First Jeopardy

231

While escorting a prisoner, Starsky and Hutch are in a small-plane crash.

 

Story notes: This story first appeared in the zine, TLC, a hurt comfort Starsky and Hutch zine with both slash and gen stories published in 1992.

Categories: gen zinefic, gen action/adventure

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“Hutch, you know I can’t stand flyin’—especially in one of these damn toy airplanes!” Starsky protested as they approached the small, single engine Piper Arrow.

Hutch stopped mid-way to the plane. “Starsk, it’s either this or we stay another night up here in Chico.” He stared at his partner, conveying with his eyes how unappealing that idea was to him.

Starsky shrugged, his shoulders lifting with the sigh. “All right. Anything but another night in that flea bag hotel.” He grabbed the upper arm of the man walking between himself and Hutch. “Come on, Horton, last leg of the journey.”

Their prisoner chuckled to himself, seemingly amused by the two partners’ discussion. Over his head, Hutch caught Starsky’s eye, giving him a wink that said at least they would soon be rid of the troublesome prisoner they had come North to bring back to trial in L.A.

“You guys the detectives?” a man dressed in a green jumpsuit said as he rounded the front end of the plane.

“Yeah. I’m Hutchinson, this is my partner Starsky.” Hutch flashed his badge. “You McMurphy?”

“That’s right.” The pilot slipped a screwdriver into an upper pocket and shook hands with first Hutch, then Starsky.

Starsky looked skeptical. “This plane all right?” he asked finally. “You look like you were in the middle of repairin’ it or something.”

“This baby’s in fine shape…” McMurphy allowed, reaching up to open the passenger door. “I just hope the propeller doesn’t falloff in mid-air again.”

Hutch laughed as Starsky’s face turned ashen at the pilot’s teasing words. It only took a few moments to stow their gear—just a couple of nylon bags that contained their changes of clothes—and get ready to board the plane. Looking in, Hutch saw that there would be plenty of room in the four passenger seats.

“You wanta ride up there with the pilot, Starsk?” he asked anyway. At his partner’s incredulous look, he added, “It might make you feel safer to sit up there—I understand it gives you more of a feeling of being in control of what’s going on.”

Starsky still shook his head. “Nah, I’ll keep you and Horton company.”

“Okay.” Hutch fished in his pocket for the handcuff key and unlocked the cuffs from around Horton’s wrists to allow the man to climb into the plane. “Sit in the middle,” he directed, pointing out the center seats that faced the rear of the plane. Wordlessly, the prisoner did as he was asked.

“You’re next, Starsk,” Hutch said, offering him a hand up. “Climb in and I’ll cuff him to you.”

“No way.” Starsky was balking again. “I’m not ridin’ backwards—and I’m not gonna be cuffed to him.”

“Well, one of us has gotta be.” Hutch sighed. “It’s standard procedure.”

“And in this partnership, you follow the standards.” Starsky laughed, pushing past him to climb into the plane and take a place in the rear seats.

Hutch maneuvered his long legs into the small passenger space, and slipped one of the bracelets onto his own wrist, snapping it shut. “There, Horton,” he said without smiling, “you and me are best buddies for the duration.”

“What d’you expect me to do in this little plane, cop?” Horton asked in a nasty tone.

“I don’t know, but if you make a move I want to know it at the same time you do,” Hutch told him caustically.

“Maybe I’ll decide to ditch, huh?” the murder suspect said. “I’ll just open the door, jump, and you’ll go along for the ride.”

“Shut up, turkey,” Starsky barked. “I don’t wanna hear another word outta your foul mouth ’til we land, hear?”

Hutch smothered a smile at his partner’s quickly obeyed words. They’d been partnered for two years now, and still that surly voice surprised him—and usually worked on the bad guys, too.

McMurphy finished his pre-flight check on the plane and climbed into the pilot’s seat. He took up the mike and called the control tower, soon receiving a clearance for takeoff. The little plane revved up and slowly taxied down the short runway.

Hutch settled back in his seat, watching Starsky’s reactions to the plane in motion. He was sitting straight up, back pressed into the seat, hands tightly clenched on his knees. Hutch could see that the seat belt was tightly cinched. Feeling remorse for the teasing he had inflicted, he reached out to touch his partner’s knee.

“It’ll be okay, Starsk. I’ve flown in these small planes a lot. It’s just noisy and a little more bumpy than on bigger planes, but we’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Promises, promises.” The indigo eyes looked huge in the slightly pale face.

Hutch offered his gentlest smile. ”Trust me.”

“Always do, buddy,” Starsky asserted. “Always do.”

Hutch’s smile broadened and finally found an answering glimmer in Starsky’s eyes. The trust so freely offered never failed to make him feel good inside; the closeness he and Starsky shared, beyond the simple matter of their partnership, was one of the most important factors of his life. He hoped he would always be worthy of that trust, that if Starsky ever needed him, for anything, he would be there, be what he needed.

They’d faced danger on the street, of course. A couple of close calls in gunfights, but neither of them had been shot. Yet, Hutch amended. Some cops went their whole careers without getting wounded. Somehow, he found himself doubting he and Starsky would attain that goal. What if Starsky got shot sometime, he allowed himself to wonder, feeling the prickle of fear the idea brought forth. He couldn’t picture the strong body dropping to the ground, or imagine Starsky writhing in pain….

His eyes moved to the quiet face of his friend, noting the surge of protectiveness the odd thoughts had engendered in him. Starsky was strong, brave, and never allowed a little pain to get in the way of his doing his job. But deep down, under that tough exterior, he was a vulnerable man. Not many had seen that aspect of him, though Hutch had had a couple of brief glimpses. Someday, the way they worked, he’d get more than a glimpse, he knew.

The plane took off, lifting suddenly into the air and gaining altitude steadily. Starsky’s worried faced stayed at the window, and Hutch noted the white-knuckled grip he had on the armrest of his seat. He lifted his foot and nudged his partner’s ankle with his own Nike. Starsky looked up and Hutch flashed a grin of reassurance. Starsky shrugged a little, self-deprecatingly, and then returned his gaze to the window.

“Seems like it’s takin’ an awful long time,” Starsky remarked nearly forty-five minutes later. “Guess these little planes don’t go at the same speed as the big jets.”

“Logical, my dear Watson.” Hutch nodded. He leaned around to ask the pilot what time they’d be arriving in Los Angeles. “Hey, McMurphy—how much longer ’til we get to L.A.?”

“I don’t know. We’ve run into some bad winds,” the pilot answered without taking his eyes off his instruments. “I’m going to radio in and change our course. You guys sit tight. Everything’s under control.”

“Thanks.” Hutch turned back to face his partner, suddenly feeling less confidant than he had been. Starsky’s eyes were wide, and Hutch wasn’t sure he had been able to hear much of the conversation over the noise in the cabin. “It could be a while, he says,” Hutch told him. ”Why don’t you try to grab a nap?”

“Sleep here?” Starsky sounded aghast. “Not on your life.”

“You can fall asleep anywhere. There’s almost more space in here than the front seat of the Torino.”

“Yeah, but it’s a lot quieter.” Starsky pouted, then his eyes lit up. “Except when you’re snorin’ in the back seat.”

This time Hutch kicked him a little harder with his foot, and laughed as Starsky gave him the finger. Moments later, however, he saw his partner nodding, looking more relaxed than he had been while awake. Hutch glanced sideways at Horton and saw their prisoner was staring out his own window.

“You’re quiet. Anything on your mind?” he asked the man softly.

Cold eyes turned to look at him. “I told you I’d never go to trial, cop. You believe in premonitions?”

“The only thing I believe in is bastards like you getting what they deserve,” Hutch shot back. Horton sat watching him for a long moment, a slight smile playing around the thin mouth, then he turned and continued his vigil out the window.

Hutch tried to settle himself more comfortably in the seat. He checked on Starsky; his partner was sleeping. Feeling he probably should try to grab some z’s himself, he shut his eyes. It was hard to relax, though, sitting cuffed to a man who had brutally killed three people.

He must have drifted off eventually, because the next thing he knew, the plane was bouncing like an untrained gymnast, and the engine sounded as though it was cutting off and trying to start up again, over and over. He couldn’t see anything outside; the night surrounding the little plane was blacker than any he’d ever known.

“McMurphy!” he called sharply, twisting around in his seat. He could see the pilot’s face reflected in the windshield and Hutch wasn’t comforted by his grim expression. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Bad turbulence! I’m losing altitude. Some of my instruments…” he paused, trying to retain control of the bucking plane. “I think we’re in some trouble.”

Hutch didn’t answer. A cold block of ice settled in the pit of his stomach and he’d never felt so helpless. If they were going to go down… something he certainly didn’t want to have happen… there was simply nothing he could do.

Horton was awake, too, he realized, when he heard the man chuckling softly. “Like I said… I had a premonition.”

Hutch stared at the mirth in the prisoner’s eyes.

“If we crash you’re goin’ down with us, Horton. If I were you, I might start askin’ the man upstairs for a little forgiveness. I understand he’s more of a hanging judge than anybody on the bench back in L.A.”

Horton sneered at him, but made no reply.

Starsky still seemed asleep; his head was rocking slightly as the plane jumped and bounced. The man was tired out from the long, frustrating trip to Chico and needed his rest, and Hutch hesitated to wake him even now. He didn’t want to scare him if there was no need… but he felt awfully alone in the cabin with only Horton for company.

Just then the plane gave a sharper dive and the engine stall alarm went on. Starsky came awake with a gasp, eyes going immediately to Hutch.

“This is EA 254,” McMurphy’s steady voice reached their ears. “I need permission to make an emergency landing.”

“Negative EA 254. There’s nowhere to set down where you are. You’re directly over King’s Canyon National Forest. Can you proceed south another ten miles?”

“I’ll try,” McMurphy responded. He put the mike down and busied himself with the controls of his plane.

The Piper Arrow tried once more to ascend and steady her flight path, but the engine alarm sang out again. The radio crackled to life.

“EA 254, ascend immediately to 5,000 feet! Ascend immediately to 5,000 feet!” McMurphy pulled back hard on the stick, and Hutch felt like he was falling forward, his stomach cut by the tight seat belt he was wearing.

The engine coughed, sputtered and died. The plane seemed to sit still for a brief moment, and then she was diving, falling to earth with the unrelenting pull of gravity.

“Jesus Christ! Mayday! Mayday!” McMurphy bellowed into the microphone.

Hutch didn’t listen to hear if he got a reply. His eyes had locked with Starsky’s. His partner leaned toward him, reaching out with both of his hands. Hutch met the slender fingers with his own and felt Starsky’s crushing grip.

The Adam’s apple bobbed in the long throat. “I’m no chicken, man, but…”

“I know.” Hutch felt his eyes burning, his vision blur. “Hang on, partner. We’ve both… “He searched for something meaningful to say in what might be their last seconds on Earth. “We’ve both got a lot to live for. Remember that.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere without you,” Starsky affirmed. His face was white in the glare from the light inside the plane, his eyes grim. But the grip on Hutch’s hands didn’t waver. Hutch was grateful for the strength reaching across to him.

“Lean over with your heads between your knees!” McMurphy shouted.

Hutch didn’t have time to give him another glance. He bent forward, sensing that Starsky was doing the same.

His left arm, the one cuffed to Horton, felt the resistant pull of the other man’s body. Their prisoner seemed to have no intention of taking any precautions.

Hutch didn’t spare him any sympathy. He leaned his head against the soft riot of Starsky’s curls, feeling a strong need to merge into his partner’s space. So little time... “You need a haircut, buddy,” he whispered, hoping that his friend would hear and understand the love he wished he could transmit in those tense, last seconds before… Hutch refused to allow the words ‘the end’ to enter his thoughts.

Starsky said nothing, but the tangle of curls seemed to press closer, and Hutch thought of nothing now but their warmth against his cheek.

* * *

Hutch woke to complete darkness and a silence that was as absolute as it was chilling. For a moment, it was hard to believe he was still alive. The last thing he could remember was the plane hurtling down… and nothing after that at all. He could not remember impact, or pain, or even fear in the split second of their crashing. He supposed it was better that way, no memories, no nightmares. He was alive.

And so far that was all he knew. Taking stock, he tried to move, and as his bruised muscles protested, realized he had not emerged totally unscathed. His shoulders ached, his head was throbbing, his stomach felt like he’d been punched by a prize fighter. He couldn’t seem to move his left arm.

He sat up, feeling sudden panic try to overtake him. For a moment, he refused further speculation, and just sat breathing deeply. Calm, calm… he forced his overtaxed mind to listen to his own rational directive. His eyes strained to see in the complete blackness, yet nothing was revealed to his sight. Cautiously, confused, he tried to feel around in the dark to get a fix on his situation.

His left hand moved, though it felt dragged down by a dead weight. Hutch caught his breath, bringing his right hand up to help the investigation. Horton, he suddenly remembered. The man had been cuffed to him. Hutch’s hand felt the warmth of a body, but encountered no breathing, no pulse. All that was cuffed to him now was an empty shell. He shuddered, feeling control trying to slip away from him.

Gotta find the key…. He groped in his pocket for the handcuff key, praying it wouldn’t slip out of his fingers and become lost in the dark. Finally he fumbled it out and felt around until he found the lock on the chilled steel. It took uncounted moments to fit the key into the tiny hole and twist it. Hutch was shaking by the time he’d freed himself from the dead man.

He sat back in the seat, trying to deepen his respiration and calm down again. He’d seen dead bodies before, once even made the macabre discovery of a mutilated body. But not like this, locked in the dark, alone with the dead. Alone….

Hutch sat forward suddenly, listening intently. His ears seemed to be ringing; he couldn’t hear anything at all. Was he alone—totally? Were all the others…? His mind refused to phrase the terrifying question completely.

He had to see. He pushed himself out of his seat, ignoring the pain in his head the movement caused, and leaned to reach into the cockpit. His hand fell on another figure, this one as still as Horton’s. It was easier to control his sense of horror this time. Hutch persevered, remembering there had been a flashlight near the instrument panel. Finally, his damp fingers closed around it.

He pressed the switch, illuminating the cockpit, allowing his worst fears to be confirmed. McMurphy was dead; blood splattered the windshield and instruments, and the man’s head looked as though it had been broken open when it impacted with the stick. Hutch felt the bile rise in his throat and only controlled his physical reaction through force of will. There wasn’t time to be sick. He had to find out more.

Shaking, he turned, bringing the light back into the passenger section with him. There was Horton, calmly, quietly dead, sitting just as he had been. For a moment, Hutch wondered what had killed him, but he had no will to investigate the body now.

Starsky…. The word said in his heart was a prayer. He turned, and it took all the courage he owned to make himself look at his partner’s slumped form.

Like the others, Starsky wasn’t moving. Hutch forgot to breathe. His eyes searched the bent body, seeing no blood yet, praying still. Then Starsky groaned.

“God…” The word slipped out unnoticed. Hutch undid his seat belt and leaned toward his friend, hands gentling instantly as they touched him. “Starsk? Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

Another groan, deeper and more pained than the first. Hutch cupped Starsky’s face in his palms, trying to get him to raise his head.

“Hutch?” The word was a hoarse whisper, ending in a cough.

“Right here, partner.” He felt so shaky; it was hard to make his voice sound reassuring. Somehow though, even his weak quaver seemed to help Starsky.

“Don’t like planes, I tol’ ya,” Starsky mumbled. “Next time, remember I said we should drive.”

“Anything you say.” Hutch found the clasp of Starsky’s seat belt and undid it, then moved into the seat beside his friend. He put one arm around the injured man and laid the flashlight on the seat he’d just vacated to help him see what he was doing.

He could see blood now, and it worried him. There was a trail of red running down the side of Starsky’s face, and a glance at the side wall of the plane told him where the injury had occurred. Hutch reached into a back pocket to extricate his handkerchief, then pressed the cloth against Starsky’s temple. The touch brought forth a moan of pain.

“Easy, buddy. I’m just tryin’ to stop some bleeding.”

“Oh, Hutch…” the broken voice managed, “I… I’m hurtin’….”

“I know.” The sound of suffering was like a knife point in Hutch’s heart. Starsky wouldn’t admit to feeling pain so easily unless it was pretty severe. Hutch wrapped his arms around his friend and just held on for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Starsky needed medical help. Hutch didn’t know where they were, or even if McMurphy had managed to get through to the authorities with his distress call. For now, at least, he was on his own. Whatever he might do in the next few minutes, Starsky’s life… and his own, too… depended solely on him.

A voice in the back of his mind tried to tell him he wasn’t up to it. That he didn’t have the knowledge, the courage, to take over and save his partner’s life. He’d heard that voice before; it was his father’s, telling him as he had all through his youth that he’d never measure up. There had been encouragement from a few others, his mother sometimes and more often his grandfather, but it was hard to escape the influence of his father’s lack of support. He’d fought to overcome that all his life, and had always believed that in trying to succeed despite his father’s disapproval he had actually become a stronger person. Now the real test was at hand. He closed his eyes for a second, searching for the inner fortitude he knew he possessed, yet fearing for a moment that his father had always been right about him after all.

A hand wrapped itself around his wrist, pulling at him in need. Before Hutch could fully react, the hand let go only to reach further, finding his thigh, trailing up over his hip to encircle his waist. Starsky shifted infinitesimally closer to him, body trembling with pain yet supple with trust. His feelings transmitted themselves directly to Hutch, burning a welcome path through his brain. Absolute faith, total confidence—Starsky was putting himself in Hutch’s hands, and he didn’t doubt for a moment that Hutch was capable of taking care of the situation. Hutch had never wanted anyone’s trust more than Starsky’s.

He bent closer to the vulnerable figure, fingers stroking through the dense curls. He could feel tension in the strong body, sensed the pain that couldn’t be ignored wracking his friend. He ached to comfort him.

“I’m here, Starsk. I’m right here,” he whispered, touch and voice pouring out his tenderness.

Under his hands, he could feel Starsky relax slightly. Calmer now, Hutch knew he’d get them out of this situation whole and alive. Starsky was the one person who mattered most to him and he would not let him down.

“Where’s it hurt, partner?” he asked after a moment. “Can’t fix it up if I don’t know what’s broken.”

Starsky coughed a little and tried to sit up. He moved as if every muscle hurt. Finally he leaned back, face looking pallid in the harsh light. “My chest, mainly. It’s kind a hard to get a deep breath.” One hand gingerly slid down his chest as if seeking the source of the pain.

“Let me see,” Hutch said quietly, leaning close to take up the examination. He opened Starsky’s jacket and slipped open the buttons of his shirt, running his fingers over damp skin. It looked like the medical courses he’d taken at college were going to be put to some real use this time.

Starsky felt flushed, shocky, and Hutch knew he’d better get that under control, too. He quickly investigated and felt a slight depression along the ribs. They didn’t feel broken, just cracked. If he kept Starsky still, it probably wouldn’t cause much more difficulty. He felt through the dark curls, discovering nothing more than a gash near Starsky’s temple. Both his eyes were reacting equally to the light, so Hutch decided he did not have a concussion.

“I think you’ve got a cracked rib is all,” he told his friend, making his voice calm and reassuring. “I think if I tape it up, you’ll feel better.”

“Tape?” Starsky’s eyes widened. “On my chest? Hutch—”

Hutch chuckled despite himself. “You’re thinkin’ about when the tape comes off. Don’t worry, Starsk. One big yank and it’ll all be over.”

“An’ I’ll look like the proverbial plucked chicken.”

The joking helped take the tension out of the air, made Hutch feel that things were not too far outside of what was normal for them. He closed Starsky’s shirt and jacket so he wouldn’t get too cold, then leaned over to open the door of the plane.

“Where you goin’?” Starsky’s hand darted out to grasp his forearm.

“I’m gonna climb up front to look for the first aid kit.”

“Oh.” Starsky rubbed his face. “Hey, we’re not hanging from a sequoia tree or something, are we?”

That thought had not occurred to Hutch, but he realized it was not outside the realm of possibility. Moving more cautiously, he swung open the door and waved the light outside.

Real relief rushed through him when he saw they were on solid ground. “Right on terra firma,” he informed his partner as he climbed out. He stood beside the plane for a moment, leaning on it as wave of dizziness passed, assessing his own bruises and aches, feeling grateful to be capable of moving around. Regaining his equilibrium, he used the flashlight to explore the area. They were surrounded by very tall trees, but seemed to have crashed into a clearing.

A shiver passed through Hutch as he realized the plane would have been totally demolished, killing all of them, if it had come down only a few yards in either direction from where they were now. Yet precisely where they were, he didn’t know. He thought he remembered McMurphy giving their position as King’s Canyon National Park. That scared him momentarily. If they were lost in deep woods of the high country, it might take weeks before they could be found. A part of him longed to explore further, to see if they’d ended up anywhere near civilization.

First things first, he told himself, moving to open the door to the cockpit. McMurphy’s blood spattered corpse leaned toward him as the door swung open. Hutch swallowed hard and got his hands under the dead man’s armpits, tugging and yanking at the body until he pulled it from the wreckage. He laid it down on the forest floor and, wiping his hands on his jeans, moved back to the cockpit.

He aimed the light into the small area, finally picking out the first aid box. He opened it, hoping supplies would be there to help Starsky. There were a few Band-Aids, sick sacs and Kleenex and a roll of adhesive tape that was half used up. So much for taping that hairy chest. He fumbled through the accumulation of articles and brought out a couple of ace bandages. They would serve his purpose and also protect Starsky from the annoyance of tape. Smiling, Hutch dosed and latched the box.

Before climbing back into the passenger area, he realized he should check out the radio and see if he could make sense of the maps McMurphy had been using. “Can you hang on another minute or so, Starsk? I want to see if the radio works.” He took up the mike and fiddled with the dial, getting only static in response to his attempts to contact someone. At least the radio wasn’t totally dead, though Hutch suspected there might not be enough power left to summon help even if he could get it to work.

Next he picked up a blood splotched map, and his frustration mounted. Aerial maps were some of the hardest to read, but as near as he could make out, they were indeed in King’s Canyon Park. Together with Sequoia National Park, the area extended from the foothills of the San Joaquin Valley to the crest of the High Sierras. Now, in the dark and with no other points of reference, there was no way to learn their exact position. They could be within walking distance of a highway or miles from the nearest ranger station. His watch told him it was eight thirty at night and exploring in the dark didn’t strike him as a good idea any more than it would Starsky right now. If McMurphy hadn’t made their last position known, it could take hours until the crash was suspected; perhaps days or longer to find them up here.

A feeling of depression sought to take over, and he fought it studiously. He couldn’t let Starsky know how worried he was; at least not yet. Bringing the first aid kit with him, he climbed back aboard to be close to his partner.

“How you doin’, buddy?” he asked in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

“‘M okay, long as I don’t take very deep breaths.” Eyes so deep blue they looked black seemed to glitter as they regarded him.

Hutch beamed the light around the tiny cabin, realizing he’d better get rid of Horton’s body as he’d done with McMurphy’s. “Hang on a minute, willya? I gotta do some housecleaning.”

He handed the light to Starsky and struggled to pull the dead prisoner out through the narrow door. Starsky sat up and tried to help him, but the movement obviously caused him pain.

“I’ve got him, Starsk, don’t worry,” Hutch panted, dragging the body out. The term dead weight had never seemed so ghoulishly appropriate. He deposited Horton near McMurphy, then hurried to get back to Starsky.

His partner was half-lying in his seat, face pale and worried. When Hutch climbed up beside him, he grabbed for his hand.

“They’re both dead, aren’t they, Hutch?” he asked. “I… didn’t even think about ’em.”

“Hey, you were out of it.” Hutch tried to make him forget what he apparently considered a lapse, remembering that his own first thoughts following regaining consciousness had not even been of Starsky. “The mind works funny at a time like this. ”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Starsky conceded. His hand slid up to clasp Hutch’s shoulder. “Are you okay, Hutch?”

“I think so,” he managed, trying to smile. “I’m feeling kinda sore like you are. Maybe sitting in the middle I didn’t get thrown around so much.”

A firm pressure squeezed at his shoulder. “Good,” Starsky whispered.

The intensity of feeling was almost too much. Hutch tried to lighten the moment by showing Starsky what he’d found in the first aid kit. “Look here—ace bandages. I’ll bet these’ll work even better than tape for your ribs.”

The smile Starsky gave him was appreciative. Hutch ruffled his curls, then set about applying the first aid measure. He helped Starsky out of his holster, then his jacket and shirt, and wound the bandages around his upper chest as securely as he could without hurting him, Starsky hung on to him, saying nothing, obviously trying not to let the pain show. When Hutch was finished, he carefully eased the clothing back on for him, knowing that warmth was important in cases of shock. Hutch then helped Starsky to lie with his feet up on the opposite seat, propping his sneakers on their nylon luggage. He found a blanket in the luggage compartment and spread it over him. Then he took time to attend to the cut on Starsky’s temple, cleaning it with an alcohol pad and applying a Band-Aid.

“Better?” he asked finally, sitting next to the propped up blue Adidas.

Starsky nodded. “You’re pretty good at this kind a thing, y’know? Guess I should be glad you became a cop instead of going all the way through med school, though. I might be stuck with somebody who’s as ham-handed about doctor stuff as I am.”

“You do okay in a pinch.” Hutch looked at his partner and dredged up a grin for him. The immediate alarm of the situation was beginning to recede. For the moment, at least, they were safe. It was good to sit back and take a breath before trying to figure out what else to do.

Starsky seemed a little more clear-headed, too, now. The eyes peering over at Hutch were more cognizant of what was going on. “How bad are we, Hutch?” he asked quietly. The tone of his voice was different this time; Hutch realized he needed the full truth.

“Pretty bad, I think. We’ve landed somewhere in the area of King’s Canyon. No way to tell right now how far we are from help, and I can’t get the radio to work. It’s hard to be sure with the flashlight, but the trees surrounding this clearing look pretty dense.” He paused, letting that sink in for both of them. “Maybe the best thing to do right now is sit tight and wait for morning.”

Starsky nodded slowly, grave eyes never leaving Hutch’s. He moved a little, restlessly, one hand rubbing at his abdomen. “Whew. My stomach really hurts. Guess the seat belt did a number on me.”

“Yeah. Mine hurts some, too.” Hutch tried to get comfortable in the confined space. “Just try to relax. It’ll ease up.”

Starsky was silent for a while, but Hutch knew his efficient mind was ruminating on their situation. After a moment, the quiet voice reached out to him again.

“The crash was bad enough to kill two people. How come we’re not hurt?”

“We’re not exactly in the best of health,” Hutch pointed out, trying to be reasonable. “My head is killing me and my shoulders both feel like they were wrenched pretty bad. You’ve got at least one, maybe more, cracked ribs. McMurphy was in the cockpit—no wonder he’s dead. And Horton…” Hutch remembered the man’s demeanor as the plane began its unscheduled descent. “Maybe he wanted to die. He sure didn’t do anything to protect himself when the crash was starting.”

“Yeah.” Starsky’s agreement sounded tentative. “But why d’you think we’re the lucky ones?”

“I don’t know.” The brush with death made Hutch feel very humble. They were together, and Hutch thanked God. If someone other than Starsky had been the other survivor, Hutch knew he wouldn’t be able to care as much about his own life under the circumstances; and the thought of Starsky waking up to find his partner’s smashed body in the wreckage was an idea he didn’t want to contemplate either. “Like I said, we’ve both got a lot to live for.”

Starsky smiled, his unique grin more comfort than Hutch could have imagined. “Not our time, huh? I’ll accept that. Besides, you hear all the time about people getting found after accidents like this.”

If the statement was a little hollow, Hutch understood. He sat forward, taking Starsky’s hand in his own. “We’re in this together, partner. And we’re gonna get out of it together.”

“Right on.” Starsky continued looking into his eyes a moment, then shifted position, still trying to get his bruised body comfortable.

Moments ticked by in silence. Hutch didn’t like the stillness. It made him too aware of their vulnerable position, let him feel his own aches and pains too much. He sensed Starsky’s restlessness and worried about pain his friend must be feeling if he couldn’t hold still. He was just about to speak up when Starsky began talking again.

“Damn! I can’t take this quiet. It reminds me of the jungle, Hutch.”

“Take it easy, buddy. There’s no traps out there, no soldiers. Just a lot of trees and good old American wild animals.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said drily. “You sure know how to cheer a guy up.” He moved again, then groaned. “Shit. My gut feels like it’s on fire.”

Hutch sat forward, mentally running down a list of possible problems, thinking that he really hadn’t fully examined him after discovering the cracked ribs. Though he’d been amazingly cooperative, Starsky would probably protest if he tried to palpate his stomach, he thought wryly. Nevertheless, he reached to touch his friend, but Starsky flinched.

”I’m okay,” he said quickly. “Just… I don’t know. I can’t get settled.” He shifted, seeking an adequate position. “Feels like these jeans are cutting off my circulation.”

Hutch suppressed a smile. “If you didn’t wear ’em so damn tight…” He let his hands settle on the waist band of the pants. “Why don’t you open your belt?” Starsky nodded, but his hands seemed damp and trembly, so Hutch helped him, unfastening the belt and snap, letting the zipper slide down an inch or so. “How’s that?”

“Better, I guess.” Starsky grimaced, still in pain. He rubbed the offending area again. “Sorry to be such a spoil sport.”

“No problem. Why don’t we see what else McMurphy carried aboard this rust bucket? No reason to sit here in the woods and wait for the three bears to arrive.”

“Didya haveta say ‘bears,’ Hutch?”

Hutch chuckled softly. He busied himself with straightening the blanket over Starsky, tucking it in around his shoulders, making sure he would stay warm. “Maybe I should try working with the radio.”

“Okay.” Starsky’s voice sounded faint.

Hutch got out and climbed into the cockpit, trying not to think about the fact that he was probably sitting in blood, and set to work. Starsky kept making helpful suggestions, but the radio stubbornly refused to operate. Hutch thought he picked up a transmission that might be from a nearby airport, but he didn’t hear anything relative to their accident.

“Damn.” He sat still, closing his eyes as he tried to concentrate. What had McMurphy been saying just before they went down? Hadn’t he radioed their last position? And there had been some sort of garbled orders from a flight controller… ‘Ascend to 5,000 feet!’ Whoever broadcast those words had known exactly where they were seconds before the crash! Hutch eagerly told his partner about his theory and was pleased to see the smile he got from him in return. He continued working with the broken radio, certain that even now someone was searching for them. Forty minutes later, when he gave up on the radio, that hope was all he had left.

“Starsk? You okay?” He turned in the pilot’s seat to look at his friend, shining the light toward him. Starsky lay back against the seat, face looking drawn and tired. His eyes blinked in the light and he held up his hand as a shield.

“I… think I gotta go…” The words trailed off. “Can you… help me get outta here?”

“Sure.” Hutch immediately extricated himself from the cockpit and came around to open the passenger door. “You want me to…” He stopped speaking. Starsky had thrown aside the blanket, his face was bathed with sweat, his hands pressed against his lower belly. Hutch climbed up beside him. “Starsk?”

“I’ve gotta take a leak.” He wet his lips, looking as though merely speaking had tired him. “I don’t know if I can get up, though.” He looked up at Hutch, eyes asking the obvious. There was no embarrassment in the look, just that same trust as before.

Hutch remembered something he had seen under the seat when he’d stowed his duffle bag. He bent down and pulled it out, holding up the plastic urinal. “Here’s our john away from home, buddy,” he said lightly. “Now, how can we manage this?”

Starsky tried to sit up straighter, and moved to rearrange his already half-mast jeans. Then he cried out in pain.

Distressed, Hutch made a grab for him and held on, riding out the wave of discomfort. Starsky’s arms had wrapped around him, hanging on tight, trembling. Hutch soothed him as best he could.

Gradually, Starsky relaxed a little.

“You wanta try again?” Hutch asked him softly.

“I don’t know.” The dark head seemed to loll against the head rest. Hutch patted one shoulder, then tried to help out with the procedure again. He slid down Starsky’s jeans a little, but when he touched his abdomen he was surprised to find it seemed swollen. He investigated further, confirming that the stomach felt stiff. Annoyed with himself, Hutch shook his head, swearing silently. He’d been a fool not to suspect some kind of abdominal injury.

‘My gut feels like it’s on fire,’ Starsky had said.

Still, there was very little Hutch could have done if he’d realized sooner. Now all he could do was try to figure out what was going on, so he’d know more or less what to expect as the night wore on.

He leaned close, pressing his ear to Starsky’s bared stomach, listening. In a healthy person, you could always hear faint bowel sounds. Starsky’s bowel seemed to be silent. That definitely meant an abdominal injury of some kind, perhaps a tear in the intestine. That would account for the swollen, tender stomach; gasses accumulating. Hutch knew the progression infection, fever, eventual peritonitis. Surgery was needed to fix it. Without help, and soon, Starsky could die.

A little groan of pain brought him back to the present. “I still gotta go, Hutch.” A hand nudged his head where it rested on Starsky’s stomach, but his friend didn’t seem to notice anything odd about their positions. Hutch sat up, looking into vague eyes, realizing he had to hang onto his own control.

“Right. Won’t take a minute,” he assured. Carefully, he tugged at the clothing, bringing the container into position, awkwardly holding it with one hand, Starsky with the other. Starsky, relaxed under the intimate ministrations, was able to relieve himself. Afterwards, Hutch tucked his clothes and everything else back the way they should be, then slipped out of the plane to empty the urinal. Climbing back in, he found Starsky’s eyes on him once more.

“You’re a real pal, Hutch.” The voice was soft, measured. “Not everyone would do that for somebody, you know.”

Hutch hadn’t minded. And you wouldn’t have let just anyone help you like that. He patted Starsky’s shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re both men and I’ve seen you without your britches before, anyway. What’re partners for, huh?”

Starsky didn’t answer, but one corner of his mouth curved up in what Hutch took to be a smile. He wrapped the blanket more securely around him, and sat looking down at the pale, sweaty face. Hutch felt cold all over. Starsky was more badly injured than they had first realized. He couldn’t just sit here and wait for rescue—he had to do something.

There weren’t many options. The radio was a lost cause. He feared trying to drag Starsky to look for help; one of the first rules of survival was not to leave your last known position, and besides, moving him could cause more damage to Starsky’s insides. Leaving him to look for help on his own was out of the question.

But he couldn’t just sit by and watch his partner die.

He looked back at Starsky, watching for a moment as translucent lids trembled over the closed eyes. Dark circles shadowed them, and the stubble of beard made the face look thinner. The cheek bones seemed to stand out… Hutch broke off the appraisal, knowing his imagination was getting the better of him. He concentrated on the strength in Starsky, the stubborn set of jaw, the easy reappearance of his grin. The man had character, determination… he’d pull through this if Hutch could be enough help to him. For a moment, Hutch’s confidence wavered as it had at the beginning of the ordeal. Then Starsky moaned, twisting as new pain slammed him from the inside.

Hutch bent over him, offering words of comfort without even realizing what he was saying. Starsky’s hands flailed out, one grabbing at Hutch’s shoulder, the other making contact with his upper thigh, pain breaking down barriers of intimacy. He hung on with surprising strength, silently asking for Hutch’s presence, for his help. Hutch hugged him back just as tightly.

He needs me… he needs me… Shaken, Hutch realized that no one else would do for Starsky right now. “I’m here, partner,” he whispered, stroking the trembling man. “Hutch has everything under control.”

Starsky, relaxing gradually, sighed in apparent relief. “Good. Just let me know what you want me to do, ‘kay?”

“Sure thing.” Hutch eased him back against the seat cushions, straightening the blanket over him. His friend’s pain was worsening; it was time to take action. “I’m going to see what else McMurphy has aboard that might help us,” he told Starsky. “Hang tight, okay?”

He knew the luggage compartment was empty, so he climbed outside and opened an exterior storage compartment. Inside, he found what seemed like buried treasure. Excited, he carried the box in to the passenger section to show Starsky.

“Look! It’s survival gear,” he said opening the lid. There were a dozen flares, a large halogen flashlight, matches, another army-issue olive green blanket, even an inflatable life raft, packets of dehydrated food and a container of water.

”I’m kind a thirsty, Hutch,” Starsky spoke up, his voice ragged. “Do you think…?”

Hutch put the water aside. “I’m afraid to give it to you,” he told him, laying a careful hand on his friend’s stomach. “Something’s torn inside, Starsk, and it could really hurt you if you have anything.”

The blue eyes looked somber and somewhat disappointed, but Starsky nodded his agreement. “Dr. Hutchinson knows best.”

Hutch gave a short chuckle. “Well, you better hope Eagle Scout Hutchinson knows best, too, buddy. I’ve got my work cut out for me to make our position visible from the air.”

“You think somebody’s up there lookin’ for us?”

“I sure hope so. Like I said, McMurphy was in radio contact with an airport somewhere. I heard them tell him to ascend to 5,000 feet or something… so they must know approximately where we landed. I’m not waiting ’til daybreak to call attention to ourselves.”

Using the more powerful light, he made a reconnaissance of the clearing in which they’d landed. Above his head, the trees gave way to a view of a clear, star-studded sky. Perfect night for searching for survivors, he thought. Bringing the light down to scan the forest floor, Hutch found several flat stones and swept an area in the center of the clearing clean of pine needles and old leaves. He set the stones in a circle, then brought dry branches to lay a fire. He lit it, and sat back on his haunches to survey the cheery blaze, satisfied with his handiwork. Then he pulled the cord on the life raft and watched it expand. When it was inflated, he placed it near the fire, then went to check on Starsky.

His friend lay quietly, breathing shallow, eyes bright with fever.

“Hey, buddy, you want to come out here with me? I’ve got a fire going and we can watch for the rescue plane.”

Starsky looked up. “I don’t think I can really walk.”

“No problem.” Hutch bent down and gathered his partner into his arms, grunting under the weight that nearly equaled his own.

Halfway to the fire, Starsky began giggling. “I’ve always wanted to be carried off by a strong, blond man…”

“You make fun of me and I’ll drop you right now,” Hutch threatened, cheered immensely to hear Starsky making a joke. “There.” He deposited him carefully on the inflated raft, and wrapped the second blanket around him to ward off the chill, then settled down next to him. “And no rocking the boat, Mister.”

Starsky was still smiling, but the movement seemed to have tired him. Hutch busied himself with arranging the flares nearby. He wanted to be able to set them off if—make that when—he heard a rescue plane approaching.

Talk became sporadic. Hutch tried to keep Starsky’s thoughts off his condition, giving him a blow-by-blow description of how he’d built the fire and planned to set off the flares. “The light from the fire will probably attract them… it’s so dark up here they’ll be sure to notice it.”

“Yeah… say, you’re not gonna burn down the forest or anything are you? I wouldn’t want to be charged with arson of a National Park.”

“No. I know what I’m doing… about that much at least.”

“About a lot of things if you ask me.” Starsky’s eyes had gone from teasing to earnest again, and Hutch felt warm inside to realize how much confidence his partner had in him.

The waiting became difficult. Hutch had felt so hopeful as he took the measures to make their location easier to find. Minutes dragged into hours, and Starsky responded to Hutch’s conversation less and less. Looking over at him, Hutch was alarmed to see how glassy his eyes had become. He leaned close, laying a hand on the sweaty brow. Starsky was burning up.

“Starsk? Starsk, can you hear me?” He received no answer, though the eyes seemingly tried to focus on his face. Hutch scrambled up to fetch the water container, then tore off a comer of one of the blankets and soaked it, using it to sponge his friend’s hot face. He swabbed the dry lips with the dampened cloth, then opened his shirt and used the water to cool his bandaged chest and fevered belly. The skin of his stomach felt tighter, and when Hutch gently pressed against it, Starsky moaned slightly.

“Sorry, Starsk,” Hutch said, worried that he’d hurt him, as he re-buttoned the disheveled shirt.

”’M okay, ‘m okay,” Starsky protested, nodding as if in the middle of conversation. “Where’s Horton?”

“He’s all right. I know right where he is,” Hutch answered, distracted and worried.

“Good. We’re like the Mounties, y’know,” he went on in a slurred voice. “Always get our man.”

“That’s right.” Hutch shifted to sit closer to him, wanting to shout to the sky for help to come. Despite all he’d done, he felt useless, ineffective. Frustrated, needing to be still closer to his friend, he carefully gathered him near, drawing the man across his lap, wrapping his arms around him and stroking his face in wordless comfort. Starsky sighed, resting quietly.

The night grew ominously still around them, only the crackling of the fire reminding Hutch of the passage of time. He knew there were animals out there, but didn’t fear they’d approach the blaze. He just wished the authorities would hurry the hell up and get them out of here.

Starsky grew restless, moving in Hutch’s clasp weakly, groaning as his pain increased, finally twisting, struggling as if to escape the agony burning in his gut.

“I don’t wanta die, Hutch…”

Hutch held him tighter, scared out of his mind, trying to speak calmly to him, but Starsky could no longer hear and understand his partner’s words.

“Hang on, Starsky, hang on!” Hutch told him in anguish.

“No! The plane—it’s goin’ down! Hutch? Hutch! Where are you?” The hurting man’s voice rose in the silent forest.

”I’m here. I’m here. I’m right here, Starsky. Listen to me. I’ve got you…” He leaned close, pressing his cheek to the fevered face, as if their closeness alone could heal Starsky’s pain. “I’m here. I’m here…” Hutch broke off his frantic litany, raising his head to search the sky. Had he imagined…?

“Hutch!” Starsky, delirious, called for him again.

“I’m here, babe. Now be quiet… let me listen.” Hutch shushed him, sliding a hand down to squeeze his shoulder. He looked up again, eyes peering through the dark.

There it was—the sound of a plane. “Let it be someone searching…” Hutch offered a brief prayer. He carefully eased Starsky from his lap, reaching for his stock of flares. When the lights of the plane finally appeared between the trees, he set the first one off, then another and another. The plane went on and Hutch felt a crushing disappointment.

“Damn.” He hung his head, not knowing what he’d tell Starsky. Then the sound of an engine got closer again.

He looked up, saw more lights. Whether it was the same plane or another, he didn’t know. Hutch set off more flares, holding his breath in hope.

This time the plane was moving slower, Hutch tried a final flare, and swore when it was a dud. They didn’t see the fire, or if they did, thought it was merely a campsite. The plane moved on, passing the rim of the encircling trees.

Hutch sat still, staring up as if he could bring the plane back by force of will. When the sound of its engine that had been dying away seemed to be coming back, he thought he must be losing his mind.

But he wasn’t crazy. The plane had circled back. Excited, desperate, Hutch got to his feet, drawing his Magnum. As a light miraculously swept the area of the clearing, he fired three shots, universal signal for help.

The plane circled again, then seemed to be flying lower, and then Hutch could tell it was a ‘copter. Someone was leaning out of the door, signaling with his arms before he let down a rope ladder and began to climb down to the two stranded men. Hutch stood there watching, feeling his eyes burn with emotion, then hurried to grab the lowered ladder and help the man when he could reach him.

* * *

Hutch slipped down the hospital corridor quietly; it was two hours later than the visiting rules permitted, but he hadn’t seen Starsky since he’d come out of surgery that morning. He found the room and quietly let himself in, grinning hopefully at the nurse seated at his partner’s side. She looked at him chidingly, but rose and left the room to allow him his visit.

Starsky looked almost more pale than he had at the site of the crash, but Hutch could relax knowing he would definitely recover. The tear in his intestine hadn’t been large, and the doctors had repaired it easily, controlling the fever and infection with medication. He would be sore for a few weeks, but have no trouble returning to duty. Hutch breathed a prayer of thanks as he settled into the bedside chair and took hold of a slim-fingered hand.

Starsky’s eyelids fluttered as he came awake, and Hutch smiled at him when he looked up. “Hey, how you doin’?”

“Okay, I guess. At least, that’s what they tell me.” He shifted restlessly, groaning slightly at the movement.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Hutch told him. He smoothed fine curls back from the white forehead. “You believe it when I say so, don’t you?”

A nod, followed by a smile of unbelievable gentleness. “You got us out of a jam, Hutch.”

He nodded, clearing his throat somewhat noisily. The touching had seemed so easy, so natural, but Hutch wondered if Starsky would feel awkward. Even a man as open as Starsky might feel the need to reassert some barriers after they’d been broken down that way by pain and vulnerability. Now that it was all over, Hutch was a little embarrassed himself, not because of how he’d held Starsky and cared for him, but because of how good it had been to be needed, to be so unequivocally appreciated. And his partner’s reaching out for him had been paradoxically reassuring, destroying the doubts about himself Hutch had carried so long.

Starsky’s smile became a grin, an expression of fond exasperation. “I never doubted for a moment that you could do it.” His hand turned in Hutch’s, linking their fingers together. There was no pulling away.

Hutch met the clear eyes, feeling emotion draw him nearer and nearer to his partner. Starsky believed in him. And that meant more to Kenneth Hutchinson than anything.