Out Run

Hutch can’t outrun the memories.

The first shot felt as if it went straight into his heart, the second reminded him it didn’t because his heart started pounding as if he’d run a marathon, and the third—the third had him sinking to his knees when he came around the corner and saw Starsky cuffing the young kid in the dirty alley.

“Hutch?” Starsky called to him. “You okay?”

He lifted a hand to wave off the question and then put it back down because he was going to wind up face down in the filth if he didn’t have both hands to hold him up.

OhGodohGodohGod…his mind wouldn’t stop racing.

A black and white pulled up and he saw feet running past and then those same shoes came back into sight with sneaker clad feet stumbling between them.

“Hutch?” Starsky was kneeling in front of him, heedless of the probably piss-stained asphalt. “Hutch? Talk to me. You’re okay?”

Hutch focused on Starsky’s jeans—there was a little hole in the thigh, the edges frayed and if he put his finger in it, it would get bigger and the jeans would rip and everything would be ruined and…and…and…

A hand came out, brushed his hair, rested on the back of his neck. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. It wouldn’t be okay, not since…no. Don’t go there.

“I gotta get outta here,” he finally said, the only words he could muster. He looked up finally to see Starsky looking at him, his eyes bright and clear and understanding.

Starsky said nothing more, just squeezed the back of his neck, and stood, offering a hand.

“I…” Hutch tried to say something, anything to explain, but he couldn’t.

“You’re not hurt?” Starsky asked him, once more. “You sure?”

Hutch shook his head and followed Starsky to the car—not the Torino that was still to be repaired by Merle to its former glory but a plain blue Ford Fairmont that Starsky’s uncle had supplied.

He got in, and they drove back to the station to do the paperwork and book the young, inexperienced thief who had fired his gun, not at Starsky but at a dumpster because, as he said, he didn’t want to hurt anybody, just scare them.

Good job on that, pal, Hutch thought as he got out the car later at Venice Place. He hadn’t spoken to Starsky other than necessary to complete their paperwork.

Starsky hesitated only a moment but then patted Hutch’s arm, smiled, and said he’d pick him up tomorrow.

Hutch stood and watched him pull away and then he began to run, ignoring the way the air grew heavy and the clouds grew dark.

But no matter how far he ran, he couldn’t outrun the sound of gunfire in a police garage, he couldn’t outrun the vision of Starsky lying broken and bleeding. He tried—he’d been trying for months. But he always wound up back at his apartment, exhausted, spent, and just as afraid as he’d been when he started.