Welcome Home

79

Starsky’s flight home from New York to California hits a snag when the plane gets hijacked. When Hutch learns the news, he takes things into his own hands.

 

Originally published in LA Vespers 1 by The Parasite Press in 1979.

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The line crawled forward a few inches and stopped. Starsky shuffled impatiently. After a week in New York, he was in the Trans-Continental terminal at Kennedy Airport, waiting for the flight that would take him back to Los Angeles.

“Joe picked a helluva time to get married,” he fumed.

His grumbling elicited only a sympathetic smile from his Uncle Dave, who stood behind him in the line.

Starsky knew he was being unfair. He had agreed to be best man at his cousin’s wedding long before the Associated Airline’s strike and the FAA grounding of the DC-10’s had turned the country’s airports into jet-age waiting rooms, where harassed airline employees struggled to find ways to put more people on fewer planes.

“HEY! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, PAL?”

“GETTING BACK IN LINE. I JUST WENT TO THE JOHN.”

Heads turned as curious eyes searched for the source of the angry voices. A few feet ahead of Starsky, two men squared off like bantam roosters.

“THE END OF THE LINE IS BACK THERE!”

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU’RE PUSHING, YOU SONUVABITCH!”

The men lunged at each other with fists flying. Bored spectators yelled encouragement.

Trans-Con uniforms converged from all directions, and minutes later the scuffle ended with docile antagonists being led away by plain clothes security guards.

“Some people have no patience,” Starsky commented. His uncle suppressed a grin.

Airline employees returned to more routine duties, and the crowd returned to the tedium of waiting. No one noticed the tall black man and his nervous white companion, who had by-passed the metal detectors and were strolling with careful casualness down the corridor leading to the boarding gates.

Starsky said goodbye to his uncle and cleared security in the conventional way. The suitcase containing his automatic had been checked at the curb when he arrived at the airport. He hadn’t worn it during his visit, conscious of the memories that clouded his mother’s eyes at the sight of the gun.

By the time Starsky found his seat in the non-smoking section, the stewardesses were making final preparations for takeoff. He snapped the seat belt into place and leaned back as the plane taxied out to the runway. He was only dimly aware of the two men seated across the aisle.

It had been a good week. Long nights spent with old friends, trading stories over pizza and beer until the small hours, sleeping late and waking up to unhurried days filled with a certainty of tomorrow that had made the missing weight under his arm begin to feel natural. A good week.

Hutch should’ve come.

With surprise and a vague feeling of guilt, Starsky realized that he had hardly thought about his partner for days. He’d been living in the past, in a world where security didn’t have fast reflexes and a loaded Magnum.

Could he return to that world? His mind replayed the conversation with his uncle on the way to the airport….

Starsky sat in the passenger seat, watching the sturdy oaks and solid brick buildings that were so different from the palm trees and sun bleached pink stucco of Los Angeles.

“David, I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

It must be serious. Uncle Dave never called him David. He looked at his uncle curiously. “So talk,” he said.

Dave Starsky was a direct man. He came right to the point. “David, I want you to move back to New York and come into my business with me. You’d be a full partner, and in a few years, the business would be all yours.”

Starsky’s blank stare was genuine. He couldn’t think of a thing to say. “Uncle Dave, I….” He grabbed at the first thought that occurred to him. “I mean, what about Joe? He’s your son.” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them.

A grimace of pain crossed the older man’s face. “Joe isn’t interested in the trucking business, Davey. You know that.”

Starsky did know, and felt like kicking himself for the tactless slip. The last thing he wanted was to hurt this man who had been a father to him in the years after his own father had been killed.

He searched for something honest to say. “I’ll think about it, Uncle Dave. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Take your time, Davey. I don’t expect you to make a decision right now.” More softly, “You know your mother wants you to come home.”

Starsky laughed. “How could I forget? It’s all she talks about.”

“She worries about you. I do too. You’ve been in the hospital two times this year already.”

Three, Starsky corrected mentally. I didn’t tell her about the last one.

The plane was in the air, and the seat belt sign had been turned off, but Starsky was seeing only the lines of fatigue in his uncle’s face and the strands of gray that mingled with black curls so very much like his own.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Grateful for the distraction, Starsky looked up into the smiling eyes of the stewardess.

“May I serve your dinner?” she asked.

“Sure.” He lowered the table on the back of the next seat, and she leaned over to set the tray on it. For the moment, at least, she had his complete attention. “I’m Dave Starsky. Who’re you?”

“I’m Cindy, Dave. Are you going to Los Angeles on vacation?”

“Nope, I live there. I’m going home.”

“Really? This is my first trip. I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

It was pure reflex. Starsky’s mouth widened into what Hutch called his “stewardess smile.” “You’ll love it. Hey—how about if I show you around?”

She wouldn’t be the first stewardess who had fallen for that smile, or that line.

“Well… I don’t know. I’m meeting a girlfriend.”

“‘S okay, bring her along. I’ll introduce her to my partner.”

“Partner?”

“Yeah, I’m a cop.”

“I’ll think about it.”

* * * *

Across the aisle, Arnold Stein clutched the arm of the black man sitting beside him. “Did you hear that? He’s a cop!”

“Shut up, you fool.”

“I can’t help it. Cops give me the creeps.”

“Don’t worry about the pig. I’ll take care of him.” Ray Dekker’s white teeth gleamed in a malicious smile. “Wouldn’t you like to hear the pig squeal?”

“Yeah,” Stein agreed half-heartedly. “Sure, that’d be great.” He rubbed sweating palms on the legs of his pants. “When are we gonna make our move?”

“Soon,” Dekker assured him. “Real soon.”

* * * *

After dinner, the passengers turned their attention to the in-flight movie. Starsky watched for a few minutes, then stood up and walked to the front of the compartment. The restroom was occupied. He leaned against the wall and stared at the clouds outside the window without seeing them.

You oughta get out too, Hutch. We’ve paid our dues, and our luck can’t last forever. But he knew Hutch wouldn’t quit—not the White Knight.

Someone stopped beside him—too close. He looked up and every alarm in his head went off. His muscles tensed.

“Freeze, cop.”

The pressure against his side felt all too familiar. Starsky froze.

“All right, cop, walk to the cockpit, nice and slow. We’re gonna make some headlines.”

Starsky hesitated. If this was a bluff, he was going to feel pretty damned stupid. A few feet away, a little girl was watching them with interest. He winked at her and started up the aisle.

* * * *

The drive to the airport was pleasantly monotonous. Freeway traffic was light, and Hutch relaxed at the wheel of the LTD, enjoying the feeling of being on the move again.

It had been a long week.

He had declined Starsky’s invitation to accompany him to New York. Weddings and big families made him nervous. Or maybe jealous was the word. Anyway, he didn’t go, and by the end of the second day, he was regretting his decision. More and more of his time was spent in the office, catching up on the hated paperwork and avoiding the streets, which suddenly seemed so lonely and hostile.

Captain Dobey, with unaccustomed diplomacy, pretended not to notice. The bond that welded his favorite officers into a crack team when they were together, worked against them when they were separated. Without Starsky, Hutchinson was better off in the office.

The airport was teeming with people. Hutch shouldered his way through the crowd around the Trans-Continental desk and checked the television screen for Starsky’s flight number.

FLIGHT 308—ARRIVAL GATE C-5—7:00 P.M.

Thirty minutes late. Hutch sighed in resignation. With Starsky on the plane, it had to be late.

He found a seat near the gate and picked up a newspaper left behind by an absent-minded traveler. The Salt Lake City Tribune—three days old. The only concession to national news was on the front page, which contained a story about the jet that had crashed at O’Hare the previous week and a picture of the scattered wreckage.

Hutch scanned the pages without interest. Over the top of the page, he saw a willowy redhead walk past and sit down a few feet away. Her skirt slid high over firm thighs. Hutch lowered the paper. She was much more interesting than the local Salt Lake City news. He concentrated on getting her to look at him. When she did, he raised an inquiring eyebrow. She smiled.

Take your time, Starsk. Things are looking up.

The loudspeaker interrupted his next move.

“May I have your attention, please. If you are awaiting the arrival of Flight 308 from New York, please go immediately to the Trans-Continental office on the main concourse.

“Repeating. If you are awaiting….”

The voice droned on, repeating the announcement. Hutch no longer heard it. With automatic neatness, he folded the newspaper. The headline leapt out at him—NO SURVIVORS. He shuddered and dropped the paper onto the seat.

* * * *

A partition in the Trans-Con office had been pushed back to merge it with a conference area. The few available chairs were already taken.

Hutch slumped against the wall and tried not to think. The room was crowded but quiet. A few people talked in low voices. Most stared straight ahead and waited—for what? That was what he was trying not to think about. He ran a hand over his face. The skin felt tight with tension.

He checked his watch—again. Twenty minutes. It seemed longer.

Another ten minutes passed before the door opened and a man entered. The uniform identified him as a Trans-Continental employee. His face was unreadable.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay. To relieve your minds on one score at least, Trans-Con Flight 308 from New York is presently circling the Los Angeles Airport, and all passengers are believed to be safe.”

Hutch released the breath he had been holding. A murmur of relief swept through the room.

“However, control of the aircraft has been seized by person or persons un known. They are assumed to be armed, and have refused to allow the plane to land. We are attempting to negotiate with them.”

His next words were drowned in a rising tide of voices. He held up a hand for silence.

“I know how concerned you are. I promise you that every effort is being made to guarantee the safety of the passengers. In similar incidents in the past, these efforts have almost always been successful.

“My name is Marshall Cox. I’ll report back to you as soon as we have any more information. In the meantime, feel free to remain here and make yourselves as comfortable as possible. We’ll have coffee and sandwiches brought in later.”

Hutch caught up with him outside the door. “Mr. Cox, I’m Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson. I’ve been instructed to offer LAPD assistance in any way possible during this crisis.”

Hutch told the lie smoothly. Maybe tomorrow he’d feel guilty, but he doubted it. Right now, if he didn’t find out what was happening, he’d go crazy.

Cox took his time, reading the ID carefully before answering. At last, he seemed satisfied. “We appreciate the offer, Sergeant. I’m on my way to our command center. Why don’t you come along?”

So far, so good.

* * * *

The command center was on the third floor of the control tower. No one challenged Hutch as he followed Cox through the door. On one side of the room, several men were clustered around a long table. On the other side was a radio and two screens that looked like radar. That was all he had time to notice.

“Hutchinson!”

The voice was familiar. With a sinking sensation in his stomach, he turned a weak smile on Dan Ragan. The blond FBI agent had a reputation for being tough. From previous encounters, Hutch could vouch that he’d earned it. He liked and respected Ragan, but he’d rather have seen almost anyone else at the moment.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ragan barked. “You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

“Calm down, Dan. Just checking to see if there’s anything we can do to help out.” It was the wrong thing to say.

“When we need local help, we’ll ask for it.” Ragan took a step forward. “Do you leave quietly, or do I throw you out?”

Hutch stopped bluffing. “Dan,” he whispered, “Starsky’s on that plane.”

For a fraction of a second, Ragan found himself looking into unshielded blue eyes. What he saw there made him uncomfortable, but it did what words couldn’t have. It changed his mind.

“Okay, Hutchinson,” he growled, “you can stick around. But you’re an observer. Remember that.”

“I’ll remember,” Hutch promised. “And, Dan….”

“Yeah?”

“I owe you one.”

Ragan’s mouth creased in a tight smile. “I know.”

Hutch joined the men at the table. It was covered with maps of the airport and diagrams of a plane. “What’s going on?”

Ragan scowled. “Not a damn thing is going on! They’re up there with 180 passengers and claim they’re going to stay there until we meet their terms.”

“Which are?”

“The release of Victor Demarcus and Peggy Holmes, and a one-way trip to South America.”

Hutch’s head came up with a jerk. Everyone knew the terrorist leader and his girlfriend, who were awaiting trial for the bombing of a government building in which two people had died, but Hutch had a special reason for remembering them. “Dan, Starsky and I were the ones who arrested Vic Demarcus and Peg Holmes.”

Ragan grunted sourly, “I know. I saw your picture in the paper.”

“That’s what I mean.” Hutch’s face was strained. “If they recognize Starsky, they’ll….” His voice trailed off. His mind refused to complete the thought.

* * * *

Starsky slouched in the observer’s seat behind the pilot and tried to look invisible. The hijackers hadn’t recognized him yet, but they’d been too busy to take a good look at him. He kept his head down and his eyes on the floor.

Stein stood behind him, toying with his gun. Dekker was crouched by the radio, drumming his fingers irritably on the microphone. “What the hell’s going on down there?” he snapped.

The voice on the other end of the radio was apologetic. “Sorry 308. We’re trying to reach the governor. He’s somewhere in Los Angeles.”

“I don’t give a damn where the governor is. I want Vic Demarcus—now!”

“The governor is the only one who can authorize his release. We’re doing everything we can to get ahold of him.”

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m tired of it.” Dekker*s eyes narrowed to black slits. “Maybe a little demonstration will speed things up.”

Holding the microphone open, he leveled his gun at the flight engineer,

Jim Kelley was younger than Starsky. He’d probably never seen a loaded gun before, certainly not pointed at him. He paled.

Dekker strung out the moment, enjoying the suspense. Finally, almost casually, he squeezed the trigger. Kelley’s body jerked and slumped sideways off the chair. Starsky swore softly and knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse.

Dekker ignored both of them. Instead, he spoke into the radio. “That was one of your pilots. If you need more convincing, I’ve got another pilot I can spare and a cop I’m itching to go to work on. After that, I start on the passengers. You’d better round up that governor. Damn quick!”

The answer was a long time coming. When it did, the voice was subdued. “We’ve located the governor in Malibu. He’s on his way to the airport. It’ll be about forty-five minutes. This is not a trick. Our only concern is the safety of the passengers and crew. We’ll contact you as soon as the governor arrives.”

Dekker slammed down the microphone in frustration. “Your buddies are trying to get you killed,” he spat at Starsky.

Starsky didn’t answer. He was trying to stop the bleeding. The flight engineer was alive. He might stay that way if they could get him to a doctor before he bled to death. “Where’s the first-aid kit?” Starsky asked.

“Get back in the seat, cop.”

“He needs help,” Starsky protested. “At least a bandage on that shoulder.” Dekker watched Starsky intently. Recognition flickered in his eyes. He leaned over and forced Starsky’s chin up with the barrel of his gun. “You know something, Stein? This cop looks familiar.”

“Cops all look alike to me.” Stein shrugged.

“Not this one—he’s special. I just didn’t recognize him without blondie. This is one of the pigs that busted Vic and Peg.”

Starsky winced.

Dekker’s smile was sarcastic. “You just bought yourself a little extra time, pig. Vic’ll want to handle you personally.”

Starsky was sure he would.

Captain McDaniels’ steady voice interrupted them. “We’ll have to land before long.”

“No way, sky jockey. We stay up here ’til they’re ready to hand over Vic and Peg.”

“I’m afraid not.” McDaniels reached over and tapped a gauge on the instrument panel. The needle was sliding into the red. “One way or another, we’re going down in thirty minutes. That’s how much fuel we have left.”

Starsky could read the indecision in Dekker’s face. As long as the plane was in the air, he only had to worry about what was happening in the cockpit. On the ground, it would be a different story. He was losing control of the situation, and he didn’t like it. At last, he made up his mind.

“Stein, go back and move all those people up front where you can watch them and I can hear you. Leave that door open.” He jerked a thumb toward the injured man on the floor. “Take him with you; he’s in my way.”

“I can’t carry him!” Stein yelped.

Dekker motioned to the co-pilot. “He’ll help. If he gives you any trouble, shoot one of the passengers.”

After they were gone, the hijacker turned to the pilot. “Okay, let’s go down.”

“You’ll have to let me use the radio. I can’t land this bird without help.” Dekker studied the pilot’s face suspiciously. McDaniels’ eyes didn’t waver.

I’d hate to play poker with that guy, Starsky thought.

* * * *

They’ve got Starsk!

Hutch’s hand closed on the empty coffee cup, crushing it into a twisted Styrofoam ball. The hope that Starsky wouldn’t be recognized had been as fragile as Styrofoam and just as easily crushed. He pushed back the chair and stood up.

Do something! his body screamed.

What? his mind demanded.

With impotent fury, he hurled the cup across the room. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He looked down at the diagrams on the table. Except for a quick trip to the car to retrieve his gun, he had spent the last two hours staring at those diagrams until he could have built the damn plane from memory. As long as the plane was in the air, it was the only thing anyone could do. Except worry.

The radio crackled in the background. “Tower Control, this is Trans-Con 308, requesting landing instructions.”

Landing instructions? Hutch ran to the radio. Ragan was right behind him.

“Trans-Con 308, this is Tower Control. We confirm your request for landing instructions. Runways 3 and 7 are available. Take your choice.”

“Is runway 2 available? We’re running low on fuel, and I want to set her down fast.”

“Negative 308. Runway 2 is closed.”

Ragan drew Hutch aside. “That’s a code we worked out with the pilots. He’s telling us there are two hijackers aboard.”

Before Hutch could answer, Dekker’s voice blasted over the radio. “Who’s in charge down there?”

Ragan grabbed the microphone. “I am.”

“Okay, brother, listen good. We’re gonna park this mother in the middle of the field, and no one—NO ONE— comes near us. If anyone even looks interested, I’m gonna shorten the life expectancy of some of your passengers.”

“Don’t worry—you’ll be all alone.”

“Where the hell’s the governor?”

“He’s on his way. I give you my word, we’ll call you the minute he arrives.” Ragan handed the mike back to the controller. “I hope he gets here before that nut starts shooting again.”

“What do you think the governor will do?” asked Hutch.

“What can he do? He’ll give them what they want.”

“You can’t be serious! If you do that, you’ll have planes being grabbed by every maniac in the country.”

“And if we don’t, we stand to get a lot of people killed.”

“But there are only two of them,” Hutch insisted. “We could rush them.”

“And lose how many passengers in the process?” Ragan shook his head. “I have to do what I think is best for all of them. You’re only worried about Starsky.”

“They’ve got him, Dan, and even if they let everyone else go, they’ll keep him. You know they will.”

Ragan spread his hands helplessly. It was pointless to argue.

Hutch had to get out of that room. The walls were closing in on him, and if he stayed another minute, he was going to deck Ragan. He grabbed his jacket and walked to the door. “I’m going outside. I’ll be back later.”

Ragan didn’t answer.

* * * *

Hutch stopped in the shadow of the tower. He shoved trembling hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked across the field.

There was no way any friend of Vic Demarcus would let Starsky leave that plane alive, but when Ragan and the governor made their decision, that wouldn’t be a factor. Cops were expendable.

Hutch understood Ragan’s viewpoint, but he didn’t agree with it. Giving in to the hijackers’ demands would only encourage others to try it, again and again, until sooner or later someone would ask for something they couldn’t give. At least this time they had a chance.

Come off it, Hutchinson. Stop playing the white knight and admit that Ragan’s right. There’ s only one person on that plane you give a damn about.

In the distance, where runway lights met the sky, a plane touched down for a landing. Hutch watched it roll to a stop in the middle of the runway. That had to be the one. Nothing else was landing at LAX tonight.

Without making a conscious decision, he started walking forward.

* * * *

Starsky could feel little rivers of sweat tickling his shoulder blades. With the engines shut down, the cockpit was an over-heated pressure cooker. In front of him, the pilot sat staring quietly out the window. Conversation had been reduced to occasional snarls from Dekker, who stood by the radio, unable to sit for more than a few minutes at a time.

The plane was an island, and reality had shrunk to the size of the cockpit. Across the field, the lights of the terminal buildings taunted them. Hutch would be there, Starsky knew, and wondered if he would ever see his partner again.

He looked at the back of McDaniels’ head. The pilot was good. Very good. Completely in control of his emotions. His nerves seemed non-existent. If there had been a chance to talk, they might have worked out a plan, but McDaniels couldn’t read Starsky’s mind.

Hutch can.

Not seeing Hutch again was one of the bad things about dying, but it would be worse to live without seeing him. That was what his partner was facing, and Starsky wouldn’t trade places with him.

He tried to visualize the scene in the control tower. Maybe they’ll rush the plane. It didn’t seem likely. The governor wouldn’t risk it. Not in an election year.

But the governor hadn’t seen Dekker’s eyes. Starsky had.

Starsky’s legs ached from the cramped position. He shifted in his seat, trying to stretch them. The barrel of Dekker’s gun pressed against his neck. He stopped squirming.

“What’s the matter, cop? Can’t you take the heat?”

“I’ve been in hotter places.” It was true—he had. Too many times. Maybe one time too many.

The terrorist grunted and reverted to staring at the silent radio. Starsky could see the tension building in his body. A muscle jerked convulsively in his jaw. The cords in his arms stood out like taut ropes. His face was a mask of smoldering resentment.

The delay stretched on interminably.

What the hell are they doing out there?

* * * *

The outline of the giant aircraft loomed against the sky line like a fortress. Hutch approached from directly behind the tail—a position which he hoped would conceal him from anyone looking out the side windows. He sprinted the last few yards and moved gratefully into the shadows under the fuselage.

Christ, it’s dark under here.

The diagrams had shown a set of stairs below the rear door that could be lowered from the outside. But how? His eyes searched the smooth side of the plane.

There it is. He stretched to reach the lever. Metal stairs slid out of the body with only a soft whirring sound. Bless the mechanic who oiled those gears.

Hutch crept up the stairs and hesitated with his hand on the door handle. Only two men—they couldn’t be watching this door. Could they?

He’d been on the wrong side of a lot of doors, but not alone. There had always been that reassuring presence at his shoulder, moving like an extension of his own body.

I don’t think I could handle it without you, Starsk, and, God help me, I don’t want to have to find out.

Grimly, he pushed the thought aside and eased the door open, inch by inch. It squeaked.

So much for conscientious mechanics. He waited for the sound of shots. None came.

In practiced, textbook motion, he pivoted through the door and flattened against the wall.

Empty! The sigh of relief was audible only to his own ears.

The interior of the plane formed a tunnel. The deserted rear sections were dark except for the soft glow of scattered reading lamps. At the other end of the tunnel, brighter lights illuminated the back of a man standing in a doorway. One of the hijackers?

Hutch inched toward the light, never taking his eyes off that silhouetted figure. Don’t turn around, he breathed.

His foot struck something in the aisle. He stumbled—a tiny sound that echoed through the plane like a cannon. Stifling an oath, he dropped behind a seat and waited.

The silhouette turned, took a few steps toward him, and stopped. Hutch saw the gun and held his breath.

His fingers found the thing he had tripped over. A shoe. He picked it up and tossed it into the aisle several rows back. It hit the carpet with a thud.

This time the man kept coming, drawn irresistibly toward the sound. Hutch let him pass, stepped out behind him, and swung the Magnum. The man collapsed like a busted balloon. Hutch didn’t waste time watching him fall. He dove for the door way, coming up in a crouch with his gun leveled on a sea of stunned faces.

For a heart-stopping second, fear held them immobile. Then his luck ran out. A scream shattered the paralysis, and all hell broke loose. Passengers scrambled over seats and over each other in a desperate attempt to reach an exit—any exit.

Hutch fought his way through the tangle of frantic arms and legs. Beyond them, he could see the door of the cockpit—half-open. It looked impossibly far away.

* * * *

The scream pierced the silence in the cockpit with the effect of a catalyst,

“What the hell!” Dekker jerked toward the door,

Starsky lunged. But muscles numbed by hours of inactivity couldn’t respond with their normal agility. His timing was a second slow—too slow. His leg hit the edge of the seat and he fell heavily against the radio.

The hijacker swung around to cover Starsky. Panic-glazed eyes focused on his chest. The gun came up slowly. Fingers tightened on the trigger.

“POLICE—FREEZE!”

Dekker whirled. The bullet slammed into Hutch’s body, hurling him against the wall. The Magnum discharged harmlessly at the ceiling,

Starsky hit Dekker before he could fire again, putting all of his weight and fear into a punch that stopped the hijacker in his tracks. It would have stopped an elephant. The gun slipped from limp fingers and clattered to the floor, Starsky picked it up and shoved it at the pilot. “Watch that bastard,” he snapped.

Sick with dread, he turned to his partner.

* * * *

It was over—the comic-book insanity of the hijacking and its explosive conclusion, the wailing ride to the hospital in the back of the ambulance with Hutch, trying to believe he’d live long enough to get there, the unending hours of surgery with no news and less hope. Until, unbelievably, it was over.

Hutch would live, and their luck had held one more time.

Starsky looked down at the hospital bed and Hutch’s still face on the pillow. Is this what it’s all about, Hutch? Just getting through one more time?

A few hours ago, he’d been willing to settle for that. Prayed for it. Begged for it. God, please let him make it. One more time. Please, just one more time.

Starsky walked to the window. The sun was high in the sky, bathing pink stucco buildings in white glare. Sun bleached pink stucco. The alternative to that made him remember his half-formed decision to move back to New York. When had he changed his mind? In the cockpit—It would be worse living without seeing him.—or during the surgery, when fear had almost become reality?

If this hadn’t happened—then what? He thought of his uncle’s tired face, and the debt that he owed him and now couldn’t repay. What did he owe Hutch? His life? No, they were nearly equal on that score. But he knew that the hijacking had only supplied the excuse. If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else, because the thing that kept Hutch and him alive and together was more than luck.

Hutch groaned.

Starsky was beside the bed in two steps. Blue eyes fluttered open and took a few seconds to focus. When they did, he saw Starsky.

“Hi.” Hutch’s voice was a scratchy whisper.

“Hi yourself. How d’you feel?”

“Like someone shot me. What happened after the lights went out?”

Starsky ticked off the statistics. “We got the hijackers. The passengers are safe. The other guy who got shot is doing fine. And all’s right with the world.”

“Not quite.” Hutch looked away. “You’d better start looking around for a new partner, Starsk.”

“Why?”

“Dan Ragan will be demanding my badge, and probably my head, on a platter.”

“No, he won’t.” Starsky’s grin was smug. “I talked to the newspapers. They’re building you up to be a big hero. Hell, they’ll probably give you a medal.”

Hutch tried to laugh, but it turned into a moan of pain. Exhaustion made talking too difficult. His eyelids closed.

Starsky watched his even breathing for a few minutes, then began easing toward the door,

“Starsk?” Hutch’s eyes opened.

“Yeah?”

“Welcome home.”