my apartment and Starsky was puffing 
like a freight train. I left one hand on his shoulder while I reached 
up for the key. "Starsk, your body needs reinforcements if it's 
gonna keep fighting this thing." I swung the door open and 
motioned him through. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

"I hate it when you do that," Starsky muttered as he shuffled past 
me. "It's impossible to argue when you put it that way."

Don't I know it.

"Just go take a load off," I told him aloud. "I'll bring it to you when 
it's ready."

Starsky muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "don't 
rush" but did as I suggested. I went into the kitchen, and after 
checking in with Dobey so that he knew where we were, started 
raiding the refrigerator and cupboards, wracking my brain. He 
needed something simple and easy to digest that would supply 
calories and fluids. I finally wound up dumping some crushed ice, 
bananas, strawberries, juice, vitamin extracts, and milk into the 
blender until I had a kind of fruit shake concoction. I poured it into 
a tall glass, added a straw, and served it with a flourish.

"Voila! A Hutchinson special."

Starsky eyed it like it was radioactive. "Special what?"

"Got one word for you, Starsk. Co-op-er-a-tion."

His nose wrinkled but he cautiously put the straw to his lips. His 
eyebrows shot up until they were practically hidden by that mop of 
curly hair and he pulled the glass back to stare at it.

"Hey! This stuff's good!"

I sat down on the other end of the couch, propped up my feet, and 
folded my arms. "Told you to trust me."

I clicked on the television and handed him the remote. Starsky 
flipped through channels until he found a cop show, then settled 
down to watch and sip the shake. By the time the show was 
ending, he'd polished off three-quarters of the drink and was 
looking pretty glassy-eyed.

"Too bad this ain't a TV show, huh, Hutch?" He set the glass on the 
coffee table and let his head drop onto the back of the couch.

I frowned a little, baffled. "'Fraid you lost me, partner."

"This whole mess, with me poisoned and us tryin' to find out who 
did it." Starsky gestured vaguely with his right hand, the left still 
clamped around his stomach. "If this was a TV show, we'd be sure 
to find the bad guy in time. It'd be a close call, of course, to keep 
things exciting. But eventually everything would work out right for 
a happy ending."

An invisible hand clamped steel fingers around my throat. "Don't 
sell us short, buddy. Personally, I haven't given up on that happy 
ending."

He let his head loll in my direction, eyes at half-mast and 
shadowed with dark circles. "Hutch, I want that as much as you do. 
But you gotta face the facts. Odds are..."

"I don't give a rat's ass what the odds are! We're gonna find the 
turkey who did this to you, and we're gonna get you that antidote. 
It's only a matter of time." I didn't want to take my rage out on 
him, but I couldn't stand to hear the resignation in his voice.

Starsky looked at me with such intensity I squirmed a little. The 
corners of his mouth turned up just a bit but his eyes looked weary 
and sad. "That's the point, pal. But I ain't gonna argue with ya."

We sat in silence for a while. When I finally looked over at him 
again, Starsky's eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and 
even. Mission accomplished. I grabbed a blanket from the 
bedroom and spread it over him, surprised when he spoke.

"Why'd we come here, Hutch?" The words were slurred with sleep.

"What?"

"Why'd we come to your place? How come you didn't just take me 
home?"

I shrugged even though his eyes were still closed and he couldn't 
see me. "No special reason."

One eye cracked open. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?" I really didn't want to get into this, and I kept 
hoping if I played dumb Starsky would give up. I should've known 
better. 

He grimaced as he shifted position so that he was lying on his side 
with the blanket tucked up to his chin. "You knew I'd never be able 
to sleep at my place."

I hadn't known, of course. But I'd suspected. We learned all about 
the psychology of victims back at the Academy, including how 
tough it can be for them to return to the scene of the crime. Starsky 
had experienced a severe trauma in his own home, and it wasn't 
over yet. I'd figured it would be tough under any circumstances to 
get him to relax and rest. Trying to make it happen with last night's 
memories lurking around every corner would make it impossible.

I snorted. "Nah. I just figured coming here was the only way to 
avoid having to eat cold pizza and root beer."

"Ah, so that's it." Starsky's eye slid shut and he sighed. I was 
halfway to the kitchen with his glass when I heard him call my 
name. "Hutch?"

I paused and turned back. "Yeah, buddy?"

"You're a terrible liar."

I grinned to myself.

You're welcome.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
   Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lettin' Hutch drive felt like giving in, but even I was smart enough 
to know I'd be crazy to get behind the wheel. I'd pulled myself 
together enough to stop bawlin' like a baby, but my gut was killing 
me and every once in a while things'd look like they were 
underwater—all blurry and wavy 'round the edges. Shape I was in, 
I wasn't fit to be driving a bike, let alone the Torino, and I knew it.

Didn't make it hurt any less, though. I have a real tough time bein' 
dependent on anybody for anything. I suppose most men have that 
streak in 'em to some extent, but mine runs pretty deep. If I had to 
play shrink on myself, I'd guess it goes back to my pop dyin' the 
way he did. Not havin' your old man around teaches a kid to 
depend on himself for a lot of things. I learned that lesson young, 
and I learned it good.

Too good, sometimes.

Even though we aren't real brothers, Hutch is blood of my blood, a 
piece of me. I know in my head that I can tell him anything, show 
him any part of me, and it won't make a damn bit of difference in 
how he feels. I mean, I've seen him at rock bottom, arms full of 
track marks, sweatin' and puking one minute, ready to tear my 
head off the next and it didn't change a thing for me. I don't know 
what I'd've done back in that alley if he hadn't been there for me. I 
needed a shoulder to cry on and he'd been there with no holds 
barred, just like always.

But I couldn't help feeling a little uncomfortable afterwards.

The past twelve hours felt like twelve years. I wanted my life back. 
I wanted my gut to stop feelin' like I'd eaten ground glass. I wanted 
to drive the Torino like a bat outta hell and have Hutch yellin' at 
me to slow down before I get us both killed. I wanted to look at a 
clock without counting how many hours I had left.

I wanted my partner to stop looking at me outta the corner of his 
eye.

"Stop it."

Hutch looked over with this dopey, blank look on his face, as if he 
didn't know exactly what I was talking about. "Huh?"

Man, I was way too tired, and way too miserable to get into this 
with him. "Stop watching me outta the corner of your eye."

I think I've mentioned that my partner missed a career in acting. He 
put on his indignant, wounded expression, like I was way off base 
accusing him of such a thing.

"Watching you? Why the hell would I want to do that? Hate to 
break the news to you, pal, but you're not that fascinating a 
specimen."

I did my best not to dignify that with a smile, but I wasn't entirely 
successful. "My point exactly. Besides, you keep eyeballin' me and 
you're gonna wreck my car. And there's no way in hell I'm gonna 
spend next week..."

Ah, hell. 

Next week was as far out of reach as next century for me unless 
things started turnin' around. I wondered what Hutch would do 
with the Torino if I didn't make it. I pictured him selling it to some 
smart mouthed punk with a lot of cash and no brains. Then I 
pictured him with another partner, cruisin' the streets in that 
trashcan on wheels he calls a car. Pulling pranks on Dobey and 
driving him crazy. Goin' to Huggy's for a beer after work.

Ah, hell.

"Just stop it." 

I scooted down further in the seat and tried not to think about 
someone else filling the holes in Hutch's life after I was gone. I 
knew I was just feelin' sorry for myself, but I figured I was 
entitled. 

I was so deep into my own pity party I didn't even notice Hutch 
was taking us to Venice until we were almost there. I pushed 
myself up in the seat and used the snidest tone of voice I could 
manage. "Hate to break the news to you, buddy, but this ain't the 
way to Metro."

He tried to get cute with me but I was in no frame of mind for 
humor. I demanded to know what he was up to, and I guess I 
sounded pretty angry, 'cause he told me.

"Thought we could stop off at my place for a while. Maybe get you 
some food and a little nap."

It was too much. Between kicking myself for breaking down in the 
alley, wallowing in self-pity over dying, and the constant stabbing 
pain in my stomach, I had reached the end of what microscopic 
amount of patience I own.

"Are you outta your mind? The clock's ticking and you want me to 
take a nap? But hey, why stop there? Let's take a few days off and 
go to Dobey's cabin for some fishing. 'Course it's a long drive. Be a 
shame if I was dead before we got there."

Hutch shoulda just pulled the car over and decked me. I sure 
deserved it. I knew what he was goin' through, knew his comment 
about it being hardest on the ones left behind was only half a joke. 
There was just so much bad feeling in me--anger, and sadness, and 
fear, and frustration--that it all erupted like a volcano and came 
spillin' out. Poor Hutch was just unlucky enough to be in the way.

When I get pissed off I blow my top. But Hutch...sometimes when 
he's the most angry he goes quiet. He told me exactly why we were 
goin' to his place, and everything he said made perfect sense. Not 
only that, he was doing it to look out for me. To try and keep me at 
his side, on the streets and not stuck at the hospital with the doc 
and his needles.

He didn't let me see his anger until he'd parked the car. "And you 
damn well better not joke about dying again. It's no fun from this 
side of the fence either."

I didn't even care that he shut his door hard enough to chip the 
paint. I tried to get outta the car so that I could talk to him, could 
apologize and tell him I was a jerk. Problem was, every move I 
made hurt like hell. I got halfway unfolded from the seat and 
couldn't go any further. Then Hutch's hand was on my arm, pulling 
me up and steadying me. Mad as he was, he coulda dumped me on 
my ass--I had it comin' to me. But he just turned and started 
walking toward the building.

I gaped at him for a minute before I found my voice. "Hutch...I...I 
didn't..." I'm no good at apologies, never have been. I shook my 
head, hopin' it would jump-start my mouth. "I was outta line. I'm 
sorry."

Hutch coulda told me to forget it, or he coulda suggested I go to 
hell. Neither response would've surprised me. Asking me to prove 
it, though...that curve ball came outta left field.

Gettin' some rest is one thing. But eating whatever Blondie decides 
is good for me? Do you have any idea how much he was asking 
from me? Hutch's got stuff in his kitchen that no self-respectin' 
human being would touch with a ten foot pole, let alone put in their 
mouth.

Trust me, he said.

And that's just plain dirty pool. Hutch always says that when he's 
tryin' to get me to do something unpleasant. 'Cause he knows I do. 
Ain't no defense against him when he plays that particular trump 
card. And it really pisses me off, too.

I gotta admit, Hutch's couch felt like a little piece of heaven. I sat 
there with my feet up on the coffee table and listened to him 
rattling around in the kitchen, tryin' not to think about what he 
might be throwin' into the blender. Hutch tricked me into drinking 
one of his power shakes once, and that was more than enough for 
me. The inside of my running shoes'd taste better than that stuff--
not that I've got any basis for comparison.

After a few minutes Hutch came walking up to me with a big smile 
on his face and a glass full of pink stuff in his hand.

"Voila! A Hutchinson special."

Oh God. He was so pleased with himself, and I still felt guilty for 
the way I'd acted earlier. But my stomach was doin' flip-flops and I 
really didn't want to ruin Hutch's carpet.

"Special what?"

"Got one word for you, Starsk. Co-op-er-a-tion."

Like I said, Hutch fights dirty. I tried to prepare myself for the 
worst and put the straw to my lips. The first swallow was...

Delicious.

I couldn't believe it. Had to take another sip just to be sure I wasn't 
delirious or something. It tasted kinda like fruit and ice cream, and 
I think maybe it was the only thing I coulda kept down at that 
moment.

"Hey! This stuff's good!" I admitted.

Hutch sat down next to me, looking awfully smug. "Told you to 
trust me."

He must've been feelin' pretty sorry for me, because he not only 
turned on the TV, he let me have the remote. Usually he won't let 
me anywhere near it 'cause he says I flip through the channels so 
fast it makes him nauseous. Personally, I think he's got something 
against horror movies.

There's not a lot to chose from at five o'clock on a weekday, but I 
found a cop show and drank most of Hutch's shake while we 
watched it. Usually Hutch and me would be crackin' jokes, 
laughing ourselves sick over Hollywood's version of the police. 
But neither of us felt much like laughing. And all I could think 
about was how nice and neat the ending turned out to be. The good 
guys won. The bad guys got put away. Justice was served. Simple.

No punks committing a crime and skipping town without being 
caught. No crooked lawyers findin' loopholes to set guilty men 
free.  No cops dying from a stray bullet, or a knife to the gut, or...

"Too bad this ain't a TV show, huh, Hutch?" I leaned back into the 
cushions a little more, so tired I hurt all over.

Not bein' in my head with me the last few minutes, Hutch couldn't 
figure out what the heck I was talking about. "'Fraid you lost me, 
Partner."

"This whole mess, with me poisoned and us tryin' to find out who 
did it. If this was a TV show, we'd be sure to catch the bad guy in 
time. It'd be a close call, of course, to keep things exciting. But 
eventually everything would work out right for a happy ending."

I didn't mean to upset him, I was just putting my thoughts into 
words. But Hutch's voice got tight and soft. "Don't sell us short, 
buddy. Personally, I haven't given up on that happy ending."

Ah, Hutch. Thought you were supposed to be the pessimist.

I looked over at him, too tired to bother lifting my head off the 
couch. "Hutch, I want that as much as you do. But you gotta face 
the facts. Odds are..."

"I don't give a rat's ass what the odds are! We're gonna find the 
turkey who did this to you, and we're gonna get you that antidote. 
It's only a matter of time."

I knew he believed it. Still, it felt damn good to hear him say it. 
Even if he was blinding himself to the real truth in his own words, 
I wasn't about to argue. When Hutch's crusading for a cause, you'd 
better go along or get the hell outta the way. It eased the pain in my 
gut just a little.

I must've been even more tired than I realized, 'cause in spite of the 
ache in my belly I started sliding down into sleep. The hum of the 
TV, the sound of Hutch breathing, and the softness of the cushions 
all conspired against me.

I was pretty far gone when I felt something warm and soft settle on 
top of me. I'd spent enough nights on Hutch's couch to recognize 
the blanket he always let me use. And it hit me then, dragging me 
back from the edge of sleep, how lucky I was.

"Why'd we come here, Hutch?" I knew the answer; I just wanted to 
hear him admit it.

"What?"

"Why'd we come to your place? Why didn't you just take me 
home?"

"No special reason." Hutch's voice was matter of fact--too matter 
of fact. It wasn't comin' natural; he was workin' at it.

I tried to look at his face, but I could only muster up enough 
energy to drag one eye open. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?"

Hutch is smart, I mean really smart. I hate it when he plays dumb 
with me, 'cause I know it's to keep from bein' honest. He knew 
exactly what I was asking him, but I guess he figured if he made 
me work for it, I'd give up.

You'd think by now he'd know better.

I squirmed around until I could lay down on my side, hopin' to find 
a more comfortable position. Just that little bit of moving woke up 
the cramps in my gut and I was almost sorry I'd bothered. I pulled 
the blanket all the way up to my chin and the warmth seemed to 
drive back the pain a little.

"You knew I'd never be able to sleep at my place."

I was irritated that Hutch was using psychology on me like I was 
made of glass while still grateful that he was looking out for me. I 
didn't wanna be a victim. I'm a cop, I'm supposed to be the one 
standing up for the victim. Pretty hard to feel that way now, 
though, layin' huddled under a blanket on Hutch's couch.

Hutch gave a little snort and shook his head. "Nah. I just figured 
coming here was the only way to avoid having to eat cold pizza 
and root beer."

"Ah, so that's it." Laying on my side seemed to ease the knife in 
my belly, and sleep was tugging me under again. Much as I hated 
givin' in, I was too tired to fight.

I heard Hutch gather up the glass I'd been drinking from and head 
for the kitchen, walking cat-footed to keep from disturbin' me. I 
didn't want a soapy scene, but I had to let him know I appreciated 
what he'd done.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

I smiled to myself. "You're a terrible liar."

He'd know what I meant.


Chapter 8

~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~

I guess I must've dozed off myself. I didn't intend to--I was 
determined to watch over Starsky while he slept, uneasy about the 
way the poison was relentlessly taking its toll. Even though Dr. 
Franklin had pretty much confirmed the twenty-four hour timeline, 
I couldn't seem to shake a few stray irrational fears. Like Starsky 
quietly dying in his sleep while I napped in the chair across the 
room.

For a while I crouched over the phone like a vulture, willing it to 
ring with some kind of news on Wedell's whereabouts. Then 
something my mother used to say when I was a kid occurred to 
me: a watched pot never boils. I don't think of myself as 
particularly superstitious; I leave that to my curly-haired partner. 
But my own lack of sleep was starting to catch up with me, and the 
chair near the couch where Starsky was sleeping looked a little too 
tempting to pass up.

I sat there and watched him sleep for a long time. It wasn't an 
unfamiliar sight, between stakeouts and the occasional vacation 
together--not to mention the times one of us is just too exhausted to 
drive home. Starsky normally sleeps like a little kid, sprawled out, 
all legs and arms, dead to the world. From the way he was curled 
up, knees drawn toward his chest and arms curled over his 
stomach, I knew he was hurting even if he was temporarily 
oblivious to it. I struggled against a tight, choking sensation of 
helpless rage and concentrated on his face.

I thought about the first time we met, back in the Academy, both of 
us as green as the grass but full of determination to save the world 
and tie it all up in a shiny gold bow. I remember how I looked at 
him then--the worn clothing, the streetwise flavor of his speech, 
the slight swagger that was a subtle thumbing of his nose to 
authority--and I dismissed him. Just another punk looking to be a 
cop for the glory and the gun, lacking the brains and the heart to 
ever make it through training.

To my shame, I couldn't have been more wrong. To my credit, I 
didn't take very long to realize it.

What I learned, once I got past the holes in his jeans and the Bronx 
in his speech, was that David Michael Starsky epitomized 
everything a good cop should be. Beneath the wiseguy exterior 
was a heart larger, more generous, and uncompromisingly loyal 
than any I'd ever known. I was privileged to be his classmate and 
eventually his partner.

I was blessed to be his friend.

I'd never lacked friends when I was growing up. 

Wait. Strike that.

I always had plenty of kids to pal around with through grade 
school, high school, college. I called them my friends. Looking 
back now, though, I don't think I truly understood what the word 
meant. What I have with Starsky... It's like the difference between 
a swimming pool and the ocean. And like the ocean, the farther we 
go, the deeper it gets. I've been very close to a lot of people, my 
parents, my sister--even Vanessa once upon a time. But my 
friendship with Starsky is hands down the most significant 
relationship I've ever had.

I couldn't face the idea of losing that. But then, I wasn't being 
given much choice.

Anyway, at some point during all those profound thoughts I guess 
my brain just shut down and I dozed off. I awoke to an empty 
couch and the unmistakable sounds of Starsky getting sick in the 
bathroom. I could only imagine how painful the process must have 
been for him, because every heave was followed by a moan. 

I hovered outside the doorway for a minute, not sure which he 
would value more, my support or his privacy. Starsky hates having 
anyone witness him puke, as I learned during a particularly bad 
case of the stomach flu. He was weak as a kitten, barely able to 
stagger into the john, but he wouldn't let me help him. Told me he 
didn't want to offend my delicate sensibilities. Hell, even after he 
was shot by Vic Monte's hitmen, he was less concerned about the 
fact that he was bleeding like a stuck pig than that he might be 
about to lose his lunch.

More retching, followed by a whimper, made up my mind. I put on 
my game face and opened the door.

Starsky was on his knees in front of the toilet, hands clutching the 
sides and forehead pressed to the bowl, his eyes tightly shut. His 
skin was as white as the porcelain, a sheen of sweat glistening on 
his face and plastering dark curls to his brow, and he was shivering 
violently. One eye cracked open to focus blearily on me.

I expected he'd tell me to take a hike, that he didn't need an 
audience. What he said instead tore my heart.

"Sorry...'bout the...shake."

I grabbed a washcloth and wet it with cold water from the sink 
before crouching down beside him. "You finished?"

 His mouth twisted into a wry little grin but his voice was hardly 
more than a croak. "Funny you should put it that way." The effect 
was spoiled by a particularly strong tremor and the smile 
evaporated. "Yeah."

"C'mere." I pulled him against me so that his back was braced by 
my front and gently wiped his face and mouth. "What do you say 
we get you off the floor and back to the couch?"

I slipped my arms under his and started to lift, but his hand 
clutched my sleeve. "Hutch."

Something in his tone stopped me cold and I sank back against the 
tile. "Yeah, buddy?"

His head dropped back onto my shoulder and I could see him 
blinking as he fought back tears. "I can't... I don't know if I..." His 
voice broke as his throat worked furiously to form words. When 
they finally came, they were a breathy whisper. "It hurts, Hutch."

I tried hard to keep my own voice steady, but it trembled almost as 
badly as Starsky. "Let's get you to the couch. I'll call Cheryl."

He managed to walk back to the couch on his own power, with just 
my steadying hand on his arm, but I could see how much effort it 
cost him. I brought him a glass of water and left him sipping it 
while I called Metro and located Cheryl. She was sympathetic but 
not surprised by Starsky's level of pain, and promised she could 
concoct something to help. I glanced at the clock as I helped him 
into his jacket and out the door--8:30 p.m. Four more hours gone 
and no word on Wedell.

Starsky let me help him out of the car when we got to Metro, but 
shook my hand off as soon as we walked through the doors. I knew 
rumors must be flying about what had happened to him, and heads 
turned as we passed despite his attempt to appear normal. Truth 
was, whether he accepted my help or not he looked terrible, like a 
good stiff breeze could blow him over. He walked with a careful 
economy of movement that was completely at odds with his 
normal, bouncy stride, and the stiff set to his features screamed 
pain.

I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally closed the door to 
Cheryl's lab and Starsky slumped onto a stool. I turned around just 
in time to catch Cheryl looking at him, a fleeting expression of pity 
crossing her features before she replaced it with a professional 
mask. She sensed me watching and bent over a test tube.

"It'll be ready in just a minute."

I laid my hand on her shoulder and she looked up, eyes wide and 
startled behind her glasses. I tried to smile reassuringly, but it felt 
wooden.

"Cheryl." I glanced at Starsky, sitting so quietly with his head 
pressed against the side of a small refrigerator, and lowered my 
voice. "It's bad."

Her gaze darted to Starsky and then back, and her expression 
softened. "I'll hurry."

I paced back and forth for a few minutes while Cheryl measured 
and poured, her brow furrowed in concentration. While I paced I 
would sneak glances at Starsky, but he didn't move, he didn't look 
up, and he didn't read me the riot act. Finally I couldn't stand it any 
longer, and wandered over to him.

"How ya doing, huh?"

Brilliant opening, Hutchinson. How the hell do you think he's 
doing?

"I'm scared."

My stomach plunged to my toes. Starsky and I have been in more 
life and death situations than I'd want to count, and I'd never, 
NEVER heard him admit fear. I leaned in close so that he could 
feel me at his back and searched for words--to reassure, to 
encourage, to comfort--but I came up dry. 

And suddenly, more than anything, I just wanted to hear him 
laugh.

"I don't know what there is to be scared about. We've still got 
seven hours."

Starsky turned his head to look at me, his incredulous expression 
testifying that he wasn't certain whether I'd lost my mind. I gave a 
little nod and a grin as if to stand behind my words. Inside my head 
a voice was chanting loudly, drowning out the sounds of Cheryl's 
lab equipment.

Come on, Starsky! Play along. It's not over unless we say it is. 
Don't give up! Don't quit on me now.

And my partner, as always, didn't let me down.

"Oh that's right. Just enough time to catch the double bill at the 
Rivoli and still finish that book I been readin'."

I chuckled. I knew it couldn't be easy for him to crack a joke, but 
the slight curve of his lips felt like a glimmer of sunshine after a 
cloudy day.

"Well we know it's not Bellamy, and we know it's not Janos. All 
we've got to do is to find Wedell." I wanted to believe that badly, 
but it was no good unless Starsky believed too.

"Only he ain't turnin' up. We got a whole police force lookin' in 
this city and he ain't showin'." Starsky answered me with just a 
slight turn of his head, and from the occasional twitch of his body I 
could tell that the muscle cramps were only getting worse. Those 
reassuring words were getting harder to find.

And I still needed that laugh.

"That's 'cause you and me aren't on the streets," I told him and he 
made a sound as if I'd enlightened him to a profound truth, egging 
me on. I patted his leg. "As soon as we get back on the streets we'll 
turn that turkey."

"Probably find him in a trash can."

I had his attention now; he'd shed that blank look and a trace of 
amusement was back on his lips. "Sure," I agreed.

"Hit the streets, run down a few alleys." He was smiling now.

"Bust down a few doors." My spirits lifted just hearing the sarcasm 
in his voice. Had this nightmare really only been going on for 
seventeen hours? It felt like seventeen days.

"Get a few snitches workin'."

"The guy won't have a chance."

The laugh I'd been hoping for erupted from Starsky in a little snort. 
I was still snickering, relishing the moment, when his chuckle 
contorted into a grimace of pain.

I was hit by such an overwhelming wave of helplessness, grief, and 
fury that I had to turn my face away. I didn't want to expose 
Starsky to my anguish, to give him a reason to worry about me. 
My partner, however, had retreated back into his shell as he 
struggled just to hold himself together. 

"Cheryl, will you hurry up with that stuff!"

I heard the bite in my words and sucked in a deep breath, rubbing 
Starsky's back in what I hoped was a soothing manner. Poor 
Cheryl scrambled to finish preparing the syringe and hurried over 
to us.

"Here, this'll help."

I got Starsky's sleeve rolled up so she could swab his arm with 
alcohol and inject the painkiller, then rolled it back down. He 
submitted to our manhandling, too miserable to offer more than a 
slight protest at the needle. 

"Boy. That arm's been really gettin' it."

I put his jacket back around his shoulders, watching him anxiously 
for some sign of improvement. In my head, I knew better than to 
expect some kind of miraculous revival, but my heart kept hoping 
for it just the same.

"You okay?"

Starsky tried hard to oblige me. "Oh yeah, I'm fine. The room's in 
pretty bad shape, but I'm doin' just fine."

Cheryl held out her hands, regret darkening her face. "I can't give 
you anything stronger without knocking you out."

"Please, that's all I need." The usually dry Starsky wit was forced, 
strained.

Cheryl turned back to dispose of the used hypodermic and I barely 
contained the urge to begin smashing all the tubes, flasks and 
beakers, not stopping until they reflected the rapidly splintering 
pieces of my heart.

"What's the good of all your books, all your junk, all your toys, 
your stuff here, wha...if it doesn't DO anything!" I heard myself 
stammer, something that only happens when I lose control of my 
emotions, and it just made me angrier. "What's happening here, 
Cheryl?"

Rather than snapping back, Cheryl looked distressed. "Nothing 
very good."

"You're doin' all you can, Cheryl."

Leave it to Starsky, as sick as he was, to try and ease her regret. 
Cheryl sighed and removed her glasses, massaging the bridge of 
her nose. For the first time it occurred to me that she looked almost 
as tired as we did.

"I did go out to campus. Dad was in a faculty meeting and couldn't 
come out--wouldn't, I guess."

The thought of the professor deliberately refusing to offer help just 
stoked my anger. I wanted a fight, and so far no one was 
cooperating. "What's the matter with him? How come you have to 
keep making excuses for him?" I growled.

And yet again Starsky's quiet response, the voice of reason. His 
eyes fastened onto mine and wouldn't let go. "Softly. Don't 
antagonize the people I need." The barest trace of a smile 
accompanied the rebuke, quenching my rage.

Cheryl went on about spectrograph analysis and a lot of other 
mumbo jumbo that simply meant a dead end as far as a cure for 
Starsky. I'd heard it all from Dr. Franklin already, and it didn't play 
any better the second time around.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."

"Well. That brings us back to finding Wedell."

Starsky looked at me and I could read his thoughts through his 
eyes. 
 
Soon. Dear God, make it soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~
  Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~

I woke up knowin' I had to puke. I'm not talking about the queasy, 
seasick kind of feeling tellin' you your stomach might have its own 
ideas 'bout what to do with lunch. I'm talking the "Oh boy, I better 
get to the john right now or I'm gonna make a big mess" kind of 
feeling. I must've still been half asleep, 'cause I was on my knees, 
worshipping the porcelain god before I'd even gotten my eyes all 
the way open.

Hutch is just damn lucky I know his apartment as well as my own.

I hate to puke. I mean I really hate to puke, almost as much as I 
hate hospitals. I hate the way your stomach tries to crawl up your 
throat. I hate the taste in your mouth that no amount of water 
seems to wash away. And I hate the smell that hangs around your 
house for days afterward. Once a couple years ago I came down 
with a vicious case of the flu and Hutch, pal that he is, decided he 
was gonna help nurse me through it. Practically had to lock the 
bathroom door to keep him from following me inside.

Not that I wasn't grateful and all, but some things a guy just doesn't 
want to share with anyone, even his best buddy. For me, pukin' is 
definitely top of the list.

I'd barely begun to bid farewell to Hutch's strawberry shake when I 
realized that all the muscles you use to puke were the same ones 
that'd been twisted in knots from the poison. Every time I heaved it 
felt like someone was stabbing me in the gut with a knife. I 
panicked a little, tried to will my stomach to settle down, but there 
was no reasoning with it. All I could do was hang onto the toilet, 
shaking and moaning like a baby. I think if Hutch'd handed me my 
gun at that moment, I'd've cheerfully pulled the trigger.

The heaving tapered off, and I suddenly realized Hutch was 
standing in the doorway. Just to show how far gone I was--I didn't 
even care that he'd just had a ringside seat while I puked my guts 
up. I just felt bad he'd gone to all that trouble to fix me a drink that 
wound up in the can.

"Sorry...'bout the...shake."

I was shivering pretty hard but my face felt hot. I closed my eyes 
and listened to the sound of water, wishin' I could rinse the rotten 
taste outta my mouth. I opened them when I felt Hutch's hand on 
my back. He was crouched beside me on the tile, that expression 
on his face that's somewhere between sadness and affection.

"You finished?"

Hard not to be struck by the double meaning in that question. I felt 
finished all right, as if I'd used up every shred of persistence and 
hope I had left. Dying was starting to be less frightening than what 
life I had left, and that scared me.

That scared me a lot.

I dredged up a grin. "Funny you should put it that way." It was 
supposed to sound sarcastic but my raspy voice couldn't pull it off. 
Then a particularly bad shiver set my stomach into spasms and it 
was all I could do to keep from bawlin' like a baby.

"C'mere." Hutch tugged me until I was leaning back against him 
and he wiped my face and mouth with a washcloth. 

It felt... I can't even describe how it felt. He was warm and solid at 
my back when it seemed like everything around me was crumbling 
into little pieces. The cloth, cooling the burning in my cheeks and 
wiping away the sweat and grime, felt like heaven. But what really 
did me in, what gave me a lump the size of a watermelon in my 
throat and stung my eyes, was the way he did it--gentle but matter-
of-fact, like it was no big deal to be takin' care of me that way.

Hutch ain't much for talking about his feelings--hell, neither am I. 
But like the old saying goes, actions speak louder than words. And 
sometimes, like right then, Hutch let me know how he felt loud and 
clear. It didn't stop the machete in my gut, but it did make me a 
little less afraid.

"What do you say we get you off the floor and back on the couch?"

He didn't really expect me to answer, I guess, 'cause he just started 
to haul me up on my feet. The pain in my belly, which had settled 
down to a low roar, woke right up again. Felt like I was ripping 
into two pieces, like if Hutch kept lifting my bottom half would 
just drop off and land on the floor. I grabbed his arm as hard as I 
could, which at that point wasn't all that hard.

"Hutch."

He stopped. Thank God, he stopped lifting and leaned back against 
the wall, though he kept ahold of me. "Yeah, buddy?"

Suddenly I felt like a wimp, like the biggest baby around. He was 
right; we couldn't just keep sitting there on the bathroom floor all 
night. The clock was ticking; we had to call Dobey, check in with 
Huggy, get the word on Wedell.

Problem was, that meant moving. And I had a pretty good idea 
how that was gonna feel. It was gonna hurt. Bad. And I was so 
damn tired of hurting.

I leaned my head back on his shoulder and blinked back tears. Jeez 
I was sick of blubberin' but I couldn't help myself. "I can't... I don't 
know if I..." My voice just up and quit on me and it took me a 
minute to get it working. "It hurts, Hutch."

"Let's get you to the couch. I'll call Cheryl."

I wasn't prepared to hear tears in Hutch's voice. It flipped some 
kind of switch inside of me, gave me the guts to get up and walk to 
the couch even though the pain was just as bad as I'd figured. I 
could take care of myself, deal with my own suffering, but I 
couldn't stand seein' Hutch hurt too. I'd do just about anything to 
make this easier for him.

He got me a glass of water and went to call Cheryl. I sat there, 
sipping real slow in case my stomach decided to go for an encore 
performance, and tried not to listen. Concentrated on how good the 
water felt sliding down my throat and not the hushed, desperate 
sound of Hutch's voice.

I don't want to do this I thought for about the millionth time. It was 
never supposed to end this way. It shoulda been a bullet, quick and 
clean.

I shouldn't have to slowly fall apart, piece by piece.

I shouldn't have to watch Hutch watching it happen.

The ride to Metro was just another part of the nightmare. I swear I 
could feel every bump in the road go straight through my belly, 
and Hutch was jumpy and tense tryin' to avoid 'em. I let him pull 
me outta the car but once we were inside I shrugged off his hand 
and did my best to look normal. Looking back now, I can see that I 
wasn't foolin' anybody, but at the time it was real important that I 
not let anyone know how bad off I was.

Everything around me faded--a uniformed cop booking a drunk, 
two hookers arguing with each other over who dropped a twenty, 
somebody banging on the candy machine for eating a quarter--until 
all I could see was the hallway in front of me, the path to Cheryl's 
lab. In the back of my head I heard a voice that sounded an awful 
lot like "The Little Engine That Could" whispering "keep 
goingkeepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing...."

When I finally got inside I barely made it over to a stool before my 
legs gave out on me. I could hear the hum of voices as Hutch and 
Cheryl talked, the tap of his feet as he paced back and forth, but I 
couldn't move. Maybe if I held real still, hardly even breathed, the 
fire in my belly would simmer down a bit.

Then Hutch was at my side. "How ya doing, huh?"

For a college boy, my partner can sure ask some dumb questions. I 
hurt, I was tired, and I didn't feel like beating around the bush.

"I'm scared."

Sorry, Hutch. I just can't pretend any more.

I heard him suck in his breath. You see, we been in a lot of tight 
spots, Hutch and me. Even come close to dying a few times. But 
neither one of us has ever said the "S" word. Guess I was kinda 
breaking the rules to say it then, but I didn't give a damn.

Hutch leaned in close. Like I said before, we do that more than 
most guys I know. What we can't bring ourselves to say with 
words we say with touch. A hand on the arm. A pat on the back. 
The nudge of a shoulder. It all means the same thing.

I'm here now.

I'll still be here tomorrow.

You're not alone.

So it didn't surprise me when he stepped close and bent over me. 
What he said, though... Well, I wasn't prepared for that.

"I don't know what there is to be scared about. We've still got 
seven hours."

Was he crazy? Did he think this was some kind of joke? 'Cause 
from my neck of the woods things weren't lookin' too funny right 
now. Why in the world would he...

I remembered his face when I cracked wise about dying. The 
trembling of his voice when he promised to call Cheryl.

You know something, Starsk? It's always hardest on the ones left 
behind.

Did he realize how much he was asking from me? Then again, 
could he ever ask too much?

"Oh that's right. Just enough time to catch the double bill at the 
Rivoli and still finish that book I been readin'." I rolled my eyes.

He chuckled and the sound was worth the effort it took for me to 
play along. "Well we know it's not Bellamy, and we know it's not 
Janos. All we've got to do is to find Wedell."

I couldn't stop from pointing out the painful truth. "Only he ain't 
turnin' up. We got a whole police force lookin' in this city and he 
ain't showin'."

Hutch ducked his head, but he didn't let my doom and gloom stop 
him for long. "That's 'cause you and me aren't on the streets. As 
soon as we get back on the streets we'll turn that turkey."

Ah, Hutch. What am I gonna do with ya? Only you could make me 
feel like laughing in the middle of this mess.

"Probably find him in a trash can," I suggested.

His smile got bigger. "Sure."

"Hit the streets, run down a few alleys."

"Bust down a few doors."

"Get a few snitches workin'."

Hutch looked like a little kid with a brand new ball. "The guy 
won't have a chance."

We laughed together, and for just a moment I almost felt as normal 
as I'd tried to act on the way in. It felt so good.

Then my insides twisted up into a knot and stole the breath right 
outta my chest. I faintly heard Hutch yell at Cheryl over the 
buzzing in my ears and I felt someone pull the jacket off my 
shoulder and push up my sleeve. Something sharp jabbed my arm 
and the sleeve and jacket were carefully replaced.

I rubbed at the sore spot, though the sting had already faded. "Boy. 
That arm's been really gettin' it."

Warmth spread up my arm and down through the rest of my body. 
It didn't take away the broken glass in my gut, but it did soften the 
edges a little bit. Unfortunately, that's not all it softened. 
Everything around me looked a little blurry and out of focus. I 
blinked but it didn't make a difference. Damn. I was stoned and my 
stomach still hurt.

Hutch was staring at me. "You okay?"

I knew what he wanted. He wanted to hear everything was fine, 
that Cheryl had fixed me up and I was feelin' no pain. And I 
wanted to be able to give him that, but there was one problem--
Hutch and me don't lie to each other. So I did my best to set his 
mind at ease.

"Oh yeah, I'm fine. The room's in pretty bad shape, but I'm doin' 
just fine."

"I can't give you anything stronger without knocking you out."

Cheryl looked so guilty--I couldn't have that. "Please, that's all I 
need."

Remember I said that sometimes when Hutch gets real mad he 
goes quiet? Well the rest of the time it's more like a volcano 
eruptin'. He was furious: 'bout what was happening to me, the fact 
that he couldn't do anything about it, and that the guy who did it 
was still walking around free as a bird. I could see what he really 
wanted to do, and it was a darn good thing for Cheryl and the 
department that he still had enough common sense not to go with 
it. So instead he started riding poor Cheryl, an innocent bystander 
but an easy target.

I tried to reassure her. I knew she was doin' everything she could to 
help me, and she was showing the long hours bent over a lab bench 
just as much as Hutch and me were lookin' wacked out from the 
sleepless night and running all over the streets.

I also knew the situation with her father wasn't good. The old man 
had thought the sun rose and set on that no good son of his, 
couldn't see how messed up he'd gotten. He was too busy grieving 
over a kid who wasn't worth spit to pay attention to the one who 
was.

So when Hutch started hasslin' her about her father, I had to stop 
him. "Softly. Don't antagonize the people I need." I managed a 
smile, even though it was pretty scrawny, and hoped he'd get the 
unspoken message.

You're fighting the wrong battle, pal. That ain't no way to win the 
war.

The lines across his forehead smoothed out and his mouth quirked 
just a little, letting me know he understood.

I listened to Cheryl ramble on, only half-hearing the words but 
reading the meaning loud and clear. It really all boiled down to one 
thing. There was still only a snowball's chance in hell of finding a 
cure for what ailed me.

And that snowball's name was Al Wedell.


Chapter 9

~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~

I got Starsky settled at his desk and picked up the phone to check 
in with Huggy. My partner had been pretty quiet since we left 
Cheryl and I didn't push him to talk. I knew he was still in pain and 
feeling a little off-kilter from whatever she'd given him. He 
propped his head on one fist and doodled on a pad of paper while I 
dialed, but I wasn't fooled by his apparent indifference. He was 
listening hard to every word I spoke, hoping against hope for good 
news.

Huggy picked up on the second ring. "Talk to me."

"It's Hutch. What's the word?"

He hesitated, and I could hear the grimace in his voice. "The word 
is, there ain't no word. I been bustin' my hump puttin' out word to 
every pimp, junkie, and snitch on the street. If anyone out there 
knows who hit your partner, they ain't talkin'."

"Nothing?" Starsky's head snapped up and he stared at me for a 
long moment before flipping open the file on Wedell and studying 
it with what was supposed to look like deep concentration.

"Nada. Zip. The big goose egg." His voice softened. "How is he?"

I swiveled my chair so that my back faced my partner and matched 
his tone. "Been better."

"Tell him I said to hang in there. I got my best people on this, 
somethin's bound to turn."

I looked up at the wall clock. 9:34. "Thanks, Hug."

"De nada, my man."

When I turned back to hang up the phone two intense blue eyes 
skewered me. "Don't do that." Starsky's voice vibrated with anger.

I opened my mouth, intending to play dumb, but he held up his 
hand to cut me off. He braced his forearms on the desk and leaned 
toward me, brows drawn together in a scowl.

"I mean it, Hutch. This is my life we're talkin' about, my fight. I 
need you to help me, not treat me like some dumb little kid."

I stared at him--the way his hands clenched into fists, the hunch of 
his shoulders, the lines of pain around his mouth--and for a split 
second I put myself in his shoes. Enduring excruciating pain. 
Betrayed by the very body I'd relied on for years to keep me safe. 
Slowly but surely losing the ability to fight for my own life.

And then my well-meaning but thickheaded partner decides he's 
gonna "protect" me, taking away the small scrap of dignity I've got 
left.

"I'm sorry, Starsk. Won't happen again."

Not what he expected, I guess. His eyes widened with such a look 
of surprise that I actually chuckled at little.

"I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I can admit when I'm wrong," 
I growled.

""S the only reason I keep ya around," he muttered, but there was a 
distinct grin in the words.

I put on a wounded expression. "And all this time I thought it was 
my charm and boyish good looks."

Starsky snorted, then all too predictably winced, his arms leaving 
the desktop to wrap around his stomach and his face losing the 
small amount of color that still remained.

Damn.

"Sorry." I went to put my hand on his arm, just a simple touch to 
let him know I was there, but I couldn't reach him across the chasm 
of the desk.

He gave a sharp little shake of his head, panting a little. "'M okay. 
Don't ever apologize...for makin' me laugh. I need..." He broke off 
with another short jerk of his head.

Dobey's door swung open and he stood there with the scowl on his 
face that he uses to mask deep emotion. "Starsky! Hutchinson! In 
my office."

Starsky braced his hands on the desk and pushed upright, swaying 
a little, Wedell's file still clutched in his hand. I automatically 
reached over to steady him, but pulled back when he shot me a 
warning glare. When we got into Dobey's office I expected he'd 
fold himself into a chair. Instead he stood, shoulders slightly curled 
from the pain it provoked in his gut.

"You two haven't phoned in a report in over three hours," Dobey 
barked, folding his arms across his chest. "I know nature of this 
case is unusual, that you've both got a personal stake in it, but that 
doesn't justify abandoning procedure!"

I watched him, a sick feeling uncoiling in my chest. He was trying 
too hard to be angry--something lurked under the surface that I just 
knew I wasn't going to like. I glanced at Starsky out of the corner 
of my eye, but he didn't seem to notice. Too absorbed with just 
staying upright, I think.

He gestured weakly with the folder in his hands. "Sorry, Cap. 
Truth is, we ain't had much to report. We got Huggy shakin' down 
his best informants, but nothin's turned. We ruled out Bellamy and 
Janos, if we could just get a line on..."

"You can stop looking. We just located your third possible." 
Dobey unfolded his arms and stood with hands on hips, suddenly 
unable to meet our eyes.

"Wedell?" I asked. The sick feeling had turned into a fist, 
squeezing the breath from my lungs.

Dobey nodded. "He's been dead four days. Heart attack." He bit his 
lip, dropping his eyes for a moment, then peering up at Starsky.

Starsky.

I turned to my partner, reeling with the shock of Dobey's news. 
Starsky just stood there, pale and sweaty, with blank, lifeless eyes. 
After a moment he turned and walked slowly from the office, 
never looking at me.

I knew I should acknowledge Dobey somehow. I could feel his 
frustration, his regret, like an additional presence in the room. I 
knew how much he must have hated to be the one to break such 
terrible news. I understood--perhaps better than either he or my 
partner--that the noisy, sometimes intense squabbling between 
them masked a deeper affection. Though you'd never catch us 
admitting it, both Starsky and I have a void in our lives when it 
comes to father figures. In his own way, Dobey's been all that, and 
more.

I wanted to dig up the words to let him know we understood he 
was doing everything he could. That we didn't blame the 
messenger for the message. But in the end, I was too numb to do 
anything but follow my partner. And just as surely as I knew all the 
rest, I knew Dobey understood.

I had to do something. If I'd thought I felt helpless before, it was 
nothing compared to the crushing weight of powerlessness that 
smothered me now. I stopped at the water cooler outside Dobey's 
office and filled one of the little paper cups. Starsky's words and 
my own musings filled my head, mocking me.

Pessimist says the bottle's half empty, and the optimist says it's half 
full.

Time wasn't in a glass. It was in a crappy little paper cup--
incapable of ever holding enough to satisfy, easily crushed and 
broken under someone's careless heel.

And Starsky's was leaking like a sieve.

I walked over, trying not to notice the way he gripped his desk to 
keep from wobbling, the other arm pressed to his stomach. He 
lowered himself carefully into his chair and I did the same, setting 
the little cup of water on the blotter.

"Here's some water."

Brilliant Hutchinson. You're a never-ending source of comfort, 
aren't you?

Truth was, I had absolutely no idea what to say. All my previous 
cheerleading speeches had revolved around finding Wedell. 
Without him we were dead in the water, nowhere to turn.

Starsky was going to die. And the best I could do was offer him a 
lousy little paper cup of water.

"Detective Hutchinson?"

I could barely pry my eyes from Starsky, sitting mutely in that 
chair with his hand pressed to his gut, to take in the dark-haired 
older woman who stood hesitantly in the doorway to the squad 
room.

"Yeah." I scrubbed at my temples, trying to relieve the pounding 
headache that had started in Cheryl's lab and intensified in Dobey's 
office.

"Oh, excuse me, but I'm supposed to look at some pictures."

"Ah, Ted, would you help this lady out please?" I gestured vaguely 
in the direction of Ted Colton, knowing he and his partner were 
assisting on Starsky's case.

"But they said I should speak to you. You see I work at Crowley 
Pharmaceuticals. I was at the doctor when you folks came around--
bad cold."

I stared at her, glasses on a chain around her neck and sensible 
shoes, the type who probably got off on the excitement of being 
involved in a real live police investigation. Not even trying to hide 
my irritation, I got up and started digging through a stack of papers 
on the end of Colton's desk.

"Ted, you still have those pictures around here?"

He sifted through another pile and handed them to me--the mug 
shots for Bellamy, Martini, and Wedell, for all the good they were 
gonna do us now. Still, the woman had driven all the way down to 
the station and would probably squawk if we sent her home 
without doing her civic duty. I snagged a chair and pulled it up to 
the desk for her.

"Here, lady, have a chair."

I recognized the fact that I was being unforgivably rude, but I just 
didn't care. I didn't have time for the ramblings of some wannabe 
detective; my partner needed me.

Starsky was digging through the drawer of his desk. He pulled out 
some crazy little blue dog--God only knows where he got the silly 
thing. Starsky has a way of picking up strays, even inanimate, 
stuffed ones.

I couldn't take the silence any longer. "Here, you want this water?"

"Nah." He didn't even look at me. I swallowed the water myself, in 
one gulp. And it wasn't enough.

"You know...if this was a cowboy movie...I'd give you my boots." 
His breathing was heavy, labored, like he'd just run up a bunch of 
stairs, but when I looked at him he smiled. A genuine smile, not 
the Starsky 1000 watt grin I'd come to know and love, but maybe 
even better. I knew what that smile was telling me, as clearly as if 
he'd just shouted it out loud.

He dropped his eyes, and his hand crept slowly across the desktop, 
palm up. Something deep inside me ripped in half, from the tip of 
my toes to the top of my head. I grasped the hand and his fingers 
closed tightly around mine.

"You're my pal, Hutch."

Oh God, I can't do this--I can't. It hurts too damn much.

I tightened my own grip, as if I could somehow keep him from 
slipping away. I needed to speak, needed to say something but the 
words weren't coming. I wished, not for the first time, that I'd come 
from a family like Starsky's, where love was expressed daily in 
words and actions. Don't get me wrong-- love was always there at 
the Hutchinson house. You just didn't talk about it, especially if 
you were a male over the age of ten. I took a deep breath...

"Officer?"

Oh God. I don't believe this.

"Offic..."

"Lady, lady, PLEASE. I'm busy!" I raised a hand to try and shut 
her up. "Ted, will you..."

"But the pictures! I mean the man. I do recognize this man!"

I was up on my feet in a flash, grabbing the picture. "This man?"

"Yes!"

"Vic Bellamy," I said for Starsky's benefit, though he didn't act as 
if he cared. I looked at the lady, trying not to scare her, though I 
felt like shaking the answers from her. "Y...You mean this man 
c...came into your place and bought some chemicals?"

"No, not chemicals! That's what's so strange. I mean, that's why I 
remember." Her voice was proud, triumphant. Take that you stupid 
policeman, you did need me! "He wanted to buy all the materials 
to make a leg cast."

The meaning of her statement only took a split second to sink in, 
hitting me like a bolt of electricity so that I actually felt light-
headed. Bellamy made himself a cast so we'd think his leg was 
broken. As far as I could tell, there was only one reason why he'd 
want to do something like that.

Starsky, struggling to his feet, obviously reached the same 
conclusion. At that moment I could've kissed that annoying biddy, 
sensible shoes and all.

"Thank you! Thank you, lady, very, very much."

I left the squad room with Starsky on my heels and a renewed 
sense of something almost as precious--hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~
  Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not sure what was worse, the pain, or the fuzzy, disconnected 
feeling from Cheryl's drug. I guess you could say I'm a control 
freak. I like to be the one in charge of my actions at all times. 
Which is probably why, even during my more rebellious teenage 
years, drugs never tempted me. No way I wanted to be doin' 
anything I wouldn't remember come the next morning. Or that I 
might regret.

Seeing Hutch strung out was a nightmare I hope I never have to 
relive. I was holding my partner right there in my arms, only it 
wasn't my partner. Desperate, angry, spiteful--he'd've done 
anything for a hit, even if it meant hurting me. And that just ain't 
Hutch. It's about as far from my gentle, considerate, caring friend 
as you could get. Still hurts to think about it.

So I kept quiet when Hutch and me headed to the squadroom, too 
miserable and loopy to try and make conversation. Hutch was 
kinda stumbling all over himself, not sure when to help and when 
to back off. He waited until I was sitting down at my desk, then 
picked up the phone. I didn't have to ask what he was doin'. We 
hadn't checked in with Huggy since leaving Hutch's place, and I 
could see from the tension in his shoulders that he was hopin' hard 
for good news.

I gotta admit, my fingers and toes were crossed too.

But I didn't want Hutch to see me hanging on his every word, so I 
picked up a pen and started doodling on a pad of paper. Dogs, cats, 
people... When me and Nicky were little and would get antsy 
waiting for Pop to get home, Ma'd sit us down at the kitchen table 
with big pads of paper and tell us to draw him a picture. Neither of 
us was exactly New York's answer to Rembrandt, but Pop would 
make a big deal of 'em when he finally walked through the door.

Sometimes when I doodle I can still hear Ma cooking dinner, 
humming under her breath and banging the pots and pans.

"It's Hutch. What's the word?" I heard the faint buzz of Huggy's 
voice through the receiver and then Hutch's sharp reply. 
"Nothing?"

I automatically looked up, drawn by the tone of his voice. I studied 
his face--the tight, guarded expression, the lines of unhappiness 
around those blue eyes--and then glanced away. Wedell's file was 
next to my elbow, so I scooped it up and tried hard to look like I 
was reading it.

My mind, however, was on what that one little word meant for me, 
and for Hutch. Any way you shook the bird, it still laid the same 
egg.

Movement across the desk caught my eye and I looked up again, 
just in time to see Hutch turn his back to me. His voice dropped, 
but I could hear the words. "Been better."

Anger blindsided me; I could feel the blood pounding in my head. 
How DARE he? Where did he get off actin' like I was made of 
glass? Like he needed to protect me from the cold, cruel truth? Did 
he think I didn't know what rotten shape I was in? Recognize how 
bad the odds were?

He was my partner, damn it, not my father!

"Thanks, Hug."

When he turned around to hang up the phone I was so mad that at 
first I could only glare at him. Finally I found my voice.

"Don't do that."

Hutch got this wide-eyed innocent look he puts on whenever he 
doesn't want to own up to something, but I stopped him before he 
could even open his mouth. I leaned in, ignoring the way it 
doubled the ache in my belly, and scowled at him.

"I mean it, Hutch. This is my life we're talkin' about, my fight. I 
need you to help me, not treat me like some dumb little kid."

Don't take away what little dignity I got left. It'll kill me faster than 
the poison.

"I'm sorry, Starsk. Won't happen again."

You know, I've been friends with Hutch for more than five years, 
but the Blond Blintz never stops surprising me. It's been that way 
from day one.

I remember when I first met him, back at the Academy. Those 
WASP, Mr. America good looks. Dressed for success, every crease 
in place--a wrinkle wouldn't've dared spoil those high priced 
threads. I looked at Mr. Kenneth, pretty boy Hutchinson and I 
wrote him off. Probably out for a badge because it was the one 
thing Daddy couldn't buy for him. Or, even more likely, because it 
would be just the thing to piss Daddy off. I made a private little bet 
with myself that he'd be gone within a week.

Shoulda known better, of course. How many times had Ma told me 
you can't judge a book by its cover? By the end of the week I'd 
thought would send him packin', I came to realize that under the 
spit and polish and fancy manners beat the heart of a true cop, and 
the soul of a true friend. He got me through exams--quizzing me 
when I didn't think I could possibly remember the difference 
between a 211 and a 187; makin' me laugh when I started to doubt 
whether I even cared. Showing me something new about himself 
just when I'd think I had him pegged. 

Like now.

He snickered a little at the expression on my face. "I'm not a 
complete idiot, you know. I can admit when I'm wrong."

I hate the way he makes me laugh when I'm trying to be pissed at 
him. It's like cheating somehow. I tried really hard not to smile, but 
I could feel one tugging at the corners of my mouth.

"'S the only reason I keep ya around."

Hutch did a damn good job of lookin' like I'd just hurt his feelings. 
"And all this time I thought it was my charm and boyish good 
looks."

Oh man, if that ain't the truth! Hutch could charm the spots off a 
leopard--don't know how many ladies I've seen fall under his spell. 
That's how he gets away with stuff. Dobey's always ready to blame 
me over Hutch, which is a real laugh because Blondie don't need 
my help to get in trouble.

The laugh squeaked out before I could stop it, and my stomach was 
right there to make me pay. Felt like my guts were about to spill 
right out on the floor, which'd really give 'em all something to talk 
about. I wrapped my arms around my middle and tried to take a 
few deep breaths.

Hutch's face crumpled and he tried to reach across the desk. 
"Sorry."

"'M okay. Don't ever apologize...for makin' me laugh. I need..."

How could I explain to him that he was the only thing that stopped 
me from just layin' down? The poison was slowly taking me over, 
making it harder and harder to remember David Starsky was still 
alive underneath. Hutch by my side, giving me comfort and 
laughter, wouldn't let me forget.

"Starsky! Hutchinson! In my office."

Dobey's bellow was so familiar, so normal, it took away a little of 
the agony when I pushed myself onto my feet. Hutch tried to give 
me a hand but I sent him a look that told him to back off. I could 
feel eyes on me as I walked into Dobey's office, knew I was 
today's hot topic at the water cooler. Last thing I wanted was to 
give 'em anything extra to discuss.

When we got inside I didn't flop into my usual chair and prop my 
feet on the Cap's desk. Took everything I had just to get where I 
was, and I was afraid if I sat down again I might not make it back 
up.

Dobey lambasted us as soon as he'd shut the door. "You two 
haven't phoned in a report in over three hours! I know nature of 
this case is unusual, that you've both got a personal stake in it, but 
that doesn't justify abandoning procedure!"

Dobey likes to ride me--sometimes pretty hard. It's the nature of 
our relationship; the dance we dance. I push the limits of policy 
and procedure and Dobey gives me hell for it. I know the yelling 
and bluster is mostly just for show. Under it all, he cares about 
Hutch and me and would do just about anything for us. And I 
respect him--not something I'd say about just anyone. His honest, 
straightforward, "take no crap" attitude reminds me of my Pop. 
Can't give a higher compliment than that.

This time, though, I could sense he was tryin' too hard. Yeah, 
Hutch and me had kinda taken the investigation into our own 
hands, but Dobey woulda expected as much. All his grumblin' 
about procedure was just a smoke screen for something else. I 
didn't really want to think about what it might be.

"Sorry, Cap. Truth is, we ain't had much to report." I suddenly 
realized I'd carried Wedell's folder with me and I waved it. "We 
got Huggy shakin' down his best informants, but nothin's turned. 
We ruled out Bellamy and Janos, if we could just get a line on..."

"You can stop looking. We just located your third possible."

I stared at him, my mouth bone dry. No way this was good news, 
Dobey's face was too grim.

Next to me, Hutch caught his breath. "Wedell?"

"He's been dead four days. Heart attack." 

It was over. Just like that. Three strikes you're out. I turned around 
and walked out, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket of shock. Dobey, 
Hutch, bright lights on empty desks, the shuffling sound of Ted 
Colton digging through a filing cabinet--it all seemed muffled and 
far away.

I stood in front of my desk and looked down. All the files and 
notes spread across the top, wasted time and effort. Suddenly the 
blanket was gone, ripped away, and every muscle and bone in my 
body hurt more than I'd ever've thought possible. Wedell had been 
my beacon, the light in the darkness I'd been sure would bring me 
home safe. 'Cept the light burned out four days ago, and we were 
just too dumb to know it.

Time to face facts, I told myself, brushing away Hutch's offer of 
water. I was gonna die. Hutch and me had gambled and lost, and 
nothing he could do--not anger, or tears, or a little paper cup of 
water was gonna make a difference.

But there was something I could do.

I could make sure I let this man--my partner, my friend--know 
what he meant to me. 

I remember reading about something Martin Luther King, Jr. said. 
He said your life ain't worth living unless you've found something 
worth dying for.

Hutch did that for me. He gave me more than just partnership, or 
even friendship. He gave me a wall I could put my back against 
when everything around me was shaky and outta control. A rock 
when I was sinking in quicksand.

An anchor in the middle of a hurricane.

Ah, hell, I was sounding like a Hallmark card, but I didn't really 
care anymore. I couldn't die without just once sayin' the words 
Hutch deserved to hear.

Hutch had been dealing with some lady from Crowley 
Pharmaceuticals who'd come in to look at the pictures of Bellamy, 
Janos, and Wedell. If I'd been less preoccupied with my own 
thoughts, I'd've laughed at the rude way he shoved her off on Ted 
Colton. Hutch is normally the Emily Post half of this partnership; 
I'm the one who tends to piss people off.

I dug through the top drawer of my desk and pulled out a silly blue 
stuffed poodle. Helen gave it to me, once upon a time when we 
were in love and thought that was enough. She made some joke 
about the similarities between a poodle and the curly mop of hair 
genetics stuck me with. I'd boxed up most of the memories from 
our time together, but I just couldn't seem to bring myself to get rid 
of that ugly little dog.

Hutch finished getting the lady set up with the pictures and sat 
back down. He looked tired and sad.

"Here, you want this water?"

"Nah." I fiddled with the poodle, trying to come up with the words 
to tell him what was in my heart. Then I remembered an old John 
Wayne movie we once watched on the late show.

"You know...if this was a cowboy movie...I'd give you my boots." 

He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since 
Dobey broke the bad news. I studied his face, knowing it better 
than I do my own, and the last thing I wanted to do was leave him. 
It hurt me so much more than the fire in my gut. I smiled until I 
had to look away or let him see it. And I stretched out my hand, 
not caring anymore about Ted or the woman, just needing to know 
Hutch understood. The warmth of his fingers in mine told me he 
did.

"You're my pal, Hutch."

His hand tightened and he took a shaky little breath like he was 
about to say something, but our star witness interrupted.

"Officer!"

I felt the connection between us break like someone had cut it with 
a pair of scissors. 

Damn it!

Hutch sounded like he'd blown a fuse. "Lady, lady, PLEASE. I'm 
busy! Ted, will you..."

I tuned out the conversation, too tired and miserable to be 
bothered. So close, I was so close to sayin' the things I needed to 
say, and now...

"Vic Bellamy." Hutch's voice yanked my attention back to the 
woman. I knew he was excited by the way he started to stutter. 
"Y...You mean this man c...came into your place and bought some 
chemicals?"

Hope fluttered in my chest, like the wings of a small, weak bird.

"No, not chemicals! That's what's so strange. I mean, that's why I 
remember. He wanted to buy all the materials to make a leg cast."

Oh. My. God.

I hauled myself to my feet, my body figuring out the answer before 
my brain, and stumbled after Hutch. It might be the last time, but 
Hutch wasn't goin' anywhere without me to watch his back.


Chapter 10

~~~~~~~~~~~
  Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~

It was gettin' bad. Real bad.

I sat there in the Torino, Hutch driving like a maniac, and I knew I 
was scraping the bottom of the barrel. What little bit of relief 
Cheryl's shot had given me was gone; the pain had spread from my 
gut up into my chest and it was gettin' harder and harder to breathe. 
I had to keep both hands clasped in my lap so Hutch wouldn't see 
that they shook like I was a wino with a bad case of the DTs. And 
everything around me had developed this annoying habit of fading 
in and outta focus like someone was adjusting a giant camera lens.

No doubt about it, I was circling the drain. But I'd be damned if I'd 
let Hutch know, especially when he was so excited about the lead 
on Bellamy. I wanted to believe as badly as my partner that we'd 
ride in, nab the bad guy, and head off into the sunset with a cure, 
but my body had other ideas. 

And there were things that had to be said.

I braced myself, knowin' Hutch wasn't gonna want to hear 'em.

"Hutch."

"Yeah, Starsk?" He snuck a quick peek at me, then hunched a little 
further over the steering wheel. His cheeks were flushed and his 
eyes were bright from the adrenaline rush, his whole body 
thrumming with the chance to finally DO something. I almost felt 
sorry for Bellamy.

Almost.

I cleared my throat, but the sand in it wouldn't go away. "I never 
called Ma."

His head snapped around. "What? I thought you said you called 
her when we stopped by your place for clothes."

I shifted a little, looking for a comfortable position I knew I'd 
never find, and kept my tone patient. "I said I was gonna call her." 
I looked out the window at the passing cars. "I never did."

Hutch looked back at the road, fingers tightening on the wheel. 
After a minute he gave a little nod. "You want to tell me why not?"

To give her the gift I couldn't give you. To spare her the horror of 
watching me die.

I swallowed again, feelin' it catch in my throat. "Ma didn't like to 
talk about the night Pop died--hurt too much, I guess. One time, 
though, I was goin' on about how unfair it was to lose him that 
way. To never have the chance to say good-bye and tell him I 
loved him. There was some father-son thing at school, see, and I 
was the only one of my friends goin' stag. 

"Ma pulled me down next to her on the couch and put her arm 
around me. She said at least we never had to see him suffer--to die 
slowly of cancer or a stroke, crippled and helpless. We could 
remember him like he was, and our memories'd keep him with us. 
And she told me Pop already knew we loved him from the little 
ways we showed him every single day."

Hutch stretched his arm across the seatback and rested his hand on 
my shoulder. "Your mom's a pretty smart lady."

"Yeah."  I blinked back the fogginess and tried to take a deep 
breath. Neither action was much of a success. "I didn't want her to 
sit by the phone, eating herself up with worry over what was 
happening to me. And I for damn sure didn't want her gettin' on a 
plane and comin' out here to see it."

Hutch's voice was very soft. "Okay."

Now for the hard part. "Hutch. If this don't... If Bellamy ain't..." I 
bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, but it did the trick. "I need 
you to be the one to call Ma. Promise me, Hutch."

I thought for a minute he was gonna drive us right into a parked 
car. His hand left my shoulder and he swerved just in time, then 
turned to glare at me. "What's the matter with you? Bellamy's our 
man; I'll make book on it! Once we have him we have the 
answer..."

"Promise me," I repeated. Calm. Quiet.

"Don't you DARE give up on me now, Starsk, not when we're so 
close I can taste it! We're gonna get that antidote, you just need to 
hold on, you need..."

"I need you to promise." My voice cracked and I had to look away 
from the hurt and betrayal in Hutch's eyes. I tried again, but it 
came out a whisper. "Please."

Hutch turned back to driving, his jaw clamped tight. "I promise." 
The words came through his teeth, sharp, clipped.

It was almost enough. "Tell her... Tell her I knew."

Hutch didn't say anything, but his hand crept to the back of my 
neck. I knew he'd take care of things, and the knowin' was like a 
huge weight lifted off my shoulders.

We pulled to the curb at Bellamy's apartment. Hutch was out of his 
seat and around to my side of the car before I'd done more than 
swing the door open. I started to stand but my legs weren't 
cooperating. Hutch caught me before I hit the pavement and 
propped me against the car.

"I'll take it, I'll take it." 

I grabbed onto his jacket, trying not to slide down into a little ball. 
"I, uh, as they say, have vested interests in this case. Besides, he's 
our only lead."

Hutch dropped his forehead onto my shoulder, but not in time to 
keep me from seeing the grief in his eyes. "What am I gonna do 
with you, huh?"

I wove my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck and 
pulled. "Same as always, pal. Watch and marvel."

He snorted and pulled away, grabbing my arm and propelling me 
along with him. When we got inside I took a long look at the stairs, 
hoping Hutch wouldn't see how discouraged I felt. Those steps 
coulda been Mt. Everest--with my vision shot to hell and my chest 
in a vise they seemed just as impossible to climb.

When I grabbed onto the railing, Hutch let go of me and started up. 
I did my best to follow, but I couldn't help falling farther and 
farther behind. Sweat was running into my eyes, makin' 'em sting 
and burn, my legs shook like Jell-O, and every breath sliced 
through my chest like a razorblade. Hutch kept looking over his 
shoulder, tryin' not to get too far ahead, but I could tell he was torn 
between helping me and goin' after Bellamy.

About two-thirds of the way up, my legs disappeared. Oh, they 
were still there, but you wouldn't've known it for all the good they 
were doin' me. I went down hard, arms over my gut to try and 
spare my stomach, but the pain was still bad enough that the edges 
of my vision went dark and bright little sparks of light obliterated 
everything else.

Hutch pulled me up and held me for a minute. "You want to wait 
here?"

It was so tempting. All I wanted to do was curl into a little ball and 
not move. Only trouble was, that left Hutch alone in pursuit of a 
dangerous felon. Murder... Attempted murder of a police officer is 
a serious crime. Bellamy didn't really have much to lose.

I shook my head, scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hand. 
"No. Keep goin'."

"You are the most stubborn son of a bitch, I..." Hutch trailed off, 
and I wasn't really sure if I'd heard anger or admiration in his 
words. 

I tried to form my mouth into a smile. "Said...the pot." Breathing 
was starting to be awful hard work and I felt dizzy. "Let's go."

Hutch hauled me up the rest of the stairs and down the hall to 
Bellamy's door, which was wide open. The charming Mrs. 
Bellamy was standing in the middle of the room, fiddling with her 
dress and pretending like she didn't know we were there. Hutch 
leaned me against the jamb and I grabbed on, gulping in air like a 
fish. He moved into the apartment, gun ready, and started lookin' 
around.  

"Where is he?"

"I didn't want to lie, he made me," she whined.

Damn. How did Bellamy stand to listen to that voice? It'd drive 
any man to a life of crime.

Hutch looked ready to make it murder. He stalked across the room 
and grabbed her by the arm, hard enough to leave fingerprints. 
"Where is he?"

"The roof!"

Hutch let her go and she rubbed at her arm, still not lookin' at me. 
He leaned in close to me on his way out the door, his grip on my 
arm as gentle as it'd been rough on hers.

"Stay here."

I couldn't argue with him; I knew I was only putting his life at risk, 
slowing him down and distracting him from what he needed to do. 
And that hurt even more than the pain in my chest. All at once, I 
saw how selfish I'd been to insist I come along. I shoulda stayed 
back at Metro, shoulda insisted another cop go with Hutch to back 
him up. It was my damn pride that stopped me, always thinking 
that no one could protect Hutch as good as me.

Fine job I was doin' right then.

"I didn't want to lie. He made me."

Who was she tryin' to convince? I wanted to walk over, grab her 
by those skinny little arms, and shake her 'til her teeth rattled. But 
my tank was nearly empty, and I had something else to take care 
of.

"He got a gun?"

"Yes."

Beautiful. Bellamy already had a head start. He'd've picked a spot, 
gone to ground, and would just be waiting for Hutch to walk onto 
that roof. Hutch was headed right into a trap.

"That's terrific."

I'd always heard stories about people doin' things in a crisis that 
they'd never be able to do otherwise. Kinda like temporarily gettin' 
superpowers. Supposed to be because of a huge adrenaline rush or 
something.

That's the only way I can explain how I made it up the stairs to the 
roof. Felt a little bit like I'd left my body and was watching myself 
from a distance. I don't know how long it took me. Seemed like 
hours, but it couldn't've been more than a few minutes. One time 
my legs did their disappearing trick again, and I was scared that 
without Hutch I'd never make it back on my feet. I crawled up the 
next few steps until I could grab onto the railing and pull myself 
back up. It hurt so bad I was sure I must've shredded my insides.

First time I visited my Aunt Rosie, when I was jut a little kid, she 
showed me a conch shell. She explained how the sound of the 
ocean was trapped inside, and she held it to my ear so I could 
listen. That same rushing, hissing sound, only about ten times 
louder, was drowning out everything but the pounding of my heart. 
I could faintly hear gunshots, and Hutch yelling at Bellamy, but I 
couldn't make out the words.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I eased through the doorway 
onto the roof. I was operating on automatic pilot, instinct the only 
thing keepin' me on my feet. More gunshots, and I squinted, tryin' 
to see if Hutch had Bellamy cornered. 

It was just the opposite, though. Hutch was crouched behind a 
vent, hiding, and Bellamy was on the offensive. I watched, 
horrified, as my partner turned and ran for cover with Bellamy's 
bullets exploding around him.

What the hell...?

Then it clicked. Hutch wasn't shooting at Bellamy 'cause he was 
afraid--not for himself, for me. Kill ol' Vic, and you'd kill any 
chance we had of finding out what was in that shot.

Bellamy, on the other hand, didn't have anything to be scared of 
except ending up doin' time. A lot of very hard time.

And just like that, I knew what I had to do. I hadn't been able to 
spare Hutch the agony of watching me die. But there was one last 
gift I could give him.

Life.

I could hardly lift my piece--felt like it weighed fifty pounds. My 
breath kept catching on the way down my throat and my hands 
shook. I sighted down the barrel, blinking hard to try and stop 
things from shimmering and blurring. Finally, everything slid into 
focus and I squeezed hard on the trigger. Bellamy was aiming his 
weapon at Hutch; he never saw it comin'.

I don't know how many rounds I fired--I think I might've emptied 
the clip. I guess zoned out for a while, 'cause the next thing I knew 
Hutch was at my side, easing the gun outta my hand. An elephant 
was sittin' on my chest, and the harder I tried to breathe the heavier 
it got. The ocean in my ears had turned into a hurricane, and my 
eyelids had developed a mind of their own, slipping shut in spite of 
my attempts to keep 'em open. 

Hutch leaned his head next to mine, almost touching, and his voice 
was soft. "Thanks, buddy. What did ya have to do that for? He was 
the only guy that knew."

You know the answer to that, buddy. We both do.

"Seemed to be a good idea at the time." My legs folded and I 
barely felt Hutch grab me as I slid down the wall. Everything 
narrowed down to a little pinpoint of light as Bellamy, Hutch, and 
even the pain faded away.

Game over.

The light winked out.


~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~

I felt a little bit like a bird out of a cage. At last we had a name, 
something to do. Flying down the street in the Torino, taking the 
corners so fast the tires squealed, my spirits lifted for the first time 
all day. We'd collar Bellamy, force him to confess what was in that 
hypo, and Starsky would have his cure.

Starsky.

He was the only one to dampen my enthusiasm; a nagging 
reminder that nothing was as simple as I wanted it to be. I could 
hear the rasp of his breathing and I'd caught glimpses of his 
shaking hands, though he tried hard to hide them. I never should 
have allowed him to come with me, he belonged back at Metro--or 
better yet, the hospital. He was so sick he could barely function, 
and it would be difficult for me to concentrate on Bellamy if I was 
covering for him.

But I'd seen the look in his eyes, the determination on his face, and 
I couldn't say no. Starsky has a way of doing that to me.

"Hutch." His voice was soft. Hesitant.

"Yeah, Starsk?"

"I never called Ma."

"What?" I took my eyes off the road to glare at him, which wasn't a 
good idea considering the speed we were traveling. "I thought you 
said you called her when we stopped by your place for clothes."

Starsky used the careful, patient tone of voice that always makes 
me feel like a moron. "I said I was gonna call her. I never did."

I was only half-listening to him, most of my brain focused on what 
I planned to do to Bellamy once I got my hands on him. My mind 
was full of little daydreams: chasing Vic down like a dog until he 
was gasping for breath, shoving my gun up under his chin hard 
until he was sweating and shaking, delivering a few well-placed 
punches that would have his gut cramping in pain. Every little 
agony he'd brought upon Starsky I wanted him to experience--
tenfold. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

I forced myself back to the present. "You want to tell me why 
not?"

When Starsky started recounting the things his mom told him, all 
thoughts of Bellamy flew out of my head. He mentions his dad 
fairly often, but I could count on one hand the number of times he's 
talked about the night his father died or his own grief. I pictured 
how he'd been, so lost and angry, and I had to agree with that long 
ago kid--it wasn't fair.

I mean, you've got two boys who are roughly the same age. One 
has a relationship with his father that at best could be described as 
mutually respectful. Oh sure, there's love, but it's implied not 
spoken aloud, and certainly not openly demonstrated. The other 
kid worships the ground his dad walks on, tries to imitate his every 
move. They're very close--sometimes more like best friends than 
father and son--and love is expressed freely in words and touches.

Now if you were God and you had to take away one kid's father, 
which would you choose?

Guess God doesn't think much like you and me, huh?

I shook myself out of my thoughts and put my hand on his 
shoulder. "Your mom's a pretty smart lady."

"Yeah." Starsky's harsh, ragged breathing sounded overly loud in 
the car. "I didn't want her to sit by the phone, eating herself up with 
worry over what was happening to me. And I for damn sure didn't 
want her gettin' on a plane and comin' out here to see it."

There wasn't much I could say to that. I wasn't sure Starsky had 
made the right decision, but I also hated the thought of Rachel 
enduring what I had the past 18 hours. It would kill her. "Okay."

I guess I should've seen where my partner was headed, but 
Bellamy's face kept dancing at the edges of my vision, distracting 
me. When Starsky finally did get to the point, I nearly drove us off 
the road.

"Hutch. If this don't... If Bellamy ain't... I need you to be the one to 
call Ma. Promise me, Hutch."

I snatched my hand off his shoulder as if I'd been burned, and in 
some ways maybe I had. Anger pumped through my body like 
white-hot blood and if he hadn't looked so terrible I swear to God I 
would've hit him.

"What's the matter with you? Bellamy's our man; I'd make book on 
it! Once we have him we have the answer..."

He didn't get angry, but he didn't let up either. "Promise me."

"Don't you DARE give up on me now, Starsk, not when we're so 
close I can taste it! We're gonna get that antidote, you just need to 
hold on, you need..." How could he do this to me? I'd been there 
for him every step of the way, why couldn't he do the same for me?

"I need you to promise. Please."

The rough little catch in his voice did me in. I turned away, 
because if I didn't I was going to wind up causing a soapy scene. 
Starsky would never forgive me for that. "I promise."

"Tell her... Tell her I knew."

She told me Pop already knew we loved him from the little ways we 
showed him every single day.

Ah, Starsk. We know too.

I cupped my fingers around the back of his neck and held them 
there. His shoulders, which had been hunched up around his ears, 
sagged, and I knew my answer had given him a sense of peace. 

I couldn't say the same for myself.

When we got to Bellamy's building I hit the pavement running. 
Starsky was trying valiantly to haul himself out of the car but 
didn't seem to be getting anywhere. It hit me again that he had no 
business being with me. I grabbed him and leaned him up against 
the car.

"I'll take it, I'll take it."

I should have known better. When had Starsky ever taken "no" for 
an answer?

His fingers burrowed into my jacket as if that could keep him from 
sliding down into a Starsky-puddle on the cement. "I, uh, as they 
say, have vested interests in this case. Besides, he's our only lead."

I wanted to feel anger again, but our conversation in the car 
seemed to have taken that option away. He was weak as a kitten, 
barely able to draw a breath, in excruciating pain...

And so damn brave.

My throat closed up so I dropped my forehead to his shoulder. 
"What am I going to do with you, huh?"

He stroked the hair at the nape of my neck, then pulled hard 
enough to startle me. "Same as always, pal. Watch and marvel."

It was just what I needed to snap me out of my funk. I chuffed a 
little laugh and slipped my arm under his, taking most of his 
weight as we walked up the steps and into the apartment building. 
The winding flight of stairs leading to the third floor mocked us 
both. Starsky took one look before ducking his head, but I'd 
already seen the hopelessness in his eyes. In his condition, those 
steps must have looked as impossible as climbing to the moon.

What I did next felt just as hard as climbing a mountain. When 
Starsky grabbed onto the railing, I let go. I moved around him so 
that I could lead the way, figuring I'd be in much better shape than 
my partner should things turn ugly. I tried to pace myself so that he 
could keep up with me, but my eagerness to reach Bellamy kept 
speeding up my feet.

We were over halfway up the stairs when I heard Starsky go down. 
Thank God he saved himself from tumbling down the entire flight, 
but I could see agony in the curl of his body and his glazed eyes. I 
pulled him up and held him while the breath wheezed in and out of 
his lungs in jagged gulps.

"You want to wait here?"

My pigheaded partner wouldn't take the hint. "No, keep goin'."

My emotions were all tangled up. I wanted to hug him and slug 
him all at the same time. "You are the most stubborn son of a 
bitch, I..."

He put on the poorest excuse for a smile I've ever seen. "Said...the 
pot. Let's go."

I pretty much carried him the rest of the way. He tried to help me 
as much as he could, but his coordination was shot to hell and I 
think he had to concentrate on just breathing. Bellamy's door was 
wide open--not a good sign. I propped Starsky against the jamb 
and moved inside, alert for any nasty little surprises. Like Ol' Vic 
popping out of a closet, for example.

His wife never even turned around when I walked inside, she just 
stood in the middle of the room. The leg cast--now missing its 
owner--was lying on a chair. In my eyes she was just as guilty as 
Vic, she'd helped him fool us the first time around. Just the sight of 
the conniving little bitch made my blood pressure rise.

"Where is he?"

"I didn't want to lie, he made me."

Yeah, right, lady. I saw the gun pointed to your head.

It takes a lot for me to rough up a woman, but I was way past the 
point of worrying about my manners. I grabbed her hard by the 
soft flesh of her upper arm and squeezed.

"Where is he?"

"The roof!"

So much for loyalty to her husband. I knew instinctively that she 
wasn't lying. Too worried about saving her own skin.

I crossed to where Starsky still had a death grip on the doorjamb 
and leaned in close--a poor attempt at some privacy. "Stay here."

He didn't even try to argue. The reality of that hit me hard, like a 
sucker punch, but I shrugged it off and headed up the stairs to the 
roof. There was only one way to help Starsky now, and that 
involved me and my buddy Vic having a little heart to heart.

When I got to the top of the stairs, the door to the roof was shut but 
not locked. I took a deep breath and dove through, somersaulting 
across the cement to land on my stomach. Bellamy was nowhere in 
sight, but I could sense eyes watching me.

"Vic!" I lifted my head enough to pan the rooftop but still keep it 
attached to my shoulders. "Vic, it's not murder one yet!"

I knew in my heart that he wasn't going to surrender. Bellamy was 
the type to go down kicking and screaming--and doing his best to 
take everyone else with him. But I had to give him the chance. 
"What was in the hypo?"

Silence. Not a whisper of movement. I was getting desperate.

"Vic, give it up!"

He was cool, all right. Stay put. Make me go on the offensive and 
just wait for a good shot. The ticking clock really left me with no 
choice. I cautiously eased myself onto my feet, hoping I wasn't 
issuing an open invitation to blow my head off. 

"Vic!"

Movement from the corner of my eye and I threw myself into 
another forward roll just as a bullet whizzed past my left shoulder. 
I crouched behind a skylight but when I brought my head up he 
fired again. Great! We had a regular Mexican standoff going.

Vic got off another round and ran, giving me a clear shot at his 
back. I popped up and aimed, shouting a warning.

"Hold it! Hold it!"

Vic continued to sprint across the roof and skidded under the cover 
of a vent while I stood there, frozen, heart lurching.

My God, how could I have been so stupid? One misplaced bullet 
and I'd sign my partner's death warrant. I was engaged in a gun 
battle with a man I couldn't afford to shoot.

I swallowed, my dry throat clicking, and on cat feet started to 
circle around to the left of where Vic hid. Unfortunately, Bellamy 
shared my little epiphany.

"Whatsa matter, Hutchinson? Didja lose your piece?" He laughed, 
a low spiteful chortle that had very little to do with amusement.

He had about as mean a laugh as I've ever heard.

The thought of Bellamy laughing that way as he injected poison 
into Starsky made my gun finger twitch. Bellamy didn't quit; he 
was starting to have a good time.

"Or maybe you're afraid to shoot, huh? Kill me and you kill your 
partner, right?"

Oh God, Starsky, he's right. How in the hell am I going to get us 
out of this?

I spun on my heel and ran back for the cover of a vent I'd left 
behind. Another bullet passed so close to my cheek I felt a puff of 
air, and I barely ducked in time. In the blink of an eye the game 
had changed, Bellamy in the role of cat and me playing mouse. I 
retreated further, dodging more gunfire, but Bellamy's confidence 
was growing and he was getting bolder.

"You're dead, Hutchinson."

He was right. I crouched behind the vent, sweat trickling between 
my shoulderblades, heart thudding hard enough to burst through 
my ribs, and felt despair take me under like a gigantic wave. I was 
dead. I could hear the scrape and shuffle of Bellamy's feet on the 
rough surface of the roof as he cautiously crept up to take his final 
shot, and I was powerless to stop him. I'd die a thousand deaths 
before I'd sacrifice Starsky to save my own skin.

Forgive me, Starsk. Looks like I'll be leading the way again.

When the shots came I jerked, expecting to feel pain sear through 
my flesh. The dull swap of Bellamy's body hitting the concrete 
brought me to my senses, and I jerked my head up to see Starsky 
leaning in the doorway, gun loosely clasped in one limp hand.

Bellamy didn't move.

I crept cautiously over and grabbed him by both wrists, flipping 
him onto his back with one quick snap. Knotting my fists in his 
jacket, I lifted him up for a good, long look. His eyes were open 
wide and fixed, like two glass marbles, his body pliant.

Dead.

Silent.

I lowered him slowly and picked up his gun, the movements 
automatic as my mind whirled in circles like a dog chasing its tail. 
Starsky was still propped against the wall, barely conscious, his 
eyes little more than slits and his respiration jagged and grating. I 
pocketed Bellamy's piece and walked over, easing Starsky's gun 
from his lax fingers. I don't think he even noticed.

My heart twisted and I leaned against the wall, so close my 
forehead nearly brushed his. I forced words out through lips that 
felt like stone. "Thanks, buddy. What did ya have to do that for? 
He was the only guy that knew."

At first I didn't think he could answer me. Every ounce of strength 
he had left was spent sucking in pitifully shallow gulps of air. His 
voice was almost expressionless, but I saw one eyebrow try 
valiantly to lift. "Seemed to be a good idea at the time."

He looked at me then, those dark blue eyes locking onto mine as if 
desperate to communicate something more than his words. As I 
watched, they glazed over and he slipped slowly down the wall. I 
caught him, easing him the rest of the way. Held him up as his eyes 
fluttered shut and his chin dropped to his chest.

I gripped him tightly, tugging until he sagged bonelessly into my 
arms, and murmured soft, reassuring words even though I knew he 
couldn't hear me.

Inside, though, I was screaming.


Chapter 11

~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~

With impeccable timing, the coroner and crime lab folks arrived at 
the same time as the ambulance. What I didn't expect, was that 
Dobey would be with them.

After Starsky passed out, I'd dashed down to Bellamy's apartment 
just long enough to make phone calls to the precinct and the 
hospital before returning to the roof. Leaving him for those few 
minutes was like cutting off my right hand, but I saw no way 
around it. Starsky needed help and Bellamy needed a body bag, 
and sitting on my ass wasn't going to accomplish either one.

Bellamy's wife had grudgingly allowed me to use the phone, 
sniveling at my elbow until she heard me ask for a coroner's 
wagon. She ran out of the apartment then, shrieking Vic's name 
loud enough to wake the dead--no pun intended--and was 
collapsed over his body when I got back to Starsky.

I looked at her, and I felt nothing.

I gathered Starsky's limp body back into my arms and sat there, the 
rough brick gouging into my back and unshed tears burning my 
eyes and throat. I talked to my partner, praying to God that the 
sound of my voice would reach him and anchor him to me for just 
a little longer. I didn't let myself think past the words of comfort 
and encouragement. Bellamy was dead. My subconscious knew 
what that meant, but I refused to allow the knowledge out of its 
locked box. I just rested my chin on top of those dark curls and 
said whatever came into my head.

"You know, you always did have more guts than brains. I mean, 
did you really stop to think about what you were doing, emptying 
your entire clip into Bellamy like that? Talk about overkill. 
Wouldn't one or two have been enough?"

Of course, I knew the answer to that, too. One or two might have 
left Bellamy in good enough shape to pull the trigger of his own 
weapon. One or two might have left me the one lying sprawled on 
the cement, my eyes looking up at the stars without seeing them. 
Starsky had known exactly what he was doing, to Bellamy, and to 
himself.

"'Seemed to be a good idea at the time,'" I grouched, but my voice 
spoiled the effect by trembling. "What kind of a reason is that 
anyway? Pretty poor one, if you ask me. Starsk, you never..."

He wasn't breathing. The abrupt silence, after the regular pattern of 
ragged gasps, hit my ear as violently as a scream. I sat forward, 
goosebumps breaking out over my entire body.

"Starsky? Starsk?"

His head lolled like a rag doll and one hand fell from his lap to the 
cement with a soft slap. I grasped him by the shoulders and shook, 
hard.

"Don't you dare do this to me, Starsky! Don't you quit on me! You 
breathe, damn it! BREATHE!" I punctuated each sentence with a 
shake, the last one snapping his head back and forth until I was 
afraid I'd broken his neck. 

The sharp, shallow gasp for air that followed was the most 
beautiful sound I'd ever heard. Starsky coughed weakly and his 
hands twitched, but he didn't open his eyes. An ambulance wailed 
in the distance.

I pulled him against me, wrapping one hand around his struggling 
chest and briskly rubbing his arm with the other. "That's it babe, 
keep it up. In and out. In and out."

I didn't even realize I'd been crying until I felt the moisture on my 
cheeks.

I had a crazy feeling of deja vu when the paramedics shoved me 
out of the way and started working on Starsky. The crime lab guys 
were right on their heels, the coroner bringing up the rear about 
five minutes later. I stood aside, unable to tear my eyes from what 
was happening to my partner, though I knew I should be briefing 
forensics on what had happened. They tried to talk to me, but their 
questions were just a faint buzzing in my ear, like an annoying 
mosquito. The paramedics' voices, though, were coming through 
loud and clear.

"Pulse is weak and thready."

"B.P.'s 140 over 100, respiration 35 and shallow. He's cyanotic, 
start him on O2."

"Pupils equal and reactive. Let's get an I.V. hooked up and get him 
to Memorial. Dr. Franklin's waiting for him."

Dobey's large hand on my shoulder almost made me jump out of 
my skin. "How is he?" 

The question was directed toward Starsky, but his eyes were 
burrowing into mine. I suddenly realized I'd never bothered to 
wipe the tears from my face.

Big boys don't cry, Kenny. Pull yourself together.

I mentally elbowed my father out of the way, but I scrubbed a hand 
across my cheeks. "Not good. He passed out after shooting 
Bellamy and he st...stopped breathing once."

Dobey's brow furrowed. "Did Bellamy get a chance to tell you 
anything?"

Maybe you're afraid to shoot, huh? Kill me and you kill your 
partner, right?

"Only that he was responsible for poisoning Starsky." I watched as 
the paramedics efficiently loaded my partner onto the gurney, 
tucking the I.V. bottle at his side.

"Go with him," Dobey ordered, voice gruff. "I'll wrap things up 
here and meet you at the hospital."

I looked at him, too overcome to find my voice. Evidently he read 
my expression because he waved me off and grabbed the arm of 
the nearest paramedic.

"That man is a police officer in protective custody. Officer 
Hutchinson will be accompanying him in the ambulance."

I could've kissed him, but I settled for a look of extreme gratitude. 
Dobey, always a little uncomfortable with that kind of thing, just 
motioned for me to stay with my partner. I pressed the keys to the 
Torino into his palm as I passed, and he bobbed his head in 
understanding.

We were about five minutes from the hospital when Starsky started 
to come around. The oxygen must have been helping, because his 
color looked a little better and his breathing wasn't quite so 
labored. His eyelids fluttered and that hand started roaming across 
the sheets. I leaned in close and put mine on his arm.

"Hey, partner. 'Bout time you decided to join us."

Blue peered out from under his lashes and a wrinkle appeared 
between his eyes. The hand I didn't have pinned wandered up to 
tug the oxygen mask off his mouth.

"Ya look terrible." Weak and raspy, but Starsky shone through.

I mustered a smile. "Yeah? Well you should take a look at your 
own ugly mug, buddy. You wouldn't win any beauty contests 
yourself." I saw the paramedic stretch out his hand to replace the 
mask, but beat him too it. "Leave it alone, Starsk. You need it."

The ambulance hit a pothole and Starsky convulsed in pain, his 
fingers digging into the sheets.

"Hey, take it easy, would you?" I snapped at the driver. "We're 
headed for the hospital, not the demolition derby!"

"Dr. Franklin said he could have Demerol for the pain," the other 
paramedic told me quietly, and pulled out a syringe. 

Starsky's eyes went wide and he started shaking his head. "Hutch, 
no. Don't...don't let him!"

I shifted my body to block his view and laid a calming hand on his 
chest. "It's all right, Starsk, he's just going to give you something 
for the pain."

The panic left his eyes but he clutched at my sleeve. The mask 
muffled his already thin voice, though I could still understand the 
words. "Hutch...pain don't matter. Not much time...things to say."

I smiled at him, even though it hurt. "Game's not over till it's over, 
Starsk. I know how bad you're hurting. Take the drugs, you don't 
have anything to tell me that I don't already know."

One corner of his mouth turned up a little bit, but the Demerol 
must've been doing its job, because his eyelids started to droop. 
"Doesn't mean...shouldn't be said."

I never realized you could have your heart cut out and still live. 
Maybe I was just some kind of medical miracle.

"Save it. I'll buy you a steak dinner when this is all over, and you 
can tell me then."

Franklin was waiting at the emergency room entrance. He whisked 
Starsky into a treatment room, tossing me an apologetic look as the 
double doors swung shut.

Deja vu again.

I drank bad coffee and paced until Dobey arrived. He didn't even 
try to discuss Bellamy or the case, just sat beside me on an 
uncomfortable plastic chair that was way too small for his bulk.

"He saved my life." I had to say it, had to speak the words aloud 
even though we both already knew them. "Bellamy's dead and 
Starsky's dying, all because the stubborn fool wouldn't stay put 
when I told him to."

Dobey ran a hand down his face and turned toward me, cocking an 
eyebrow. "Sounds like something you'd do, doesn't it?"

I looked at him and started laughing, but the edges were broken 
and jagged, and it sounded a lot more like crying. One of the 
treatment room doors swung outward and Franklin motioned to 
me, his face grave.

"You can see your partner for a few minutes."

My legs felt weak and wobbly as I crossed the hallway to the door. 
When I stepped inside, Franklin was giving Starsky a shot of 
something while a nurse held an oxygen mask on his face and 
blotted perspiration with a soft, white cloth. His eyes were open, 
but glazed--probably from drugs since he didn't appear to be in 
pain and the heart monitor beeped steadily.

Franklin crossed to my side. "I'm sorry. We're going to have to 
take him upstairs now." I tore my eyes from Starsky's face to 
acknowledge his words. "If his timetable is right, he has less than 
two hours."

I managed to nod, when what I really wanted to do was to start 
swinging my fists at every useless piece of equipment in the room. 
I walked slowly to Starsky's side, taking his hand and leaning over 
so that he could see my face without having to lift his head. 

"Hey, buddy. I...I have to go now." I knew he understood. The doc 
had things he needed to do, tests to run and treatments to try that I 
couldn't be a part of. I couldn't help Starsky here. I still felt as if I 
were abandoning him.

"Okay." He looked so weary and strung out, a pale imitation of my 
friend, my brother.

Maybe my feelings showed on my face because as I started to back 
away, Starsky stopped me.

"Hey." It wasn't much more than a whisper. I caught it more from 
the movement of his lips than hearing the word.

"Yeah?"

I think the idea that Starsky and I have some kind of  "psychic 
connection" has been way overblown by other people in the 
Department. We've known each other a long time, and we've spent 
a good chunk of that time relying on each other for our lives. All 
good partnerships have an especially tight bond--so tight that I've 
heard of plenty of cops' wives getting jealous, or feeling a little left 
out of the loop. Okay, it's true that Starsky and I had gotten 
nonverbal communication down to a science between us, but I'd 
always chalked that up to time and friendship. Nothing "psychic" 
about it.

At that moment, though, Starsky proved me wrong. He looked at 
me, eyes connecting with mine on a level deeper than I can ever 
remember, and I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me 
because the words were echoing in my own heart.

I love you, buddy. You've made the bad times bearable, and the 
good times unforgettable. I'd've been lost without you by my side. 
Don't ever forget that.

And he knew I knew. The corners of his mouth curved. No one but 
me would have been able to tell, and even though my chest 
clenched in pain I smiled back and nodded just enough for him to 
see.

The orderly's hand on my shoulder broke the spell.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Okay, okay.

I helped them move Starsky to another gurney for transport to the 
second floor, my eyes darting repeatedly to the clock. Dobey was 
at the doors, swinging them open so that the orderlies could wheel 
him through. I watched them head for the elevator, rage returning 
like the click of a switch.

"Well that's it, huh?"

Dobey's words did nothing to calm the anger simmering in my gut. 
I paced back and forth, trying to rub the exhaustion from my eyes 
and keep hold of my temper. 

"No that's not it." I snapped my fingers, a nagging feeling on the 
edge of my mind that I was forgetting something.

"Look, Hutch, we've only got two hours." I guess Dobey was 
trying to be helpful, to prepare me for losing Starsky, but I didn't 
want to hear it.

"I don't care if we've got two minutes! We don't give up!" I 
struggled against my frustration. "We've missed something, 
Captain. We've been in such a hurry, we've...we've rushed right 
past something important."

Dobey's temper was getting a little thin too. "Look, Hutch, we put 
200 names in the computer. We get twenty possibles and three 
primes. It's not our fault if they all wash out."

His attempt to be logical only made me more furious. "They didn't 
all wash out! Vic Bellamy didn't wash out! He was the..." I stared 
at him, shock drying up my mouth and cutting off my voice. It was 
so obvious. How in God's name had I missed it? "Vic 
Bellamy...only had a tenth grade education. How in the hell did he 
get the smarts to pull something like this off?"

"You think somebody hired him." It was a statement, not a 
question.

"Absolutely. Don't you?" Excitement bubbled up to fill the hole in 
my chest. We were down, damn it, but we weren't out yet.

"Right." Dobey's enthusiasm was forced, but I didn't care. I'd 
generate enough hope for us both.

"Somebody's gotta tell me who."

Starsky still had almost two hours, and I wasn't going to waste 
another minute.

~~~~~~~~~~~
  Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~

Things got pretty fuzzy for a while. I remember sliding down the 
wall, the bricks scraping against my jacket, and then everything 
went black. I felt like I should be scared of the dark, but I wasn't. 
There was no pain or sadness there; it was kinda peaceful, and a 
chance to finally rest. The deeper I sank down into it, the harder it 
was to remember why I'd want to go back.

The voice wouldn't let me go, though. I could hear it, real soft and 
far away, like when I had my old apartment and could hear my 
neighbor's television through the wall. I couldn't understand any of 
the words, but I wanted to. Something about the voice felt soft and 
warm, like my crummiest pair of sweats or a big hug. It felt like 
home.

I wanted the comfort of that voice something fierce, but I knew I 
couldn't have it without the pain. And I really, really didn't want 
anymore pain. 

I don't know if it was my own choice or not, but the voice got 
harder and harder to hear. Then it stopped.

And I think maybe I did too.

Next thing I knew, someone was shaking me back and forth till I 
thought my head would crack open, yellin' in my ear. At first it 
was just more noise, but then one word broke through the fog and 
made sense.

BREATHE!

It scared the hell outta me and I sucked in a big gulp of air from 
pure reflex. My chest lost the tight, squashed feeling I hadn't even 
noticed until that moment, and the darkness pulled back a little bit. 
I started coughing so hard I thought my lungs were gonna shoot 
out of my mouth, but the air tasted so sweet it was almost worth 
the pain. I still couldn't open my eyes, but the voice, Hutch's voice, 
was close enough to touch.

"That's it, babe, keep it up. In and out. In and out."

Part of me wanted to laugh at him, to tell him I'd been breathing by 
myself for nearly thirty years and to quit giving instructions. 
Another part wanted to beg him to keep talking, to crawl inside his 
voice and never come out.

Guess breathing must've made me tired, 'cause I faded out again 
for a while. I dreamed we were back on the roof with Bellamy, 
only this time I couldn't lift my arm to fire my weapon. Bellamy 
laughed as he shot Hutch over and over, the same way he'd 
laughed when he used the needle on me. When he was finally 
finished, and Hutch was lyin' on the ground in a puddle of blood, 
he walked back to me and tossed the gun at my feet.

"Present for you, pig. Couldn't have done it without you."

My legs gave out on me and I dropped to my knees by my partner. 
There was blood everywhere, the ground, Hutch's leather jacket--
even his hair was more red than yellow. His eyes were open real 
wide, like the time I surprised him with a brand new guitar to 
replace his old one. Only this time they weren't lookin' at me. And 
they never would.

I hadn't told him. There were things to say, stuff I needed to make 
sure he knew, and now I'd never get the chance. I tried to reach out 
and touch him, but I couldn't move my arms. My heart was 
banging away in my chest and I could hear an ambulance siren 
even though I'd never had a chance to...

What the hell was over my mouth?

"Hey, partner. 'Bout time you decided to join us."

I cranked my eyelids up enough to catch a blurry glimpse of blond 
hair and blue eyes. Looking at me.

Alive.

Relief hit me so hard that for a couple seconds I didn't even notice 
that the pain was back full force. I squinted, focusing enough to not 
only see Hutch's face, but the dark circles under his eyes. Just 
moving my arm felt like lifting a 100-pound weight, but I managed 
to reach up and drag the oxygen mask away from my mouth.

"Ya look terrible."

Jeez, was that really my voice? Sounded like a bullfrog with 
pneumonia. Hutch grinned at me, though.

"Yeah? Well you should take a look at your own ugly mug, buddy. 
You wouldn't win any beauty contests yourself." He reached over 
and put the mask back where it was. "Leave it alone, Starsk. You 
need it."

I was gonna tell him exactly what to do with that damn 
uncomfortable mask when we hit a bump that ran my insides 
through a blender. I bunched the sheet up in my fist and 
concentrated on not doin' anything embarrassing--like tryin' to 
puke up nothin' but air. Through the buzzing in my ears I heard 
Hutch doin' his Dobey imitation.

"Hey, take it easy, would you? We're headed for the hospital, not 
the demolition derby!"

That's my partner. Really knows how to win friends and influence 
people.

My guts were still sloshin' around from that pothole when I saw 
the paramedic pull out a hypo. I stared at it, still half-woozy from 
the pain, and all I could hear was Bellamy's laugh.

"Hutch, no. Don't...don't let him!"

The warmth of Hutch's hand covered my chest and he leaned in 
close, blocking out the needle. "It's all right, Starsk, he's just going 
to give you something for the pain."

That snapped me back to reality, but I still wasn't goin' for it. I 
remembered how stoned I felt after Cheryl's shot. I knew I didn't 
have much time left, and even though I was tired of hurting, I 
couldn't afford to waste a minute. I grabbed for his arm, needing to 
make him understand.

"Hutch...pain don't matter. Not much time...things to say."

He smiled at me, but I could see how tough it was for him to pull it 
off. "Game's not over till it's over, Starsk. I know how bad you're 
hurting. Take the drugs, you don't have anything to tell me that I 
don't already know."

I knew he was thinking about what Ma told me. Thing is, Ma was 
only half right. I knew my Pop realized I how much I loved him. 
Sometimes, though, you just need to hear it out loud. See, I'm 
pretty sure that's what was missing around Hutch's house, and I'd 
like to set the record straight.

"Doesn't mean...shouldn't be said."

Warmth spread down my arm and through my body, turning the 
pain from a Great Dane into one of those yappy little furballs. I 
tried to stay awake but my eyes had other ideas. Last thing I heard 
was Hutch sayin' something about a steak dinner.

How can he be hungry at a time like this? 

I was asleep before I could figure it out.

For just a minute when I woke up, I thought I'd dreamed the last 
twenty hours. I was laying on the same bed, in the same room, with 
the same beeping in my ear, and the same face lookin' into mine. 
Made me think of an old movie I watched on the late, late show 
once, where this mad scientist developed a ray gun that made you 
stuck in a certain moment of time, living it over and over again.

One look at the clock killed that theory.

"Detective Starsky, do you know where you are?"

Well you don't look much like the Wicked Witch of the West, so I'm 
guessing it ain't Oz.

Sayin' it would take way too much breath, so I just rolled my eyes. 
"Hospital."

The doc nodded. "Your partner's waiting outside. I'll let you see 
him for just a minute, but then we need to take you upstairs. We 
need to run some tests." He poked at his glasses.

"Sorry...'m late."

Franklin looked confused for a minute until he remembered my 
promise. Then he just looked uncomfortable. "We'll do everything 
we can, but there's not much time."

I shook my head. "Don't...blame you. Had...to take...a chance." I 
tried to smile. "Win some...lose some."

Felt like I was tryin' to suck air through a swizzle stick. The doc 
motioned to a nurse and she slapped a mask over my face. 
Something in my chest unscrewed half a turn and I could breathe a 
little easier. I lay there, ridiculously grateful, and for the first time I 
really accepted the fact that I was gonna die. I just didn't have 
anything left to fight it with any more.

The doc came back and gave me another shot, and I didn't even 
wonder what it was. Only thing I had energy left to care about was 
on the other side of the double doors.

Maybe thinking about him conjured him up, 'cause Hutch walked 
into the room a second later. I watched his face while Franklin 
found a nice way to say I was almost out of time. Hutch nodded his 
head like he understood, but I could see he wasn't buyin' any of it. 
Even after everything, with Bellamy on a slab in the morgue, 
Hutch wasn't givin' up.

That hurt me in places the drugs couldn't touch.

Hutch walked over then, and leaned in close so I could see his 
face. One hand slipped into mine and the other rested on my 
shoulder. Connected. I didn't want to lose that, but I knew we'd 
come to a fork in the road. And this time we were goin' separate 
ways.

"Hey, buddy. I...I have to go now."

The nurse had taken away the mask so I could talk, but the words 
wouldn't seem to come. "Okay."

I meant it. I was scared, and splitting from Hutch just made it 
worse. But I trusted him to know what needed doin'. Problem was, 
Hutch didn't much look like he trusted himself. He started to pull 
away, so I gathered up all the breath I could.

"Hey."

A flea woulda sounded louder, but Hutch heard me. "Yeah?"

What do you say to someone who's made your world a better 
place? Who stuck by you when times couldn't possibly get any 
worse, and who celebrated with you when they couldn't possibly 
get any better? Someone you could always count on, even when 
everything else was falling to pieces. How can you put something 
into words that only makes sense in your heart?

But this was Hutch. I didn't have to.

He nodded and his fingers tightened. Somebody tapped him on the 
shoulder and he backed off, grumbling. He helped them move me 
onto another bed and someone covered me with a sheet. I caught a 
hazy glimpse of the Captain holding the door as they wheeled me 
out into the hall, then lost sight of them both.

I'd never felt more alone in my life.


Chapter 12

~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~

I have no memory of driving to Bellamy's apartment. My eyes 
were on the road, but my head and my heart were back in the 
hospital. Starsky's life rested in my hands now, thin and fragile as 
my grandfather's snow globe. Twenty years ago that treasure had 
been entrusted to my care and I'd dropped it, unable to save it from 
smashing to a thousand pieces on a hard oak floor.

I was terrified of making the same mistake.

As I see it, it's who do we trust time.

Starsky had already given me his answer. I knew he was scared of 
dying alone in a hospital, surrounded by cold tile and strangers. 
But he'd let me go without protest, trusting me to help him the only 
way I knew how. Starsky doesn't give his trust easily, but when he 
does, it's with no holds barred. It warmed me and terrified me all at 
the same time.

When I got to Bellamy's place I took the stairs two at a time and 
pounded on the door. Even though in my opinion Vic's wife shared 
his guilt, Dobey had told me they'd been unable to find sufficient 
proof to charge her with anything. When she didn't answer right 
away I banged louder, not caring if I woke the entire building.

"Police! Open up!"

The door cracked open and I gave it a shove, causing her to 
stumble backwards. I pushed past and looked around the 
apartment, trying to figure out where Bellamy might've hidden 
evidence that would lead me to whoever hired him. His wife 
watched me with red-rimmed eyes, her hands cupping her elbows.

I glared at her. "I need information, and I need it now. Who hired 
Vic to poison my partner?"

Crocodile tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. "I don't 
know!"

I didn't have time or patience for her grieving widow act. I was 
standing near the kitchen, so I stalked inside and began yanking 
open drawers, looking for anything that might give me an answer.  
When my search yielded nothing but grocery bills, pens, 
paperclips, and string, I slammed them shut and started tossing the 
living room.

Mrs. Bellamy just stood where I'd left her, sobbing and babbling. 
"I'm sorry! Honest, I'm sorry! For Vic, and you, and me, and your 
partner."

Somehow I didn't really believe that she ranked herself third on 
that list. I tried to concentrate on searching but her sniveling set my 
teeth on edge. I snatched a box of receipts out of a drawer and 
kicked the door shut on my way past it.

"Stop being sorry!"

"I'm sorry, honest!"

Nothing. Little pieces of paper all over the damn house but none of 
them had anything to do with Starsky. I moved into the bedroom, 
ripping open more drawers while I felt like doing things I'd never 
done to a woman.

"Help me!" I carried a drawer back into the living room, sorting 
through slips of paper. "Vic wasn't smart enough to do this by 
himself. He had to have help, who helped him?" 

"I don't know." 

That tearful, helpless little voice wasn't fooling me a bit. The lady 
was a shark in a housedress, she just needed a push to show her 
teeth. "Who helped him!"

"I don't know!"

I dumped the drawer and lunged for her, digging my fingers into 
her arms and giving her a hard shake. "TELL ME!"

"I don't know his name!" The whiny little girl disappeared and I 
got my first glimpse of those pearly whites.

Now we were getting somewhere. 

I spun her around and flung her down into an armchair, bracing a 
hand on each side to pin her in place. Starsky and I had taken turns 
being "bad cop" for years, but this time I wasn't playing a role.

"Tell me!"

She cringed, drawing her knees up to her chin, but her voice was 
hard as stone. "He hired Vic!"

"Who?"

"He had something to do with the University."

I slowly straightened, a chill scampering up and down my spine.

I did go out to campus. Dad was in a faculty meeting and couldn't 
come out--wouldn't, I guess.

Oh my God. So simple. The answer had been right there under our 
noses and we'd charged right past it.

I stared down at Mrs. Bellamy, trying to throw off my shock and 
stay focused. "Jennings? Professor Jennings?"

Her eyes narrowed, her expression sullen. "I already told you, I 
don't know his name. He contacted Vic right after he got out of 
prison. Said he and Vic had something in common--a grudge 
against two pigs by the names of Starsky and Hutchinson. He told 
Vic it was payback time, and he knew just how to do it."

It was good, but not good enough. I leaned back into her face. 
"Why did he pick Vic? How did he know?"

Her lip curled in a snarl like a rabid dog. "What difference does it 
make? Vic is dead!"

My hand reflexively jerked toward her face but I caught it, 
stabbing a finger at her instead. "My partner isn't. Now answer the 
question!"

She flinched and cowered, turning back into a little girl. "I think I 
heard Vic say he knew the guy's son, okay? That's all I can tell 
you, I swear!"

I pulled back and headed for the door, sick of the sight of her. 
Before I left, though, I turned back. She was still sitting where I'd 
put her, arms hugging her folded legs and eyes hard.

"I may need you to make a statement, so I'd make damn sure I 
didn't go on any sudden trips if I were you."

I thought about Jerry Jennings all the way out to the University. 
The moments leading up to his death played across my mind like a 
movie screen, still technicolor clear in spite of the passage of time. 
What should have been a routine bust for pushing turned tragic 
because Jerry, his brain fried on methamphetamines, grabbed for 
my gun.

He'd died almost instantly, the bullet shattering his ribcage and 
shredding his heart. Internal Affairs had cleared me of any 
wrongdoing--even that bastard Simonetti couldn't find fault with 
my actions. In the police report I'd tried to downplay Jerry's nearly 
psychotic behavior to spare his father some heartache. Ironically, 
I'd done it at Starsky's suggestion.

When I reached Professor Jenning's house, Cheryl's car was 
already in the driveway. I winced, wishing I could spare her the 
ugly scene I knew was coming. I had no doubts that Cheryl was 
completely ignorant of her father's actions. She was a good person-
-intelligent, compassionate, and much more worthy of her father's 
attentions than her brother had been. I never quite figured out why 
the old man had such a blind spot when it came to his son.

I rang the bell, then knocked several times, unable to suppress my 
impatience. Cheryl opened the door, lines creasing her pale brow 
when she saw me on the front stoop.

"Hutch, what are you doing here?"

"Cheryl, I may need your help. Bear with me." I shouldered by her 
into the brightly-lit living room, noting that the Professor was fully 
dressed despite the odd hour. "I want to talk to your father."

Jennings met me halfway, his jaw tight with anger and a pipe 
clutched in one white-knuckled hand. "Detective Hutchinson! 
You're not welcome in my home."

I ignored his bluster. "We've gone way past that, Professor."

"Hutch, what are you talking about?" Cheryl's question held a note 
of bewilderment, and she put a restraining hand on my arm.

"Ask your father, he knows." I looked Jennings in the eye, gauging 
his reaction. "I just spoke with Vic Bellamy's widow."

"Vic Bellamy?" Cheryl's voice rose a notch, and it hit home again 
how much her presence was going to complicate matters.

I tore my eyes from the Professor's face to look at her. "That man 
that your brother was pushing dope for when he was killed." 
Cheryl's eyes widened, and her hand fell limply to her side.

Her father gestured at me with his pipe and stalked over to a desk. 
"You don't leave my house peaceably, I'm going to have to call the 
campus police."

I had a disjointed thought that the desk was a far cry from Starsky's 
organized chaos. Its surface was impeccably neat and paper free, a 
phone perched in one corner. I walked over so that we were 
squared off, the desk between us.

"You'll find them busy, Professor." I stabbed my finger at his 
chest, my own tight from the effort of keeping a leash on my fury. 
"They and some detectives are opening up your laboratory."

"But why?" Cheryl leaned in, insinuating herself between us by 
bracing her hands on the desk.

"They'll be looking for a poisonous compound injected into 
Starsky." I hesitated a beat, wishing I didn't have to say the rest. 
"Cheryl...your father is the man that wants to kill him."

"That's insane." Under her protest I heard it--the first small seed of 
doubt. I hated being the one to put it there. Starsky's pale, pain-
riddled face flashed before my eyes and I shoved compassion out 
of the way.

"Yes, I guess it is," I agreed, locking my eyes onto the Professor's. 
Putting his actions into words and speaking them out loud made 
them more concrete. And added fuel to the flame of my own anger. 
"At least, that's what the defense attorneys will plead. But you see, 
Cheryl, your father contacted Vic Bellamy a few weeks ago after 
he got out of prison. The two of them held a grudge against me and 
Starsky. It was the perfect partnership, wasn't it, Professor?"

Jennings just looked at me, mouth curved with a hint of smugness.

Cheryl's eyes turned to saucers. "Dad, please, tell him it isn't so. 
Tell him!"

"Yes, Professor. Go on. Tell me."

The hint became a self-satisfied smirk. "Where did I make my 
mistake?"

I didn't owe him answers; he owed me. But I was willing to talk if 
it would convince him to save Starsky. "The compound itself. It 
was far too sophisticated for anyone as simple as Bellamy."

"Dad." Cheryl's broken whisper cut me like a knife, but her father 
didn't even seem to notice.

For the first time I saw real madness in those crafty eyes. It was 
difficult to maintain a poker face, to keep from licking my dry lips 
and evading that fanatical gaze.

"You'll not find anything in the lab." His voice was confident--
triumphant, even.

My temper began to slip through my fingers. "Well then, they'll 
come here. They'll tear this..." Jennings eyes slithered away from 
mine to quickly pan the room, a dead giveaway that I'd hit a nerve. 
"It is here, isn't it? Of course it is, there's enough stuff for both 
Starsky and me."

Cheryl was nearly frantic, eyes wild and head shaking in denial. 
"Dad. Dad, please, what is this all..." She reached out to place a 
hand on her father's arm.

"NO, SHUT UP! Can't you ever keep your mouth SHUT!" The 
Professor knocked her arm away so that she staggered backward, 
one hand clamped over her mouth. From the callous way he treated 
her, she could have been a stranger.

Maybe she was.

I looked over my shoulder at the clock. 2:49. One more hour and it 
wouldn't make a difference whether Jennings came clean or not.

"Yeah." He sneered at me, face twisted. "You have it all figured 
out."

I nodded, deliberately countering with composure. "Yes."

"But why?" Cheryl pleaded.

The professor thrust out his jaw, eyes hard as steel. "Because they 
killed my son. They killed Jerry." The words dripped bitterness 
and venom.

I had to look away for a moment to keep my cool. This was why 
my partner lay in a hospital bed, dying? "Professor, you don't think 
for... You don't think we wanted to kill him, do you?"

A harsh jerk of his head affirmed my words. "I read your story in 
the police report."

"Dad, Hutch tried to protect you in that report! Jerry was an addict, 
stoned out of his mind constantly." Cheryl's response was a wail, 
betrayal and disappointment mingled with dismay.

"That's a lie," her father snapped.

"Sir, his mind had already been taken over. His brain was soup."

"No." Jennings was crumbling. He walked over to the desk chair 
and folded into it, bowed head shaking slowly back and forth. I 
kept after him, pressing my advantage.

"We tried to calm him down, we tried to bring him back to the 
house--it's in the report. He grabbed my gun; it went off 
accidentally. It's not his fault, he was spaced out!"

"STOP!" The Professor slammed his fist onto the blotter.

"Professor, I'm asking you. I'm *begging* you, PLEASE! Stop this 
before it's too late!" I'd passed the point of reasoning, reduced to 
begging a crazy old man for my partner's life.

"My boy is dead. He was a good boy."

My eyes skipped to the clock. It was a compulsion, like picking a 
scab. 2:50.

Jennings continued to babble, more to himself than to Cheryl or 
me. "He's dead!"

I bit my lip hard, hanging onto my temper by my fingernails. I 
tried to keep my voice calm and low. "I'm asking you to save my 
partner's life."

I could feel Cheryl over my shoulder, holding her breath. Her 
father stared at me, hesitating, then slowly pulled open the drawer 
in front of him and reached inside. When his hand emerged it was 
clutching an uncapped syringe, pointed at me. I'd seen that look on 
the faces of countless street punks. Cornered. Desperate.

Dangerous.

"Professor, give it to me." I stretched out my hand, hoping like hell 
he wasn't going to turn it into shish-kabob.

He cringed but didn't lower the needle.

"Give it to me."

The forceful approach obviously wasn't working. Jennings had 
recoiled from me as far as possible, the hand holding the syringe 
quivering. I softened my tone and raised my voice, working hard to 
appear non-threatening.

"Give it to me."

"Dad, PLEASE!"

At the sound of his daughter's plea, the Professor dropped his eyes 
and I snatched the hypo from his unresisting fingers. Victory and 
relief, pure and undistilled, hit me with a sweet rush like I hadn't 
felt since... 

I ran for the door, leaving Cheryl to deal with the broken shell of 
her father.

Hang on just a little longer, Starsk. I'm coming, and I'm going to 
be pissed off if you don't wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~
  Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~

White tile. Machines. Nurses. And lots of needles.

I was in a gray place--not awake, not asleep, hanging in between. 
Somewhere there was still pain, bad pain, but it was too far away 
for me to care. My whole world narrowed down to just two things: 
breathing and waiting for Hutch to come back.

Both were getting' harder and harder to do.

I dreamed--daydreams, I guess, since I wasn't exactly sleeping. 
Sometimes they were about stuff that really happened. Standin' in 
the street, lookin' down at the body of Lonnie Craig, a bright red 
puddle soaking into the cement. Lying on a lumpy couch in an 
Italian restaurant, fighting to keep my eyes open so I could toss a 
metal pitcher at the wall. Climbing up a radio tower after 
Commander Jim, the wires biting into the palms of my hands, 
afraid to look down and see just how far off the ground we'd 
gotten.

Sometimes they were straight outta my fertile imagination. 
Chasing a suspect through dark alleys and vacant lots for hours, 
never gettin' any closer. Showing up in court to testify against a 
punk and developing a weird case of laryngitis so I couldn't talk. 
Goin' home to visit Ma and finding out she'd been dead and buried 
for years only somehow I didn't know it.

Crazy dreams that didn't always make much sense but had me 
waking up with the sheets balled up in my fists. They only had one 
thing in common, one piece that fit.

Hutch was there.

Not havin' him at my side while the doc and nurses were turning 
me into the incredible human guinea pig made it tough to find my 
way back from the gray place. I knew he was out there somewhere, 
lookin' for a miracle, but it was tough to think past white coats, 
beeping machines, and endless tests.

And I was so tired.

Once I think they let Captain Dobey in to see me for a few 
minutes. I got a hazy memory of brown skin and worried, dark 
eyes. Big, gentle hands and a gruff, no nonsense voice. Telling me 
to keep fighting. That it was an order, and if I knew what was good 
for me, I'd listen up.

I tried to talk, to ask him how Hutch was doin' and when he'd be 
back, but my tongue felt thick and clumsy and I couldn't seem to 
gulp down enough air to use it. 'Fore I realized what was 
happening, the mask was back over my nose and Dobey was gone. 

People were rushin' around me, fiddling with machines and the 
tubes and wires that connected me to 'em. All I could hear was the 
thumpin' of my heart and the wheezing that air made as I tried to 
pull it into my lungs. My body felt like it didn't belong to me, my 
arms and legs 500-pound weights and my head stuffed with cotton.

I was tired.

Tired of the pain, constantly gnawing my gut even when the drugs 
blunted its teeth. Tired of bein' poked and prodded--mask on my 
face, lights in my eyes, needles in my arms and wires on my chest. 
Tired of bein' surrounded by people but still feelin' alone.

Tired of fighting for a miracle that wasn't gonna happen.

I'm sorry, Hutch. I can't...

I expected darkness, the black velvet that had wrapped itself 
around me on the rooftop at Bellamy's place. Instead I was 
standing in light, bright and golden, blinding me like sun on water. 
I tipped my chin up, lettin' it warm my face as the hospital sounds 
faded slowly away to peaceful silence.

This is heaven? No offense, but it's highly overrated. 'Course, 
things could be worse. Least I'm not stoking the furnace with 
Bellamy and Wedell...

Laughter--a deep warm chuckle that echoed in the quiet. I 
recognized that sound even though I hadn't heard it for many years. 
My heart lurched sideways into my ribs and the hair on the back of 
my neck stood up.

"P...Pop?" It came out in a whisper, shaking as bad as my hands.

Fingers in my hair, rufflin' up the curls and then givin' 'em a tug. 
Only one person touched me that way, rough and gentle at the 
same time. I sucked in a sharp breath of air and found it laced with 
a familiar mixture of leather, gun oil, and cologne. I slowly turned 
around and found myself staring into blue eyes I'm told match my 
own.

He looked just the same, unchanged from that last night when I 
watched him walk out the door, slipping his gun into his holster 
and whistling under his breath. He grinned at me, laugh lines 
around his mouth and a dimple in one cheek. Just the same.

"Whatsa matter, Curly? Now that you're a hotshot detective you 
can't give your pop hug?"

I launched myself at him and was wrapped in a bear hug that I'd 
waited twenty long years for. My eyes burned, my throat closed 
up... And I felt terrific. Bellamy, the poison--none of it mattered. 
For some reason I had a second chance, and I didn't want to blow 
it.

Pop stepped back and held me at arm's length, lookin' me over 
from head to toe. The corners of his mouth curled up and he 
cocked an eyebrow.

"Look at you, grown into a man. You were such a handful, there 
was times I thought you'd never make it that far. I been keeping 
tabs on you, you know. Couple of times I wanted to reach down 
and give you a smack just to knock some sense into you, but you 
straightened out."

His words woke me up, reminded me that something funny was 
goin' on. I was standing in the middle of nowhere, still wearing a 
hospital gown and talkin' to a man who'd been dead twenty years. 
You can't get much stranger than that.

"Pop, how...where..."

He chuckled again and shook his head. "It's not what you think, 
David. You aren't in heaven, and there sure ain't nobody by the 
name of Bellamy or Wedell here either."

I stared, thinking how strange it felt to be lookin' eye to eye, not 
cranking my neck back to see his face. "I don't understand."

His expression got serious. "You're not dead yet, son. Least not all 
the way."

"All the way? What the heck is that supposed to mean? How can 
you be part dead?"

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, something I 
remembered him doin' when he was tryin' to figure out what to say. 
"It's hard to explain. There's a place between Life and Death where 
the line is blurred--an in-between place."

I tilted my head at the emptiness around us. "This?"

Pop nodded. "That's why you can see me, and why I had to talk to 
you. Death is real close, David. You feel that, don't you?"

I swallowed hard, all the spit drying up in my mouth. "Yeah. I 
guess I do. Did you come to take me with you? Is that why you're 
here?"

Pop's smile looked a little sad, but he slung an arm around my 
shoulders. "No, Curly. I'm here to send you back."

That threw me. I looked around, soaking up the stillness and the 
peace. My father's smile and the warmth of his arm across my 
back. And I remembered pain. Fear. Loneliness.

"Pop, what if I don't..." My voice wobbled and broke. "Don't you 
want me to stay with you?"

He dropped his arm, turning so that he faced me again. "David, 
there's nothing I'd like better than that. Don't ever think I'm not 
counting the days until we can be together again. But this isn't the 
time."

I dropped my eyes to try and hide the tears, but he must've seen 
'em anyway. "I know you're scared, Curly. I know you're tired and 
hurting. But there's other people back there that still need you. 
Right now you belong with them."

"Hutch!" I was amazed and a little ashamed that I hadn't thought 
about my partner even once since finding myself in that crazy 
place.

Pop nodded and one corner of his mouth turned up. "You two get 
into enough trouble together. Hate to think what might happen if 
you left him on his own." The smile flattened out and he looked at 
me with the stern, "I'm the father" expression I remembered from 
countless reprimands when I was a kid. "He's bustin' his tail to 
save you, David. You can't give up."

He was right. As soon as I accepted it, I felt the tug of the hospital 
room drawing me back and the light around me wavered and 
dimmed. Suddenly I remembered some unfinished business.

"Wait! One more minute! Pop, there's something you gotta know, 
something I never had the chance to say."

He shook his head, rollin' his eyes a little. "David, ain't you been 
listening? There's nothing you've got to tell me that I don't already 
know."

"Okay, okay, I get that. Just bear with me and let me say it 
anyway, all right?"

He chuffed a little laugh. "All right, Curly. I'm all ears."

I took a deep breath and blew it out through my nose. "I love you, 
Pop. You were a good dad--the best. All I ever wanted was to be 
like you, to make you proud of me. I just wanted you to know that 
I..."

He cut me off by reaching out to touch my face, his palm resting 
on my cheek and his fingers threaded through my hair. "David. 
Son..." He paused, and I was stunned to see him blinking back 
tears. I'd never, ever seen my pop cry. When he went on, his voice 
was soft, but steady. "You're the man I always hoped you'd be. I 
couldn't be more proud."

The pull got stronger and he dropped his hand. Suddenly his body 
looked thin, almost transparent and his voice sounded far away. 
"Take care of your mother, David, she needs you too. And give her 
and Nicky my love..."

The light flickered and died, snuffed out by the blackness I'd been 
expecting all along.


Chapter 13

~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a good thing Starsky couldn't see me after I left Professor 
Jenning's house. I drove like a bat out of hell, taking full advantage 
of the empty streets and the Torino's powerful engine. Pressing the 
gas pedal to the floor on the open highway. Screeching around 
corners on two wheels when I hit the city. And doing it all one-
handed while I tried to track down Dobey and Dr. Franklin.

Starsky would've been seriously pissed.

Turned out Dobey was at Memorial, so I had the dispatcher relay a 
message, asking him to notify Franklin I was coming in with a 
sample of the poison so that he could have his lab techs ready. The 
clock on the dashboard read 3:11 when I pulled up to the 
emergency room entrance, and my hands were shaking so hard I 
almost dropped the syringe. I slammed the gearshift into park and 
left the engine running, not even bothering to close the door.

A nurse was waiting. She took one look at me, carefully pried the 
hypo from my fingers, and sprinted down the hallway. Looking 
back, I'm not sure whether the rush was to save Starsky or to put as 
much distance as possible between herself and the wild-eyed blond 
man packing a gun.

That would be me.

Before I could try to follow, Dobey was at my side, taking me by 
the elbow and steering me over to a row of those damn plastic 
chairs. I was so strung out from stress and worry that he had me 
halfway toward parking my butt in one before I realized what I was 
doing. I shook off his hand and tried to walk away.

"How's Starsky? I have to talk to Franklin!"

Dobey stepped in front of me, a solid wall of captain. "Hold on..."

I dodged, furious at being kept from my goal. "Get out of my way, 
Captain, it's been a long day and the last thing I need is..."

"HUTCHINSON! SIT DOWN!"

Dobey's roar could've awakened patients on the second floor. For 
all I know, maybe it did. Not being a fool, I shut my mouth and sat. 
We glared at each other for a minute while he worked one large 
finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it, then claimed the 
chair next to mine.

"I just talked to the doctor." His voice did a 180-degree turn, 
gentleness replacing force. "They've got Starsky in a treatment 
room, prepping him for the antidote. He promised to come get us 
as soon as there's any news."

Something in his eyes made my mouth go dry and my heart stutter. 
"Did you see him? How is he?"

Dobey bit his lip and his eyes slid away from mine. "Hutch, I think 
you should be prepared for the possibility that..."

I cut him off with an upraised hand. "How. Is. He?"

"He went into respiratory failure and they had to put him on a 
machine to help him breathe. The doctor says he's putting up a 
helluva fight, but he's very weak."

All I could do was nod to show I understood. The giddy rush of 
adrenaline from my confrontation with the Professor was depleted, 
and exhaustion and depression seemed to be all I had left. I 
couldn't even summon the energy to feel angry about the way I'd 
been cheated out of my storybook ending.

Too bad this ain't a T.V. show, huh, Hutch?

You got that right, Starsk.

I dropped my head back against the wall with a thud and closed my 
eyes. It was out of my hands now. Funny, but the thought didn't 
give me a feeling of relief, only despair.

I sat in that lousy chair and waited for the entire course of my life 
to be decided by one curly-haired cop with a passion for bad horror 
movies. There were no distractions now, no leads to run down, no 
bad guys to bust. Nothing to do but contemplate my life without 
him in it. I grit my teeth and tried to picture it, even though it felt 
like pouring salt into an open wound. Tried to imagine someone 
else filling the holes Starsky would leave in my life. Cruising the 
streets and watching my back. Taunting me about my car and 
competing with me for a pretty lady. Playing practical jokes on 
Dobey and shooting pool with Huggy.

I tried, but I couldn't do it. Those holes in my life were all Starsky-
shaped--nothing, and nobody could fill them the way he did. 

I'm not sure how much time passed. Long enough for Dobey to 
quit nagging me about eating something and to bring me two cups 
of the worst coffee I'd ever tasted. My head ached, my eyeballs felt 
like ground glass, and I was jittery from far too much caffeine and 
far too little sleep. When Franklin rounded the corner I popped up 
on my feet before Dobey could blink.

"How is he?"

Franklin tilted his head in the direction from which he'd come. 
"Why don't you see for yourself?"

I swallowed hard and glanced at the Captain, who raised an 
eyebrow and gestured for me to go ahead. The doctor led me down 
a corridor, through a set of double doors, and into a room nearly 
identical to the one my partner had occupied earlier. Starsky, more 
beeping machinery, and another nurse. I blinked and scrubbed at 
my eyes, the feeling of déjà vu so strong that for a moment I felt 
dizzy.

Full circle and here we were again, but this time I could sense a 
difference. In the peaceful set of Starsky's sleeping face. In the 
quiet, relaxed movements of the nurse. And most of all, in the 
suggestion of a curve to Franklin's lips. He walked over to consult 
with the nurse, returning with a medical chart in his hands and 
smile lines around his eyes.

"We started adding the antidote to his I.V. an hour ago and he's 
already breathing on his own." He looked down at the chart. "Two 
cc's hydrochloride, 1 cc bromoacetone, 4 cc's benzylcyanide, 1 cc 
diphenylamide." He flipped the chart shut and smiled for the first 
time since the whole nightmare began. "Yes, I think your friend's 
going to make it."

The invisible fist released my chest, flooding me with the relief of 
a death row inmate handed a stay of execution. I touched his 
shoulder.

"Thank you, Doctor."

The words hung in the air, pitifully weak and inadequate, but 
Franklin nodded and moved off to talk with the nurse. I looked 
down at Starsky, his face pale and drawn, eyes shadowed, but 
giving off an unmistakable aura of peace.

Alive.

My eyes slipped shut and I offered up a semi-coherent prayer to a 
God I'm not even sure I believe in anymore.

Thanks. I owe you one.

I had the strangest sensation that I heard a low chuckle in reply.

Doctor Franklin finished giving instructions to the nurse, who 
promptly began disconnecting Starsky from several machines. 
"We're going to move him upstairs now, to the ICU. We'll continue 
to keep a close eye on him there until we're sure he's stabilized. If 
all goes well, he'll be in a regular room by tonight."

I nodded, unable to pull my eyes from my partner's face. "When 
can he go home?"

Franklin chuckled and shook his head. "I think we'll have to take 
things a step at a time. I can't say I've ever dealt with a patient 
quite like Detective Starsky."

I grinned. "He is unique."

The nurse stepped back and an orderly took her place, releasing the 
brake that immobilized the gurney. Franklin held open the door so 
that Starsky could be wheeled into the hallway.

"Give us a few minutes to get him settled. After that you can sit 
with him for a while if you'd like." He started to follow the gurney, 
but paused and looked back at me with an inscrutable expression. 
"If you'd asked two hours ago, I'd have said your partner didn't 
have a chance of making it. I've never seen anyone fight harder to 
hold onto life. It's almost as if he knew you were coming."

Franklin didn't wait for an answer, which was a good thing since 
my heart had suddenly crawled up into my throat, making speech 
impossible. I stood alone in the treatment room, taking slow, deep 
breaths for a long time before I was ready to find Dobey and give 
him the good news.

An hour later I was sitting in a chair almost identical to the one in 
the ER, with a notable exception--it was beside Starsky's bed in the 
ICU. I'm not sure what Franklin had told the nursing staff, but a 
friendly nurse named Margaret, who couldn't have been a day 
under 60, had settled me in with a pillow and reassurances that I 
was exempt from the normal visiting restrictions and could stay as 
long as I liked.

I watched my partner sleep, fully intending to remain alert myself. 
Dr. Franklin had warned me that Starsky was heavily medicated 
for pain and not likely to regain consciousness for some time, but 
after the grueling ordeal of the last 26 hours I found it hard to let 
down and relax. It had been close--too close. Part of me wanted to 
savor the moment of respite as Starsky began the upward swing 
toward healing. Part of me was still expecting the other shoe to 
drop.

I was awakened by the twitch of long fingers beneath my own, not 
even realizing I'd drifted off. My neck felt like a bent coathanger 
and my mouth tasted of stale coffee and tears. I blinked and sat up 
straight, running a hand down my face. Starsky's fingers curled 
around mine and his eyelids fluttered. Margaret bustled in a 
moment later.

"He's waking up!" I announced, probably sounding like Starsky 
had just won the Nobel Peace Prize or set an Olympic record.

She smiled and checked first his pulse and then the I.V. "I noticed. 
I saw the jump in his vital signs on the monitor at the nurses' 
station." For the first time I heard the hint of a brogue in her voice 
and noticed auburn mingled in her predominantly gray hair. She 
leaned over, modifying her voice so that it was low and soothing. 
"David, can you wake up for me? There's someone here who's 
anxious to talk with you."

Starsky's eyes opened a crack, slipped shut, and then slowly lifted 
to half-mast. Even from a distance I could see they looked glazed 
and unfocused. Margaret's warm smile blossomed, and it suddenly 
struck me that she must've been a knockout in her younger days.

"Hello, David. Welcome back."

Starsky slowly blinked and mumbled a word I couldn't understand 
in a raspy, creaky voice.

"I'll be taking care of you, sweetheart. My name is Margaret, but 
you can call me Maggie. You're still pretty sick, but you're doing 
much better."

I watched her as she spoke to him, the way she kept her 
movements gentle and slow so as not to cause him pain or startle 
him. I recalled Starsky's earlier complaint about nurses, and was 
grateful that this time, at least, he'd gotten a bona fide angel. 
Starsky lay passively while Maggie finished recording his blood 
pressure, still more asleep than awake despite the raised eyelids.

"I've got a surprise for you, David," she said. "Look who's here."

She stepped aside so that I could stop hovering over her shoulder 
and move into Starsky's line of vision. At first he just squinted 
blankly, and I had a brief moment of panic, wondering if the 
poison's devastating effects on his body had included brain 
damage. Fortunately, my alarm was short lived. His eyes locked 
onto mine and sharpened, losing a little of their vagueness. A 
crinkling of the skin around them, and the barest curve to his lips, 
seemed to be the closest thing to a smile he could manage.

"Hutch." Little more than a puff of air, paper thin and fragile.

"Hey, buddy." My throat closed up before I could say more, so I 
just stood there and grinned at him like an idiot.

"Took you...so long?"

I slid one hip carefully onto the bed and rested my hand lightly on 
his chest, relishing its steady, effortless rise and fall. "Stopped for a 
pizza."

He chuffed out a weak little laugh, winced, and reached a shaky 
hand to his throat. "Hurts."

Maggie, who'd been quietly observing us, slipped a plastic cup of 
crushed ice and a spoon into my hand. "His throat is sore from the 
tube. Go easy on the ice, his stomach won't be able to tolerate 
much yet." She patted my shoulder. "He's doing fine, so I'll leave 
you two alone. Don't let him talk too much, and don't worry if he 
doesn't make sense. He's apt to be pretty fuzzy from the drugs."

I'm usually more reserved than my exuberant partner, but I guess 
the euphoria from knowing Starsky was going to be all right got to 
me. I grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Thanks, Maggie. 
You're beautiful."

She flashed me the impish grin of a young girl. "Aye, that's what 
all the handsome young men tell me. I'll be right outside if you 
need me. Just buzz."

I turned to find two solemn blue eyes watching me with a foggy, 
bemused intensity. I rooted around in the cup for a small spoonful 
of ice and held it to Starsky's lips.

"Here, Starsk. It'll help your throat."

He let me feed him five or six spoonfuls of the ice, mouth opening 
as obediently as baby bird's, eyes slipping shut in bliss as it melted 
and ran down his abused throat. The silence between us was easy, 
comfortable, and I felt the tightly coiled spring inside of me slowly 
begin to unwind. Something about being able to perform that one 
small kindness for my partner healed me in places I hadn't realized 
were injured.

By the time he consumed the seventh spoonful, Starsky's eyelids 
were beginning to droop, so I set aside the cup.

"Tired." More of a sigh than a spoken word.

I tucked the blanket under his chin. "You've got a right to be. Had 
a busy day."

One corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided little smirk. It 
quickly faded, however, and a line appeared between his brows. 
"Poison?"

I knew what he was asking and I didn't want to open up that can of 
worms. Not with him just this side of Death's door. I patted his 
chest. "I'll tell you the whole story later. Point is, we caught the 
bad guy and you're going to be okay."

He peered up at me from under those lashes. "You."

"Huh?"

A deep breath, and the words were a little more slurred. "You...got 
the bad guy. Didn't do...nothin'."

I shook my head, eyes stinging, and tucked a stubborn curl back 
from his eyes. "You did the hardest job of all, babe. You held on."

His eyes slid shut and he smiled. "Nah...was easy. Pop tol' 
me...you were comin'."

I stared at him, dumbfounded, while he slipped into a deep sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~
  Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time the light came, I was almost afraid to open my eyes. 
Would I be back in the "in-between place" with Pop? Standing in 
front of the pearly gates, tryin' to fast talk my way inside? I kept 
real still and took inventory.

I was layin' down, not standing, the softness of a pillow under my 
head. Soft, steady beeps came from somewhere over my left 
shoulder. But the dead giveaway was the sour smell, like Bactine 
and old piss. 

Man, if heaven smelled like that I might just volunteer to go stoke 
the furnace.

It was about then that I felt something warm and heavy covering 
my left hand. I wriggled my fingers a little and struggled to pry 
open my eyelids. A voice spoke in my ear, soft and musical. I 
couldn't understand what it was saying, but it made me curious 
enough to work harder at opening my eyes. After a couple of tries I 
managed to keep 'em propped halfway, though it didn't do me 
much good. All I could see was a confusing jumble of shapes and 
colors, like puzzle pieces spilled out of the box and not put 
together. The pain in my chest was gone, but it had played a dirty 
trick and migrated to my throat, which felt like raw hamburger.

"Hello, David. Welcome back."

The pieces started to fit together, and I could make out a smiling 
face under a white cap. I tried to ask who she was, what was goin' 
on, but the words came out as mixed up as the colors had been. She 
just smiled and kept talkin' to me. I knew the drill by now, and I 
braced myself, expecting the orders, the poking and jabbing, 
pushing and pulling. 

They never came. Her voice stayed quiet and sweet, and her hands 
were slow and gentle. She told me I could call her Maggie, and 
that she was gonna take care of me. For just a minute, I started 
thinking maybe I'd made a mistake, maybe I was in heaven after 
all. Maggie sure seemed like my own personal angel.

"David, I've got a surprise for you. Look who's here."

My angel's face was gone and another took its place, too fast for 
me to track.

Damn. Stoned again.

I squinted hard at the blue and yellow blobs in front of me, and 
after a minute they shifted into place. It was like comin' home after 
a long trip.

"Hutch."

Sounded like the voice of a ninety-year-old man, but Hutch's face 
lit up like a candle. "Hey, buddy."

Lifting one corner of my mouth was easier than two, so I settled 
for a crooked smile. "Took you...so long?"

Hutch was right there with me, didn't miss a beat. "Stopped for a 
pizza."

I wasn't expecting the laugh that ambushed me. Small as it was, 
just a little puff of air, really, it still set fire to my throat. I couldn't 
help grabbing at it.

"Hurts."

Maggie said something to Hutch and handed him a little plastic 
cup and spoon. Even though I could hear the words, I couldn't keep 
up with 'em. Felt like everyone else was playing at 78 rpm, and I 
was stuck on 33. As I watched, Hutch grabbed her hand to give it 
squeeze, then blushed at her reply. 'F I didn't know better, I'd've 
sworn Hutch was flirtin' with my angel.

Nah.

Maggie left and Hutch dug around in the cup with the spoon. He 
held it up to my mouth and I could feel coldness against my lips.

"Here, Starsk. It'll help your throat."

I wasn't too keen on the idea of swallowing anything, but I opened 
up anyway. Little hunks of something wet and freezing cold 
slipped onto my tongue. Ice chips. I let 'em melt and trickle down 
my throat, almost purring 'cause it felt so good. When Hutch held 
out the spoon again I was only too happy to take some more.

For a while, that's how it went--Hutch scooping up more ice chips 
and spoonin' 'em into my mouth; me layin' there and lettin' him do 
it. Normally I'd never of put up with bein' fed like a baby; it pisses 
me off when Hutch gets overprotective and acts like my mother. 
But after the last 24 hours from hell, nothing was normal. I was so 
tapped out just lifting my arm felt like running a marathon. And 
Hutch? In spite of the big, goofy grin on his face, he looked like a 
rubberband stretched tight enough to snap.

We both needed that time--no thinking, no talking, just soaking up 
some peace and quiet. It gave me a chance to find my way back. 
To shake off the last little bits of that in-between place and pick up 
my life. It gave Hutch the chance to stop and let the good news 
sink in. To see that he'd passed the finish line a couple miles back 
and it was time to quit running. 

I must've started to fall asleep, 'cause suddenly the spoon was gone 
and gentle hands were tugging at the sheets.

"Tired."

"You've got a right to be. Had a busy day." Hutch's voice was just 
as warm and comfortable as the blanket he tucked under my chin. 
The sharp edge was gone; he sounded like himself for the first time 
since Bellamy poisoned me.

Poison. Bellamy. How in the hell did he come up with an antidote 
when our buddy Vic was imitating a Popsicle in the morgue? I 
pushed aside the sleepiness and concentrated on making my tongue 
work.

"Poison?"

Okay, it wasn't brilliant, but it was short and to the point. I knew 
Hutch would get what I was asking.

Blondie thinks he's clever, but I can read him like a book. His face 
tightened up for a minute, and I knew he was deciding how much 
to tell me. Actin' like my mother again, but I was too tired to care.

He patted my chest. "I'll tell you the whole story later. Point is, we 
caught the bad guy and you're going to be okay."

We. Yeah, right. More I thought about it, the guiltier I felt. I'd 
risked Hutch's life by making him drag me along during the 
investigation. If Bellamy'd shot him back on that roof, I'd've never 
forgiven myself.

'Course, I wouldn't've had too long to be wallowing in blame. 

"You." I was gettin' good at one word sentences. Unfortunately, 
Hutch wasn't following me.

"Huh?"

I sucked in a breath of air and tried again. It was like talking 
around a wad of peanut butter. "You...got the bad guy. Didn't 
do...nothin'."

He blinked hard and shook his head. Loopy as I was, I could still 
see he was just a step away from tears. He reached over and 
brushed a lock of hair outta my eyes that I hadn't even realized was 
buggin' me. "You did the hardest job of all, babe. You held on."

*Ah, Hutch. You'll never know how close I came to lettin' go.*

I thought about Pop. How he was still just like I'd remembered 
him. How he'd seemed content and happy. How even though I 
couldn't see him, he was with me. And even though we couldn't be 
together, I'd made him proud.

Best of all, I'd gotten to tell him something I'd been holding inside 
me for twenty long years. 

I smiled, and gave up on holding my eyes open. "Nah...was easy. 
Pop tol' me...you were comin'."

I let myself slide toward sleep, knowing two of the people I loved 
best were watching over me.


Chapter 14

~~~~~~~~~~~
  Starsky
~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later the doc finally let Hutch spring me from the 
hospital. Huh. Might as well say spring me from the slammer, 
there wasn't a big difference. I was so fed up by then I'd've done 
just about anything to get out. The food was worse than Hutch's 
health glop and they wouldn't let him smuggle me a burger. The 
television stuck on one channel that showed nothing but nature 
documentaries. The damn white dress they made me wear kept 
bunchin' up around my waist when I tried to sleep and flapped 
open in back when I went to take a leak. And everywhere I turned 
people were tellin' me what I could and couldn't do--even my 
partner.

Problem was, even though I was mentally ready to take on the 
world, physically I still needed a lot of help. Just doin' a simple 
little thing like gettin' myself dressed wore me out so much I had to 
sit back down on the bed. I kept tellin' myself I should be grateful 
just to be breathing--and I was--but it didn't stop the frustration or 
brighten my lousy mood.

"Hey there! All ready to be leaving us, I see."

Maggie stood in the doorway, arms folded, a big smile on her face. 
The only bad part about gettin' out of the ICU to a regular room 
was losing her as my nurse. She'd drop by several times a day, 
though, to check up on me. Once she even brought me a frozen 
juice bar from Pediatrics. Said if little kids having their tonsils out 
deserved 'em, I did too.

"Hutch is comin' to get me." I waved her inside and she perched on 
the bed next to me. "Can't wait to blow this joint." I grinned at her. 
"No offense intended."

She chuckled. "None taken. It's the way of it, you know, part of the 
healing. A few months from now and you'll have put us all right 
out of your mind."

I nudged her with my shoulder and winked. "Nah, not all of ya. 
Couldn't forget my Irish Rose." During one of her visits Maggie 
had told me about growing up in a small town near Dublin, where 
her sister still lived.

The chuckle turned into a full-blown laugh and she patted my 
knee. "Now, David. You'd best be saving that charm for the young 
girls, don't you think?"

"Careful, Maggie. Don't encourage him." Hutch leaned against the 
doorjamb, smiling at us.

I lowered my voice. "Don't listen to him, Maggie. He's always 
tryin' to steal a pretty lady from me."

Hutch snorted and walked into the room. "Trying?"

Maggie shook her head and stood up, pursing her lips to try and 
hide a smile. "I'd say you both are nothing but trouble and I'm well 
rid of you." She looked at Hutch. "Take care of him, Kenneth. Just 
don't forget to take care of yourself while you're at it." When she 
turned back to me she frowned and shook her finger, but I could 
see she was teasing. "And you! Don't be undoing our hard work 
with your own stubbornness. I don't want to see you back here 
because you didn't know when to ask for help."

I stood up and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks, Maggie. 
You're one in a million."

She smiled at me and then Hutch as he took her hand. "Aye, so I've 
been told."

Once she disappeared out the door, Hutch cocked an eyebrow at 
me. "Well, partner, you ready to rejoin the rest of the world?"

I rolled my eyes. "You got no idea. Let's go before they change 
their minds."

Hutch turned toward the door, but when I started to follow he held 
up a hand. "Hang on, I'll be right back."

I wasn't sure what he was up to, but my legs were already starting 
to feel a little wobbly, so I propped myself against the bed and 
tried to be patient. I didn't have to wait long. He was back a second 
later, wearing a big grin and pushing a wheelchair.

"Your chariot awaits."

I glared at him and folded my arms. "I am not ridin' in that. I 
happen to have two legs and there ain't a damn thing wrong with 
either one."

Hutch straightened up and put his hands on his hips. "Starsky, this 
isn't my idea and you don't have a choice. Hospital policy says you 
go out in one of these or you don't go out at all." His voice stayed 
real calm and reasonable, like a parent talking to a toddler throwin' 
a tantrum. 'Course that just made me madder.

"Well it's a stupid policy, I ain't some kind of invalid!" 

In the back of my mind I knew I was bein' unreasonable, but I 
couldn't seem to stop myself. Ever since the poisoning I'd lost 
control of my life. My body's betrayal not only kept me from 
taking care of myself, it left me useless to Hutch, too. To him, 
gettin' in that wheelchair might be no big deal, but to me it was the 
straw that broke the camel's back. And the camel was pissed.

"It's only as far as the front door. After that you can kiss it good-
bye. C'mon, get in the chair." Still patient, no sign of temper even 
though I was bein' an ass. Just another reminder things weren't the 
way they were supposed to be.

I pushed myself away from the stability of the bed and started for 
the door, givin' the wheelchair and Hutch a wide berth. "Forget it. 
I'm outta here. You ride in that thing if you're so fond of it."

Hutch snagged me by the arm and for the first time I saw a spark 
of anger in his eyes. "Stop being a baby! The hospital..."

Wrong choice of words. In fact, he couldn't've picked worse if he'd 
been trying. I jerked my arm out of his grasp, too furious to 
recognize what a stupid move it was. "Screw the hospital, and 
screw you! I'll take a cab home."

I had about three seconds to watch hurt flicker across Hutch's face 
before the dizziness slammed into me, my feet tangled together, 
and my legs folded up.

And just like always, Hutch was there.

He lunged for me, catching me under the arms and hauling me 
back upright. "Damn it, Starsky, what the hell is wrong with you? 
You want to check back in with a concussion?"

It was the first honest anger he'd shown me in three days and I was 
too far gone to appreciate it. My fingers were knotted in his jacket, 
my forehead was pressed against his shoulder, and I was 
desperately trying not to prove him right by bawlin'.

Hutch must've sensed what was goin' on, because his tone shifted 
from mad to bewildered. "Starsk?"

I couldn't look at him. "I just want my life back, Hutch. To eat 
what I want, when I want. To be able to do a simple thing like put 
on clothes without needin' to stop and rest. If I can't sleep, I want 
to stay up late and watch a movie, not take a pill. To be alone for 
longer than fifteen minutes without someone checkin' on me. I 
want..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on." 

Hutch shifted so that I could sit down on the bed, then joined me. 
His expression was so gentle and sympathetic I had to look out the 
window.

"Starsky, three days ago you almost died. Ask any doctor or nurse 
in this hospital and they'll say you're a walking miracle. Cut 
yourself, and the rest of us, a little slack."

I watched an airplane fade in and out of some fluffy white clouds. 
"'S not my miracle, Hutch. You conjured it up all on your own."

I felt him go still, and I could almost hear the gears turning. 
"What's really bugging you, Starsk? Level with me."

Not much. I just keep havin' this recurring nightmare where 
Bellamy blows you away 'cause I can't lift my gun.

I shrugged and shook my head. "Nothin'. C'mon, let's go. I'll get in 
the damn chair."

Hutch's arm across my chest stopped me. "Try again."

Great. Now he was gonna tell me when I had to talk? I shoved his 
arm out of the way but it was back before I could move. I was in 
no shape to fight him, and we both knew it. 

"Talk to me." Quiet. Patient.

God, I was gonna go out of my mind if he didn't stop treating me 
with kid gloves! 

"See? That's just what I'm talkin' about! You don't even get mad at 
me when I deserve it; you take my shit and never call me on it! I'm 
not made of glass, Hutch. When I screw up I expect you to tell me, 
same as always."

Hutch stared at me through my outburst, a little line between his 
eyebrows that got deeper the more I yelled. When I finally ran 
outta steam he gave a little shake of his head.

"Okaaaay. How about you let me in on just when you're supposed 
to have screwed up."

I didn't want to talk about it, especially not there, but I'd just 
painted myself into a corner. I grit my teeth and looked him 
straight in the eye.

"How 'bout when I almost got you killed?"

His jaw dropped. "What?"

The fact that he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about 
just made me madder. "Hutch, Bellamy was three seconds away 
from wasting you right in front of me! I never should've been out 
on the streets with you; I was in no shape for it. My inability to 
back you up almost got you killed!"

Hutch gaped at me for a minute longer, then slid off the bed. He 
paced to the end of the room and then returned to stand in front of 
me, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Have you really been stewing over this for three days?" When I 
didn't answer he pulled his hand down his face and shook his head. 
"Starsk, you gave me all the back up I needed. You saved my life!"

I couldn't stand to hear him put it that way. "It was a lucky shot! I 
could barely see, I could just as easily..."

"It was what we do!" Hutch's razor sharp reply cut me off. He 
made a soft noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "We put 
ourselves on the line for each other. That's why we're so good at 
the job. Starsk, when I needed you, you were there. Just like I 
knew you'd be."

His words filled a hole, a souvenir from Bellamy that Dr. Franklin 
couldn't heal. I couldn't give up quite so easily, though.

"Yeah, well, I still shouldn't've been out there in the first place."

Hutch smiled and braced a hand on my shoulder. "Maybe not. Of 
course, we both know I'd never do something like that." The 
corners of his mouth twitched.

And suddenly I remembered. Hutch, still suffering from 
withdrawal and weak as a kitten. Insisting he was well enough to 
meet that two-timin' snitch Mickey, and nearly gettin' us killed as a 
result.

Okay, so we were both stubborn idiots. Why did that make me feel 
so much better?

I snorted and slid off the bed, carefully settling myself in the chair. 
"Let's go, Blondie."

It took Hutch three tries to figure out how to release the brakes on 
the wheels so we'd move forward and not in little circles. I didn't 
even try to be nice about it.

"Sure you don't want me to drive?"

"Very funny. You know, just because you have some irrational 
dislike of my car, doesn't mean I can't drive anything on wheels 
better than you, even that striped tomato. You should've seen me 
when..."

I waited but he didn't finish. "I should've seen you when--what?"

"Never mind."

I shrugged. There was probably something there I should know, 
but I'd worry about it later. Hutch maneuvered me out the door and 
down the hallway to the elevator.

"Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"Checked the TV listings this morning. There's a Bela Lugosi 
marathon on channel 5 tonight."

And that's why he's my best friend. He hears me, even when I'm 
not makin' a lot of sense.

"Yeah?"

"That's right."

I tilted my head back so I was lookin' at him upside down. "Pizza 
and beer?"

We'd reached the elevator. Hutch walked around me to punch the 
button, then leaned against the wall facing me. "Popcorn with salt--
no butter--and rootbeer."

I grinned at him. "I can live with that."

The elevator was empty, thank God, so Hutch had no trouble 
gettin' the wheelchair inside. We were almost to the main floor 
when I remembered something I had to do.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"When we get to your place, I need to call Ma."

His hand came down on my shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "Got a 
lot to tell her, huh?"

Take care of your mother, Curly. She needs you too. And give her 
my love...

"Yeah."

The doors opened and Hutch was quiet as he wheeled me out into 
the hallway. When he finally did speak up, his voice was soft and 
unsure.

"Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"You know what you said in the ICU? About knowing I was 
coming?"

I wondered when he was gonna ask me. And I wanted to tell him. I 
just wasn't quite ready.

"Yeah."

"You ever going to talk to me about that?"

I nodded without lookin' up at him. "Yeah. I am. I just need a little 
more time."

I heard the smile in his answer. "You've got it."

We turned a corner and started down the long corridor that would 
take us to the front doors and Hutch slowed down a little. Just 
when I was gonna ask him to quit messin' around and get us outta 
there, he leaned over.

"Hey, Starsk? Did you know if you build up enough speed, it's 
possible to do a wheelie in one of these chairs?" The low, evil tone 
of his voice warned me I was about to find out.

Oh, man. I knew it! I never should've needled him about his 
driving.

"That's real interesting, Hutch, but I don't think it's such a good 
idea. I mean, like you said before, I practically died a few days ago 
and I'm still a convalescent..."

"Hang on, buddy. I'll show you just how good a driver I am."

"Hutch, you don't gotta prove anything to me, I already... 
HUUUUUUUUTCH!"

~~~~~~~~~~~
   Hutch
~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later I finally had the go ahead from Dr. Franklin to 
take Starsky home--well, home to my place, anyway. Even though 
he was doing better every day, he was still weak and needed a lot 
of help. To tell you the truth, I didn't mind. I'd come as close as 
you could get to losing him. Having him back was a gift, even if it 
meant taking care of him and putting up with his moodiness until 
he could get on his feet.

And he was moody--no doubt about it. One minute he was his old 
self, flirting with the nurses and trying to coax me into smuggling a 
hamburger to him. The next he was quiet and withdrawn, not 
talking unless I asked him a question, giving me one-syllable 
answers. When I'd pumped a nurse for information, she'd told me 
he was having some trouble sleeping, and that even though he 
wouldn't admit it, she was pretty certain he'd been suffering from 
nightmares.

So when I bumped into Dr. Franklin on my way to Starsky's room, 
it seemed like the perfect chance to voice my concerns without my 
partner knowing I was checking up on him.

"Dr. Franklin?"

He looked up from the chart he was signing and smiled, an 
expression I still wasn't used to seeing on his face. "Detective 
Hutchinson. Here to take your partner home?"

I shook his extended hand. "Yeah, I'm headed there now. Do you 
have a minute?"

He flipped the chart shut and gave me his complete attention. "Is 
there a problem? I signed Detective Starsky's release papers this 
morning."

"No. Well, maybe. I'm a little worried about him."

Franklin's quizzical expression smoothed into understanding. "I 
realize he's still quite weak, but he's made amazing progress. Just 
give him a little more time and..."

I held up a hand and shook my head. "Not about that. I can see that 
physically he's improving, more every day. It's..." I rubbed the 
back of my neck, searching for the right words. "He's been quiet, 
distant. Sometimes I can't get more than two words out of him. It's 
not like Starsky." I chuckled. "Usually I can't get him to shut up. 
And the nurses tell me he's been having nightmares and trouble 
sleeping. I just..." I sighed, wondering if I sounded ridiculous. "I'm 
just concerned, that's all."

Franklin nodded and I was relieved to see empathy and not 
amusement in his eyes. "Detective, I don't have to tell you how 
close we came to losing your partner. You've earned the right to 
worry a little." 

I chuffed a weak laugh and he continued. "Having said that, I can 
reassure you that the behavior you're seeing from your friend is 
completely normal, considering the circumstances. His body has 
been through a severe trauma. It's understandable that there will be 
psychological repercussions as well as physical. The mood swings, 
the nightmares--just give him some time. As he grows stronger and 
we continue to cut back on the drugs, I'm sure you'll see them 
disappear."

It was what I'd been telling myself, but hearing it from the doctor 
lifted a huge weight off my shoulders. I shook Franklin's hand 
again.

"Thank you, doctor. For everything. Now I'd better run. If I'm late 
Starsky's going to..."

I glanced up at the clock, not even realizing that I'd stopped 
speaking. For one terrible moment time rolled backwards, Starsky 
was dying, and I was desperately racing to save his life.

I'd been having a few nightmares of my own.

Franklin's hand on my arm pulled me back. "Give yourself some 
time too, Detective. Your partner isn't the only one to survive a 
trauma."

By the time I got to Starsky's room I'd regained my equilibrium. 
One of the nurses had given me the go ahead to take him out to the 
car, as long as I obeyed the wheelchair rule. I knew Starsky 
wouldn't like it, but I figured he'd be too happy about leaving to 
make a fuss.

Starsky was flirting with Maggie when I stepped in the door. I just 
watched them for a minute, pleased to see my partner looking so 
cheerful. Maggie had been a godsend. She'd made that first day in 
the ICU bearable for Starsky and me, getting him to smile with her 
teasing and mothering both of us. She evidently had a soft spot for 
my partner, since she'd continued to visit him and check his 
progress even after he graduated to a regular room.

When Maggie left I was more than ready to put the hospital behind 
us, and I knew Starsky had to be even more anxious. "Well, 
partner, you ready to rejoin the rest of the world?"

"You got no idea. Let's go before they change their minds."

He started to follow me out the door but I stopped him. "Hang on, 
I'll be right back."

I made a big show of pushing in the wheelchair with a flourish. 
"Your chariot awaits."

Starsky's reaction was pretty much what I expected. He folded his 
arms and stuck out his lower lip in that pigheaded expression that 
drives me crazy. "I am not ridin' in that. I happen to have two legs 
and there ain't a damn thing wrong with either one."

So much for his good mood. I kept my answer patient, which really 
wasn't all that hard to do. These days I was so grateful just to have 
him breathing, I got a lot less irritated by his little quirks. "Starsky, 
this isn't my idea and you don't have a choice. Hospital policy says 
you go out in one of these or you don't go out at all."

"Well, it's a stupid policy. I ain't some kind of invalid!"

Remember what he's been through. He's got a right to be feeling 
frustrated and angry. Yelling at him isn't going to do any good. 
You've got to use reason.

"It's only as far as the front door. After that you can kiss it good-
bye. C'mon, get in the chair."

The funny thing was, me staying calm just seemed to infuriate 
Starsky. He stomped toward the door, circling around me and the 
chair as if we were carrying the plague.

"Forget it. I'm outta here. You ride in that thing if you're so fond of 
it."

I loved him. I was ecstatic that he was still alive. But there was 
only so much of his spoiled child routine I was going to take. I 
reached out and grabbed his arm. "Stop being a baby! The 
hospital..."

I guess I hit a nerve without even trying. Starsky went absolutely 
white with anger and jerked away from me. "Screw the hospital, 
and screw you! I'll take a cab home."

Things happened lightening fast after that. Pulling away from me 
must have thrown off Starsky's already fragile sense of balance and 
he would've wound up on the floor if I hadn't caught him. I tried to 
slow the pounding of my heart, terrified that he could have really 
hurt himself. So of course, I covered by yelling at him.

"Damn it, Starsky, what the hell is wrong with you? You want to 
check back in with a concussion?"

I expected him to yell back at me, or even to shove me away. 
Instead he just held onto me like I was a life preserver and he'd just 
abandoned a sinking ship. I could tell from the tension in his body 
and his short, sharp pants for air that he was a breath away from 
tears. 

What in the...?

"Starsk?"

His voice was so low and soft I could barely hear it. "I just want 
my life back, Hutch. To eat what I want, when I want. To be able 
to do a simple thing like put on clothes without needin' to stop and 
rest. If I can't sleep, I want to stay up late and watch a movie, not 
take a pill. To be alone for longer than fifteen minutes without 
someone checkin' on me. I want..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa."

I got us situated on the bed, but he still wouldn't look at me. I was 
stunned by his outburst. I'd known he was sick of the hospital, and 
I'd seen him struggling with his physical limitations, frustrated and 
discouraged. It just wasn't like Starsky to let it get him this far 
down.

"Starsky, three days ago you almost died. Ask any doctor or nurse 
in this hospital and they'll say you're a walking miracle. Cut 
yourself, and the rest of us, a little slack."

He'd look at the window, but not my face. "'S not my miracle, 
Hutch. You conjured it up all on your own."

Well.

Now we were getting somewhere.

"What's really bugging you, Starsk? Level with me."

"Nothin'. C'mon, let's go. I'll get in the damn chair." All of a 
sudden the dreaded wheelchair wasn't so bad. I had to be closing in 
on the real problem.

"Try again." I put my arm out to keep him from slipping off the 
bed and walking out the door.

Of course, that just pissed him off. He'd just explained how 
frustrated he was with being told what to do, and there I was 
insisting he had to talk. He probably thought I hadn't been 
listening, but I had. That's why I couldn't give him a choice.

"Talk to me." I know my partner. Sometimes getting him to come 
clean about what's going on inside is like pulling teeth. But if you 
can get him angry enough, so that he really blows his top, he'll let 
his mouth go before his brain can stop it.

"See? That's just what I'm talkin' about! You don't even get mad at 
me when I deserve it; you take my shit and never call me on it! I'm 
not made of glass, Hutch. When I screw up I expect you to tell me, 
same as always."

Screw up? He wasn't making sense.

"Okaaaay. How about you let me in on just when you're supposed 
to have screwed up."

He glared at me. I could see he didn't want to talk about it, but he 
was too mad to just let it drop.

"How about when I almost got you killed?" He ground it out 
through clenched teeth, furious, but I think the anger was more for 
himself than for me.

I gaped at him. "What?"

"Hutch, Bellamy was three seconds away from wasting you right 
in front of me! I never should've been out on the streets with you, I 
was in no shape for it. My inability to back you up almost got you 
killed!"

It all slid into place. If I'd've been a cartoon character, a little 
lightbulb would've gone on over my head. Suddenly the brooding, 
the distance--it all made perfect sense. I got off the bed and paced, 
struggling to come up with the right words.

"Have you really been stewing over this for three days?" The stiff 
set of his shoulders was all the answer I needed. "Starsk, you gave 
me all the back up I needed. You saved my life!"

It wasn't what he wanted, or needed, to hear. "It was a lucky shot! I 
could barely see, I could just as easily..."

"It was what we do!" I couldn't believe he was beating himself up 
over a series of circumstances that I viewed as a gift. "We put 
ourselves on the line for each other. That's why we're so good at 
the job. Starsk, when I needed you, you were there. Just like I 
knew you'd be."

Finally, finally, I got it right. I could see something shift in his eyes 
and his fists unclenched. Guess it was too much guilt to drop all at 
once, though.

"Yeah, well, I still shouldn't've been out there in the first place."

He was right. It wasn't as if I hadn't had the same thought myself as 
we'd climbed the stairs to Bellamy's apartment. But if I'd been 
Starsky... 

But I had, hadn't I?

"Maybe not. Of course, we both know *I'd* never do something 
like that." I smirked at him.

I'm seriously reconsidering my stand on that psychic connection. 
Starsky received the unspoken message--I read it in his face. He 
looked at me for a long moment, then hopped off the bed and got 
in the chair.

"Let's go, Blondie."

Welcome back, Starsk.

He was enough of his old self after that to give me grief when I 
couldn't figure out how to work the wheelchair, snickering under 
his breath and making little snide remarks. Finally he couldn't 
contain himself.

"Sure you don't want me to drive?"

"Very funny. You know, just because you have some irrational 
dislike of my car, doesn't mean I can't drive anything on wheels 
better than you, even that striped tomato. You should've seen me 
when..."

Oops. I definitely did not want to go there. Guess Starsky's not the 
only one who occasionally loses control of his mouth. I snapped 
mine shut and concentrated on navigating through the doorway. 
Starsky took the hint.

We were quiet on the way to the elevator, and I had time to think 
over everything Starsky had said. About wanting his life back. 
About all the ways we'd taken it from him, even if it was for his 
own good. I couldn't do anything about most of it, but I had a 
surprise that might cheer him up.

"Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"Checked the TV listings this morning. There's a Bela Lugosi 
marathon on channel 5 tonight."

I grinned to myself. Only for you, buddy. Personally I'd rather 
watch those nature documentaries.

Starsky's reaction was worth the sacrifice. He tilted his head back, 
looking like a delighted little boy. "Yeah?"

"That's right."

He tipped his head down but I could see him smirking. "Pizza and 
beer?"

Fortunately, I'd anticipated the question and was two steps ahead 
of him--I'd checked with his nurse when I picked up the 
wheelchair. "Popcorn with salt--no butter--and rootbeer." I 
punched the elevator button.

Starsky's grin was the 1000 watt one I hadn't seen since Bellamy. 
"I can live with that."

We both can, buddy.

I figured in time the feeling might fade, and I'd come to take him 
for granted again. I hoped it never would. Bellamy and the 
Professor had inadvertently taught me a lesson I wouldn't soon 
forget.

We were the only people in the elevator, but Starsky's voice was 
soft, subdued. "Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"When we get to your place, I need to call Ma."

I closed my eyes, glad that he couldn't see just how grateful I was 
not to be making that call. Once Starsky was out of the woods, I'd 
volunteered to let Rachel know what had happened, that he was in 
the hospital, but doing fine. He'd given me an odd look and shaken 
his head, but he also hadn't seemed inclined to call her himself.
 
I squeezed his shoulder. "Got a lot to tell her, huh?"

A long pause before he spoke, and I had the strangest feeling that 
just for a moment he'd gone somewhere else.

"Yeah."

A question, one that had been hovering in my mind since Starsky 
regained consciousness, tugged at my lips. I'd almost spoken it 
aloud countless times over the last three days, but something held 
me back. Maybe simple respect for his privacy during a time when 
he was allowed so little. Maybe fear that something profound had 
happened to him but I'd never know what it was.

The doors opened and I pushed him out. "Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

Here goes nothing.

"You know what you said in the ICU? About knowing I was 
coming?"

For some reason I couldn't just say it.

It's almost as if he knew you were coming.

You did the hardest job of all, babe. You held on.
Nah...was easy. Pop told me...you were comin'.

"Yeah."

"You ever going to talk to me about that?"

He didn't tense up or seem upset by the question. Just 
looked...preoccupied. I got the feeling that whatever he'd 
experienced was like a new picture, and he hadn't figured out 
where to hang it. Once he did, I hoped he'd want to share it with 
me. 

"Yeah. I am. I just need a little more time."

Time. We had plenty of it now. No reason to gulp it down--I was 
willing to sip.

"You've got it."

We turned a corner and I could just make out the entrance to the 
hospital at the end of the long hallway. Inspiration struck. In 
college I'd briefly worked as an orderly. On slow nights some of 
the guys would hold wheelchair races in the deserted corridors 
down by the morgue. I was good--so good that after a while no one 
wanted to go up against me, because I always won. So Starsky was 
tired of being treated like glass, huh? Just maybe I could do 
something about that AND pay him back for those cracks about 
my driving.

I bent over him, dropping my voice to sound low and dangerous. 
"Hey, Starsk? Did you know if you build up enough speed, it's 
possible to do a wheelie in one of these chairs?"

His fingers tightened in a white-knuckled grip on the arms. "That's 
real interesting, Hutch, but I don't think that's such a good idea. I 
mean, like you said before, I practically died a few days ago and 
I'm still a convalescent..."

Nice try, Starsk.

"Hang on, buddy. I'll show you just how good a driver I am."

"Hutch, you don't gotta prove anything to me, I already... 
HUUUUUUUUTCH!"

Well, what do you know? Guess I haven't lost my touch.


End


Author's note: I've always felt lukewarm about the epilogue to 
ACFS, so I decided to end my story this way and in this place. It's 
certainly possible for that scene to occur sometime after the events 
in this chapter, but for me, the fat lady is singing. <G> Thanks for 
hanging in there for the long haul. It's been great fun, and I've 
treasured each and every generous piece of feedback.