Ebb and Flow

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Another in the “Hutch’s Ladies” series:  Diana.

 

Originally published in the zine, Penal Code #2, in 1990.

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Slipupslipupslipupslipupslipup . . .

The words echoed in his head, the only other sounds he could hear besides the buzzing that filled his ears. Not a true buzzing, actually; more like someone had taped two conch shells to the sides of his head, and all he could hear was the motion of the sea. And all he could see were black and red spackles, strobing in his vision, superimposed over the shambles around him.

Hey . . . hey . . .

Someone very far away called to him. Miles away. No–just yards. The voice was only yards away. And damped by the thrashing of the waves that pounded in his ears. His vision was restricted to a dimly lit tunnel. He could only make out a shape and a color. Nothing definite, nothing defined. Just a fuzzy gray mass swimming through the lattice of black and red that blocked his vision.

Here . . . try breathe . . .

White, amorphous tendrils climbed through his nose and wound their way into his brain, winding, constricting . . .

“Goddammit!” he jerked his head back, his hand reaching out reflexively to push away the ammonia that was shredding his nostrils and infiltrating his sinuses and tear ducts.

“You back with us?” The dim fuzzy mass still sounded far away, but was resolving it­self into a face, and a pair of arms, and a gray jacket. The black and red lattice shifted to a grungy black mesh, but the tunnel was enlarging.

“Yes, dammit. Get that out of my face.” He pushed the arm that held the ammonia capsule off to the side and turned away from the still-blurry paramedic. But closing his eyes only brought back the black and red moire. He shifted to bur­row into the sofa cushions, to hide his face in the crook of his arm; instead found a soft shoulder and a warm neck and burrowed into it, wrapped his good arm around that. San­dalwood and sweat diluted the ammonia, comforting murmurs broke through the surf, and rough caresses eased the tin­gling in his skin.

He tried to take a breath . . .

Took another . . .

And sat up.

“Okay?” Starsky held onto his good shoulder, patted his face.

“Yeah.” Hutch blinked. Light was beginning to dissolve the dirty filter in front of his eyes. He gave a swipe to Starsky’s cheek. “You?”

“Good as can be expected.” A corner of his mouth lifted, then disappeared. “Guess you had a kind of delayed reaction there.”

Starsky’s baritone had lost its distance. The words no longer sounded far away. Hutch wiped at the cold sweat on his forehead and temples. He nodded, a little dizzy from the movement. “I guess.” Starsky finally came into com­plete focus. No scratches, no bruises, not a mark on his face. How had he managed that? Where were the signs of the struggle?

“Hutch? Are you all right?” Dobey perched on the coffee table shunted off to one side. The room was lit by floodlights, giving it the look of a messy garage late at night. Dobey only added to the effect, dressed as he was in a dark windbreaker, an old plaid shirt and dirty work pants.

“Yeah, Cap, just a little dizzy.” Hutch managed a smile, wiped his nose, and sat up straighter.

Dobey grunted. “Well, just the same, I want you down at Emergency to make sure. Make sure they check on that arm of yours. I want you looked at, too,” he pointed at Starsky.

“Just bruised my butt,” Starsky shifted imperceptibly. “Nothing ma­jor.”

“That shoulder looks pretty major to me.” Starsky rotated his right shoulder in re­sponse, wincing slightly. Dobey stood up. “And if they don’t hold you, then the two of you had better get to work on your re­ports. The sooner we get this mess cleared up, the better. Lieutenant Harper will be han­dling the investigation. Hutch–“

“I know, I know,” Hutch interrupted wearily. “Turn over my weapon. Desk duty. IA. Counseling.” He sighed. “One lousy fucking day back and already–“

“Easy, partner,” Starsky interjected. “Easy.”

“They’re getting ready to move the body out.” Dobey was looking at something be­hind the couch. Hutch didn’t turn to see what it was. He knew. “We’ll have to seal off the apartment for a while,” Dobey continued, glancing around the room. “At least she didn’t trash it this time.”

Hutch leaned forward, his face in his hand. He heard the rustle of heavy plastic as the body was lifted onto the gurney, heard the groan of the wheels as it rolled past him, heard the swearing of the men who had to maneuver it down the stairs of Venice Place. A hand massaged the cramping muscles in his neck. It felt good, and he wanted to lean into it. But to lean was to give up his autonomy, and he needed to hang on to that just now.

“Let’s go.” The hand gave a final squeeze, moved down to grab his good upper arm, gently pulled him to his feet. “Okay?”

Hutch found his balance with the aid of Starsky’s support, then found it on his own. The yellow lights cast crazy shadows on the walls, like something from a tortured shadow­play.

Starsky dropped Hutch’s arm. “I’m driving.”

Hutch nodded, still a dizzying maneuver, and started unsteadily for the door. Starsky followed close enough behind to handle any relapses, but allowed him his dignity of shuf­fling off unaided.

“Where are you going?” Dobey shouted after them. His voice seemed to ricochet off the wildly illuminated walls.

“The hospital!” Starsky shouted back.

“Good!” came the reply, as Hutch shakily made his way down the stairs, Starsky one step be­hind. “Good!”

* * * * *

It had all happened so fast; but it always did in situations such as this. No warning, no alert, no sense that something was amiss. Just a dan­ger leaping out of the darkness, with all the advantages and odds on its side. After all the years of training and experience, it bothered Hutch that he could be so taken by surprise. If he’d thought at all, they never would have opened themselves up to ambush. Every corner would have been examined. Every door would have been inspected. Every stairwell would have been explored. Every apartment would have been . . .

He held his breath. It was less obvious than sighing. A desk lamp cast a yellowish glow over their shared end of the table; the overhead fluorescents had just seemed too bright for their grim work. Hutch had watched Starsky agonize over the substance of his re­port, ever concerned that each sentence not only contain as accurate a descrip­tion of the event as possible, but as complete and colorful a description as well. Hutch glanced over his own report, finished in the same amount of time as Starsky’s, even though Starsky had added all the bells and whistles. His words were clear, concise and coherent, and ultimately much duller than his friend’s. But his duller report made the details that much eas­ier to re­live, and, eventually, forget.

When he looked up Starsky was peering at him. There was concern in his gaze, with something else mixed in. Hutch couldn’t tell what. Exploring Starsky’s eyes was just too draining right now. He barely had the strength to restrain his own swirling emotions.

“How are you feeling?”

Hutch tested his nerve pathways, searching for any residual pain. He sensed a faintly throbbing upper arm, a headache, and an odd hollow in the pit of his stomach. “Okay,” he answered. He wiped at a dirty spot on the report in front of him. “You?”

“It’s just a scratch,” Starsky explained, obviously exasper­ated with everyone’s concern over his wound. “She just sliced me, the knife didn’t even penetrate.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Finished?”

“For now.” Hutch stopped trying to rub away the flaw in the paper and looked at his watch, partially hidden behind the material of the sling. “Two a.m.” The hollow in his stom­ach rotated slightly, as though signaling to him. “I wish we’d had a chance to get to that pizza before it all hap­pened.”

Starsky rubbed his eyes. “That was eight hours ago. Shit,” his eyes snapped open. “I’ll bet it’s still lying there on the floor.”

“Evidence now,” Hutch yawned. Funny. Thoughts of food didn’t placate the hollow. “Let’s get these reports in and get out of here before anybody asks us any more questions.”

Starsky signed his form and grabbed Hutch’s. “My place this time, partner.” He dis­appeared into Dobey’s empty office, then reappeared quickly and quietly. His movements were supple and graceful, smooth and without pain. No evidence of the earlier violence committed on his person. “Let’s boogie be­fore he gets back from Henderson’s office.”

Hutch stood, and followed his partner out of the squad room.

* * * * *

She had to have picked the lock, Hutch finally decided. Either that, or used some kind of passkey. Or maybe . . . I should’ve checked the glass in the porch window when we were there earlier, he mentally kicked himself. He turned carefully on his side for the hun­dredth time, then flipped to his back for the thousandth. The hollow in his stomach pitched about like the yolk of an egg. She must have been waiting for me for hours, he decided, as he tried to piece together the chain of events. He knew this much: She’d been released that morning after conning another prisoner into exchanging ID bracelets with her. From down­town she could have been at his place before noon. Just waiting there, knife in hand, pre­pared to fling herself at him with every ounce of strength and fury she possessed as soon as he walked through the door. Only Starsky had come through first. And with no lights on, how was she to know he wasn’t the target of her frenzy? The hollow sloshed a bit. Damn. He wished he could let go of this one. But the scenario just kept repeating itself. A dark figure lunging at Starsky with a strangled cry. Starsky crying out in surprise and pain as the knife sliced his flesh. Hutch standing stunned as the two bodies fell forward and became one dark, writhing lump in the middle of the room. Just standing there, stand­ing there, standing there . . . He rolled back to his side to look at the clock. Do­ing better, he smiled inwardly. I’m up to checking every six minutes instead of every five. He shut his eyes and listened to the room. Starsky on the couch, snoring quietly. The re­frigerator humming smoothly. The occasional car rumbling past. A woman screaming insanely. He came awake with a start.

“Want something to eat?” a voice from the dark inquired.

Five thudding heartbeats passed before he was sure of where he was or who he was with. “What–?” Hutch swallowed, found some spit to moisten his mouth, and tried again. “What did you have in mind?” Maybe the hollow would like some food now.

“Eggs,” the voice answered. “Believe it or not, I think I even have a tomato and some cheese in the refrigerator.”

The hollow ignored the offer. Still, Hutch kicked the blanket and sheet off his body, rose, and padded into the kitchen. Starsky’s frame was illuminated by the refrigerator light. Hutch peeked in over Starsky’s arm as he rummaged through the contents of his crisper. His naked body brushed against Starsky’s robed form. The hollow shivered. “Gonna get cold, babe,” Starsky chided.

Hutch went back to the bedroom and found a robe. It took him a few moments to work it around his arm. When he returned to the kitchen he found Starsky slicing the tomato with a large meat cleaver. “Wrong knife,” Hutch offered, suddenly aware of the deadliness of the instrument.

Starsky ignored him. “Found some mushrooms and an onion, too. Thought I’d fix a couple of omelets supreme.”

Hutch nodded. Eating was preferable to sleeping, anyway. He opened a cabinet and removed some plates, saucers and cups, wishing he had both hands to use. Both hands would definitely be of more help right now. Both hands would have been of more help . . . He set the table quietly, com­ing back for silverware and glasses. Starsky was busy stirring up the egg mixture and stepped out of his way. Hutch set about making coffee.

Ten minutes later two stuffed omelets were proudly displayed on two plates. Starsky carried them over to the table while Hutch fished some juice from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. “Orange or–” Hutch squinted at the muddy contents of a second glass jug. He shoved it to the back of the shelf. “Orange.”

Starsky was standing by the table, one hand on his chair back, waiting for Hutch to join him. His robe was loosely wrapped around him, belted haphazardly and opened to re­veal a muscular chest. Hutch stared at him as though seeing him for the first time, forget­ting the orange juice. The hollow turned into a chunk of ice. Starsky ignored his scrutiny, fo­cusing his attention on the gourmet look of his omelets.

“I want to see,” Hutch heard himself say. The hollow began to warm.

Starsky thought a second. “See what?” he asked, still eyeing his cre­ations, feigning ignorance of Hutch’s stares.

“I want to see where she got you,” Hutch elaborated. The hollow glowed warmly.

Starsky finally looked up at Hutch and sighed tiredly. Veins swelled on the back of his hand where he gripped the chair. “The doctor said it wasn’t much more than a scratch.” He was definitely irritated by the choice of subject. “Said my jacket and sweater kept it from going in very deep.”

“I want to see,” Hutch demanded. The hollow seemed to crave a viewing. It insisted on confronting the evidence of Hutch’s lazy vigilance.

Starsky sighed, relenting, then pivoted so his back was toward Hutch. He un­knotted his belt and let the robe slip down to his waist. “Satisfied?”

Hutch gazed at the sturdy back, then shakily stepped up to his partner. The hollow acted as a magnet. A large sterile bandage covered the upper right shoulder. Hutch touched the shoulder gingerly, and Starsky flinched. “Cold fingers,” he observed quietly. Hutch rubbed them a second to warm them, then traced the edges of the bandage. For a moment he thought to trace the musculature rippling under Starsky’s tanned skin, but the hollow dropped its attraction. He stepped back.

“Okay?” Starsky asked, standing stone-still as though modeling for someone.

Hutch turned and fled to the living room. He scrunched Starsky’s blanket aside as he sat down on the couch, pulling one of Starsky’s pillow to him; he clutched it one-handed as though it were some kind of stuffed animal and he were three years old. He looked over at Starsky unhappily. The hollow seemed content.

Starsky shouldered back into his robe silently and walked over to him. He retied the belt and stood a moment, frowning, obviously exasperated. A long sigh escaped from his lips, and he seemed to come to some sort of decision. He stepped over, grabbed the second pillow, and sat down in an imitation of Hutch’s pose.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know?”

The hollow became uneasy. Hutch glared at Starsky. Starsky turned away from Hutch’s ire.

“I’m sorry. It’s all I know to say.” Starsky slumped down into the cushions.

Hutch stared down at the floor. Apologies and absolutions were not what he wanted right now. Or at least they weren’t what the hollow wanted. It seemed to thirst for some­thing else.

Starsky picked at his pillow. “If I could make you believe it’s not your fault I would,” he grumbled. “But I can’t, so I just keep saying it till maybe you do believe it.” His hand stilled. “Besides, you aren’t the only one here having a guilt trip.”

Hutch’s eyes narrowed. The hollow seized up. “What?”

Starsky resumed his attack on the pillow. “I said, you aren’t the only one here–“

“I heard you.” Hutch turned his head to look at his partner. The hollow seemed dis­turbed; it cramped with resistance. But resistance to what? Starsky was systemati­cally pulling threads from the weave. “What do you mean, `guilt trip?'”

Starsky shrugged. “I mean you’re having a guilt trip because you think you’re responsible for Diana attacking me.” He mumbled his words, refusing to look at Hutch.

“I know what my guilt trip is,” Hutch shot back. His anger took him a little by sur­prise. Yet it seemed to appease the hollow. And why shouldn’t a strong stand ease the restlessness of the hollow? Starsky didn’t have to identify every single emotional skirmish Hutch went through. And he didn’t have to try and exorcise every single somber mood he experienced. Next Starsky would be trying to talk him out of it. Which was simply none of his business. “Why should you be having a guilt trip?”

Starsky suddenly seized a handful of pillow and glared at Hutch. “You sayin’ I can’t have a guilt trip over this mess?” He sat a little straighter, pulling himself up to eye-level with Hutch.

Irritation pulsed through Hutch and his hollow. “Why would you want to have a guilt trip over this mess?” His voice rose a notch. “This is my mess, not your mess.” Defiance rose in his gut. “I’m the mess who got in­volved with Diana!” He, too, sat up straighter, clutching his pillow tightly. “I’m the mess who got this crazy woman coming after us!”

“Yeah?” Starsky turned to face Hutch, his pillow now squished between them. “But she wouldn’t have been coming after you in the first place if I had paid attention to what was going on!” He poked a finger into Hutch’s pillow. “You kept telling me she was crazy, and I kept ignoring you!” The finger poked harder and deeper. “You and your goddamned habit of picking up every neu­rotic woman within grabbing distance! How am I supposed to know when you’re saying one of ’em is really loony, and not that you just picked an­other flake?”

Hutch’s mouth dropped open. Where did Starsky get off trying to shift the blame for this fiasco onto himself? In frustration he grabbed Starsky’s finger and squeezed hard. “I was the one who led her on!” he yelled, battling for his right to agonize. The hollow cheered him on.

“But I was the one who let you go off by yourself! And after she’d al­ready trashed your place and attacked Linda!”

“So?” Hutch roared, still gripping Starsky’s finger. He was unable to fathom why Starsky would want any part of this suffocating guilt, when it so obviously belonged to him.

“So yourself!” Starsky shouted back. He yanked his finger from Hutch’s grasp and shoved Hutch. Hutch fell clumsily back into the cush­ions, unprepared for a physical attack and unable to balance with only one arm free. He stared at Starsky, who was staring back with a look of shock on his face. Hutch pushed himself upright, only to be met with a pillow in his face. He fell back again.

“Starsky!” Hutch yelled, stunned.

Starsky seized Hutch’s pillow and pummeled him again.

Hutch lay limp under the pile of pillows, dazed. Starsky stood tow­ering over him.

“What?” Hutch gestured with his good arm, still buried under the pil­lows. The hol­low had disappeared, leaving a gash oozing confusion. “What did I do?”

Starsky fairly trembled with rigidity, then turned into a rag doll as he collapsed back on the couch. He pulled one of the pillows off Hutch and wrapped himself around it.

Hutch pulled himself back up to a sitting position. He eyed Starsky warily. It was one thing for Starsky to try and cajole Hutch into feeling less consumed by one of his deadly lapses, but this fixation with siphoning off Hutch’s accountability was getting ridiculous.

Starsky lifted his face from his pillow and looked at Hutch plain­tively. Hutch turned away. It wasn’t fair for Starsky to show pain while he was nursing his. The hollow reemerged, seeping through the lining of his stomach. It begged for sustenance. Hutch tried putting words to his misery to con­vince Starsky they weren’t feeling the same thing.

“I just can’t stand it that I let her hurt you.”

Starsky responded by burying his face in the pillow. “You just don’t get it, do you?” he mumbled from its depths.

“I get it.” Now Hutch was picking at his pillow, unable to keep still. “You’re trying to make me feel not guilty about Diana attacking you.” He shivered suddenly and clutched the pillow, whether for warmth or security he wasn’t sure. The hollow did a sudden twist and twirl.

Starsky sat up and looked at Hutch. There was a sadness in his eyes, that slid into gloomy resignation. Starsky’s distress was a foreign substance to Hutch. The hollow threat­ened to regurgitate it.

Hutch couldn’t fathom the resignation Starsky offered, but he also couldn’t face it. He’d slink around it. Hutch slid sideways until his head rested on Starsky’s shoulder. The hollow was not comforted, and Hutch denied his own comfort. He clutch­ed his pillow more securely. “Why is it always me?” he asked dolefully.

Hutch felt Starsky breathe deeply. He burrowed until he found a more comfortable spot on Starsky’s shoulder.

Starsky’s response sounded less than interested. “Always you what?” Starsky adjusted to his weight easily. He rested his cheek on Hutch’s head.

Hutch was acutely aware of the weight. More of a dead weight than a comforting weight. “Always me attracting the crazies,” Hutch lamented. The hollow settled and waited.

Starsky was silent. When he spoke, his voice was full of weariness. “Well,” he sighed, “Diana was definitely a crazy, no doubt about that.” He paused. “Who else are you count­ing?” Reluctance stained the words.

Hutch shrugged. “Artie.” He ignored the slightly condescending tone in Starsky’s voice, preferring to indulge his hurt. A satisfaction began to infuse the hollow.

“Un-uh,” Starsky released his pillow and slipped his arm around Hutch, careful to put as little pressure as possible on the left shoulder. “He wasn’t a crazy. He was a slime. It was the kid that was crazy.”

Again, Hutch felt the weight of Starsky’s arm curling around him. He felt it as a dis­tinct and separate entity. Hutch knew Starsky was playing to him, but it just felt too good to stop. He shut his eyes, sinking into the solace of self-pity. “Forest.”

Starsky shook his head, the movement an intrusion into Hutch’s self-contained state. “Monk might’ve been a little warped, but not Forest. He was a sadistic sleaze.”

Hutch turned his face up toward Starsky. Superb succor! The hollow reveled. “Humphries?”

“Humphries?” Starsky’s brow furrowed.

Hutch lifted his head from Starsky’s shoulder. “Humphries!”

Recognition lit Starsky’s face. “Oh! Humphries.” Starsky cocked an eyebrow. “He was just small-time scum. Now whatshisname, the guy who drove the truck, he was defi­nitely not wired right.” Starsky closed his eyes, and something painful flashed across his fea­tures. Hutch averted his eyes. Starsky removed his arm, and slid down into the couch. The loss of contact was a relief. “He definitely deserved what he got.” Starsky didn’t open his eyes, but blindly grabbed for the discarded pillow, pulling it close to him.

Hutch straightened, musing over Starsky’s assessment of his enemies. He looked down at the man now curling around the pillow. His hollow was fairly satisfied, but some­thing more was still needed. Hutch slipped down till he was shoulder to shoulder with Starsky.

“Starsk?” Hutch looked at him. There was something he had to say.

“Hmmm?” Starsky opened one eye.

Hutch turned away. “I couldn’t tell who was who, down there on the floor.” Confes­sion was good for the soul. And better for the hollow.

The room was still. Starsky slowly straightened, smoothing the pillow on his lap. “‘Course not. It was dark.” His voice was tight.

“I could’ve turned on the lights,” Hutch reprimanded himself. Go ahead. Take a sec­ond helping.

“You could’ve,” Starsky acknowledged, his voice still carefully modu­lated.

“I could’ve pushed in there, pulled her off,” Hutch continued to be­rate himself. Thirds.

“You could’ve done that, too,” Starsky agreed.

Hutch took a deep breath and held it. “I just stood there.” Dessert.

“Did you?” Starsky stared at him, quietly, solemnly.

“Damn it!” Hutch pushed up, flinging his pillow across the room. The meal was ru­ined by Starsky’s refusal to sit down at the table. “Do you under­stand? I just stood there! I didn’t move! I stood there and watched her nearly kill you!” He paced in a tight circle like a caged ani­mal.

“No, you didn’t.” Starsky stood up, letting his pillow drop to the sofa cushions. He spoke quietly and evenly, demanding attention. “You waited until you had a clear shot, and then you stopped her.” He walked up to Hutch, interrupting his pacing. Hutch fidgeted im­patiently. “You could’ve turned on the lights, but it wouldn’t have done any good be­cause Diana had dumped the fuses.” Starsky grasped both of Hutch’s shoul­ders, gently but firmly, compelling Hutch to stand still and face him. “You could’ve jumped into the middle of us, which wouldn’t have been much help since you still aren’t strong enough to do anything too physical after what she did to you last month.” Starsky took Hutch’s chin in his hand, forc­ing Hutch to look down at him. “You did exactly what you could. You waited until I could throw her off so you could do what you had to do–keep her from get­ting to me–and you–again.”

“But it was dark,” Hutch persisted. “I could’ve mistaken her for you and–“

“Hutch,” Starsky released his partner and buried his face in his hands.   He rubbed his face tiredly, glancing back at the cooling omelets. “Hutch, I’m going to tell you some­thing.” Starsky took Hutch by the arm and began backing toward the table. “At this mo­ment, I could really care less about `could haves’ and `might have beens.'” He walked Hutch to his chair, and left him standing there as he moved to his seat. “I’m here–” he took his place, “–you’re here. Diana’s not.” He picked up his fork. “These omelets are. That’s all I care about right now.”

Starsky dug into his food, releasing a cloud of steam from the chunky insides. Hutch watched as Starsky concentrated on his meal, seemingly oblivious to Hutch’s lack of ap­petite. The hollow swirled ominously. Starsky pointed his fork at Hutch’s plate, not both­ering to look up. “Eat it or watch it be eaten,” Starsky warned, nearing the end of his omelet. Hutch gathered his breath to speak.

“Don’t.” This time Starsky pointed his fork at Hutch, yet still focused on his omelet. “Sit.” He motioned toward the chair. His eyes never left his plate.

Hutch sat resignedly. The hollow was demanding to be fed. He stared at the cooling mass on his plate, thought about tak­ing a bite, instead shoved the plate aside. Starsky fi­nally stopped eating, put his fork down, and looked at Hutch.

“Okay. Go ahead and say it.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, his eyes tired but ready.

Hutch took a deep breath and looked away. Finally. “I’m sorry.”

Starsky merely nodded. “I know. Me, too.” He pushed Hutch’s plate back to­ward him. “I’m glad you care about me like that.” The words sounded hol­low, not comforting. Something hard blazed in Starsky’s eyes, something infinitely sad. Again, Hutch turned away from the emotions. “Eat.” Starsky went back to his meal.

Hutch picked up his fork and shrugged. He took a small bite of the omelet, glanced up at Starsky, took another bite, nearly choked. “Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t feel for­given. He only felt disaffected; estranged from not only his partner but himself. The hollow settled in for the night. “Thanks.”