Lifewatch

The events of Sweet Revenge unfold through the eyes of Captain Dobey.

Author’s Note: Thanks to Lucy for medical input.

And to Molly D. Brown and Jenn for their “Three B’s” — Bribery, Blackmail, and Bludgeoning — without whom this story would never have been written.

Archivist Note: First published in the zine, Lifeline: A Decade of Sweet Revenge, in May, 1989, on the 10th anniversary of that episode.

Special thanks to Carmen for helping to digitize this story.

You can find Lifeline, A Decade of Sweet Revenge on the archive.

Word spread swift as wildfire through the corridors of the Ninth Precinct: Assassins disguised as cops had made an attempted hit in the police parking lot. An officer was down.

Captain Harold Dobey received the information by means of a call from the desk sergeant downstairs, along with an added caveat: “It’s one of yours, sir. And it looks bad.” Slamming down the phone, he burst from his office and shoved past a lounging workman, driven by an ominous certainty of disaster. Apprehension mounted as the elevator moved too slowly downwards, and by the time he reached the parking lot he was running.

Apparently no more immune than the average citizen to the fascination of tragedy, a small crowd of department employees had gathered to stare, obstructing his view of the area around a familiar car. The Torino offered mute, graphic confirmation of violence — its windows shattered, ugly dark holes peppering the side panel and door, and a swath of scarlet splotches scattered indiscriminately across the white stripe.

Dobey pushed through the onlookers, only to freeze in sick horror as the scene before him imprinted itself instantly and indelibly on his mind. On the ground, surrounded by a sea of shattered glass and blood, Ken Hutchinson sat holding the bullet-torn body of his partner. The blond detective held the wounded man propped at a 45-degree angle against his chest, cradled between his spread legs, and was administering desperate first aid. One look was sufficient to confirm the desk sergeant’s assessment. It was bad. Very bad.

There seemed to be blood everywhere — spattered on the car, pulsing out from wounds in Starsky’s chest and back, soaking through his clothes, darkening the pavement. Oxygen-rich, brilliant red, it stained Hutchinson’s white jacket and covered his hands, seeping wetly between his fingers as he applied pressure to entry and exit wounds.

The injured man was conscious, eyes half-open, head resting against his partner’s shoulder, but the frothy pink fluid bubbling from his lips with every labored exhalation told the story. At least one bullet had pierced a lung.

Hutchinson’s entire attention was concentrated on his companion, strong hands maintaining steady pressure on the wounds, his whispered dialogue of encouragement barely audible over Starsky’s rasping breaths. There were other hands available to help, but he seemed oblivious to their presence, as if in this crisis only he and his critically wounded partner existed. He was working with professional skill, every move correct, like the former medical student he was. He had turned Starsky onto his injured left side so that gravity didn’t draw the leaking blood down to collapse his other lung, and was keeping pressure on the lung wounds in an effort to aid breathing and staunch the flow of blood. In truth, Dobey realized, there was nothing else anyone could do. Just wait for the ambulance to arrive, and pray. Nevertheless he stepped closer, ready to offer assistance if needed.

Starsky coughed and moaned, head lolling back, eyes unfocused. “Hutch?”

“Yeah, buddy. I’m here. Hush, now.”

“Really…fucked up…this time…” The words were forced out between gasping breaths, accompanied by more bubbly blood.

The look of anguish on Hutchinson’s ravaged face made Dobey feel like a voyeur, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away, nor could his ears block out the choked reply. “Shh. Don’t talk, Starsk. Just hang on…” Starsky moaned again, and the blond head jerked up and around, eyes passing over Dobey without recognition. “Where the hell is that ambulance?”

At that moment Starsky was gripped by a paroxysm of coughing, doubling over in helpless spasms as his lungs sought to expel the accumulating blood. Hutchinson went with him, struggling to maintain his pressure points on the heaving torso, as if to hold the man to life by force of will until medical science could intercede.

He was losing the battle. Starsky’s skin had begun to darken, pallor giving way to the dusky hue of cyanosis that indicated inadequate oxygenation. The coughing slackened finally, but his breathing was very shallow now, and his color was worsening. He was drowning in his own blood.

A fierce, desperate gaze raked over the bystanders and seized on one beefy middle-aged patrolman. “You. Get over here.” The man obeyed, kneeling beside them, and Hutchinson released his pressure on Starsky’s chest long enough to grab the cop’s large hand and place it forcibly on the wound. “Hold the pressure on this. Got it? And on the back.”

When the new compression had been established to his satisfaction, he began to shift his hold on the unconscious man, moving him to a more horizontal position, tilting the dark head back. Cradling the nape in his left land, he pinched the nostrils shut and placed his mouth over that of his fallen comrade in a chilling parody of a kiss.

As the big cop began artificial respiration, the wail of approaching sirens registered in Dobey’s mind, recalling him to his duty. “All right, let’s break this up,” he announced with authority. “Dixon, Kaylor.” He beckoned to a pair of uniformed cops. “Get busy clearing these people out of here.” The men moved hastily to comply.

The fire department rescue truck arrived first, and Hutchinson reluctantly relinquished his position to the paramedics. Dobey waited beside him while the rescue personnel worked to stabilize Starsky’s condition. They had him on oxygen in seconds, and worked quickly to get him into anti-shock trousers, start an IV, and establish radio contact with the hospital. They were hooking him to an EKG monitor when a voice at Dobey’s side demanded his attention.

“Sir, we have several witnesses.” It was Dixon, hovering cautiously at his elbow. Dobey swung on him, resenting the intrusion, then bit back the angry words. He’d been a cop long enough to know that life had to go on, even when the tragedy was personal.

“Good. Get their statements, and get the crime lab down here to examine the area. And bring my car; I’ll be following the ambulance.” As he handed over his keys, he briefly blessed the freedom to delegate authority. Let others less involved take care of the details right now.

“No! He’s my partner. I have to…” The paramedics had Starsky on a stretcher and were preparing to load him into the ambulance, and Hutchinson was involved in a heated argument with an attendant who was trying to prevent him from climbing into the back.

Dobey stepped forward hastily, coming between them. “What’s the problem here?”

The medic turned to him gratefully. “He can’t go in back. Up front, only. If he’ll keep out of our way.”

Hutchinson was looking past the man, gaze focused on his partner as Starsky was lifted into the vehicle. Dobey grasped his elbow. “Come on, Hutch, let’s not waste time arguing. Get in front so these guys can do their job, and let’s get your partner to the hospital.”

For an instant he was subjected to a chilling, dangerous glare. Then the battle light died in pale eyes, and Hutchinson gave an abrupt nod, turning away. “Let’s go.”

One crisis averted. With a brief sigh of relief, Dobey bellowed for his car.

They also serve who only stand and wait. The truism did nothing to ease his feeling of helplessness or alleviate the need to do something.

Dobey looked at his watch again. Twenty minutes. Only twenty endless minutes since the stretcher bearing Starsky had disappeared into the inner sanctum of the emergency room, and he and Hutchinson had been consigned to the spartan hospitality of the waiting area. It had been the captain who had provided the required personal data on the patient, given insurance information, and confirmed that there was no next-of-kin available. Mundane but necessary tasks that the wounded man’s partner was in no shape to handle.

He cast another look at the figure sitting in self-imposed isolation ten feet away. The blond cop radiated tension and distress — perched on the edge of his seat like a runner in the gate, intense gaze riveted on the doorway, clenched fist beating a steady rhythm against his knee. Literally covered with Starsky’s blood, he looked like a refugee from a slaughterhouse, but seemed unaware of his appearance, of the rusty stains drying on his clothing or the metallic reek of blood — of anything but the door separating him from his partner. Dobey left him alone, returning to his own silent vigil.

The double doors opened and Hutchinson surged to his feet as a nurse appeared, carrying a plastic bag whose contents Dobey recognized instantly — Starsky’s personal effects and blood-soaked clothes.

“You came in with Mr. Starsky? I need someone to sign for his things.”

“Where is he?” Hutchinson demanded tightly.

“He’s been taken up to surgery.” She looked sympathetically at the agitated man. “There’s another waiting area on the second floor. You can go up there, and the doctor will give you a report when he’s finished.”

“How long will that be?” Dobey asked.

“A good while. Probably four or five hours.”

Since his companion gave no indication of doing so, Dobey signed for Starsky’s belongings and accepted the bag. The woman’s sidelong glances recalled his attention to the detective’s appearance. “Nurse, is there a place this officer can get cleaned up?”

With a commendable spirit of cooperation the nurse offered the use of the residents’ facilities and the hospital laundry service. She escorted them to the lounge and left to fetch a set of scrubs for Hutchinson to wear while his clothes were being cleaned.

Now that responsibility for Starsky’s welfare had been taken out of his hands, the young cop seemed satisfied to let his superior do the thinking. At Dobey’s prompting he began to undress mechanically, mind apparently far away from his surroundings.

Dobey’s eyes were drawn involuntarily to the grouping of small mulberry-colored stains scattered across Hutchinson’s chest, starkly apparent against the pale skin. Passion marks, they were called. Commonplace blemishes such as could probably be found on thousands of healthy young men and women, but in the current circumstances their presence had a jarring impact. Dobey averted his gaze, but the other man wasn’t noticing anything, and his eyes were drawn again to the naked torso.

Dobey himself had emerged from the active phase of his career relatively unscathed. His boys had seen more action in less than a decade than most officers saw in a lifetime, and carried the evidence of it on their bodies. The bullet and surgery scars just above Hutchinson’s heart were an enduring reminder that a momentary lapse of concentration could have deadly consequences. Because she was unexpectedly young, he’d allowed a punk with a gun to shoot him at point-blank range. Fortunately, he’d survived to learn from the experience. They’d always led a charmed existence, his impetuous duo. Had their luck finally run out?

Angrily, he broke off his pessimistic train of thought and turned his attention to immediate concerns. Hutchinson had completed his strip and stood, eyes distant, like an automaton waiting for orders. Immediately after their arrival at the emergency room he had swiped obediently, if ineffectively, at his face with Dobey’s handkerchief, but the blood that had passed from Starsky’s lips to his during his life-saving effort clung tenaciously to his skin and mustache. Even the ends of his shaggy hair were stiff with it. Stepping into his line of vision, Dobey spoke gently. “Go ahead and take a shower, son. I’ll get you something to change into.” He gestured with his head and the younger man turned docilely toward the bathroom. Needing to say something more, to offer comfort somehow, Dobey called after him. “Take all the time you need. There’s no hurry.”

A shudder passed over the tall frame at the words and Hutchinson turned to confront him, eyes filled with terrible dread, the anguish he felt striking Dobey with tangible force. “We didn’t have enough time. After Kira… Dammit, we’d only just…” He broke off abruptly, passing a trembling hand across his face. A whisper: husky, plaintive, barely audible. “Is Starsky gonna die, Captain?”

The weight of responsibility settled even heavier on his shoulders. “I don’t know, Hutch. I hope not.”

The other man nodded briefly, without speaking, and stepped into the bathroom. In a moment the shower hissed on.

Slowly, feeling a hundred years old, Dobey bent to gather up the discarded clothing, bundling it under his arm for the laundry.

Playing valet. Attending to paperwork. Shepherding Hutchinson through until they knew whether his partner would live or die. These things, he could do.

Punctured left lung, ruptured spleen. Splintered ribs. Trauma to the muscles of the upper chest and shoulder. Significant blood loss.

Beyond the catalog of injuries Dobey didn’t understand much of the technical jargon, but phrases like “massive damage” conveyed the severity of Starsky’s condition without need for medical expertise. “We’ve done all we can. It’s up to him now.” The surgeon’s somber demeanor and careful phrasing conveyed what the medical man was unwilling to express verbally. Dr. Bachman did not expect his patient to survive. Dobey could read it, and so could Hutchinson.

Starsky had been in surgery five hours, then in the recovery room an hour beyond that, while his partner haunted the waiting room and corridor like a ghost. Now Hutchinson sat, motionless as a statue, staring through the ICU window as the doctor and a pair of nurses moved around the figure in the bed.

The younger man had his captain worried. Dobey kept waiting for him to react — to pace, or curse, or talk — find some outlet for the tension that must be charging through his system. He’d have welcomed even a caustic commentary on the inadequacies of the medical profession. Instead, ever since meeting with the surgeon, the blond detective had retreated into a stricken solitude, silent and withdrawn, his despair expressed only in the lines of strain on his face and in the helpless, hopeless suffering in his eyes. Even cleaned up, and dressed again in his freshly-washed clothing, he looked like a newsreel photo of a disaster victim. A comparison uncomfortably close to the truth. Earthquake, fire, flood. The impending death of one’s closest friend. On a personal level, one could be as devastating as the other.

The clack of footsteps on the linoleum floor announced Huggy Bear’s arrival and Dobey felt the sense of relief that comes with a burden shared.

“Captain?”

“A couple of guys dressed up like officers…” Images of the attack’s aftermath returned with undiminished clarity. “He’s lucky to be alive.”

“He’s gonna be okay.” A statement of certainty; a plea for reassurance.

“He’s dying.”

The toneless interjection jolted Dobey. He listened, shaken, as Hutchinson answered Huggy’s instinctive denial. “He…suffered massive damage. The body can only withstand…” With a small, vague gesture of his hands he trailed off.

Huggy refused to accept the grim prognosis, and Dobey found himself echoing the hopeful words. “Of course there’s a chance. There’s always a chance.”

The surgeon had finished with Starsky. Hutchinson met him at the door, received his statement that Starsky was in a coma without comment, and entered the room like a man defeated.

“Hey, doc…” Dobey intercepted the medico before he could leave, looking for encouragement which he already knew would not be forthcoming. “How’s he doing?”

Dr. Bachman shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything new, Captain. The bullets did a lot of damage. We fixed it as best we could. He’ll either heal, or complications will develop.” A pause, then, “I’m sorry.” His eyes went to Hutchinson, standing just inside the door. “What about him? Does he have a wife, girlfriend? Someone who can be with him, help him get through it?”

‘Help him get through it?’ Briefly Dobey recalled rosy markings on bare skin, and the intimate relationship they suggested. Who was Hutchinson’s current paramour? An instant later he dismissed the issue as irrelevant. ‘Help him get through it?’ If “it” meant Starsky’s death, there would be no consolation for the surviving half of the partnership in anyone else’s presence. “No,” he said aloud. “No one like that.”

Bachman went on his way with a look of sympathy and Dobey turned to find Huggy waiting.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

“Thanks, Hug. I…we appreciate that.”

They stood together, watching Hutchinson settle tentatively into a chair at the bedside.

“Does Hutch know something we don’t?” Huggy asked abruptly.

“What do you mean?”

Shifting uncomfortably, the other man avoided his eyes. “You know Hutch. Never give an inch, that’s his motto. He oughtta have it tattooed across his forehead. It’s not like him to just…throw in the towel like this. It’s gotta be…bad.”

Briefly Dobey summarized the physician’s report, after which both men found themselves with nothing to say.

After a few minutes of somber silence, Huggy tilted his head in the direction of the bag stowed against the wall. “That Starsky’s stuff?”

“Yeah.” The captain picked up the receptacle and hesitated, beset by an illogical reluctance to abandon his self-appointed role as guardian. “Look, do me a favor, will you? Take it down to my car.” He fumbled for his keys. “I left it parked outside the ER when I came in. Move it to the parking lot. Lock the bag in the trunk.”

One thing about Huggy Bear: He knew when not to argue. Accepting the keys and bag, he departed without protest to carry out the assignment.

Inside the ICU, Hutchinson was still sitting in exactly the same position. Saying goodbye? Observing the bleak tableau, Dobey began once again to feel like an intruder. He turned away from the window, leaving the other man a semblance of privacy. Later he’d call Metro, just to touch base with Lt. Jobson, who would be handling matters in his absence. He needed to contact Edith as well, to let her know what had happened, and notify her of his intention to remain at the hospital indefinitely. But until Huggy returned, someone should be nearby.

Around the corner he found two unoccupied seats. Like chairs in hospitals and police stations the world over they were hard and uncomfortable, and not intended for a person of his bulk. Nevertheless he settled into one, resigning himself to an extended stay.

Huggy had pinpointed and verbalized Dobey’s own nebulous unease, and the troubling observation preyed on his mind as he waited.

Tenacity was one of Hutchinson’s primary characteristics. He simply did not give up. His current passive resignation was totally out of character, particularly given the stakes. “I don’t care if we’ve got two minutes. We don’t give up!” Three years later, he could still remember the words the blond had hurled at him as Starsky lay dying from Vic Bellamy’s poison. Then, the young cop’s refusal to accept apparent final defeat had saved his partner’s life. How many times had that bulldog determination made the difference between success and failure, life and death? Dobey’s mind returned to the case of the juvenile burglary ring, when Hutchinson had acquired the scars he’d observed earlier. Even then he’d refused to be counted out, checking himself out of the hospital to bail Starsky and Meredith out of a jam.

With sudden grim understanding he defined the difference.

There could be no rescue, now. No brilliant insight, no last-minute intercession, no act of bravery could alter what would be. Matters were out of his hands, there was nothing more he could do, and Hutchinson was quietly falling apart. Dobey experienced a surge of painful empathy, discovering in the younger man’s desolation an echo of his own sense of impotence. During his career with the police he’d seen a lot of good men die, including close friends and a partner. But previous experience made this situation no easier to accept.

They’d been his team from the beginning. He’d paired them, in defiance of manifold prophecies of disaster, and they’d always answered directly to him, bypassing the usual chain of command. He’d defended them to his superiors, protected them from Internal Affairs, and dealt with accusations of favoritism. Throughout their association he’d tolerated unprecedented independence of action and, at times, outright insubordination from them, and taken a proprietary pride in their successes.

If Starsky did not survive, what would become of Hutchinson? The depth of friendship, loyalty, and — yes — love between the two disparate men was unique in his experience. Over the years their personalities had become too thoroughly enmeshed for either to work with someone else.

He could lose them both, he realized. Starsky to Death, Hutchinson to…what? He bowed his head in supplication. Lord, take care of my boys…

He woke from an uncomfortable doze to find himself slumped awkwardly on the couch in the lounge the hospital had allocated to him as temporary headquarters. Groggy and unrested, he dragged himself to a sitting position and checked the time. 3:20 a.m.

Waiting. After more than twenty years as a cop, you’d think he’d be used to it by now. As he tried to massage the stiffness from his neck, he reviewed the events of the day — the shooting, the long hours of suspense during and after the emergency surgery, the appearance and escape of the ersatz medico, the attack on Hutchinson in the parking garage, and the interminable, tension-fraught minutes of the Code Blue, watching while the doctors fought to resuscitate the dying man. Followed by more waiting.

Across the room, Huggy was slouched asleep in a chair, spindly legs propped on the coffee table, magazine spread open across his chest. His head was tilted back and he was snoring fitfully. Whatever else one might say about his questionable past and unsavory associations, the man had been a steadfast friend to Starsky and Hutchinson, demonstrating his allegiance on many occasions throughout the years. Too loyal, perhaps, Dobey added grumpily. Support was one thing, but he had been dismayed to discover that, in addition to standing by Hutchinson in his mutiny, the barkeep had furnished the belligerent young detective with the keys to his captain’s car. Well, he promised himself, any damages would come out of Mr. Brown’s scrawny hide.

Tired but unable to rest, he rose quietly and left the room. The corridor was middle-of-the-night quiet, deserted save for the uniformed policemen on guard. He nodded acknowledgement to them as he approached the Intensive Care Unit.

The room was dim, the only light provided by the fluorescent wall fixture above the bed. Starsky lay unmoving, only the jagged pattern of the heart monitor readout and the barely-visible rise and fall of his chest offering reassurance that he still lived.

Hutchinson had not returned to the station following his partner’s cardiac arrest, positioning himself with grim resolution at the bedside as soon as the medical personnel had left the area. He was there still, hunched forward in the chair, chin propped in his hands. When Dobey entered the room, the light from behind him threw his shadow across the bed. The seated man jerked alert instantly, and Dobey didn’t miss the rapid motion of his right hand under his jacket, quickly aborted as he identified the intruder.

“Captain.” The greeting gave nothing away.

“No change, huh?” Dobey asked, needlessly, and received an impassive shrug in reply. Business then. “What happened with Jenny Brown?”

The other man sighed and ran a hand back through his already-tousled hair, exhaustion plain. “I got her booked. Didn’t have a chance to question her.” They both knew why not. “I’ll go back down first thing tomorrow.”

“Better get some sleep, then.”

“I’m not leaving,” Hutchinson snapped, looking fully prepared to argue the issue.

Dobey forestalled him by indicating the unoccupied bed next to Starsky’s. “Why don’t you just stretch out for a couple of hours?”

“Oh. Okay.” Taut muscles relaxed visibly. “Maybe after a while.” His attention returned to the figure in the bed, and Dobey realized he’d been dismissed. At the door, he paused.

“We’ve got guards at both ends of the hall, and right outside the door. Just yell if you need anything.” No response. “Goodnight, Hutch.”

“Yeah.”

He sighed to himself as he turned away. Be careful what you wish for. You might get it. Words of wisdom. Hutchinson was no longer trapped in that shell-shocked half-world that had so concerned his companions earlier. With the second attempt on Starsky’s life he had metamorphosed from grieving victim to cold-eyed avenger, breathing defiance in the face of any effort to caution or restrain him. ‘That guy’s crazy. He oughtta be locked up.’ Dobey hadn’t needed the outraged, appalled accusation from the white-faced suspect left cuffed to a car in the parking garage to tell him that Hutchinson was on the edge. Could he maintain a professional perspective on this case, or would he slip over the line into personal vengeance, becoming a danger to himself and others? How far should his captain trust him? This question was superseded by an even more disturbing thought: Could he be stopped, even now? How might he react to the attempt? At that point Dobey abandoned the line of thought. Sometimes a good commander had to know when not to ask too many questions, not to second-guess the confidence he had placed in his men. Hutchinson had never let him down before; he was not going to start doubting him now.

The coffee he’d been consuming steadily throughout the day was making its presence felt, so he directed his steps to the Men’s Room. After completing his business, he stood at the sink, staring at his reflection while he washed his hands.

The mirror showed him a tired-looking, middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, heavy-eyed and stubble-jawed. Edith had promised to come by in the morning with his shaving kit and a clean shirt. For the thousandth time he gave thanks for his wife — always on his side, her support, both practical and emotional, offered without questions or conditions. She’d been there for him in uncounted ways over the years. There for him when Elmo, his partner, was killed.

As he dried his hands, his mind followed through with the inevitable comparison. Who did Hutchinson have? No one. The intense friendship he and his partner shared admitted no others beyond a superficial level. That kind of exclusivity carried a price, and Hutchinson was paying it now.

Though he’d known both men for years, he’d always felt more empathy with the dark-haired half of his errant odd couple. Starsky might be brash, irreverent, and occasionally insolent, but he was generally straightforward about it. You knew where you stood. On the other hand, Hutchinson, with his upper-class WASP background, was a chameleon. He was a good cop: intuitive, highly intelligent, capable of assuming different undercover personae as easily as he changed clothes. But Dobey found it impossible to guess with any accuracy what was going through his mind at any given moment. Possessor of a psyche that seemed to have more twists and turns than Mulholland Drive, he was an expert in the use of convenient charm and razor-sharp wit to conceal. No one could claim to really know him. Except, perhaps, his partner. And now the same qualities that made him such an excellent undercover operative left his superior powerless to reach him.

He shook his head wearily. Questions with no answers; problems with no resolutions. Was it really less than twenty-four hours since his major concern had been the havoc the painters were making of his squadroom?

Returning to the lounge and the dubious comfort of the couch, he passed the ICU again and discovered that Hutchinson had apparently accepted his oblique assurance that Starsky was well-guarded, and was, in part, following his advice to get some rest. The extra bed remained unused, but he’d pulled his chair closer to his partner’s bed and, head pillowed on his forearms on the mattress at Starsky’s side, he was asleep.

Slightly discomfited and unwillingly moved by the devotion inherent in the scene, the captain addressed a heartfelt, if morbid, plea to the comatose man. You’d better make it, Starsky. For God’s sake don’t die and leave me here to deal with this maniac.

“Captain, when is the last time you ate something? Come on, tell me. Yesterday? Today?”

“I don’t know, Huggy. Just been drinking a lot of coffee.”

“Exactly. And all coffee, no solid food makes Captain a very shaky boy. Voilà.”

Huggy nudged him, offering another selection from the seemingly bottomless picnic basket. Dobey knew he’d gone to a good bit of trouble, and he was grateful, but his appetite had deserted him and didn’t seem likely to return any time soon. “Sorry…” The other man withdrew, leaving him to his gloomy introspection.

After a few more minutes, the prolonged inactivity became unbearable. For want of anything more constructive to do, he rose. “Think I’ll go look in on Starsky.”

He rounded the corner to discover Ms. Bobbit bustling down the hall toward him. Her tall white cap was askew, her usually sallow cheeks flushed, and the vigor of her movements was definitely out of character for the normally phlegmatic nurse. Apprehension speared him. Placing himself directly in her path, he interrupted her progress. “Nurse? What’s happened?”

“Oh, Captain.” She smiled distractedly. “He’s awake. Have you seen Dr. Bachman?”

It took him a couple of seconds to absorb the sense of the words. When the meaning registered, he forgot her completely and, needing to see the proof of it for himself, left her there and headed for ICU.

It was true. Starsky was, indeed, conscious. Through the door Dobey could see that his eyes were open, and that he was actually smiling. Hutchinson, the recipient of the expression, was bent over the left side of the bed, gripping the patient’s hand in both his own. He seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time. Even from this distance Dobey could see the glitter of wetness on his face, see him smiling, sense his joy. Visibly overcome, he brought Starsky’s hand up to his face, rubbing his cheek against it. Maintaining the contact, he reached with his right hand to stroke back the dark hair from his companion’s forehead. He was speaking, but the words were inaudible through the glass.

By nature undemonstrative himself, Dobey was reluctant to intrude on such a private display of emotion. He stood, hand on the knob, waiting for the atmosphere in the room to become a bit less intense before making his entry.

Then, as he watched, Hutchinson turned Starsky’s hand over and, cradling it in his own, bent to press his lips into the palm.

With a sudden leap of intuition, Dobey knew.

It was so unmistakably a lover’s gesture. And Starsky just lay there, smiling benignly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to wake from a coma and have one’s partner kiss one’s hand.

They didn’t just love one another. They were in love.

A barrage of conflicting reactions assaulted him, each vying for precedence. He was hot with embarrassment. He was cold with shock. He was thunderstruck. He was surprisingly unsurprised, as if somehow he’d always known. Before he’d had time to decide what the hell he felt, he realized he was not alone. Huggy had come up beside him, and he hadn’t even noticed him until now. Turning to the new arrival, his confusion increased. Instead of the unbelievable scene taking place in the ICU, the other man was watching him, some guarded expression behind his dark eyes that transmuted to bland neutrality when his gaze met the captain’s.

The reaction confirmed his incredible deduction. You knew, he accused silently. Like fencers before a duel they confronted each other, wary and assessing.

The standoff ended when Huggy’s line of vision shifted over Dobey’s shoulder, and his deliberately blank expression reasserted itself. Dobey turned to see what had drawn the other man’s attention.

Shoving Huggy at the door to ICU, he hissed, “Get in there,” and turned toward the approaching medical contingent, moving to intercept and delay. After all, a good captain looked out for his men.

He was too old for this kind of thing. Definitely.

Around the corner behind him, Huggy’s voice rose in high-pitched protest. Consciencelessly, Dobey abandoned him. Clutching his contraband to his chest, he tiptoed down the darkened corridor toward the elevators.

Safe in the protective cubicle, he heaved a sigh of relief and, not for the first time, questioned his own sanity. What was he doing here? He had a wife and family to go home to, so what was he doing skulking through the halls of a hospital in the middle of the night like some craven sneak-thief? The answer to that lay in the singular relationship that had developed between himself and his two top men.

He owed them — debts that could never be repaid. For one thing, they’d avenged his partner’s murder. Stryker, the man who’d ordered Elmo’s death, had been untouchable for years. Until they’d given him to him. Even more importantly, they’d saved his wife and children, when Leo Moon had come seeking revenge. And somehow, over the years, they’d become family themselves.

They’d emerged triumphant again, his two reprobate children. This afternoon Starsky had been given the word that he would be released in a week. Tonight… Tonight, they were celebrating Life.

And so, after checking that the coast was clear, the captain of Homicide found himself scurrying down the hall toward the last room on the right.

They were snuggled up together under the covers, at ease in the narrow bed, Hutchinson’s head leaning against Starsky’s shoulder. The atmosphere between them fairly glowed with warmth, unity, and exultation. Dobey deposited the tray on Starsky’s lap and settled into a chair, exchanging greetings while he tucked a sheet of plastic wrap into his collar.

The implications of the shared bed no longer disturbed him. After lengthy soul-searching he’d concluded that, as long as they did their jobs, their private lives were their own affair. Besides, he asked himself gruffly, who else would have either of them?

He dismissed these irrelevant considerations in favor of more pressing concerns. Somehow he’d managed to miss dinner, it was well after midnight, and he was starving. The antipasto hadn’t been purchased solely for Starsky’s benefit. What the devil was keeping Huggy?

The fourth member of their party arrived right on cue, bearing the alcoholic portion of the planned repast. “Cheese it, fellows. Shh… There’s a huuuge nurse on my tail!”

Hutchinson was irrepressible, cackling like a maniac on the other side of his partner. Starsky clapped a restraining hand over his mouth, but his hilarity would not be stifled. Dobey saw his tongue snake out between the suppressing fingers, watched Starsky beat at it, laughing again himself.

“Huggy, did you bring some wine?”

“Is the Pope a Pole?”

Two minutes later, the sprinkler erupted.

Déjà vu. Once again a nurse led them to the resident’s lounge. Only this time they were soaking wet, and in disgrace.

It was just the two of them — Hutchinson and himself. Taking one look at the glowering head nurse, Huggy had elected to go home without availing himself of the hospital’s linen supply. The blond, on the other hand, was still in high spirits, exuberance curbed but not vanquished by the official disapproval.

Their escort handed them a stack of towels. “In the future, please remember that our visiting hours end at 9:00.” With that parting admonition, she left them to dry off as best they could.

Seated as he had been, Dobey had been spared the worst of the deluge. Removing his coat, he patted at his shoulders with a towel in an effort to absorb the moisture. His companion had shrugged out of his jacket and was in the process of toweling his drenched hair. When he finished, he pulled out a comb and began restoring order to the shaggy tangle. Dobey recalled their first visit to this room, wondering how much, if anything, the other man remembered of it.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Hutchinson paused in his grooming and, turning to him, gave a wry grimace. “Here we are again.”

Dobey’s mind chose that inopportune moment to present him with the memory of the younger man’s bare chest, and the betraying marks of passion he’d observed that day. Knowing now who’d put them there, he was grateful that his coloring prevented his blush from showing.

“Thanks, Captain. For everything.” He couldn’t think of anything to say, but Hutchinson smiled gently at him, seemingly unoffended by his reticence, and went back to combing his hair.

This seemed as good a time as any to raise the question that hadn’t been asked yet. “What are you two going to do?”

“We’re going to come back. Starsky wants to. ‘Just like before, only better.'” Dobey could hear the quotation marks. Mood shifting suddenly, Hutchinson fixed him with a challenging stare. “We’ll be living together.”

Dobey realized that, though nothing had been said, Huggy must have correctly interpreted his revelation of the two detectives’ true relationship, and had discussed it with Hutchinson. This pugnacious announcement was his way of throwing down the gauntlet. “That makes sense,” he answered mildly, and had the satisfaction of seeing the contentious blond disconcerted.

He was as dry as he was likely to get. Tossing the towel onto a chair, he slid back into his coat. “Come on, Hutchinson. I’ll drive you home.”

The young cop picked up his own jacket. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t. But what are friends for?” Before the situation could become maudlin, he added, “Besides, you smell like a distillery. You’re sure to be over the limit.”

They left the room, heading toward the elevators. Good humor returning, his companion gave him an impudent grin. “And you’d hate to have to come bail me out. Very embarrassing for the department.”

Dobey stabbed at the ‘Down’ button. “What makes you think I’d come? Maybe I’d just let you cool your heels.” The effect of his quelling glare was spoiled by the ill-timed, unmistakable rumble from his stomach. The couple of bites of salad he’d managed to snatch before the sprinkler debacle had only served to whet his appetite. He braced himself for a typical Hutchinson barb.

To his surprise, the tall blond patted his shoulder in apparently genuine sympathy. “You never did get to eat, did you? How about some dinner?”

As they entered the elevator, he considered the suggestion. “I don’t know… It’s pretty late.”

“Aw, come on, Captain… Tell you what: I’ll buy.”

Dobey stared at him suspiciously. He was waiting expectantly, expression open and unguarded, hopeful demeanor lending him a boyish appeal. This was Hutchinson at his most charming, showing no evidence at all of the darker side of his personality. Was the offer the result of alcohol-induced bonhomie, or was he being set up for some unpleasant punchline? Experience demanded caution. “Why?”

Brow furrowed, the other man considered the question. “Because… Because,” he repeated triumphantly. “What are friends for?”

The elevator deposited them on the ground floor.

“Well, all right.” He straightened his tie. “Where?”

Hutchinson’s smile was blinding. “Starsky found this great little all-night Mexican-Greek place over near the courthouse. They make a taco-gyros that’ll knock your socks off…”

Shoulder to shoulder, they left the hospital.