A Time Peace

429

119,750 words.

A Time Peace follows The Reprimand.

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PROLOGUE

“I can’t read these as good as you, Hutch,” Starsky quietly said, closing the book, more frustrated than he was demoralized. “It’s not like normal English, you know?” He sat cross-legged on the floor before the fireplace, atop his makeshift bed of blankets, a marshmallow skewer in one hand to hold the sugary treat over the flames, the Sherlock Holmes book of short stories in his lap, now closed, and his forehead in his other hand. “You had no trouble reading them,” he further lamented. “Made it sound so easy.”

“Perhaps if you had a better grasp of your native language, you wouldn’t find it so difficult to enunciate the words.”

Starsky grunted. “Enunciate.” He didn’t have a snappy comeback, but he felt proud to know that word. The assessment was probably an accurate one, too, so why argue with it? He felt warm and relaxed, lifted his eyes to the baking marshmallow while he waited for that sweet roasted spot, and was conscious of the coziness Hutch’s sweat clothes provided him; them, and his own warm socks, double-layered.

“I know you’d say something like that,” he sort of mumbled to himself, about Hutch’s wisecrack. Starsky had definitely given a short story read an honest try, but he stumbled over too much of its seemingly awkward cadence, and gave up early in. No one could read Sherlock Holmes as well as Hutch; that blond cop had definitely mastered the English language, in all its incarnations, while his sometimes-punctuated British accent—the serious one he used while specifically speaking Sherlock’s dialogue—added to the masterful performance.

“I’m not hungry, either,” Starsky said, but it didn’t stop him from briefly wagging the marshmallow on the end of his skewer in the air to cool it, and then popping it in his mouth. He lazily chewed, thinking he didn’t have the energy to eat anything else. Besides, the marshmallow quenched his cravings for all things sweet that night. He’d already eaten half a dozen of them—and they had followed the entire chocolate bar he’d consumed, along with a handful of Brach’s hard candies. He probably wouldn’t sleep all that well come bedtime, given the inevitable sugar rise and crash, but it was Christmas Eve and that was license enough to stray from what had become, until then, a rather healthy diet.

“Maybe if you hadn’t filled up on garbage all afternoon,” he heard Hutch predictably say, “you’d be enjoying a hearty vegetable stew right about now—or something else as equally good for you. That would have been the thing to get you out of your . . . funk.”

“Funk. There’s an understatement.”

Starsky lay back on the bed of blankets, closed his eyes, crossed his hands over his belly, and listened to the crackle of the fire, its occasional pop, and the otherwise quiet of the room. Despite the snow and the cold outside, it was perfect inside, warm and toasty and embryonically comforting. For then, there wasn’t any place he’d rather be, not even to be at home in New York with his brother and mother, experiencing the kinds of Christmases he’d grown up on: the holiday lights and the carolers, the city’s famous, glistening skating rink, and the bustle of its hurried, last-minute shoppers. “Home is where the heart is,” he said in a soft voice, “or so they say.” Well, it was the one place he’d found home, his heart right there on that bed of blankets in front of a healed fire, dressed in Hutch’s sweats—and feeling the man’s silent presence beside him.

“Remember last Christmas Eve?” Starsky asked. “We made love with each other. Yeah, I know . . . sometimes it was fucking, but even fucking can be making love if love is what’s in your heart while doing it, know what I mean?”

Hutch didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. When something as profound as Starsky’s musings were that perfect, what could be said anyway?

“We sure were made for each other,” Starsky continued. He felt warmer all of a sudden, as if he’d begun to heat from the depth of his soul. “Me and thee. You and me. Nobody else could have been more perfect for us—but us. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time on other people.”

“Think of it as practice.”

“But we didn’t need them to get what you and me needed from each other. Once we got past all that confusion bullshit, and untangled ourselves from god and country, there was no stopping us.”

“Think of that as making up for lost time.”

Starsky giggled. That was true: sex every day with Hutch, sometimes twice and three times between morning and bedtime alone. “We sure did do that,” he agreed. “We made up for lost time.” The idea of that much sex—whenever and however they wanted it, its easiness and ratcheted desire, and how utterly mutually satisfying it was—aroused Starsky as he lay there, and Hutch hadn’t even touched him. “Your mouth on me . . . wherever you put it,” Starsky recalled, “is more from life than I should ever have been given.”

“A privilege, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Starsky replied, annoyed by the notion that he deserved a love as great as Hutch’s, and speaking in an admonishing voice to dismiss the honor—coupled with the hope that he wouldn’t get an argument.

None came.

“My peenie is starting to feel good,” Starsky confessed. He rubbed his growing erection through the loose cloth of his sweatpants.

Hutch laughed. He always did find humor in Starsky’s choice of words.

But if Starsky encouraged him, Hutch would probably explain that using the ‘ie’ ending on ‘peen’ only served to diminish it; Starsky’s penis wasn’t small. In fact, he was above average in size. “But nowhere near as big as you,” Starsky commented—as if Hutch had debated him. Starsky’s developing arousal soon distracted him from appendage comparisons. “Maybe you could do me a favor,” he suggested between audible pants, “and make it feel good again, hm, Hutch?”

“Well, I didn’t get you an under-the-tree Christmas present this year, so let me walk you through it.”

“I can’t do that,” Starsky said with a snicker, abandoning his self-touch to temporarily hide his face with both hands and avoid the truth of his sensibilities.

“C’mon, buddy, be brave.”

After a minute of closer inspection, Starsky dropped the cover, felt along the waistband of his pants, and encouraged Hutch’s instruction with whispers of, “Okay, you devil. Okay, smart guy. Show me.”

It wasn’t that Starsky had never taken himself in hand, nor manually pleasured himself; it was that he’d never brought himself to climax. He didn’t know why: all those extended periods of time without sex over the years when he could have enjoyed an orgasm, and it never occurred to him to masturbate. He didn’t even care to talk about it, much less do it. Hutch was the masturbator between them—and he was exceptionally hot to watch while his large hand coaxed his large phallus into an ejaculation. Sometimes, Starsky couldn’t tell whether Hutch enjoyed those self-induced orgasms more than the ones Starsky gave him, so maybe there was merit to their intensity, no matter how they were delivered.

“Take your pants down, Starsk. I can’t guide you if I can’t see it.”

Starsky lowered the sweats to his knees, first lifting his hips off the blankets to ease them under his buttocks and more carefully over his erection, and realizing then how hard he’d become when the tip of his penis snugged up to his lower belly. “It already feels good,” he said, aware of the warm air tickling his naked skin, “and I haven’t even touched me.”

Hutch would say Starsky looked good, too, but what did that have to do with self-pleasure? On second thought, maybe such a notation would be stimulating, to know Hutch found his partner’s hardened shaft to be quite visually appealing. Starsky lowered his eyes to look upon its head, plump with blood and swelling tissue, its slit peering back at him with its promise of a creamy delivery. But first, of course, he had to stroke himself—all the way to the end.

“Go on. It won’t bite. Ask me how I know.”

“Because you’ve pleasured him so much, Hutch. You know better than anyone how to make my dick feel good.” Still, it was Starsky’s hand he spit into, Starsky’s hand he wrapped around his stiffened and sensitive meatiness, Starsky’s hand that slipped up and back over his erection.

“Does that feel good?”

“Not as good as you doing it,” Starsky admitted. “It’ll never feel as good as you touching me.”

“Squeeze tighter.”

Starsky did as instructed—and the sensation was definitely more pleasing. He picked up his pace, too, when Hutch encouraged “more speed.” If Starsky could forget that the orgasmic feelings that warmed him were of his own making, he might just appreciate the long-lost art of masturbation. “Does that look good to you, Hutch?”

“It looks great. But you don’t have to be in a hurry.”

Sure, he did. If Starsky would only please himself, what difference did it make whether the end came sooner than later?

“C’mon,” Hutch encouraged him, “take it slow. Treat him like the god he is.”

“I can’t wait. It’s been too long.”

Two months, maybe?

“It feels like a lifetime,” Starsky said, realizing that he couldn’t remember how long it had been—and didn’t want to think about it, either. Instead, he allowed the underfed feelings of needy sexual satisfaction to overtake him. He panted and pumped. “Do you like how I feel, Hutch?”

“I love how you feel. Take him if you have to, but don’t hurt him.”

Starsky didn’t care if he did—though he didn’t. The pace at which he pumped himself, the tightness and the slippery sensations, the warmth he felt inside him, the need to be indulged, the drive to relive a Christmas long gone, overwhelmed him; he orgasmed into the cup of his hand in less than five minutes—a record he would never have sought before nor been proud of. He rode the crest onto its downside, whimpering and moaning with every pulsating wave of diminishing bliss it provided him. His soft cries were absent of the wails he sometimes uttered, his skin barely broke into perspiration before his orgasm ebbed, his heaving belly and his pounding heart quickly returned to normal, and the dizzy spun through his head.

Minutes passed before he heard the fire pop; it snapped him from his self-made trance. “That wasn’t worth doing,” he finally told Hutch, disappointed because his enjoyment seemed far below the pleasures he’d watched Hutch experience when Hutch masturbated. “I think it’s overrated.”

“You weren’t in the mood for it. You scratched an itch, that’s all.”

“I’ll never be in the mood for it.”

“Someday you will. Time heals all wounds, don’t you know?”

Starsky turned his head and looked across the empty room—to where the reminder mercilessly hit him that there was no Hutch. “Time can’t heal this wound,” he said with conviction into the hollow of his absolute aloneness. “Nothing in my life will ever be the same.”

“It will be a new normal is all.”

That’s what Hutch would say. All of what Starsky had heard that night was what Hutch would have said. “I can’t even remember the sound of your voice anymore,” Starsky complained as more tears welled in his eyes. “How can anything ever be new or normal again?”

* * *

A TIME FOR PEACE

“I can’t even make pancakes as good as you,” Starsky said, scratching his head and snarling at his incompetence. He stood at the makeshift stove—a gas-powered burner—and stared at the seemingly not-cooking batter in the heated pan. No longer dressed in Hutch’s sweatshirt, but in his own big sweater and tee-shirt, Hutch’s sweatpants, and fresh double-layered socks, he was prepared to laze through the day.

“Maybe it’s for the better,” Hutch replied. “Too much sugar in a 24-hour period might—”

“It hasn’t made me climb the walls yet,” Starsky defended himself. “Besides . . . I have to master this on my own now.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“But look at them bubbles. There shouldn’t be bubbles.”

“Beg to differ, buddy. Bubbles mean they’re cooking at just the right temperature.”

Starsky looked more closely. “Yeah?” He almost felt proud of himself—but he’d rather Hutch were there to do it, and not so that he didn’t have to make his own pancakes, but because . . . well, because Hutch would actually be there.

Starsky had been at the cabin for nearly two months, having arrived during the first week of November. His plan was only to stay that weekend, but when he thought about being at the farm over Thanksgiving, he decided he wouldn’t have emotionally survived it. Or maybe that was just his excuse to put off the inevitable. He called from a payphone to let Wade Davis know he planned to stay in the mountains for a few more weeks—and they turned into a couple of months, leaving Starsky to promise Davis he’d be back a couple of days before New Year’s Eve.

Davis was the only one—besides the less-frequent calls to Nick and Mrs. Starsky—that Starsky kept in regular contact, and mostly because Davis permanently lived at the farm, in the Grace House, running the Safe Children’s Program that Starsky and Hutch had created, but then had to abandon after threats from the county’s sheriff. Davis also kept an eye on Starsky’s house, and he let Starsky know about minor maintenance issues that arose in Starsky’s absence. Hutch and Starsky had split the ten-acre property into one acre for Davis’ endeavor, and the rest for themselves—to decide at some later date what they would do with its vast remaining landscape. In the meantime, they shared the family orchard and vegetable gardens with Davis and, in return, Davis devoted time to its upkeep.

“I still think you should be here for Christmas,” Davis had advised him over the phone. “You shouldn’t isolate yourself.”

“I’m not alone,” Starsky explained. He looked across the parking lot from the payphone and remembered how often he and Hutch shared meals at the town’s only family restaurant. “He’s here in his own special way. In fact, he’s more here than anywhere else.” Starsky believed that because the cabin and its twenty-six acres were the one place he and Hutch felt their safest. That, and there hadn’t been anyone else inside the cabin walls since they purchased it. The haven had been theirs and theirs alone. “You know how much he loves trees.”

Davis didn’t argue with him, but he did insist that Starsky keep in more regular contact over the days leading up to Christmas—and Starsky kept that promise.

But it was now Christmas Day, and Starsky wanted to try his hand, again, at making pancakes. For most of his time at the cabin, he drove into town every morning to have breakfast at the local diner, window shop afterward, stop in for his usual assortment of supplies at the few places he’d come to patronize, and then return for his self-assigned tasks of chopping wood for that night’s fire, and not caring anymore if a bear killed him.

It had snowed the day before Christmas Eve, so he wasn’t able to leave the property until the county—or a friendly neighbor—had plowed the driveway from the cabin to the road. That kindly person had come and gone during Starsky’s hot outside shower behind the cabin, long before he even noticed that it had been done. He was free to leave come that Christmas morning.

“I don’t know if I want to stay or go,” he admitted, assuming that Hutch would decide for him, or at least help him to figure it out. “But I don’t think I can do what I came up here to do.”

“You were supposed to do that two months ago.”

Starsky didn’t want to think about it, let alone speak the actual words, so he avoided them altogether. “Flip the pancakes now, right?” he asked instead.

“Do you like the color of them underneath?”

Starsky lifted the edge of the medium-sized pancake in the pan and studied its toasted coloring. “Yeah,” he said, “I like that look.” He flipped the three cakes and then stood over to watch them bake on that side, too. Minutes passed before he realized they’d become a blur before his eyes—and he had to shake himself out of his thoughtless trance. “I know you want me to be happy, Hutch,” he said as he removed the pan from the heat, turned off the burner, and dumped the pancakes onto an awaiting plate.

“That, I do.”

“And I know I can find something, you know, meaningful to do with my life.”

“You always have.”

“But I don’t think I’m going to get either of those things again at a hundred percent.”

“You’ll find your way.”

Starsky inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and pushed back. “I wish I’d never promised you I would.”

* * *

“What are you doing out here in the cold?” Hutch wondered.

“I thought you might like to see the trees,” Starsky replied. He sat in the wooden chair on the small porch, bundled in a blanket, wrapped in a sleeping bag, and covering his head and ears was a winter beanie. Inside his cocoon, he was also dressed in thermals, Hutch’s sweats, thick socks, and one big sweater. “Besides,” he added, “I’m not that cold.” He sipped hot chocolate, the cup warm in his hands. “What do you think of the trees?”

“They’re lovely.”

“I thought you’d say so.” He too admired the forest across the plowed driveway, casting his lazy eyes on their heavily fallen snow covering, noticing how weighted down they appeared, yet still so strong and unbending. “I should be more like trees,” he mumbled.

“What did you say?”

“I said they’re pretty.”

Silence enveloped Starsky on that note, the kind of quiet that always seemed to bring the world to a standstill. No bird. No bug. No thought. There was just presence, the art of being in the moment, the filling up of all senses with just it-is-what-it-is-ness. He lost focus, stared into a realm beyond the physical, allowed time to pass, and savored those moments because they were and had been his only means of escape from what had become the hard reality of his life.

He’d never really wondered what he’d do without Hutch. Oh, he’d feared at times losing the man, obviously, but he’d never really given a minute’s speculation to how his daily life would play out without Hutch in it. Now he knew. “Empty,” he said.

“What’s that?”

The question snapped him from his drift. “They’re pretty,” he reiterated, seeing the trees again and the vast winter landscape.

“So you’ve said.”

Starsky had forgotten. “Okay, so I said it again. Crucify me.”

“Never.”

He didn’t dare reply that he wished Hutch would crucify him, put him out of his misery, end his emptiness and seemingly eternal pain, because Hutch would only remind him of a promise he’d made the previous Christmas, that neither of them would ever—

“How’s the book coming along?”

A much better subject.

“I got all but the last chapter done,” Starsky said, feeling somewhat proud of himself. He twirled a piece of cut-up marshmallow around the surface of his hot chocolate and was mesmerized by the swirl he caused. “But I can’t finish it right now. I’m not ready, you know?” He’d spent nearly every day over the past couple of months writing—in long hand—as many stories as he had earlier made notes to write. He wasn’t the best writer, and he didn’t have any illusions about his talent—or lack thereof—but he was certain an expert polish would make the book a worthwhile seller.

A sip of his hot treat and he felt warmed again.

Another beat of silence.

“Did you include our busting Amboy?” Hutch wondered.

“Yep.”

“Monk and all them in there, too?”

“Every bad guy I could remember.”

“Did you tell the story about my romance with a heroin needle?”

“I figured you’re not here to care, so yeah,” Starsky replied, reluctantly, not certain Hutch would approve of his telling that story in the book.

But there was no pushback.

“Play up our brushes with death?”

“Didn’t have to play them up, dummy. Turns out they were pretty harrowing all on their own.” He’d spent hours at the small dining table with a candle and a lantern, writing furiously throughout each day. The stories sometimes got his blood pumping just to recall them.

“Did you mention all of our romances?”

“The ones that counted.”

“But I assume you left ours out.”

“It’s implied.”

“The sex stuff?”

“The romance stuff . . . the brotherhood stuff . . . the partnership.” He choked on the last word. Even if he went back to detective work, he wouldn’t have a partner—not like that one, never again like that one. “How come you took off without me, hm, Hutch? What made you want to leave me?”

There was no answer, but there was, instead, another meaningless question. “What’s the next step with the book?”

“I don’t know,” Starsky said with frustration. He didn’t like being bypassed on the one thing he wanted to know, and Hutch seemed determined to never explain for him. “I guess maybe I’ll go to the newspaper when I get back, you know the one? near headquarters? Maybe somebody there can tell me what to do next—like how to find an editor and stuff.”

“Or you could call book publishers directly.”

“I wouldn’t know how to find one.”

“Try a library or a bookstore.”

“They lend and sell books; they don’t publish them.”

“They lend and sell books with publishers’ names and addresses printed right in them.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. Outsmarted by Hutch again.

“So, tell me, buddy . . . what did you title the book?”

Starsky drew a breath to summon his courage to speak the words. “Me and Thee,” he said sentimentally. “What else could I call it?”

* * *

“What did you do today, Starsk?”

Starsky had to think back over the previous ten hours. “I made pancakes,” he began.

“Those turned out good, didn’t they?”

“Good enough.”

Starsky lay on his side, wrapped in a blanket on top of the blankets that dressed the bed, curled into himself, his head on a pillow, and stared across the room to the fire that bathed him in its amber warmth. It had been, perhaps, the first day he’d been completely alone since—

“So, you still say my pancakes are the best?”

“I do.”

“What makes them so good?”

“I don’t know. Yours are fluffier, I guess.”

“Try more almond milk next time.”

Starsky didn’t know if he’d ever attempt to make pancakes again. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. The only light in the room came from the golden glow of the fireplace, making him feel all that more adrift, as if he were on some sort of lifeboat in the sea of timelessness. In the darkness, he searched his mind again for answers.

“I saw you talking to that guy in the cowboy hat,” he remembered. “He wasn’t that much prettier than me, was he, Hutch?”

“Are you warm?”

Frustrated, Starsky replied, “Warm enough.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Shut up.”

“How does your peenie feel?”

“You’re not going to sidestep me again. I see what you’re doing.”

“Are you going to take care of it yourself for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. But why should I give up on sex, hm? You didn’t think enough of me to—”

“Maybe you’d be better off with a woman in the long run.”

“Is that what that cowboy hat guy did for you? Took you away on a promise of all the pussy you could—”

“C’mon. You know better than that.”

“I don’t know nothing anymore,” Starsky replied under his breath. He curled tighter into himself and allowed the firelit darkness a few minutes to ease his growing frustration, to at least curb it. He didn’t want to be angry at Hutch—especially on Christmas Day, despite that it was nearly over. He simply wanted to understand why Hutch left him so alone, as if understanding could ease the pain. But maybe Starsky needed a different tactic. He tried again.

“Why did you go looking someplace else, hm, Hutch? Did you forget who we were?”

“Me and thee. How could I forget?”

“But that’s the question, Hutch. How could you?” He didn’t mean to sound condescending, but he was at another dead end to understand it—and Hutch never directly answered those questions. “I mean, now I’m here . . . and you’re . . . over there.”

“Is that why you’re writing the book?” Hutch asked.

“What?”

“I said, is that why you’re writing the book—to remind me of who we were?”

“I don’t see why I should tell you anything when you won’t come clean yourself.”

Starsky simply couldn’t repress his anger—or maybe it was his unending hurt—on that exceptionally quiet, absolutely alone-spent Christmas.

“You’ll always love me, Starsk. That’s what you said.”

“Yeah,” Starsky replied with a deep sigh. “I did say that.” And he meant it, too. “Hey, Hutch?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Merry Christmas.”

* * *

Starsky opened his eyes when he heard the pickup slowly pull up outside under the crunch of snow, and then stared momentarily at the wood-beamed ceiling, long enough to realize it was daytime. “Hutch?” he sleepily asked into the room.

The truck door closed, and footsteps walked across the snow and onto the porch. Starsky quickly sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and—with his heart pounding—asked, “Who is it?” when he heard the firm knock on the door.

“Gus Hanley.”

“Gus Hanley?” Starsky whispered, racking his brain.

“I brought you the chair you ordered—as promised.”

“Oh, the chair!” Starsky kicked off the blanket he’d been wrapped in all night, and stumbled from the mattress to the floor, almost landing on his face. “I’m coming,” he said loudly. “Hang on a second.” He didn’t need to dress; he’d slept in his sweats and sweater, but he was sure he looked like hell frozen over when he opened the door and tried his best to sound cheerful—and awake. “I’m sorry. I forgot,” he said sincerely.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Gus asked, apologetically. Gus was a younger man than Starsky, in his early thirties, lean and clean-shaven, dressed warmly—and appeared energized. “I told you I could have it for you the day after Christmas—and I did try my darndest to get it here sooner.”

“I remember,” Starsky replied, still rubbing the slumber from his eyes and face, “but I forgot what day it is. Yesterday was Christmas, right?”

“I can come back if you like.”

“Nah, don’t. I needed to wake up anyway.”

“What for?” Hutch asked.

“I have things to do,” Starsky replied, opening the door further to let Gus in if he wanted to come in, at least to get warm.

“You got things to do, like what?” Hutch wondered.

“I came alone,” Gus explained, gesturing toward his pickup, “because I thought you’d help me with the chair, but—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Starsky quickly told him, shaking his muddled brain loose of its fog. “Let me get my shoes.” He left the door open while Gus returned to his truck to untarp and untie the furniture he’d brought—and to give Starsky the minute he needed to pull on his boots and jacket. “What time is it anyway?” he asked Hutch on his way to the vehicle, but it was Gus who answered him.

“Ten-thirty.”

“Damn. I really did need to wake up.”

The cold hit him like a ton of frozen bricks, despite how brightly the sun shone, and he cussed under his visible breath. “I can’t say I like it much,” he complained, helping Gus to maneuver the unencumbered chair to the tailgate.

“You don’t like what much?”

“Cold,” Starsky replied with a sad laugh. “I don’t like it one bit, but I did like having a white Christmas.”

Some things he would never have needed to tell Hutch.

They carried the chair up the few steps onto the porch and into the cabin, and closed the door behind them to keep out the cold.

“Where do you want it?” Gus asked, setting it down on the spot where Starsky guided them. He then stood back to admire it in the warm colors of the wooden walls and other furniture—while Starsky did likewise. “You fixed this place up nice,” Gus commented, looking around. “It’s kind of like a cave you could winter in until spring.”

“Feels that way,” Starsky agreed. He’d done a few things to it since he’d arrived two months earlier. There was no Hutch to debate him about what, when, and where, and it did seem cozier; it needed to be: Starsky couldn’t handle the emptiness Hutch had left in his wake. “And this chair is the perfect new touch.”

The armchair had been custom-designed for him. Gus was a carpenter who owned a business in the village and his art was ever-present in the wood carving of the chair’s arms, its thick upholstery in colors Starsky loved: shades of earthy brown with brick red accents. It was exactly as he’d pictured it. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “I may not get out of it once I get in it.”

“So, hey,” Gus said, as if he’d found his cue, “is there anything else you need? We can run something out for you whenever you want—”

“We?”

“Some of the townspeople. They noticed you weren’t around the last couple of days. Are you okay?”

“I’m all right,” Starsky promised. He felt humbled by the care and empathy. “It was a Christmas to hit the spot.”

“Folks at the diner are concerned about you is all . . . being out here, alone for the holiday.”

“I’m not alone. I mean, I have this book I’m writing.”

“Oh? You’re writing a novel? Like Stephen King or some—”

“Not a novel,” Starsky corrected him, but he didn’t know what to call a non-novel. “It’s just a bunch of stories I wrote down about the first ten years of my career.”

“Sherlock Holmes then,” Gus said with a friendly smile. “You’re a detective, right?”

“I am a detective,” Starsky agreed, “but I’m no writer. It’s just something . . . well, you know, I’ve had some amazing cases.”

“Tell him about how much you miss your partner,” Hutch said.

Starsky ignored Hutch. “But now I have to find some expert to make it a readable thing—and it’s going to take detective work to figure out who that’d be.”

“Why don’t you stop by Mary’s bookstore sometime? Maybe she knows somebody who knows somebody.”

“That’s a good idea,” Starsky said with gratitude for the lead. “I remember Mary’s Books: I bought a ton of Sherlock Holmes books from her last Christmas.” He quickly pushed past the memory to avoid feeling noticeably melancholic. “I’ll start there—as soon as I have breakfast at the diner—but none of that before I see a man about a horse.”

Gus lightly laughed, accepted the $20 tip Starsky offered him—the only cash he had on hand—and headed for the door. “I’ll tell the ladies at the Cozy Cafe that you’re coming and they can stop worrying about you.”

“Maybe they’ll have pancakes and coffee ready for me by the time I get there, too.”

“I’ll make sure they do, Starsky. We’ll see you soon.”

When Gus backed his pickup out of the driveway, Starsky marched across it to the closest tree.

“Come with you?” Hutch asked him. “Like old times . . . pissing in the grass together?”

“Not this time. I don’t feel much like having your help.”

“I was thinking of it more like . . . keeping you company.”

“But only in spirit, right, Hutch? I mean, you’re not planning to keep me company in person.”

Silence answered him, as it often did when Starsky asked the harder questions.

He used the tree without another word from Hutch, and then hurried back to the warmth of the cabin. Starsky would normally have taken a shower before going into town, but it was late morning and he was hungry; the cleansing could wait. First, though, he had to admire his new chair again, all by himself. He’d ordered it nearly a month ago and hoped it would be delivered before Christmas, but Gus was a busy man and the holidays were an even busier time for the tourist-infused town.

“You like the chair, I know you do, Hutch,” Starsky said, feeling a bit smug with his selection. “I mean, you haven’t complained about it.” Still in his boots, he stomped over to the bed’s side table and moved the lantern from its surface to the mattress, making sure it could stand upright without him before he let it go. “Knowing you, you’da said something by now if you thought this chair was crap.”

Hutch still didn’t comment—one way or the other.

“Well, I suppose I have to give you credit for some of it,” Starsky acquiesced. He carefully transferred the red, five-pound metal tin, the unused, sandalwood-scented, pillar candle and its cup holder, and the pictureless 5 by 7 frame from the nightstand’s lower shelf to the bed, one item at a time, concentrating on his end goal and not his actions. “After all,” he admitted, “you taught me to appreciate earth colors.” He straightened, lifted the night table a few inches from the floor, and walked it to its new location beside the chair, positioning them both to face the hearth. “Once you see it tonight with the firelight and candles burning . . . maybe you’ll tell me how proud you are of me to have gotten this for myself.”

Hutch was silent. Perhaps he was pouting.

Starsky returned to the bed to set the items he’d removed from the lower shelf of the nightstand onto the floor, and pushed them up against the wall so they’d be out of the way until he decided what to do with them. He placed the lantern on what had now become an end table beside the chair, and centered it as if he were an interior room designer. “Sometimes you just don’t want to admit I know what I’m doing.”

“I know exactly what you’re doing,” Hutch countered him.

“Yeah, smarty pants? and what’s that, hm?”

“Avoiding me—again.”

“Whatever,” Starsky mumbled, annoyed by Hutch’s intuition as he turned away from the wall to face the door. “I have to go, buddy,” he said matter-of-factly, “so hold down the fort, will ya? I’ll be back in . . . no time.”

* * *

The jingle of a tiny bell at the top of the bookstore door was the only Christmas music Starsky had heard during the two months he lived at the cabin. He didn’t even think to have a radio in his possession to warm some of the colder days with the familiar holiday songs, many of which would have been reminiscent of a home long ago. But, on this day, under those circumstances, perhaps the solitary bell was enough. Some reflections may have been too painful to remember.

The small bookstore was located on the corner of a block closest to the town center; he walked to it on the snow-shoveled sidewalks from the diner after breakfast. It was warm inside Mary’s Books, inviting beyond its temperature, and smelled of old and new paper. Hutch would have appreciated the ambiance, the aromas, and the multiple bookcases filled with all things readable, even more than Starsky. Maybe he shouldn’t have left him at the cabin; he could have treated his partner to the things he loved.

“Are you here, Hutch?” he quietly asked, just in case the man had disobeyed orders, but there was no reply. Starsky unzipped his jacket. He thought he might stay a while, look for something other than Sherlock Holmes to read aloud to Hutch when he returned to the cabin. He could sit in his new armchair and show Hutch how well he could do it under the right conditions.

“Hello, David,” a woman’s voice said, friendly and familiar, and breaking his concentration on Hutch.

Starsky looked toward the sound, and smiled when he looked into Mary’s warm brown eyes. “Merry Christmas,” he politely said.

She wished him one in kind, approached him, and gave him a light hug. “Did you finish reading all those Sherlock Holmes books, and now you’re back for more?” She was dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, keeping warm beyond the comfort in the store.

“I’m actually still reading some of those,” Starsky admitted, trying a smile, but it wasn’t genuine—and not because he didn’t feel friendly, but because Sherlock Holmes reminded him of Kenneth Hutchinson, and those memories were too hurtful to recall. “I keep them at the cabin,” he explained, so she wouldn’t take his facade personally, “and only read them when we’re . . . when I’m visiting up here.”

“You’ve been in town a while now,” she noted. “A much longer stay than usual.”

Small towns had their pros and cons, but Mary was a gentle soul and meant no harm; Starsky forgave the benign interest in his personal life, and tucked his hands in his jacket pockets while he took a second look around the shop from where they stood inside the closed door. “Business good?” he asked. When she answered that sales had been better than previous years, he made eye contact with her again, and noticed more closely how intently she studied him.

Mary was probably a decade older than Starsky, half a foot below his height in her slip-on walking shoes, and seemed comfortable in her skin, not just in her clothes. She wore her long hair in a flattened ponytail while soft curls fell over her forehead and framed her face. She was pretty, he noticed—only because he was hard-wired to notice—but he didn’t feel attracted to her. Maybe he really was as dead inside as he believed he was.

Mary’s voice was mature, not meek, and sincere. “Is there any particular book—or case of books,” she joked, “that you’re interested in?”

“Oh,” he said, shaking himself out of the moment of his inventory. “I actually came in to ask you about a book I’ve written.”

“You wrote a book?”

“Well, I guess that’s the million-dollar-question. Let’s just say I’ve put a bunch of stories onto paper—in my really bad handwriting—and wanted to get it to the next step in case they’re good enough to publish.” He wasn’t sure he’d explained himself well. Shelves of books made him nervous sometimes. Hutch would bury himself— “I wrote about my police cases . . . the first ten years of the ones I could remember.”

“The Sherlock Holmes in you,” Mary said with a kind smile.

“Maybe so, but definitely not as good, so I better come up with a different angle.”

“What is the angle?”

He broke eye contact to study the font styles of the books on the nearest shelf, not reading words, and to send his mind into a search for the answer to her question. After a minute, when he couldn’t find it, he shrugged and spoke from his heart. “I guess it’s mostly about the relationship I had with Hutch.”

“I noticed you came to town this time without him.”

“Yeah, well, the book is about our cases . . . but more about how we worked, you know . . . how we seemed to share one mind.” He looked more deeply into her eyes as he tried again to describe what seemed indescribable at that moment. “Seems it took both our minds to be as smart as one Sherlock Holmes.”

“You and Hutch are opposites in some ways: blond, brunette; he, a clothes horse, you—”

“—would rather be in a robe all day.”

She gently laughed. “Are you that different?”

“We were,” he said in a low voice. “He was raised in a cultured family. I was on the streets as a kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary quickly said. “You aren’t partners anymore? Is that why you came alone?”

If Starsky wasn’t careful, he was liable to lose his composure and expose his anger and pain, grieve right there in the store over the loss of a seriously profound friendship he once had. He didn’t want to talk about the details—not even the ones that would explain how alike he and Hutch had become once they’d crossed that line into an intimate relationship; those musings would only derail him from his purpose. Maybe Mary would let it lie if he said, “We had a bit of a falling out a couple of months ago.”

Mary apologized again, and was close enough that he could smell her sweet perfume.

“It’s all right,” he said forgivingly, dismissing the recent past by noticing her dangling earrings and the soft lifelines around her eyes. “As he would say, ‘it is what it is.’”

“Will he be all right with you writing a book about your shared stories?”

“Oh yeah, he’ll be okay with it. I mean, we still talk to each other and all that; we’re just not in each other’s lives the way we were.” He felt stupid for sounding like a high schooler who’d just broken up with the girl before the prom. “Well, anyway,” he added, to redirect the conversation, “I was thinking maybe you knew someone—or you know someone who knows someone—who’d read a few pages I wrote and give me an honest. . .”

“Review?”

“Something like that.”

“I’d be more than happy to offer my services,” she said. “I taught English, worked for book publishers, and still read a lot.” She presented him with the reminder that they were surrounded by books. “But don’t feel pressured. I also know former colleagues who—”

“If you’d read them, that’d be okay with me. I trust your judgement. I mean, anyone who noticed that Hutch is a clothes horse—and that I’m not—has got the mind of a Sherlock Holmes.” He appreciated her laugh; it eased his awkwardness and gave him the courage to promise her he’d bring the book, or at least a number of its pages, to her the next day. “You’ll be brutally honest, right?”

“Like a good English teacher would be. But, more than that,” she said, “I wouldn’t want to give you false hope, either.”

“Fair enough.” He thanked her for the time and the offer, and turned toward the door. “I’ll come by after breakfast tomorrow.”

“Come closer to noon and we’ll share lunch.”

Starsky momentarily froze in his tracks when he reached for the door handle, and eventually looked back at her. Was hers a scheduling invitation or did he misread her? He didn’t know and he couldn’t tell—not from the tone of her voice, nor by her posture, nor from her closeness—but he found himself replying impulsively. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you for lunch.”

* * *

The slow drive to the cabin from the bookstore seemed longer than usual—and the scenery more barren, a landscape that was covered in snow and blanketed in grey. His car wasn’t built for plowed and salted roads; why he didn’t borrow Hutch’s truck for this visit, he’d never know. “Oh, I know,” he mumbled to himself, countering his own thought. He hadn’t wanted to be beholden.

Was that it?

The year was ending and Starsky would have to return to the farm in a few days; he promised Davis he would. But maybe he could winter at the cabin, emerge in the spring like a hibernating bear, and begin his life over again. Different perspective. Different lifestyle. Different dreams. Davis would understand that desire, wouldn’t he?

“Tell me, Hutch,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. He occasionally glanced to the snow-covered fields and forests he passed along the way to admire their sullen beauty. “Why did you think I left, hm? I mean, did you use that as an excuse so you could be the one to leave? You had to one-up me?”

Hutch wasn’t in the car and Starsky didn’t expect a reply. Besides, he’d already decided the answer would be utter silence.

Was that the hardest part? the not knowing?

When he slowed the car into a curve and didn’t accelerate out, it was because he instinctively knew what was hardest, and he didn’t want his sudden melancholy to overwhelm him on a slippery road. “Not having you,” he said to himself. “That’s what hurts, Hutch . . . more than anything I ever felt in my life.”

Tears welled in his eyes, despite his best effort to suppress them.

“You had to know that, Hutch. You had to know going in what would hurt me the most—and yet. . .”

He couldn’t afford to finish his thoughts, certainly not behind the wheel of his car on a recently snow-plowed highway, despite that he was primarily the only driver in sight. He traded his building grief for anger. “You’re going to get me killed, Hutch. Is that what you want?”

Starsky knew the answer to that question, too.

Or maybe not. After all. . .

“You killed me in another way.”

The pain of that notion could have forced Starsky into an emotional breakdown and caused him to end up in a ditch, so he reacted to it with anger instead, and punched the steering wheel with his fist.

“Damn you, Hutch. Just damn you.”

* * *

The new armchair was the first thing Starsky noticed when he walked back through the door of the cabin; it was a sight he hadn’t seen before, so it immediately caught his eye. But it did more than that, too: it made him quickly look around the room as if he might find other new things—things like a bouquet of flowers in a freshly watered vase. Or Hutch’s baseball jacket hanging off a dinner table chair. Or perhaps he might see Hutch’s guitar leaning in a corner. Signs that Hutch had returned, but that he was outside enjoying its peacefulness while he waited for Starsky.

None of those things met his gaze. Not a one. There wasn’t anything different in the room, except that armchair. A neatly made bed on which they’d given each other immeasurable pleasure—and love. The card table they used for dining—and, afterward, shared drink and conversation by candlelight. That nest of blankets on the floor before the hearth, where they often did it all: dined, drank, conversed, made pleasure, felt love. But no Hutch on that day, the one after Christmas.

Starsky closed the door behind him, stood dressed in his outerwear—boots, jacket, beanie, scarf, gloves—and didn’t know which direction to take next. He could ask Hutch if he was in the room, but he couldn’t bear to hear the repeat of silence. He decided to corner Hutch later when he felt stronger. In the meantime, he should cut firewood while he still had daylight. He should put away the groceries that he’d left in the car, none of it perishable except a couple of bananas and a store-bought salad. He could take his overdue shower on the wooden palette behind the cabin. Light a fire. Make his dinner, eat by its warmth. Sit in his new armchair, drink hot chocolate, and read another one of his stories to Hutch by the light of his lantern. He spied the items he’d left on the floor from the lower shelf of the nightstand. Clean up the place, he thought.

All those things would consume the rest of his day.

But life is what happens while one is making plans, and the life moment that hit Starsky as he stood in silent contemplation about his itinerary was a new round of irrepressible grief—a powerful emotion so crushing that it suddenly dropped him to his knees without warning, as if he’d been hit by a stray bullet. He bent forward onto his hands as the unexpected tears spilled onto the hardwood floor where they dissolved into the grain. His wail of sobs began, loud and unstoppable. He wept beneath the weight of his unbearable pain, a hurt so deep it twisted him into lying on his side, curled in a ball, pressing hard against every part of himself to control the uncontrollable. That terrible emptiness. The hollow non-echo of his loss. The never-ness of what his life had become. He buried his head in his arms and cried as if he’d never breathe again.

Only when the pain gave him a fraction of a moment to do something other than feel its burden, did he ask again and again, as he’d done so many times over the previous two months: “Why, Hutch? Why?” He asked the question as he gulped for air. He asked while he sobbed new tears onto the wood grain of the hard floor beneath him and into his clothes and hands. He asked while he heard that never-ending silence, that cold hollow, the unfixable hole in his soul. “Why?”

“Just do what you came up here to do, Starsky. Do it and be done with it.”

“I can’t,” Starsky cried. He had no thoughts; he was driven purely by his helplessness. “I can’t, Hutch. I just can’t.”

* * *

Starsky opened his eyes when he subconsciously realized dusk had arrived. With an audible groan, he rolled onto his back and stared for a minute at the ceiling, or what he could make of it inside the beams in the semi-darkness. He must have slept for more than an hour—right there on the floor in front of the door, still wearing his winter jacket, gloves, hat, scarf, and boots. His weight had fallen through the wood planks beneath him, or so it seemed; he felt weightless, temporarily unburdened, mindless. His saving grace was that he was so absolutely drained of emotion that he wasn’t able to hold a single thought in his head, not even a fleeting one. Only because the hardness at his back began to pain him did he finally roll to his opposite side, eventually to his belly, and push off the floor from his hands and knees. The room wasn’t as dark when he stood; a shaft of grey snuck through the closed window shutters, reminding him that he still had time to bathe himself in some semblance of light.

His list of tasks found its way into his consciousness and forced him into taking his first step, and then another—until he reached the armchair. He turned on the battery-powered lantern that he’d set on the recently repositioned nightstand table. Its glow was more than enough to see by—but it was a fact that didn’t stop him from removing his gloves and lighting half a dozen candles around the room. He was actually hungry, too.

Next, he brought wood in from the porch and quickly ignited dry kindling and bits-and-pieces of sapling he’d collected the day before, adding a couple of logs to the pile as they began to burn. Satisfied that his newborn fire would grow, he carried the water reservoir outside from its customary place beside the front door to the rear of the cabin—where he attached its hose to the propane tank, snapped the nozzle end into the rigged holder that had long-ago been bolted to the wall, lit the pilot, and turned up its flame. On his return to the porch, he stopped by the car to grab the two grocery bags and the folded laundry he’d previously abandoned in the back seat.

But it was at the foot of the steps that he paused to look around—to the snow-covered trees across the driveway, to the grey overcast and darkening sky, to the plume of smoke already rising from his cabin’s chimney. It was chilly and barren outside, tangibly hollow and visibly lifeless, seemingly brutal in its facade of permanence, so much that he was overwhelmed by it and forced into stealing a moment’s admiration for the haunting beauty that embraced that small patch of homestead. Warmth wouldn’t be so welcoming were it not for the cold, he mused.

Once inside, he set the groceries on the card table, removed the still-fresh items from the ice chest, and then carried the half dozen Tupperware containers he used for ice to the side of the cabin where he switched them out for the frozen ones he’d earlier dumped into the snow. He’d become quite efficient with his time alone in the mountains. Who knew he could be a clever survivalist when he had to be?

After he filled the food chiller with the fresh food and a couple of beers, he stoked the flames of his earnest fire, and was pleased by how skilled he’d gotten building those, too. Inside its warmth, he shed half his clothes—his boots and socks, his jeans and scarf—and then slipped back into his shoes, gathered his flashlight, bath towel, and a used bar of soap for a return to the wooden pallet behind the cabin and the promise of a hot shower. The cold was biting against his bared legs, so he quickly washed in the fractured beam of the flashlight, tied the towel around his waist to retain warmth, turned off the water, shut down the propane tank, disconnected the reservoir tube from the coupler, and carried it and the flashlight into the cabin as fast as he could get there, cussing at the winning cold in his hurry.

After kicking off his shoes, his jacket and his sweater, he rummaged through the small stack of cleaned clothes he’d brought back from the laundromat, and redressed in sweatpants, two-layered socks, and a fresh tee-shirt and sweatshirt. The room had begun to feel nicely warm and enabled him to relax. He locked the door, poured red wine into a glass from an already opened bottle, drank a few sips, appreciating the taste, and then dumped his prepared leafy salad into a ceramic bowl to make room for a couple of embellishments of his own: chopped black olives, a sliced cucumber, and a tablespoon of raw pine nuts. As was usual, the fare was colorful and, coupled with a chunk of sourdough bread, would be filling, too. He walked his collection to the table beside the armchair and set the bowl, fork, and glass on it by the lantern. He stoked the fire a final time, wrapped himself in a blanket, and clumsily sat in the chair, only getting comfortable after a brief repositioning.

He then ate in silence while he listened to the fire pop and watched its amber parade of dancing shadows across the walls and ceiling. The night was quiet, more than usual, but Starsky didn’t allow himself to consider the reason. A few more days and he would drive home. He looked forward to the promise of running water, long hot showers, and electricity, but for that night, and a couple of more like it, he strove to stay one step ahead of his never-absent grief.

He would later read some of the stories he’d written, make notes and corrections, and prepare a chapter or two for Mary. He would finish his glass of wine, maybe roast several marshmallows, fill in the jigsaw puzzle that little bit extra, and then wait out the night until he couldn’t hold his eyes open any longer. Sleep would eventually take him—as it always did—and he could put another empty, pointless day behind him.

“I miss you, Hutch,” he impulsively said into the unforgiving room. His was a subdued voice, and full of a great sadness. “That’s not ever going to change.”

* * *

“It’s beautiful!” Starsky heard Mary say when she opened the plastic bowl and discovered the colorful leafy salad he’d made that Saturday night. He promised he’d bring one, along with a bottle of champagne, if she made the entrée for their rendezvous—and neither of them defaulted. “I’ve gotten pretty good at those,” he admitted about the salad, though he didn’t feel all that proud—and not because he shouldn’t be, but because he’d been numb for a while, feeling mostly nothing, and that night was no different.

Mary led him into the back of the small house to the kitchen after he shed his winter jacket, gloves, and scarf, and left them hanging off the back of a chair in the living room at her request. When she set the plastic container on the counter and got a ceramic bowl out of a cabinet, he looked around the cozy room and drank in the aroma from the steaming pots on the stove, knowing his hunger would at least be satisfied. “I meant to tell you I don’t eat stuff made out of animals,” he said in a low, guilty voice, sorry to spring that fact on her at the last minute, “but whatever you got going, I can find enough to eat.”

She emptied the salad he’d brought into the large bowl and tossed it. “I figured out what you do and don’t eat when we had lunch,” she explained, “so there won’t be any animals on your plate tonight.”

“You’re amazing, Mary. A regular detective you are.”

“But there’s something different about you,” she decided, straightening to carefully study him. He didn’t give her any clues. “Oh!” she said when she realized what he’d done since she saw him last. “You shaved! I must say you look years younger—and you were sexy enough before.”

“I figured tonight was as good as any to take it off.” He hadn’t touched his razor since he left the farm. “I forgot how burly I looked until I got invited to dinner.” Hutch never liked to see all that hair on his face, but Hutch hadn’t said a word about his beard, so Starsky didn’t realize just how unkempt he’d become. “Last time it got that long, it was because I was stranded on an island in the South Pacific for a couple of months.”

She thought he was kidding—and he didn’t correct her. If she offered to read the rest of his book, she’d get to be surprised when she read the chapter about his stay on Tetepare.

He asked Mary what he could do to help with dinner beyond having made and brought the salad and champagne, and she told him he could put plates, bowls, and utensils on the table, get a couple of candles from the antique ‘hutch’ drawer—she actually used that word—and be kind enough to light them, too. While she finished preparing their meal at the stove, he dutifully embarked on the tasks she’d laid out for him—jokingly letting her know that he wouldn’t be responsible for whatever he might find during the hunt.

He only noticed as a side when she opened the door that night that she was dressed comfortably—as was he—and that she smelled good and was quite attractive in her red cowl neck sweater, black lounge pants, and dangling silver earrings. She seemed more comfortable with him early on, comparatively to the younger women he’d dated over the years, but this wasn’t an actual date—at least not in his mind, and probably not in hers, either. He sensed the evening would be casual from its invitation, he in jeans and a deep blue sweater over a thermal tee-shirt. Besides . . . his heart wasn’t into anything else.

They hadn’t seen each other since the lunch they shared the previous Thursday, time spent discussing Starsky’s book after he handed over a couple of stories from it, but also using it to get to know each other better, despite the superficiality in the scheme of their lives. While they ate sandwiches and soup, he outlined the book’s back story, why he decided to write it and what it entailed overall, and they agreed not to give her too many details, so she could better judge how well he had crafted it from cover-to-cover. Now at her house, along a street off the highway, he anticipated the feedback she’d give him; would she tell him to keep his day job?

They sat at the dining room table when dinner was ready, the room aglow with two candlestick flames and a couple of small lamps, and shared the entrée of roasted butternut squash risotto and the leafy salad, a side of toasted garlic bread and a bowl of mixed olives, and drank half of a bottle of wine between them. She said there would be cookies and pastries later. Small talk mostly, friendly and kind-hearted.

Although Starsky had heard the occasional few notes of Christmas music in the overhead speakers at the diner, he listened to more traditional holiday songs while at Mary’s house that night, hearing familiar lyrics during quiet pauses in conversation. He recognized a few singers, too: Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como. Hutch could sing more beautifully. Those others had nice voices, but Hutch also had music in his blood.

“Are you all right?” Mary asked when Starsky got sidetracked by his thoughts. “It wasn’t anything I said, was it?”

“No,” he promised, making eye contact and forcing a smile. He felt guilty for having concerned her. “I was just listening to the music.” He sat beside Mary at the head of the table; she to his right. “I forgot how many Christmas songs there are.”

“I don’t know how you’ve lived at that cabin for so long without running water and electricity. No television. No music. Did you have any sort of Christmas tree?”

“The woods,” he said with a soft laugh, finding the answer Hutch would have given. “All those snow-covered and glistening pine trees, you know? But yours is sure pretty.” He gazed on it from where he sat at the table, admiring its colorful lights and sparkling tinsel reflecting in the living room window. “I’m glad you kept it up so I could get a chance to see it.”

“I usually don’t take it down until after the new year.”

“It was kind of you to invite me—and the food was really good, too.” He hadn’t enjoyed a home-cooked meal like that since . . . “Hutch would have made bean soup . . . or some dumb thing like that,” he pretended to complain. Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered what Hutch would have prepared. Starsky would have eaten it up, regardless—and then they would have roasted marshmallows and eaten fudge or something. Drank hot chocolate, followed that by emptying wine and champagne bottles—and then ten gallons of water to rehydrate themselves from all the sex the eating would have led to. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to talk about him. I don’t even want to talk about him.”

“You’re reminiscing.” She squeezed his hand on the table, warmly and with affection. “Holidays are tough times, aren’t they?”

“This one sure is,” he admitted under his breath. His pain was eased by the empathetic warmth in her eyes, and her soft touch.

She invited him to leave the table with her after the meal, to bring his wine glass and one of the candles into the living room while she brought the other, and to sit on the sofa by the Christmas tree beside her. “I want to tell you what I think about your book,” she said. She sat cross-legged on the middle cushion, facing him, and folded her arms across her thighs as she leaned close to him. “I think you have something quite unique and thrilling, David—a single story more exciting and intriguing than most people experience in a lifetime—”

“But I should let someone else—”

“That’s not what I was going to say, not at all.”

“I’m not a writer.”

“There are writers,” she said, seeming to hope for more patience from him, “and there are storytellers. You’re a storyteller. It doesn’t matter how fancy your words are; we are drawn in, holding onto every word that’s written on the page because it’s taking us someplace we haven’t been before or that we want to feel or see for ourselves—a place that’s scary, or special, or comforting. Or all of those things. And you’re the only one who knows the outcome.”

He was relieved, maybe even flattered. “So you don’t think somebody else should—”

“Absolutely not. These stories are written in your ‘voice’ and it’s the only voice we want to hear them in. Oh, yes, okay, you’ll need someone to edit and punctuate and correct the spelling in some places, but, David, this is a very special book—because you’ve lived a very special life with a very special friend.”

That, he knew. The reminder of Hutch, again, forced him to break eye contact with her and fight to keep the tears from forming in his eyes. She knew Hutch was special to him because of what he’d written in those few stories he’d given her, but he knew just how much more special Hutch had been to him because he’d lived such a rich and deeply felt life with him.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” she said, wiping the tear from his skin when she saw it fall onto the back of his hand. “I didn’t know what to expect when I began to read it. What I remember of you from last Christmas when you bought out my Sherlock Holmes books was that you seemed . . . quite playful and silly . . . and you were so happy. And, although that part of you shines through on these pages, there’s another story you’re telling, the one most of us can’t see with our eyes, but we feel with our heart—because yours is on every page of it.”

He looked up at her, into her warm brown eyes, into her sincere expression, into her heartfelt sentiment, and couldn’t find the strength to thank her for everything she said, except to nod, and then to catch another tear from his eye before it fell. “The only thing I’ve ever loved more than him,” he said, trying for a lighthearted moment instead, “was a couple of pigs.” One of the stories in the few chapters he’d given her was of Kenny and Davey.

“You have a kind heart, David, and these experiences you write about, and the person you lived them with, show us just how much.”

He squeezed his lips and swallowed the pain he felt from knowing he’d forever lost the very thing that had warmed that heart—and made his life truly meaningful. “I haven’t written the last chapter yet,” he said. “I might have to wait a while to finish it. But I’d like it very much if you would . . . you know . . . smooth it out.”

She leaned in and tenderly kissed his cheek. She was close enough to him that he could feel the heat from her body, smell her alluring perfume, be reminded of her feminine softness. When her lips kissed his, gently at first, more passionately in the following moment, he inhaled the scent of a woman and felt instantly heated himself. But before their kisses became sensual, a touch he hadn’t experienced in months, he paused them by carefully setting his forehead to hers, and saying, “Mary, I really needed your company tonight—and I’m flattered by you wanting me—but I . . . I just can’t. I mean, I can, but . . . I can’t.”

“Do you not find me attractive enough?”

“Oh, no, no, Honey, that’s not it.” He lifted away from her and held her face so she’d see the sincerity in his eyes. “Please believe me. You’re a beautiful woman and an even more beautiful person.”

“My age then?”

“Your age,” he said with a soft smile, “and all that comes with it . . . would probably be a plus. But . . . it’s that . . . I lost someone a few months ago. . .”

“Hutch.”

“. . .and it’s torn me apart—in ways you can’t even know, in ways I didn’t know it could even when I used to think about what I’d feel if I lost him. And I know I could do this with you tonight and make myself feel better like that, but it’s not the kind of better I need.”

“You need refuge,” she concluded, understandingly. “Being that kind of close to you tonight isn’t why I invited you, either. I didn’t want you to spend another lonely night in the cabin off the highway. I’m sorry. I let my desire get in the way. But don’t go home,” she implored him. “The room you’d return to will be cold and dark. Stay with me tonight. Feel cared for again, David—because you are.”

* * *

Mary lay in his arms, backed into him so snugly that he couldn’t help but realize all over again how much Hutch had come to mean to him: Mary’s nude body alongside his own didn’t arouse him—not enough to take action, not even to ‘scratch that itch,’ as Hutch had described his masturbation. But it did feel nice to hold her, to listen to her voice, touch her skin, share the long night. She did feel necessary.

They faced the bathroom doorway from the bed; she’d left a candle burning on the counter beside the sink and its flame flickered off the mirror. They were mesmerized by the dance of shadows in the room. Neither of them wanted to stay up until midnight to bring in the new year, but their conversations lasted long enough to have done so without trying. And just when he thought he might close his eyes and drift away on the timelessness of their togetherness, he felt her lips kiss his fingers, and then her soft voice suggested the following.

“Let’s ask each other ten questions—with no rhyme or reason—and see where they take us.”

He was up for the challenge, and blurted out the first question. “Are you married, Mary?”

They laughed when she pinched his hand.

“Now you ask me if I’m married? after we’ve used the same toothbrush?”

“I kind of liked the ring to that question,” he explained.

“Speaking of rings, you must have noticed that I’m not wearing one.”

“I did.”

“And that leads me to my question: why are you wearing two of the same ring?”

Her notice startled him, mostly because he’d completely forgotten about the jewelry on his fingers. But the game was to let questions take them into places they had yet to go with each other. He answered, almost impulsively. “One of them is mine . . . and the other one is . . . his.”

She twirled the rings on his fingers—his on his ring finger, Hutch’s on his middle finger, both on the same hand—as if she didn’t know what to make of his answer. “You guys wore the same ring,” she noted after a minute. “After the falling out, he gave you his?”

“Something like that.” Not because he wanted to avoid talking about the rings, but because he needed to rub his forehead and ease the sudden pain he’d caused himself, he slipped his hand out of hers to do just that. “I wasn’t truthful with you when I said we had a falling out.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll tell you the story someday,” he promised, adding quickly, “or you’ll read about it in the last chapter of my book. But I don’t want to talk about it tonight. Let me just say that . . . he forgot who we were together . . . and he left. I want to leave it there for right now, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered. She kissed and patted his hand in compliance. “But that doesn’t answer my questions about the rings: you’re wearing your own . . . as well as the one that was his, right? I notice that they’re the same design.”

Diamonds embedded in a band of gold.

He gave her back his hand; some things weren’t worth trying to hide. “After I lost Grace, I made him a promise that I’d only be his.”

She stroked his arm, gently and with kindness. “And his ring said the same for you?”

With a sigh, Starsky admitted the truth. “Yeah. We promised each other we belonged to each other.”

“So . . . you’re—”

“Not gay.”

“But. . .?”

“Okay, maybe in love. But not gay. Don’t ask me how I know that. Trust that I do.”

She giggled. “I think you just told me how you know that.”

“You see, Mary,” he playfully admonished her, briefly squeezing her in gentle punishment, “you’re running down the wrong road. I know I’m not gay because of someone else.”

“Not Hutch.”

“Another guy I really love, as a friend—that I experimented with and learned what I’m not.”

“But you were afraid you were?”

“I’m not sure how much of that was fear.”

“Concerned?”

“I’ll take it.”

“You were ‘concerned’ you might be gay, so you experimented with someone who wasn’t Hutch, and came to realize that you’re not gay.”

“There. In a nutshell.”

He knew she must have other questions. One thing Mary was besides well-read and attractive: she was smart, too. On cue, she asked, “But you were in love with Hutch, yes? I mean, those are the words you used a minute ago, that you were ‘in love.’”

“Yeah. I was—probably still am—in love with him.”

“And that’s another reason why it would be hard for you to ‘be’ with someone else.”

“For now, I guess. Maybe forever. Feels like it most of the time.”

Mary didn’t say anything, leaving Starsky to notice that Christmas music still played in the other room—and she didn’t speak again until he reminded her that she had one question remaining.

“Oh, I think I have more than one coming,” she debated him.

“Nope. I was keeping score. You kept saying things like, ‘yes?’ and ‘but?’—and they count as questions.”

“You and your rules,” she mumbled, wiggling beside him in protest.

“Law and order, baby.”

“Is that the police officer in you?”

“Is that your last question?”

Mary laughed; she had a contagious laugh, especially when she was cornered or surprised. She hugged his arm between her naked breasts and tightly squeezed him. “How many questions do you have left?”

“Seven.”

She wiggled again. “Okay. Get to them.”

“Are you married, Mary?”

“No,” she said admonishingly. “You should know better than to ask me that—twice, no less.”

“I didn’t get an answer the first time.”

“I’m not married.”

“Were you ever?”

“For eighteen years.”

“Why did it end?”

“He found someone younger and prettier.”

“Hell with him then.”

“That’s what I’ve said.”

She rolled over to face him, keeping his arm around her waist, but looking into his eyes in the soft light from the bathroom. “You’re the first man I’ve had in my bed since my divorce.”

He was further flattered. And touched. “How long ago was that?”

“Four years.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Yes and no.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“What you think I’m trying to tell you: that someday it won’t hurt so much. But I’m not going to insult you with placating words that can’t mean anything when the pain is this great. I only ask that you don’t give up on hope.”

“That’s what he would say.”

“Then it must be true.”

“Except he gave up on me.”

“Did I?” Hutch asked, startling Starsky in that unexpected moment of intrusion. “Is that how you see it, buddy? that I gave up on you?”

Starsky tried to ignore him. If Hutch didn’t know how Starsky felt by then, he never would. “He forgot who we were,” he repeated, standing by his conviction, “and left.” The tears suddenly burned his eyes and that terrible feeling of weighted pain crushed his chest. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he cried. He hadn’t meant to be hit by the proverbial fast-moving train, especially during that first lighthearted exchange between himself and another human being that he hadn’t had in a long time.

Mary pulled Starsky into her arms and held him while he openly cried. No words. What could anyone say anyway? Hutch was the only one with the answers, and he was far-away gone—even when he wasn’t.

* * *

As the snowy scenery gave way to the greening fields of the foothills, Starsky’s mind loosened its hold on all that had been, and began to wander into all that might be—if he could keep from having a single memory of Hutch along the way. The drive felt longer than he remembered it, second nature in its familiar journey, but traffic was unusually light the day before New Year’s Eve, and he was relaxed behind the wheel. Beside him on the passenger seat were all-things-Hutch that he brought back with him from the cabin—and more in the back seat and a few things in the trunk. He’d made the decision to put off deciding what he would keep at the cabin and what he wouldn’t by bringing it all home for sorting on some other day. Aside from the bed and some nondescript furniture, he’d erased every reminder of Hutch from their mountain haven. The only mementos he couldn’t shake were the ones forever engrained in his memories.

He was grateful he’d spent the night with Mary. It had been a godsend simply to hold another human being, to be reminded that he wasn’t completely stranded in his heart, that there was just enough of it left to afford him a sliver of caring. But she was also the unintentional confirmation that his life would never be the same in any aspect of it, that he’d never feel as deeply for someone or desire anyone as powerfully as he did “the Blond Blintz”; there would never be a lover that beautiful, with eyes that blue, a smile that warm, a person as dedicated to the plight of others, as smart or as honorable, as loyal to conviction, as Detective Kenneth Hutchinson was to Detective David Starsky. In trust and intimacy alone, no other person—male or female—could equal the perfection of authenticity the way Hutch had mastered it with him. Starsky didn’t want to be angry at Hutch; he didn’t want to feel cheated or denied, robbed or disappointed, not a minute longer. He’d known and loved Hutch for fourteen years and in every way possible. Wasn’t that enough for one man and one lifetime?

Hutch didn’t speak to him on the drive home. Maybe he simply gave Starsky the time he needed to figure out for himself that he had to move on from the emptiness that permeated his life, much the way the cold winter would move into a warm spring. There was a promise of leafing trees and blossoming flowers in the valley, and the bees and the birds would return in time, the skies would be blue, and the sun would gift the horizon with its fiery goodnights. And all of those thoughts, and the feelings of hope they inspired in Starsky, kept him company that late morning—until he turned off the country road and into the driveway at the farm. His budding aspirations were abruptly intercepted by the forgotten-about-until-then view of Hutch’s midnight blue pickup, parked as it was in front of the garage door at the Grace House as he passed by.

Starsky may have stopped to say a quick hello to Davis had he not been emotionally sideswiped by the stationery truck; instead, he kept his foot on the accelerator and pulled up in front of the main house before he braked the Torino to a stop. There he sat for a couple of minutes, fighting his grief again, feeling his loss, enduring the pain, as he stared unseeing out the windshield to the row of trees across the empty field. “I don’t know, Hutch,” he finally said as he eventually won over the spill of his tears. “I might just have to move to Colorado to get away from you.” But was there any place far enough?

He waited for Hutch to answer him, but Hutch didn’t. “Because you’re gutless,” Starsky said, trading his sadness for his anger; they had a way of leapfrogging over each other—even in a single moment. “You weren’t supposed to leave me with all these questions about what I’m to do . . . how I’m to feel . . . how I’m supposed to put one foot in front of the other.” When no reply came, Starsky got out of the car, walked slowly up the steps to the porch, unlocked the screen and front doors, and entered the house. He stood in the open doorway. “Hutch?” he called into the empty room.

“You know I’m not here,” Hutch finally answered him. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

“A guy can dream,” Starsky mumbled. He used the guest bathroom to relieve his bladder, still dressed in his winter jacket and boots, but sans his scarf and gloves, and then returned to the car to unpack its sentimental valuables and perishable groceries. Mary had sent him home with leftovers so he wouldn’t have to make dinner that night, and he had promised to mail her a copy of his completed manuscript when he finished writing the last chapter. His life was laid out for him, at least for a foreseeable future.

After he put the fresh food in the refrigerator, he brought in Hutch’s belongings from the passenger seat of the car, including Hutch’s unwashed, but folded sweat clothes, the ones Hutch had worn last and left at the cabin over the summer. He carried them, along with the small red metal box—the color of his car and seeming just as heavy—to the back room in the house. Steeling himself for a moment, he opened the bedroom door, expecting to see what he did: the weight bench and other gym equipment remained moved against the far wall—to make room for the dozen or so cardboard boxes that Starsky had filled and stacked before he’d gone up to the cabin. He’d neatly wrapped and packed everything he could find in the house that Hutch had left behind, or that Hutch owned or used, things that would otherwise be painful reminders of things that Starsky simply couldn’t withstand remembering.

“I see you haven’t touched anything,” he noted, hoping Hutch could hear his snide tone and would argue with him about what he’d done with Hutch’s belongings, just to provoke the man into a conversation. But Hutch didn’t say anything; in fact, overall, he’d been relatively passive for a couple of months. “That’s not the you I remember,” Starsky said, mostly to himself, as he walked to the nearest group of boxes, three medium-sized containers that were waist-high when stacked. He set the sweat clothes on the top box, and then placed the red metal tin on top of those, snugging it into the fabric as if it would otherwise fall off on its own.

“Everything’s in here,” Starsky said, speaking as bluntly as he could as he turned his back on the haunting feel in the room. “This is where you are—at least for now. So, except for your truck, and whatever I can’t get out of my head, I don’t have to think about you so much anymore.”

“Good luck with that,” Hutch dryly replied. “But it’s not like you buried me.”

Starsky balled his fists to fight off the devastating thoughts those words could easily trigger in him. “That’s a mean thing to say, Hutch. You don’t think this is bad enough?”

“You’re right and I’m sorry. Let me use the same words, but say them differently: really, Starsk, good luck with that. The last thing you need is more shit from me.”

Starsky left the room and closed the door behind him. “I’d give anything for more of your shit,” he swore. He wandered down the hall and stopped in the doorway to the master bedroom, immediately spying the king-sized bed, without its coverings. But he wouldn’t put sheets back on the mattress. He wouldn’t throw a blanket over the bed just to dress it up. He didn’t plan to sleep in that room again. There was no point in even remembering it existed, so he closed its door, too. As far as he was concerned, the hallway in the farmhouse had only two bedrooms: the guest room, which would be where he’d sleep and dress, and the office.

“You can’t live like this the rest of your life,” Hutch countered him.

“You have a better idea, do ya?”

“Set fire to everything you packed into the gym—and then. . .”

“Start over with my life?”

He knew he sounded angry, but he didn’t care. If it wasn’t so cold outside, he’d sit in a chair on the porch and pout until the sun disappeared from the grey sky and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, at which point he’d be forced into the house again. “Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he said, entertaining a second thought as he slumped into the sofa cushions. “Maybe I should do that: move to Colorado and start my life over.”

* * *

Starsky was in the kitchen the next morning, the morning of New Year’s Eve, making coffee and toast when he heard the front door open. His heart raced and his mind reeled from an excitement he could barely contain as he believed for that split second that it was Hutch who had entered the house. But obviously it was a dream from the night before that he confused with a reality he so desperately wanted.

When he heard the ‘Hey, Starsky?” call from the living room, he recognized Wade Davis’ voice and that he’d stopped by for a visit. They hadn’t seen each other in a couple of months.

“In the kitchen,” Starsky called out to him. He poured hot coffee into a cup while he waited for an English muffin to toast, and kept his back to the doorway when Davis entered the room. “Want some coffee?”

“I just ate,” Davis explained, declining the offer. “I guess you didn’t hear me knock.”

Starsky had been too immersed in his thoughts to notice anything during that time. He faced Davis and was surprised by how close they were to each other, not expecting the embrace Davis then gave him. They patted each other’s backs. “How you doing, man?” Starsky asked him. Davis appeared rested, which was no small feat for a guy who oversaw a safe house for troubled boys. “You’re looking good.”

“It’s early in the day,” Davis reminded him. “See me at night. But, nah, it’s been fine. Megan’s been a great help.”

Starsky had to rattle his brain to remember who Megan was: the young woman Davis had recently hired to help him with their Youth Program. She was skilled in a number of tasks to make the endeavor a success, from boring secretarial work to promotional fundraising. “I’m glad you found somebody,” Starsky told him, and he meant it. His muffin popped out of the toaster, so he dropped it on a plate and reached for the jam. “Want half of this?”

“I ate,” Davis reiterated, leaning against the counter to watch Starsky fix his breakfast. He was dressed in jeans, a shirt and sweater, a light jacket, and he appeared quite relaxed and unhurried, too. “Megan makes the kids breakfast and I seem to find enough to eat from all their leftovers.” He was none the worse for all the food.

“You look happy, too.”

“I think I’ve found my soulmate,” Davis unexpectedly confessed.

Starsky had to take a second glance at him to see for himself that his friend was serious. “Yeah? And she feels the same way?”

“She does.”

“Congratulations, buddy. I’m happy for your happy.” He was. But, on the other hand. . .

Davis seemed to pick up on the awkward moment and changed the subject—but slightly; he was a good detective and a better friend. “How’d you do up there?”

“I grew a full beard,” Starsky said, trying for a light laugh so Davis wouldn’t think he couldn’t talk about Megan, “and then I shaved it off.”

“That productive, huh?”

“That exciting.”

“I see.”

“I did finish most of my book.” He spread jam over his muffin and took the first bite, savoring its sweet flavor. “And I found someone to . . . you know . . . polish it up for me.”

“Well, that’s something. Congrats back to you. But, I mean, you handled it okay up there?”

Starsky spoke while he ate. “As good as I could, I guess. It’s a tough place in winter.” He broke eye contact with Davis to remember that no place would have been easy under the circumstances—and another awkward moment settled between them. “I bought an armchair for the fireplace,” he said, to break them out of it.

“It must have been hard for you, to be up there—without him.”

Starsky was wordless; what could he possibly say to the obvious?

“It was hard for me down here without either of you,” Davis admitted, “but mostly because I was worried about you, on your own like that, I mean.”

“I promised him I’d never hurt myself.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you kept that promise.”

Starsky drank coffee and averted his eyes, too afraid to let Davis know how easily he could drop to his knees if they spoke for too long about Hutch—and the pain Hutch had left him. “Spring can’t get here fast enough,” he added in a quieter voice, almost to himself. “Maybe it’ll change my outlook, you know?” He realized Davis missed Hutch, too—a lot—but they both knew it was Starsky’s greater loss.

“Maybe you’ll sell that book,” Davis proposed, “and go on an autograph signing tour or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” but Starsky didn’t think so, and he certainly didn’t dream that big, either. “I’ll just be happy to get my old job back,” he said instead. “Get my head on straight.”

“You’ve been through a lot for quite some time now,” Davis agreed. “If you want to help out at the Grace House, you’re always welcome. We can find work for you, if you’re interested. But I think Megan is running the place now,” he sort of joked. “You know women.”

“Enough to know I wanted a man in the end,” Starsky said impulsively. He glanced at Davis, made eye contact, shrugged. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s all right,” Davis replied, sounding relieved that Starsky was strong enough to be chagrined. “I was always okay with what you guys had together. But, hey, I’ll let you get to your breakfast and settle in. If you need anything, you know where to find me. You’ll reach out if you have to, won’t you, Starsky?”

“Thanks, pal,” Starsky answered with genuine gratitude. “But feel free to check in whenever you need to, okay? I might be too down under to call for a lifeline, if you know what I mean.”

Before Davis disappeared from the doorway, he paused, locked eyes with Starsky, and gently said, “I miss him, too. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. I’m sorry it’s so much worse for you. If you change your mind about spending New Year’s Eve by yourself, you know I’m just across the driveway.”

Starsky didn’t change his mind. In fact, he pretended no one on Earth celebrated that night.

* * *

“You’re obviously still shattered, Starsky, and you will be for a long time, but I do have to say . . . you look a bit stronger than you did the last couple of times I saw you.”

Starsky stood at the window, gazed into the hazy late morning, noticed only that it wasn’t as barren as the landscape around the cabin, and shrugged at Steven Jade’s observation. “Then maybe I should be an actor.”

“Or maybe you accept—after three months—that you might be entering an unsettled peace.” A pause followed and Jade asked, “How did you spend yesterday, New Year’s Day?”

“Alone. Mostly. I mean, I did help Davis with some stuff.”

“Maybe you need your own project to focus on?”

Starsky turned his head and looked into the room. Even the view of Dr. Jade’s office felt warm in its earth colors and relative silence. Jade was seated on the sofa, slumped into its cushions, his feet on the coffee table, wearing a sweater over a shirt, corduroy pants, comfortable shoes. His relaxed hands were folded over his belly—as if he was in no hurry and would much rather spend the time with Starsky, pulling him yet again back from the brink. Their January 2nd appointment had been long-scheduled, and it was all Starsky had on his agenda. Maybe it was best to stick to philosophical conversation. “Hutch would say that an ‘unsettled peace’ is one of those contradictions in terms,” he countered Jade.

Jade tried a smile, as if he’d been caught. “And he would know—given his mastery of the English language.”

“He’s pretty good at Spanish, too,” Starsky said, though it gave him a shudder. “And German. He liked to pretend he wasn’t as smart as he was.”

“Kind of like you.”

“But better at it than me.”

“Uh-huh. So . . . he . . . a humble guy.”

Remembering Hutch—again—caused Starsky’s heart to ache with that all-too-familiar burn. “That’s why I’m here, doc.”

“To talk about the ‘humble guy’?”

“To ask you to help me stop this pain.”

Silence enveloped them while Jade gave thought to Starsky’s plea and Starsky did his best not to remember a single other thing about Hutch so he could get that jump on his hurt sooner than Jade would get it for him. Or maybe Jade didn’t have an answer. That was more likely. Starsky had tried for months to forget his partner and it seemed no measure worked for him.

“Capt. Dobey told me this morning that I’m not fit for the job anymore,” he quietly said, braving the confession, “and I ended up proving it to him.”

“That’s a provocative statement. Why don’t you come back over here and have a seat. I want to hear this.”

* * *

“How’s it going up on the hill?” Capt. Dobey asked.

Starsky had greeted his superior with a lengthy embrace, as if Dobey would absorb all of his heartbreak by his sheer strength and paternal wisdom in one long hug, but when Starsky heard the question about his life, he realized the ache was still with him. He might never shake it. “Going all right,” he said after taking a seat. “Same shit, different day is all.” Dobey could make of that what he would; Starsky didn’t want to explain it in any more detail. “I’m looking for a change of scenery. Don’t suppose I can have my old job back?”

Dobey sat comfortably forward in his chair, elbows on desktop, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, having appeared to at last lost some weight, but he was no more or less serious than any other time. He’d always been a hard-working police officer; everyone respected him for that. “It’s that bad, huh?” he asked. “The rat race is calling?”

“Boredom isn’t my thing.”

“The curse of the intelligent,” Dobey commented. “How’s your friend Davis doing?”

“He’s all right, too,” Starsky replied. He hadn’t taken off his jacket, so he used it to tuck into himself, hands in his pockets. It was the shield he needed to keep from blurting the truth: which was that he couldn’t handle another moment of not being asked about Hutch’s welfare—because there was no Hutch to ask about. “Davis said to tell you hello,” Starsky added. “We spent a lot of the day yesterday doing chores at the Grace House together. Says he can’t thank you enough for setting him up with Megan—his soulmate. She’s freed him up to do other work there.”

Dobey appeared somewhat startled, but pleased, to have heard the news. “They did seem like a match made in Heaven. He’s needed someone in his life to give him an even bigger purpose. Besides, a man shouldn’t be alone that long.”

There was the inevitable strain at that moment; both men realized what had been said and, more importantly, what hadn’t, and how much it pained Starsky in his own private way. Dobey averted his eyes to silently apologize for the insensitivity of his observation under the circumstances. But then he brought it back to Starsky. “You’re stronger than you know,” he said gently, making eye contact.

“I’m relieved to hear somebody believes that,” Starsky answered him, not leaving the connection he held with Dobey at that moment, but it pushed him into his resentment. “I have to tell you, though . . . I sure get pissed when I have to pretend that I’m happy for Davis finding his soulmate while I’m this fucked up over having lost mine.” He spoke impulsively, but had no intention of calling back his words.

“I have not forgotten Grace—” Dobey began.

“I wasn’t talking about Grace.”

For the second time that afternoon, Dobey was visibly confounded. “He was your soulmate?” Dobey knew Starsky loved Hutch, but he’d never heard Starsky call Hutch anything other than his partner and best friend.

“I moved in with him a year ago,” Starsky admitted—while tears uncontrollably filled his eyes and he spoke with a splintering voice.

“Because that Sheriff was on your case about—”

“Because I wanted to live with him,” Starsky corrected him. “We shared a house.”

“It’s none of my business, Starsky.”

“We shared a bedroom,” Starsky continued. His heart pounded and his hurt swelled in his chest. “We shared a bed.”

“Starsky.”

“And everything you think I might be implying by that is exactly what I’m telling you.”

Dobey was speechless, and not just because he unexpectedly learned about Starsky’s private life secrets, but because he knew nothing would stop Starsky’s pain-driven disclosures. Dobey noticeably steeled himself.

“I have to go through this life,” Starsky complained, “pretending like he didn’t matter that much to me, like he was just a police officer who happened to be my partner . . . that he was the closest thing I had in a friend . . . but what we had together became a lot more than friendship a year-and-a-half ago . . . I faced some life-changing truths about myself and how I felt about him—and he did the same with me.”

The other truth, the one that bulldozed him over as he sat there—which was that he’d never know a love like that again in his lifetime, and especially that he’d lost it to some stupid twist of fate—was about more than he could handle. He pushed himself forward in his chair as the tears spilled out of his eyes and the words rolled painstakingly from his mouth. “You can think whatever you want about us now . . . but I’m not going to pretend around the people I respect that he mattered less to me than anyone else . . . I should have every right to be honest about the person who was my soulmate . . . as Davis is allowed his. And you shouldn’t confuse that person with any wife or girlfriend I’ve had.”

Starsky wiped his wet face with the back of his hand and did his best to control his emotions, but he was sick and he was tired and he was hit again by that proverbial fast-moving train—and there seemed no stopping the inevitable purge. The breakdowns washed over him at random, like the unexpected dam cracking, like that metaphoric cup— “I lost somebody who was that. . .” He couldn’t finish and leaned forward, dropped his head between his knees, and audibly cried. “I don’t know what to do, Capt. I don’t know how to get out of this.”

“Starsky,” Dobey said gently, sounding sincere and sorry, as if he wished he could ease Starsky’s hurt by simply saying his name, but it was obvious it hadn’t done the job. “You can tell me anything. Anytime. I would hope you know that by now. I had no idea. How could I have known?”

Tears pooled on the linoleum floor at Starsky’s feet; he squeezed his eyes shut, pressed down, and hard, clenched his jaw, allowed a minute to pass, as if he could stop the emptying and slow his heartbeat purely with time. He then straightened, dried his eyes and his face with the palms of both hands, finally looked Dobey in the eye again. “He was everything to me, Capt.,” he said, assuming that the degree of that statement was no longer news. “In this line of work, you know what it means to have a partner. You know how it feels to have a best friend. You understand what a soulmate is. He was all those things to me, don’t you see? And I lost all those things . . . and all at once.” He thought he sounded pathetic. “God, I hate feeling sorry myself.”

“You’re still in mourning.”

“I’m fucked up.”

“You’re grieving. How couldn’t you be? Even if all I still knew is that he was your partner and best friend, I would expect you’d be feeling as if you’d been hit by a truck for a long time to come, given what’s happened. I’ll share a secret with you, Starsky. I never believed you guys were gay—but I’ve known for years now that it wouldn’t have surprised me if you eventually found yourselves in that kind of relationship. I’ve never seen two people more invested in each other than you and he were. What’s surprised me is that I’m only learning about it now.”

Starsky sat back against his chair—more stunned by Dobey’s ‘confession’ than he realized Dobey had been by his. He wiped his face and eyes again, that time on his jacket’s sleeve. Dobey’s words had sobered him. In that isolated moment, Starsky was able to appreciate that he could, indeed, tell Dobey anything, that the man would be there for him, and not just as his captain, but as his friend and confidant. Dobey had proven his unconditional respect for Hutch and Starsky over the years, but this matter wasn’t related to policing—not completely, anyway—and yet Dobey still held that ground.

“I’m trying to put one foot in front of the other,” Starsky said in a calmer voice—after the expression in their eyes spoke to a new understanding. “That’s what they say to do, isn’t it?”

“That’s not always easy—and harder yet when the person who has most supported you is the one you lost.”

“I thought if I could get my old job back . . . put my mind into something outside the farm . . . start over, I mean. . .”

“You’re not ready.”

“But it would help me to get ready.”

“I can’t put you behind a badge and a gun, Starsky. I’m sorry.”

“Because of what I—”

“Not because of what you told me. But because of how you still feel.”

Starsky blinked and was momentarily speechless. Couldn’t Dobey understand how desperately Starsky needed the outlet? Hadn’t he just explained it to him, justified the escape he wanted? “Then what am I supposed to do if I can’t do the one thing—”

“I can recommend a counselor, someone who can help you—”

“I have one.”

“I suggest you use her . . . or him. In the meantime, Starsky, I can give you a desk job if you want one. What I don’t want is for you to think for a second that my opposition to handing you a pistol is because of the nature of your relationship with Hutch. The truth is . . . I’d give anything to learn this while he was sitting here with us . . . and I could go off on a string of crass innuendos just to razz you guys. You must know how I’ve felt about you both, and how sorry I am that he’s gone. But for your own protection, Starsky, and for the people on the street, I can’t in good conscience put you out there while you suffer through this enormous tragedy that’s only recently shattered your life.”

* * *

“When Hutch believed you’d been killed in that airplane accident, he came to see me for—” Jade began, but was interrupted when Starsky swore under his breath and dropped his face into his hands. “What’s the matter? What did I say?”

Starsky eventually looked up at him and spoke past his private awareness that he’d just suffered another blow he hadn’t expected. “I knew Hutch felt like shit believing I was dead,” he said. “I just didn’t know how much until now.”

After a pause, presumably to allow Starsky to compose himself, Jade continued. “Hutch didn’t know what to do with himself. I suggested that maybe he go to where you were last—which, in that case, was to the scene of the airplane crash, that maybe he’d find peace simply by—”

“Oh, god, no,” Starsky said with an audible groan. “I couldn’t go there. If I even let myself think about how I saw him the last time, I’ll put a bullet through my head.”

“I’m sorry, Starsky. I didn’t explain myself well. I’m misfiring.”

Jade allowed a minute to pass—that time, it seemed, to give them both a moment to recover from the strained conversation. Jade pushed out of his relaxation, dropped his feet from the coffee table to the floor, and sat forward, elbows on his thighs. He made direct, but gentle eye contact with Starsky and held them in that quiet exchange for another half minute.

Starsky finally shifted to get comfortable, and realized how tense and hypersensitive he had been. He apologized. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Just that Hutch came to understand that he could resume life—even as painful and as impossible as it seemed at the time—when he was reminded of what you would have wanted him to do with himself.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted him to go to the crash site, not to honor me, I mean. I think that would have broken his heart.”

“So he found another way to remember you. He wrote a piece of music that he played at your memorial to pictures of you.”

“He told me about that—a year ago, Christmas Eve. And I know he took the visor and the side mirror off my car to put in my. . . But I’m not him. I can’t let myself think about him too much. I wish I didn’t remember him at all.”

“You won’t feel that way someday.”

“Yeah, well, for now, it’s best that I put him away in the room—all boxed up and out of my mind.”

“I noticed you’re not wearing his ring anymore,” Jade said, not accusingly. “I see you’re not wearing either of those rings.”

But Starsky was too emotionally drained to perceive that he may have been set up. “I put them—and his watch and his badge and his class ring—in a box. I put everything in there: his passport and his wallet and his birth certificate. I don’t want to see any of that stuff.”

“What about—”

“Anything of his and everything that reminds me of him . . . all in that room now.” There was something newly painful about his disclosure and he didn’t know what caused it. Perhaps having to confess that he’d packed up and stored Hutch like paperwork into a filing cabinet seemed callous and retaliatory. “Why aren’t you going after him instead?” Starsky argued, defending himself. “Why am I the bad guy?”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“He’s the one who forgot who we were . . . and left. He left, you know.”

“You’ve said.”

“There was a guy in a cowboy hat.”

“Starsky.”

Starsky’s voice quivered; he was at the edge of the precipice again. Angry and so unspeakably hurt. On the verge of unstoppable tears. He wished he’d never made that promise to Hutch. “No matter what he did,” Starsky said, as if Jade had further challenged him, and backing down because he knew they both knew how fragile he was at that moment, “I’ll keep my word. I’ll stick around because I said I would.”

“You get out of bed every morning,” Jade reminded him. “You sleep and you do laundry. You make breakfast, drink coffee, shower, shave, and get dressed. You make appointments and keep them. You fill your car with gas. When it’s cold, you wear a jacket. You’ve written a book. It’s obvious that you haven’t lost hope, Starsky. But you’re deluding yourself into thinking that you can forget he existed if you pack him up behind a closed door.”

“I should just give all that stuff away then.”

“Why don’t you? I’m not asking facetiously.”

Starsky didn’t want to think about why he didn’t.

“Do you know how I know this isn’t the path forward for you?” Jade asked.

The tears had won the battle for Starsky’s eyes; he looked at Jade through their blur. “Go ahead, wise guy, tell me.”

“Because you’re here.”

“On Earth?”

“In my office.”

“What does that prove?”

“That all the burying you’ve done isn’t doing the job.”

There was a truth to acknowledge. If Starsky could have forgotten that Hutch was in the room at the end of the hall, then why was Starsky in Jade’s office, fighting off tears and pain as if he hadn’t diminished them, not even by a fraction? “Nobody will tell me what to do,” he complained with a cry in his voice. “It’s all the same shit: ‘put one foot forward,’ ‘take it day-by-day,’ ‘do something with your life.’ But, ever since the accident, nobody’s got the answer for me—and I can’t seem to find it for myself. So much for my detective skills.” He spoke with anger more than hurt at that moment; he was angry at the world, but mostly at himself. “I used to be terrified of losing him—”

“It’s no longer a supposition.”

“And that makes it different?”

“Loss creates other feelings, and there’s no one to blame—”

“I blame him.”

“Because he left you?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if he hadn’t left, he’d still be here with me. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“He didn’t control the big wide world.”

“He was responsible for what he did that day in the big wide world.”

“Do you want to talk about this again?”

“Only if you think it’ll help me—but I don’t see how.”

“I don’t, either. None of your anger and your pain, Starsky, is going to solve this for you.”

“So, tell me what will—and don’t you dare give me that ‘time heals all wounds’ bullshit.”

Jade paused them again, lowering his line of sight to the coffee table between them to give Starsky’s request some obviously honest consideration. The break in their dialogue also gave Starsky a moment to collect himself. He rubbed his face and his eyes with both hands, drew a deep breath, sat back against the sofa cushions, protectively crossed his arms, and waited. No matter what Jade suggested, Starsky would rise to the challenge. Who else could he trust to lead him to salvation if not the good doctor?

Jade lifted his head, made eye contact again, spoke in a softer voice. “I think you’ve done the one thing that keeps you paralyzed in this unfortunate new life: you’ve tried to erase him—and you can’t, Starsky. You can’t and you never will.”

Starsky should have known such a hard truth was forthcoming. Jade was notorious for telling it like it is. He’d probably even throw more hard, cold facts at his client. Starsky steeled himself for whatever Jade would say next; at the same time, he ached to be given the door to his freedom. “So, what then? I mean, I wrote a book with him all over every page, so it’s not like I was trying to completely—”

“You wrote the book and then, when you got it to the point of your endurance, you stopped writing—and you finished boxing up Hutch and the book. But all of that has left you with a deeper emptiness. When you don’t remember him, Starsky, you make him gone all that bit more; you make your life emptier, you deepen your pain, and you find yourself sitting here in my office wondering how you’re going to get out of it.”

“I can’t unpack him and see all that stuff again. I couldn’t handle it.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“I can’t even talk to him anymore.”

“I didn’t say it would be painless.”

“So, that’s what you want? I have to finish the book?”

“That’s one thing. Another thing is to remember him—beyond the memories of the past.”

“What does that mean?”

“To find a way to have him in your life the only way he’s available to you now—in your mind and in your heart—and to find peace in that kind of possession. Go back to talking to him.”

“He never answers the question about why he left.”

Jade tried a gentle smile. “Ask him questions you know the answers to.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“That you’re talking to him, that he’s there in that personal way for you, that he’s not completely gone.”

Starsky did miss talking to Hutch. He felt suddenly sad but also a twinge of relief to imagine having Hutch back again, even in that small way. “I get mad at him for what he did and why he won’t always answer me.”

“We can practice talking to him so you can feel fond of him again.”

That might work. Starsky hoped it would. He needed the professional guidance, especially because he didn’t know any longer what to do or how to do it.

“I have two other thoughts,” Jade said. “One is that you keep a picture of him somewhere, a place where it won’t surprise you to see him, and then let him know how you feel. We can practice ways to forgive him.”

Tears pooled in Starsky’s eyes again. He so wanted to forgive Hutch, to be ‘fond’ of him again, to love him in his heart. But he also wanted to touch him, to laugh with him, to hold and kiss and make love with him, to wrestle and work and just be in a moment with him. Those secondary thoughts began to push his resentment to the surface—except he caught it that time because he was aware of it, and he was aware of it because Jade had positioned the proverbial mirror in front of his face. He didn’t want to hurt Hutch. Hutch hadn’t hurt him on purpose; it was an accident. “What’s your other thought?”

“That you isolate something of Hutch’s that was special to him or is special to you, something that would make you both feel good if you could share in it together. Keep it where you can see it—and only have warm thoughts, forgiving and kind ones, in its presence. I know these are painful suggestions, Starsky, but they’ll remind you that Hutch isn’t all the way gone. He’s only completely gone when you stop remembering him. And that is how you will heal.”

Starsky couldn’t recall a single other more profound observation than the one he heard Jade speak just then. It was so revealing that he understood its significance, and it enabled him, at least for that minute, to free himself of his personal agony. But there was practicality, too. “I can’t go into that room,” he decided, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “I don’t think I’d make it out alive. I feel sick just thinking about it.”

“Would your friend be able to get a couple of things for you?”

“Davis, you mean? Yeah, he’d do something like that for me. Maybe he’d even want a . . . memento of Hutch, too.”

“Maybe you and he could share a memory together.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

“Isn’t that what Hutch would want you to do?”

“I know what Hutch would want me to do,” Starsky said matter-of-factly. He realized it only in that minute—and it set him free.

* * *

“I miss you, Hutch.”

“I know you do, buddy.”

“Doc says I’m not allowed to ask you why you left that day.”

“‘Not allowed’ or ‘wise not to’?”

“You sound like him now. I don’t want to be mad anymore. It doesn’t get me anywhere.”

“Where is it you want to go?”

“I don’t know. Someplace that doesn’t feel like this, I guess.”

Starsky set his cup of hot coffee on the table by the kitchen slider and stared into the outside. He felt better talking to Hutch again, but he was somehow sadder, too. “Maybe it’s because it reminds me that you’re gone,” he answered himself, about Hutch. “Everything that reminds me of you makes me sad.”

“I’m sorry, Starsk.”

“I know you’d be.” He drank from the cup, warmed his hands on its ceramic surface, brought his line of vision to the tabletop. “The thing is, Hutch: everything reminds me of you. There was very little of my life that didn’t have you in it.”

“We were the rage.”

“We were meant to be, weren’t we, Hutch?”

“Like Bogey and Bacall.”

“Like cake and ice cream.”

“Like night and day.”

“Like heart and soul,” Starsky concluded. There would be no topping that one. Even Hutch knew it. “So that’s where I’m at,” he said, redirecting. “Trying to figure out how to put my life back together when most of it is missing. I mean, you wouldn’t finish a jigsaw that didn’t have all the pieces, would you, Hutch?”

“Some puzzle is better than no puzzle?”

Starsky didn’t know. The table became a blur, too, forcing him deeper into his mind. The house was so quiet. There wasn’t any movement elsewhere; no other body going from one room into another, no one else sitting down on the living room sofa and putting his feet up on the coffee table, or walking through the door, or outside hosing down a vegetable garden. No music playing. No sleep breathing. No toilet flushing. No sound of utensils clanging, no groan from the weight bench room, no shuffle in lazy socked feet on the hardwood floor. Quiet. Quiet when he woke, quiet when he sat and stared, quiet everywhere he looked. An empty kind of bottomless quiet. The kind that would never be filled.

What was Starsky supposed to do with that?

“Fill it with memories,” Hutch suggested. “We got lots of those.”

Starsky lifted his head, focused on the sun-filled yard beyond the sliding glass doors, and gazed far into the past. “Some pretty amazing stuff,” he agreed. “Shootouts and fistfights and car chases on the one side—”

“Eating and drinking and laughing on the other.”

“I guess we were lucky, weren’t we, Hutch? I mean, we lived a lot in those years. Piled it on. You said that once—”

“Maybe twice.”

“—that we lived more in a day than some people live in a lifetime.”

“It wasn’t always a good thing.”

“But surviving it was. We did a lot of surviving together.”

Starsky didn’t pinpoint any particular moment in their lives; he’d put most of those details in the book. But, as he sat there, slowly drinking his sweetened coffee, dressed in yard work clothes sans his shoes, he replayed them in his mind at record speed: a montage of near-death experiences and recovery miracles. “I guess one of us was going to get nailed someday, given them odds. I just thought it wouldn’t be until we were in our nineties, sitting out there on the porch watching the sun go down, and I’d look over and you’d have gone to sleep in your rocker, tucked under a quilt—looking all peaceful-like—never to wake up again.”

“Your future plans had me going first, huh?”

“Truth is, Hutch, I’d rather go before you go—so I wouldn’t have to live my life without you.”

Starsky turned in his chair, set his back to the wall, looked into the kitchen instead, thinking it would reprieve him from his relentless melancholy. Talking to Hutch was supposed to make him feel better, but he couldn’t see much of a difference, except that he didn’t feel as angry. He made a concerted effort to follow Jade’s advice and think about the positive things. “I always pictured you feeding me until I dropped dead.”

“My food wasn’t that bad.”

“That’s not what I meant. Your food was great. The best, Hutch. I miss it. You made the best pancakes. And the best spaghetti.”

“You made better salads.”

“I had a good teacher.”

He remembered the first salad, the one he got Hutch to help him prepare while they were at the cabin on Hutch’s 40th birthday, tricking Hutch into thinking Starsky wanted to make a salad for Grace when, in fact, it was for his man. Starsky put everything he had into that dish: tomatoes. . . “What else, Hutch?”

“Lettuce.”

Starsky smirked at him. “Wise guy,” he mumbled. But there was another truth: how much Starsky loved the banter between them, even Hutch’s sarcasm and cynicism and verbal abuse. What he’d give to have it all back. Some of it was painful, most of it was purely competitive between them, and then there were the times they made themselves laugh until their sides hurt. “Remember the eggplant you fixed for us one romantic night and we got to laughing about different kinds of dog shit?”

“Couldn’t forget it if I tried.”

For a brief moment, Starsky felt his pain dissipate—as if he’d gotten a shot of morphine. The hurt simply evaporated. He wasn’t even aware it was gone until he heard himself chuckle over that stupid conversation they’d had about dog breed feces. “Pekingese poop,” he recalled.

“Don’t get me started.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said with a sigh. Some things were better left in their original manifestations. “The last breakfast we had here,” he remembered instead, “you made us those potatoes . . . what are they called?”

“Roasted potatoes.”

“And toast and coffee and juice and you cooked up some asparagus, was it?”

“Yep.”

“All seasoned and perfect. And I sat at the counter there and chopped up some fruit.”

That particular breakfast hadn’t been that long ago; its sounds and smells and the safe, bonding feeling it gave Starsky of making a morning meal with Hutch were still fresh in his mind. He drank coffee, felt its heat warm his blood, and let his thoughts ride away on that specific memory. “Oh, that’s right,” he suddenly remembered. “I got a phone call that morning.”

“We got a phone call.”

“I took the call.”

“Because you were next to the phone—and I was slaving away at the stove.”

“It was Dobey.”

“He wanted us to work on a Sunday.”

“Because he said he was closing in on a perp, but he needed a ‘couple of extraordinary Sherlocks’ to solve the case.”

“And you did that for him, right there over the phone.”

Starsky smiled—for the first time in a long while, a smile that wasn’t forced, nor was it driven by hurt or masking it. He felt the overwhelming relief of painlessness wash over him. He was proud of himself that morning, telling Dobey it seemed obvious to him who the perpetrator was and why by pointing to the demonstrative evidence Dobey should have found at first glance. More importantly, Starsky had saved himself and his partner from a four-hour roundtrip drive into the city, as well as provided them with the lazy, sex-filled, relaxing Sunday they had planned.

“I said afterward,” Starsky remembered, “that we were so good at this detective thing that we should just stay home and solve cases over the phone. Remember that? And what did you say, Hutch? You said we could call our new business—”

“Dial-a-Dick.”

Starsky laughed out loud, even then.

“Got you twice,” Hutch noted. “The first time I said it—and now the second time.”

“It was worth the second laugh.”

“You need more of those.”

“I miss your dick, Hutch.”

Hutch didn’t speak a word in reply; what could he possibly say anyway? It was the least of what Starsky missed—and he missed it a lot: the warmth and the heat and the lust and the love and the communing and the ecstasy and the freedom and—

“You’ll find those things again.”

“I won’t. Not like that.”

“Well, not like that, but enough to make you happy.”

“You know something, Hutch?”

“What’s that, buddy?”

“It occurs to me now and again that you don’t know shit.”

“Maybe not, Starsk. Maybe not. But you’re going to get off your ass right now, just the same, aren’t you? and go outside and make progress on that special thing you’re building? I can’t believe you were out there in the dark last night working on it. It must be something you care a lot about.”

Starsky downed the rest of the coffee in his mug, pushed it across the small table, and got to his feet. “Yeah, Hutch. I finally found something I give a shit about, so I’m going to get off my ass and go out there, and do more of that.”

* * *

“I’m almost done with this, Hutch.”

Hutch didn’t answer him in words; instead, Starsky felt his partner’s presence in the nearly unseasonably temperate weather of that January 4th day. He sat on the tailgate of Hutch’s truck, parked as it was behind the farmhouse, a slightly further distance from where he’d originally built his pigpen the previous summer.

Starsky wore a light jacket over a red tee shirt, was also dressed in jeans and work boots; his denim gloves and other tools had been put back into the toolbox which he’d slid to the end of the truck bed. The barely noticeable breeze hinted at an early and warm spring—typical for the Los Angeles basin, but not so much for the foothills where Hutch had bought the farm.

“Bought the farm,” Starsky sarcastically noted, dropping his line of sight to the ground below him. He dangled his legs over the edge of the tailgate, sat forward, and studied the pattern of grass and dirt, imagining that Hutch would appreciate the earthy colors of green and brown, commingling. “You always did love everything about nature,” he said quietly. “What was that poem line you used to say . . . something about God and grass?”

“‘God, I can push the grass apart, and lay my finger on thy heart.’”

“That was it.”

The breeze lifted Starsky’s jacket lapel and gently tapped his cheek with it—as if it rewarded his honoring Hutch’s spiritual beliefs. “Yeah,” he replied, straightening to look over the farm from that vantage point: the family orchard to his left, not yet in leaf, the light green garden beyond it, only recently covered in young sprouts, the tree line along the back fence, and the meadow he had parked in; the Grace House was behind him. “I guess that’s why they say nothing ever really dies, hm? I thought I could erase you, Hutch. Jade is right: you’re in everything everywhere I go.”

“Were you that angry at me that you never wanted to have another thought about my existence?”

“It’s that I figured I could end this hurt, you know? If I didn’t think about you . . . if I didn’t remember you . . . then I didn’t have to be reminded every minute of every day that you’re gone.”

“But?”

“But the more I tried to forget, the more gone you were—and the more pain I felt.”

“I’m sorry, Starsk.”

“I know you’d be.”

“Are you done feeling angry?”

“I have to stop being that way, but I don’t think I’ll be done with it for a long time. I have to learn to accept that you were entitled to all the stupid things you did.”

“There’s the love I was looking for,” Hutch gently laughed.

“I mean it,” Starsky argued. “I want to forgive you, but that was some dumb ass shit you did.” He tucked his hands in his jacket pockets and lifted his face to the sky, soaking in its peaceful blue and allowing it to refill his lungs with fresh air. “I’m going to put my life back together,” he promised on the replenishing exhale.

“That’s what I want you to do.”

“I thought I’d begin by building this thing.”

‘This thing’ began as an idea while Starsky last spoke to Jade, from the doctor suggesting that he find a way to keep Hutch’s memory alive, to have some item that would have pleased Hutch, a thing or a place where they would both find comfort and new life, an inspirational memento to help mend Starsky’s broken heart.

Starsky had spent the previous evening at the kitchen counter after getting back from the city and his visits with Dobey and Jade and a stop at the lumber yard, and having finished his homemade dinner, but still nursing a beer, he sketched onto a blank sheet of typing paper his remaining vision of the structure. Each inch on the blueprint represented a foot. The drawing was rough, penciled, and did the job of helping him figure out how much more lumber he needed and in what sizes and shapes. From it, he made a list of the necessary materials, including a few basic tools he didn’t already have in his possession.

It probably would have been an easier job if he had asked Davis to help him, but he wanted to create Hutch’s gift purely by himself; it would be more meaningful to build it with his own hands. He couldn’t imagine there would be any real need for a helper, but he hadn’t ruled it out. Davis had been kind enough, after all, to fetch a few items from the Hutch Room at the end of the hall so Starsky didn’t have to confront what he couldn’t bring himself to face. But where he could handle life on his own, such as Woodshop 101 projects, Starsky needed the empowerment, not just the purpose.

The most difficult aspect of his endeavor had been entering Hutch’s truck. After Davis told him that he’d left the keys under the driver’s seat in the unlocked vehicle, Starsky approached the Grace House driveway with palpable apprehension. Was that how it felt for Hutch when he removed the visor and sideview mirror from Starsky’s car in order to place them in Starsky’s coffin? Did Hutch feel as sick having to lay hands on that precious steel? Hutch’s truck hadn’t been as sentimental to them as Starsky’s car had become, but it was still a possession Hutch had sought, purchased, driven—and was proud of.

Starsky’s fingers trembled as he lifted the handle and opened the driver’s side truck door. He climbed into the vehicle and searched under the seat and between his feet for the keys—giving him a momentary pang of guilt, as if he violated the truck in some way. “Sorry about that,” he whispered, fetching the keys, finally closing the door, and then inserting one into the ignition. “How you doing, buddy?”

“This’ll be fun,” Hutch said, sounding excited about a ride in his truck.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Starsky chastised him.

“Well, who else is here?”

“The truck, nimrod. I was talking to the truck.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Not everything is about you.”

Silence came over them while Starsky backed the truck from the driveway. He knew, like Hutch knew, that everything was, in fact, about Hutch—and that Starsky had made yet another unconscious effort to shut Hutch away to protect himself from the sick and the heartbreak he felt from driving Hutch’s truck.

“He’ll do the job for you,” Hutch said. Apparently he had no intentions of allowing Starsky to leave without him. “C’mon, let’s go and get all this shit while it’s still morning, and so you can show me how much you love me.”

Starsky drove to the lumberyard with both windows down; he slumped against the door, relaxed, and kept his eyes on the road, appreciating the power of Hutch’s V8 engine and its deep rumble in his hands. But he didn’t speak to Hutch, except to roll his eyes when Hutch suggested that Starsky hoped he could blow Hutch out of the vehicle when he accelerated temporarily onto the highway and the wind entered the cab and drowned all sound.

After he loaded the truck bed with two-by-fours and four-by-fours and sheets of plexiglass and cement pavers, he drove to a nearby hardware store to buy nails and wood screws, a sharpening blade for his power saw, and a new measuring tape. At a home decor warehouse, he purchased six window vents, a doorknob and lock, and a can of dark grass-green paint—a color Hutch picked out himself.

“You like wind chimes,” Starsky remembered as they passed by a collection of them in various sizes and materials. “Choose one.” He gently brushed the tubes of several to create musical symphonies for Hutch’s enjoyment. “Any one strike your fancy?”

“They’re all beautiful.”

“Then I’ll get the most expensive one.”

“Ah, there’s some love. But don’t go spending all your money on this project.”

“Oh, I have plenty of money, Hutch. You saw to that. At the rate I’m spending it, I won’t have to go back to work for another. . .” He calculated the equation in his mind. “Seven years. I could probably stretch it to eight.”

“Live in what you’re building, rent out the house, and you can retire.”

“Keep up your sarcasm,” Starsky retaliated, adding a boxed wind chime to his basket, “and you can live in what I’m building. Then I only have to see you during the day.”

“Buy me that lamp right there and you can visit me at night, too.”

“Say another word, and I won’t speak to you on the way home.”

Both of them shut their mouths for a while. Starsky finished his shopping. He then stopped by a fast food restaurant and ordered French fries and a soda for the short drive to the farm—that time with a fully loaded pickup truck, bed and cab combined. Without much guidance from Hutch, he parked the truck behind the house, emptied its contents with just himself, and began construction by first marking off the spots in the grass for each footing.

The endeavor took him all of two-and-a-half days of non-stop work—from early morning until sunset each day, sometimes working in the Grace House garage by its light to set up for the following day. It was on the third day of the job that he found himself sitting on the truck’s tailgate admiring his mostly completed progress. Hutch would be proud of him, too. He reiterated his initial comment. “I’m almost done with this, Hutch.”

“What’s left to do?”

“I have to fill in the floor with gravel and build the tables for inside.” Perhaps he’d go into town that next morning for the rest of his supplies, so he could finish the project by the end of Saturday, knowing full well it might rain, but he could rest on Sunday. He wanted to buy the flowers and the plants to grace the greenhouse with life and promise. “Oh, and I have to run water out to it, too,” he said in afterthought. “I’ll put a hose rack right there beside the door. Maybe someday it can have automated sprinklers, but for now. . .”

“For now, it’s beautiful, Starsky.”

It was big, too: twelve-by-fourteen feet in width and length, eleven in height. He would raise as many different kinds of vegetables and fruit that would fit in the building, the kinds that needed the special protection and controlled environment of such a place. “I’m going to try growing a banana tree in there,” he said with conviction.

“One of the things I love about you, boy,” Hutch said.

“What’s that?”

“Your willingness to try new and challenging things.”

“That’s really good to hear right now, Hutch.”

“How come?”

“Because . . . since losing you . . . I’ve felt a lot like a loser.”

* * *

It did rain on Saturday, the day Starsky came face-to-face with Hutch in the most unexpected metaphor of a head-on collision. The morning began as one of those quiet ones—Starsky alone in the kitchen making his usual breakfast of potatoes, fruit, toast, and coffee—and talking to Hutch about his outdoor farm plans, most of which had to be postponed due to weather. But he assumed the skies would clear in the afternoon, so he hadn’t completely ruled out ticking off certain items from his chores list. When the rain steadily poured into late morning, Starsky’s relative peacefulness slowly dissolved under its drizzling sound and dark gray dampness. He sat on the sofa, middle cushion, leaned forward, studied the patterns in the area rug, the wood grain in the coffee table, and the brick-constructed fireplace across the room—feeling nothing for a while, as if subconsciously knowing that he’d collapse again if he gave even a single thought to why he was alone in the house.

But he, at last, heard Dr. Jade’s voice and Ken Hutchinson’s echo, both of which reminded Starsky to savor a fond memory of Hutch instead—lest he inevitably sink into a paralyzing melancholy. On this occasion, on that morning, he glanced around the room and quickly spied Hutch’s guitar in the corner to the left of the sofa; Starsky had asked Davis a couple of days earlier to get the guitar for him from ‘Hutch’s stuff at the end of the hall.’ The instrument had been painful to see at first, but it eventually faded into the familiarity of the home’s earthy decor and helped to ease Starsky’s immediate and heartbroken reaction every time he laid eyes on it.

“Go ahead,” Hutch said encouragingly. “Let’s see what you know.”

Starsky got the guitar from its place against the corner wall and returned with it to the sofa, sitting on an end cushion to make room for the guitar in his lap. “It’s probably not tuned,” he defensively said, giving it a single strum.

“That’s good enough,” Hutch determined. “I kept the strings tight on a regular basis, and it’s only been a few months since it was played.”

“Don’t remind me,” Starsky mumbled. He tried to shrug away Hutch’s nonchalance with his shoulder, but he could still feel the man’s persistent presence. “I’ll never be as good as you, Hutch,” he added, trying for a different direction as he began to strum the guitar with a pleasing and steady rhythm. He filled the room with music, gently and with purpose, liberating his mind enough to play under a certain abandon. He didn’t even realize what song he’d chosen until he began to hear the notes from a tune Hutch had once performed just for him: “First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.”

When Starsky realized what he’d allowed himself to stumble into, he quit playing, sat back against the sofa cushions, and hugged Hutch’s guitar to his chest. “Maybe I’ll take more lessons,” he sort of promised them, using the proposition to change his thought train. “You always made it look so easy, Hutch. Just like the way you read books, you know?”

“We all have our special talents.”

“Name one of mine.”

“Photography.”

Starsky couldn’t argue; he’d gotten quite good with a camera. He had an eye for the offbeat and compelling. He actually assumed he’d trip Hutch up, so he could push Hutch into admitting that Hutch was the one who had the creative blood between them, but Hutch knew him too well. “Yeah, okay,” Starsky agreed, surrendering to the facts. “I can take a good picture.”

“Nails and a hammer,” Hutch continued.

“Basic stuff.”

“A greenhouse isn’t basic.”

Starsky hugged Hutch’s guitar closer. He liked hearing Hutch tell him about his skills; sometimes he felt less-than-perfect and wondered what it was Hutch ever saw in him that Hutch couldn’t find in a million other people.

“Head. You give good head,” Hutch said.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Starsky warned him. His musings hadn’t meant to go that far. “I’m not in the mood for sex anymore . . . especially not with myself.”

“When are you going to see Mary again?”

“I sent her a copy of my book and told her I’d have the last chapter done by my birthday—and that maybe I’d go back up there then. But what are you really saying, Hutch? That I should have sex with Mary?”

“It didn’t sound like she was looking for a boyfriend—just a playmate.”

“I’d only think about you the whole time I was doing it.”

“You think she’d care? Thinking about sex with me while you’re doing her might be the best sex she’s ever had.”

“Don’t push me, Hutch.”

Hutch didn’t say a word for a while.

Starsky, in the meantime, returned them to a safer conversation, squeezing Hutch’s guitar tightly in his arms. “Maybe I ought to take singing lessons, too, hm? I mean, I could never sing as good as you, but I might learn some stuff that would make me better than I am. What do you think?”

“I think you have a beautiful voice.”

“Not as sweet as yours.”

“Masculine and male. A certain smoothness to it . . . a kind of primal edge. . .”

“Not as sweet as yours, though.”

“I wasn’t comparing.”

“That’s a word you’ve used before to describe me.”

“Primal?”

“That, but I mean the word ‘masculine.’ Always seemed you liked that in me.”

“Immensely. Looking at you now . . . sitting there the way you are . . . holding my guitar . . . dressed warm and listening to the rain . . . I love your dark hair and your unshaven face and the shapes of your fingers and your sultry blue eyes and—”

“I think this might be some kind of masturbation, Hutch, so knock it off.”

“Just pointing out the obvious: the things that made you the best lover a man could have—or a woman, for that matter—but more for a man because your primal masculinity is so overpoweringly exciting.”

“Didn’t I just say to knock it off?” None of Hutch’s provocative comments kept Starsky interested. “I miss you, Hutch,” he said into the silence, hearing only it and not the rain on the roof. “I wish I’d paid more attention to you when you were singing. I can’t remember the sound of your voice anymore—except that it was especially sweet.”

“No one appreciated my singing—or me, for that matter—more than you did.”

“Do. No one appreciates you more than I do. Remember what Jade said? You’re not completely gone unless you’re forgotten—and I’m not ever going to forget you. I just wish you’d made a record or something. I could play it on the stereo and cry myself to sleep.”

“Makes me glad I never did such a thing.”

It was at that moment that Starsky remembered something he never thought he’d have to know. He quickly sat up, leaned the guitar against the sofa cushion, and felt excited for the first time in a long while. “I think I do have a recording of you, Hutch.” He was too thrilled by the notion of hearing Hutch’s voice that he couldn’t foresee how hearing it might actually do that very thing: make him cry himself to sleep that night. “Remember when I lived at the Grace House; I mean, before she moved in? I had an answering machine that we replaced with hers because hers could hold a recording longer.”

“And you kept my voice messages?”

“I think so. Well, I mean, she was better at erasing stuff, but mine was always full and no room to leave messages sometimes, remember?”

He stood without waiting for an answer, walked quickly to the front door, grabbed his jacket from the coat rack, and bravely left the house—out into the rain and the cold and the wind. He set off for the Grace House garage, to where he’d also stored his unneeded possessions after he’d moved in with Hutch. He got wet along the way and sloshed in several places through unavoidable mud puddles, but none of it daunted him.

The back door to the garage was unlocked, and though it was cold inside, it was also dry. He snapped on the overhead light, took off his jacket, shook the water from it, and put it on again, before turning his attention to the boxes and bags that filled the vehicle-empty space: not just Starsky’s sawhorses and power tools, but Davis used the garage for storing supplies for his safe house. There were cases of bathroom tissue, boxes of canned beans and soup, household cleansers and toiletries, and a lot more. With just a little digging, Starsky was able to find the dozen or more boxes he’d packed and shoved onto several custom-built shelves.

“If it’s in here, Hutch, it’s because I didn’t have time to erase it before getting rid of it.” That was the logic he assumed as he rummaged through a collection of eclectic items that he ended up wondering why he’d ever bothered to keep, and eventually found the prize: his old Radio Shack Duofone answering machine and its power cord. “Oh, Hutch,” he said with a mix of excitement and dread as he turned it over in his hands, “if your voice is on here. . .”

He tucked the metal box—with its fake wood grain siding—under his jacket and headed to his house, that time remembering to jump over puddles and to close the distance faster so he wasn’t as wet upon his return. He shed his jacket, tossed his head to shake off the water, and eagerly carried the answering machine to the kitchen. “I should have a shot of whiskey first,” he decided as he nervously plugged the device into the power outlet above the bar counter—and sat on the neighboring stool. He didn’t have the patience to fix a drink, not even to swig it straight from the bottle.

The only thing Starsky had time for was familiarizing himself with the answering machine’s two knobs and its various lever settings—but the red light in the upper right corner of the device told him right away that there were messages on the tape. He rewound the incoming, took a deep breath, and turned the lever to PLAY.

Several flirtatious recordings were from Grace—obviously left before she had moved in with Starsky—letting him know she was headed to the farm or to ask him if he would pick up a few grocery items on his way to her house. Her voice, so feminine and soft, did make him sorry she’d been killed and was no longer in his life. How different things would have been to have lost Hutch, but to still have Grace.

Before he could let himself wonder if his thoughts were selfish and self-serving, Starsky heard Dobey’s stern voice, demanding that either he or Hutch return his call—and to do it “expeditiously—or jeopardize your careers.” Some of Dobey’s language was decidedly sarcastic, but the irony wasn’t lost on Starsky as he listened to the command with a knot in his belly.

Huggy Bear wanted to know if the guys were going to be in the city any time soon because he had information for them about their most recent investigation, or as Starsky had called it to outshine Sherlock Holmes, “The Case of the Newton House Murder.”

Nick had left a message, informing Starsky that he planned a visit over the holidays. Even Davis called, mostly looking for Hutch. And then, just like that, despite how anxiously prepared Starsky thought he was for it, was that voice, the one he thought he’d forgotten, but instantly remembered, punching him right in the middle of his broken heart.

“Hey, buddy!”

Hutch’s voice, as smooth as melted butter, soft and friendly and warm and familiar and haunting him in the otherwise utter silence of the house.

“Are you coming back over? Did you forget I’m just across the driveway?” Wanting Starsky. “I thought we’d at least get together tonight for a bite to eat.” Hoping. “Call me and let me know—or walk through the door and tell me to my face.” A light laugh. “I don’t care which. Just . . . you know . . . let’s take full advantage of our time here by ourselves.” A desperate kind of nudge.

Starsky realized the message had been one Hutch had left the day Starsky drove off to see Adam—for that dumb mistake he would forever regret. He’d tried to get out of the house before Hutch came looking for him, so Hutch wouldn’t stop him from that stupid rendezvous, but Starsky didn’t succeed. He had ignored the couple of times Hutch had called him, hoping the answering machine would throw Hutch off his scent. Oh, what Starsky would give to replay that day and to do it completely different. He’d never turn his partner away again, not for anything or anyone.

“Hey, Starsk,” was the next message, not so cheerful, but appealing to Starsky’s intimate relationship with him, reminding Starsky how close they were just by the name he called him, as if the hint would force Starsky into compliance. “I didn’t say the wrong thing earlier, did I?” Not sure. “I thought we were going to get together for some. . .” Silence. Disappointment. Concern. “Where’d you go? Call me or come over.” And then the disconnect.

Oh, that voice: that man, Starsky’s partner, his lover and best friend, his hero and his soulmate. Starsky was in tears again. How much had he taken for granted over the years? There were no other messages on the machine—and he was enormously relieved. He didn’t know if he could handle a third recording, and not so much because of what it might say as how it would sound: Hutch’s beautiful voice, its lightness and its weight, its reminders of the love they’d had, the lives they’d been gifted, and suddenly lost. Hutch’s aliveness—and then that overwhelming emptiness it left in its wake—was all Starsky could endure.

He buried his face in his arms on the counter and cried. Would he wish he hadn’t listened to those messages? In his heart of hearts, it was not a wish he had. Had he been wrong to make the effort to dig that device out of his past belongings? He hadn’t been; in the long run of his life, he would forever have those recordings in his possession, and he would never have to wonder again about the sound of Hutch’s perfect voice. But Starsky would have given anything not to have been so totally devastated from hearing it. He wasn’t as strong as he sometimes believed he was or could be.

“Hutch?” he called between gulping breaths, but no one answered him, leaving him to soak his shirt sleeves with his tears and to sob a muffled weeping into the absolutely empty room, a purging of his soul that he never imagined he’d do to that degree again.

There was barely a knock at the front door before Starsky heard it open, and rain was the first sound to break the otherwise silence while a blast of unexpected cold hit him. If there were a God, Hutch had just entered the house, having heard Starsky’s audible pleas, and arriving on cue to put an end to his partner’s pain and his questions and his relatively nothing life.

But it wasn’t Hutch. It couldn’t possibly have been.

“Starsky?” Davis called into the house as he closed the door. “You decent?”

“In here,” Starsky said, quickly straightening and wiping both eyes with his hands and on his shirt. “Everything okay?”

Davis entered the room, took one look at Starsky, and said, “I should be asking you that.” He noticed the answering machine—and probably Starsky’s reddened, still-wet eyes. “If you just did what I think you did, I’m sorry, buddy.” He rubbed Starsky’s shoulder. “I know how much I miss him—and I wasn’t his best friend. He was mine, but I wasn’t his. I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”

“It is what it is, as our pal would say,” Starsky replied, appreciating Davis’ touch and his sentiments, and doing his best to believe those words. “I was just wondering what his voice sounded like.” He pushed the answering machine away and asked Davis if he could get him some coffee. He needed a cup himself. “What brings you here?”

Davis slid a large envelope onto the counter. “This’ll be two punches to the gut,” he apologetically said, “but I brought you that 8×10 you wanted. I expedited the printing so you could get on with it sooner.”

“Pile it on,” Starsky mumbled as he got up from the stool and headed for the coffee pot. “May as well get it all done at once.” He poured the hot coffee into an already used cup and drank a long swallow—as if it were whiskey and he could drown his sorrows in its heat. “I appreciate you doing that for me.” Starsky hadn’t been emotionally able himself to get the photo negatives out of the Hutch Room, as he had come to call it; Davis had been kind enough to do it for him—and yet Starsky still had to choose the photo he wanted enlarged. That late afternoon he’d spent browsing dozens of pictures in order to find one he wanted to frame had left him with a similar end result: gut-wrenching heartbreak.

“I got you a frame, too, in case you didn’t have one,” Davis said, setting that on the counter as well. “It’s the kind you can hang or stand up. No mat.” He seemed at a loss for words. “Do you want to look at the picture now or when I’m not here?”

Starsky turned his back to the coffee pot, leaned against the counter for support, and imagined himself opening the envelope and seeing that beautiful face and those beautiful eyes and that blond hair . . . and knowing he’d just end up on the floor in another pool of tears and sobs and fruitless calls to Hutch. “I’ll take care of it later,” he decided, noticing what else Davis had brought. “What you got there?”

“I had a couple of rolls of film developed while I was at it,” Davis explained, placing two small envelopes on the counter. “I found them in that box with the pictures you asked for and figured I’d take them in for you. I don’t know what’s on them, so I can put them back now if you’d rather.”

Starsky had to think hard to figure out what he could have photographed on two undeveloped film rolls—and then it hit him. “Oh,” he said under his breath, as it got knocked out of him. “Those are . . . ones I . . . from our trip.” He couldn’t say more. His voice broke even then.

“I can put them in the room,” Davis suggested, “or . . . I can check ’em to see what they are.”

Starsky shrugged. Perhaps if Davis looked in the envelopes, he could ease his concern and Davis’ harmless curiosity. Maybe they were just pictures of Starsky’s car. “Yeah, sure, go ahead and look.”

Davis peeked inside the first envelope. He appeared confused by what he saw, so he thumbed through a few pictures, and then figured it out. “Yeah, Starsky, they’re from your trip.” He then seemed stalled by a particular photo; he momentarily froze, and then audibly sighed.

“You can look at those if you want to,” Starsky said. “He was your friend, too.”

Davis sat on the stool closest to Starsky, removed all of the photos from the first envelope, and began looking at them. “Pretty wild place,” he commented after a minute. “You guys musta felt you’d entered the Fifth Dimension.”

“I got sick right away,” Starsky remembered. He drank coffee, listened to the rain on the roof, watched Davis sift through the pictures he’d taken, but he couldn’t have recalled what a single image could have been, even if his life had depended on it. “Leave it to me to be the star of the show.”

“Was it the food or the water that made you sick?”

“The altitude.”

Davis continued to browse, slowly and with obvious interest. “It’s a colorful place.”

“Hutch says that the poorer people are, the more colorful they make things . . . something to do with brightening up their hard lives, know what I mean?”

“An interesting take.”

“He was an interesting guy,” Starsky said about Hutch, trying to sound lighthearted.

“He was that, Starsky,” Davis agreed in a hushed voice. “He was definitely that.” He stuck the photos from the first envelope back inside the fold, and opened the second envelope. The pictures in it seemed more compelling because Davis was wordless while he looked at them, and he paused on the occasional image as if to really soak in its visual—whatever it was. “That’s some jungle road,” he commented with a laugh, but he sounded more taken aback than he did amazed. He got quiet again until the next picture amazed him. “And that’s some blue butterfly.”

A morpho.

Starsky realized only then that his own heart noticeably pounded. There he stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee and listening to the rain, watching his friend reminisce over photos he himself had not yet seen, but knowing what they entailed—and none of it anything he could conceivably handle looking at, at least not that day, not even one of a harmless butterfly. He hung on Davis’ silence until Davis couldn’t seem to help himself with an abrupt exclamation.

“Damn, he was a gorgeous man.”

There was no guessing who that man was—and there was no avoiding just how completely drawn into the photo Davis had become. He stared at it for more than a minute, and then wiped his eye. “I’m so sorry he’s gone, Starsky,” he whispered. “I really feel for you, too. I think you’re doing the right thing to put a picture of him out where you can see it—even though it’ll be hard for you. But this kind of beauty . . . this guy . . . he’s not someone you should be afraid to look at. He’s so beautiful, especially here, that I think you’d feel less alone to remember that he was all . . . yours.”

Davis’ words compelled him; them, and Starsky’s own curiosity—his deeply felt need to have as much of Hutch as he could possibly withstand or get, and to do it while his friend was there to support him—became one of those moments where he couldn’t turn away. He set aside his coffee cup, pushed off the counter, and approached Davis. “May I see that?” he asked, holding out his hand. Even he could tell that he visibly trembled, but he clasped the picture despite his apparent anxiety, and turned it around to look at it. The image of Hutch, one he’d never seen before, but instantly remembered where and when he’d taken it, took Starsky’s breath away. Davis was right: Hutch was quite gorgeous, even more in that photo—and Starsky knew why.

Hutch had spontaneously danced with a woman beside the lunch table as Starsky released the shutter on his camera. Hutch had a second earlier noticed Starsky’s focused attention; Hutch was wild with excitement, his skin flushed, his hair tousled and primal. He froze in that moment—with nothing but pure love and liberation in his expressive blue eyes. Hutch was on fire. There had been such an electricity in the air that early afternoon and Hutch had illuminated it; Starsky had simply been lucky to capture it in a single frame.

“That’s the last time I saw him,” he solemnly said, pushing out the words to give them sound. “Two minutes later and he was . . . gone.”

“You have to remember him looking like that,” Davis gently advised his wounded friend. “That’s the picture you should enlarge and frame. Nowhere is there a more beautiful man.”

Hutch was dressed in belted jeans, photographed from the knees up to above the top of his head; he was also wearing a button-downed cotton white shirt with short sleeves. His skin, from his arms to his neck and his face, was covered in a light sheen of perspiration. When he caught sight of Starsky aiming the camera at him, he’d obviously smiled, warmly and with a knowing that only they shared, exchanging an unspoken dialogue that confirmed for them both that they were one-and-the-same together, that nothing would or could ever come between them—except what had.

That perfect, Adonis face. Those strong and graceful hands, dropped to his sides in the photo, and visibly showing off his rings: the class ring he wore on one hand, the ring Starsky gave him on the other—gold and diamond-studded. And back again, Starsky’s eyes went to Hutch’s face, to his smile, to the light in his full-of-nothing-but-heart crystal blue eyes. They spoke to Starsky even then. “Hey, buddy!” More than that. Trust. Loyalty. Love. Two lives forever one. Hutch seemed to be having the time of his life—and he passed on that exhilarating moment to Starsky with just a glance—through that picture, and as profoundly as he’d done months ago.

“Me and thee,” Starsky whispered, admiring Hutch from a distance far greater than he could ever hope to cross. “How did you forget who we were, buddy, hm? Why did you leave?”

The wash of a thousand emotions crashed like a wave over Starsky as he stood in the kitchen and laid eyes on Hutch for the first time in too long, and having heard his voice only minutes earlier. He felt his entire body immediately weaken, his knees suddenly buckle, his heart more noticeably pound. A tailspin of a whirl at high-speed shot through his brain. He needed the counter for support and dropped his hand and the picture to it, bracing himself from the inevitable fall that never materialized. “Oh, no,” he said in an exhale of palpable dread. “Oh, no,” he repeated, more urgently as he locked eyes with Davis. “Oh, my god, what have I done?”

Davis tried to steady him. “What’s the matter, Starsky?”

Starsky didn’t know; all he could do in that minute was feel and what he felt was mixed, conflicted, intensely frightening and yet. . . He looked back to the picture of Hutch for answers. What had he seen? What had unexpectedly paralyzed him? Inexplicably, he knew the answer before he could consciously discover its clue; he was helplessly driven by pure emotion. “What have I done, Hutch? Oh, baby, what have I done?”

“You’re trembling, Starsky,” Davis noted, sounding as alarmed as he most probably felt. He vacated the stool to let Starsky take his place. “What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

Starsky held the picture again before his tear-pooling eyes, tried to see through the blur; he needed thought in that moment, not his gut or his instinct; he needed to know what every fiber of his being and every pixel of that photograph—and even the underlying message in those answering machine recordings—screamed out to tell him. “He’s not wearing a watch,” he was able to say, cornering those words, getting close to a truth he dreaded and yet would have died for. “He’s not wearing a watch.”

“Starsky . . . make sense.”

“It wasn’t him. He’s not the one who forgot who we were.” Starsky knew that fact as certainly as he knew rain fell from the sky and splattered on the roof overhead. “Oh, Hutch, what have I done?”

“I still don’t understand,” Davis said, begging for clarity. “What do you mean that he wasn’t the one to forget who you were?”

“It was me, don’t you see?” Starsky asked—a rhetorical question. He couldn’t have felt sicker in his soul than he did, nor more paralyzed, nor as uncertain about what he meant and why he said any of those words. He couldn’t separate his desperation from his elation; he couldn’t distinguish the fear from the hope enough to know which to trust or where to follow. He spoke impulsively and purely from his confusion, expecting Davis to have the concrete answers. “It was me who forgot who we were,” Starsky plaintively said. “It was me who left. Oh, dear Hutch, my darling boy, what have I done?”

* * *

THE LEAVING

“I’m not feeling so good, Hutch,” Starsky whined. Hutch would be the one to make him feel better, of that he was sure. But he didn’t know why he felt queasy. He’d been so excited about their trip—even weeks before their scheduled departure—and could barely contain himself at the airport as he, once again, listed all of the adventures he hoped to have, including the outbound nighttime flight itself; Hutch had upgraded their tickets to First Class.

“I’d have been just as happy back there,” Starsky had told him, gesturing with his thumb behind him to the coach section of the airliner. “You coulda put that money into our hotel or something like that.”

“I did put money into our hotel,” Hutch countered him. “We’ll have the best room and board those little green bills can buy. Are you complaining?”

“Just sayin’.”

“It’s all part of the birthday present,” Hutch reminded him. From his aisle seat, he accepted the champagne the flight attendant handed him, and waited for Starsky to take his glass before he offered a toast. “Happy birthday, buddy,” he said. “Or should I be saying, ‘feliz cumpleaños, amigo?’”

“If that means the same thing.”

“It does.”

“You’ve been practicing.”

“Somebody had to.”

“My birthday was over half a year ago and the airplane tickets were my present.”

“This whole trip is your present. Are you going to complain the entire time?”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Starsky insisted. He looked out the oval window beside him when he felt the pushback from the gate and realized they were finally moving. “I guess I’m excited,” he said, as Hutch reassuringly pat his knee, and added, “I just hope you don’t think you had to go overboard for me. I mean, it’s not like it was a milestone birthday.”

“Every birthday is a milestone.”

Starsky drank from his champagne glass; he had never been that fond of its taste, but he did like the feel it gave him to level out his excitement. Maybe Hutch was right: every birthday is a milestone. After all, they’d certainly had more than their share of near-death experiences. Hutch had the right idea in the end, and Starsky drank to that as he looked over into Hutch’s blue eyes. “Thanks for the special treatment,” he eventually said, knowing Hutch heard him beyond his words—all his gratitude, love, admiration, and loyalty alive in his voice.

“My pleasure,” Hutch replied. “But your special treatment has only just begun.” He winked at Starsky. “We’re going to have a blast.”

That had been the consensus even before the airplane left the runway—due south. But once on the ground at their destination, Starsky began to feel nauseous not long after they arrived. He first whined at baggage claim, and not about the wait for their luggage, but because of how he’d begun to feel. He was so distracted by his anxious gut and his swimming head that he didn’t fully appreciate his surroundings, something Hutch kept pointing out to him so he’d forget about his physical duress and focus on the fact that they’d arrived safely in a faraway land.

“This doesn’t look all that special,” Starsky observed, speaking in a low voice so only Hutch would hear him. Other than a darker ‘feel,’ despite the early evening light from outside, and not one he could pinpoint, Starsky hadn’t noticed anything unique. “I mean, this could be any airport, right?”

“Wrong,” Hutch said, standing close to Starsky and nudging him with his elbow. “We’re forty-eight hundred miles from home. That makes it special right there. But wait until you see the city; its indigenous people are quite unique.”

“Whatever ‘indigenous’ means.”

“Natives.”

“Like Indians?”

“Are you okay?”

“I told you I don’t feel good.”

“You didn’t drink enough water before you left.”

How that played into Starsky’s ailment, he couldn’t figure out. He shrugged it off as just another stupid thing Hutch believed about homeopathic remedies. He did notice that a few women in his close proximity were dressed in decorative, bulky, colorful skirts, flat black shoes, wool sweaters, and bowler hats—an interesting, maybe even fascinating, combination—but he could only feel lightheaded and groggy at the same time and they dulled his senses. “Is that how you know they’re Indians?” he asked, nudging Hutch in return when he finally decided he understood Hutch’s observation. “Their hats and stuff?”

“Natives, I said,” Hutch corrected him, reaching for a bag off the cart when it arrived. “They’re the people who originate from here.”

Starsky stood back and let Hutch grab their combined five pieces of luggage while he took a closer look around him. “Oh, I see what you’re saying.” It was just those few women he had first observed because they were the most uniquely colorful, but the men, too, were dressed nicely; some wore ponchos with more traditional, low-brimmed cowboy hats, but overall, the view wasn’t all that different—except that he couldn’t help but notice how dark-skinned the ‘natives’ were, that they were primarily much shorter on average than Americans and other Caucasians in the airport, but with rounder faces and bigger smiles. “They’re kind of like Mexicans,” he noted when Hutch finished collecting their bags and stood beside him again.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Hutch advised him. “Mexico is in another continent.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You take those two bags,” Hutch kindly ordered, pointing to the largest one and to the smallest, “and I’ll take the other three. Can you handle them okay?”

Starsky agreed only because it seemed like a balanced trade. “I’m just glad you didn’t bring all the shit you took on our last trip. What changed your mind about the stuff you left at home?”

“We never got around to playing tennis last time, so why bring the racket?” Hutch said, sounding half-interested in the conversation as he gently pushed Starsky to the exit. “That, and I think it’ll be more fun to take ‘shit’ back than to bring ‘shit’ here.” He obviously mocked Starsky’s word choice.

Starsky eventually allowed Hutch to lead the way to the outside—and to create a path for him in the crowded hallway—but each step he took made him feel weaker and more anxious about his nausea. El Alto International Airport was nothing like the one they’d arrived from; it wasn’t as packed with passengers coming to or from their destinations, and it didn’t have the usual restaurants and souvenir stores, which made it seem less hassled, too. “What did you say made this airport different?” Did Hutch say it was special because of how far it was from home?

“It’s the highest airport in the world,” Hutch said, holding the door open for Starsky to pass to the sidewalk. “Did you not read anything about this place before we came down here?”

“I was busy planning all the spots we’ll visit.”

“Without knowing anything about them first?”

“I went by my gut,” Starsky explained with a roll of his eyes at himself, and added, “and right now my gut isn’t all that happy with me.”

“You need some water,” Hutch reiterated. He motioned for a taxi and one pulled up. “When we get to the hotel, you should drink some—a lot, I mean. Flush your system. Hydrate.”

“How do you figure that helps me?” Starsky wondered, letting Hutch pile their luggage into the car’s medium-sized trunk and two of their smaller bags into the front seat. “You think I’m dehydrated?”

“Too much champagne,” Hutch told him. He grabbed Starsky by his arm and pushed him into the back seat, crawling in behind him. “You didn’t do any of the things I advised you to do so this place wouldn’t drain you like it already has.”

“What things, Captain Hindsight?”

“Sleep. Eat well. Drink lots of water.”

Starsky slumped against the car door as the driver stepped on the accelerator. Hutch told the man where they wanted to go, and exchanged a few other words—all in Spanish, and none that Starsky understood except the ‘thank you’ parts. He closed his eyes and could see his head swimming from the inside. Water? What he was experiencing was something he couldn’t believe any drug or consumption could cure. Only when a casual silence fell over them—because Hutch was excitedly watching out his window at the passing scenery—did Starsky realize his breathing was also labored. “Is it something I ate, Hutch?”

“It’s the altitude,” Hutch said, matter-of-factly. “We’re at thirteen thousand feet—and you didn’t do anything to prepare for it.”

“You’re saying I can’t breathe?”

“The air is thin. You’re not getting enough oxygen. When we—”

Starsky sat up, feeling alarmed and suddenly scared. “Am I going to die, Hutch?”

Hutch pulled Starsky over into his lap, so his head rested on Hutch’s knee, and soothingly rubbed Starsky’s shoulder. “You’re not going to die, Starsk. When we get to the hotel, you’re going to drink lots of water and rest.”

“I thought you said not to drink water down here.”

“I said not to drink unboiled water. And don’t drink any water that you didn’t have to break the seal of a bottle to open. Are you hearing me?”

“I think so. But watch out for me, okay?”

“I won’t let you out of my sight.”

Starsky closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his breath. His head had begun to hurt and the nausea simmered in his belly. “Is the air going to be better in the city?”

“Not by much.”

“How long am I going to be sick?”

“Every breath you take—if you don’t exert yourself and you rest and drink water and follow my instructions—will be one breath closer to feeling better.”

“Aren’t you feeling sick?”

“I feel it, Starsky. It’s not a pleasant feeling, but I took all the necessary precautions before we came down here, so it’s not affecting me like it is you.” He gently brushed Starsky’s hair with his fingers to ease the pain in Starsky’s head. “Take it easy, buddy.”

“Be careful,” Starsky warned Hutch between slow breaths. “That guy’s going to think we’re fags and he and his buddies are going to beat the crap out of us.”

Hutch said something to the driver in Spanish, and was answered in kind, none of which Starsky understood. When their short conversation ended, he pried Hutch for the translation.

“I told him my brother is sick from the altitude,” Hutch translated, continuing to comb Starsky’s hair.

“Your brother?”

“That’s exactly how the driver reacted,” Hutch replied with a light laugh, “so I told him we have different mothers.”

“And he believed you?”

“Wouldn’t you? I mean, how else would you explain this openly affectionate physical contact between two grown American men in a South American third-world country heavy into religion, huh, Starsk?”

Starsky tried a laugh. He knew that’s what Hutch wanted from him, to know he’d cheered his partner, but Starsky couldn’t quite express a laugh while immersed in his unexpected vulnerability. He opened his eyes, looked up at Hutch’s face while the car sped toward the city of La Paz, waited for his ‘brother’ to hear his silent call, and—when their eyes finally met—asked Hutch for a favor. “Don’t go home without me, okay, partner?”

“Stop worrying. You’re going to be fine.”

“I mean, if I get sick, but you still want to sightsee—”

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Starsky compelled Hutch with his eyes, not just his voice. “But all the same . . . don’t leave me here for any reason, okay?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Promise?”

“My solemn word,” Hutch said, squeezing Starsky closer for emphasis. “I’d never leave you behind. That’s not who we are.”

* * *

“You have to eat something, Starsky,” Hutch insisted. “You’ve barely had anything in your stomach for nearly 24 hours.”

“It took us half that long to get here,” Starsky calculated, figuring the travel time didn’t count toward his seemingly worsened condition. He lay on his back on the twin bed in their hotel room, the one nearest the window, and covered his eyes in the bend of his elbow to block out the mid-morning light. He’d never gotten under the blankets, nor undressed for sleep, of which he got little, and certainly nowhere near enough to make him feel refreshed and energized. “I’d rather be on a boat,” he mumbled, still feeling nauseated and groggy. “I don’t think I’d feel this sick.”

“Did I tell you that you’ll feel better if you follow my instructions?”

“I’ve been drinking water,” Starsky reminded him. “But have you noticed I haven’t had to pee all that much?”

“I wasn’t keeping track.”

“Well, it’s not making this shit go away. And I can’t eat anything. I’ll probably throw it up.”

“It’s a risk worth taking.”

Starsky didn’t know it for certain, but he felt Hutch’s presence on the bed across from his, probably sitting and facing him, already dressed and ready for breakfast, looking rested and . . . handsome. But not even that enticed Starsky enough to drop his arm and open his eyes. “What if you sucked me, hm, Hutch? That would ease the pain.”

“No can do.”

“Because I won’t eat anything?”

“Because the last thing you need is to exert yourself—or have you forgotten how much oxygen a good come requires?”

Starsky grunted. “At least I’ll die a happy man.”

“You’re not going to die—despite that you’ve got two things working against you.”

“What’s one?”

“Altitude sickness.”

“And the other?”

“How you’re feeling about having altitude sickness. Stop worrying. Other than rest and taking it easy, that’s all you can do right now. What time is it?”

Starsky couldn’t bear to lift his arm, let alone open his eyes to read his wristwatch. He wanted something other than Hutch’s words, but all he seemed to get were more of them. The notion pushed him into his unwillingness. “When are you going to get a watch of your own, Mr. Future Man?”

“Never. I’ve never really liked them, and I stopped wearing them years ago, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, but that’s not my problem. It’s yours.”

“They don’t fit me like they do you. They’re always sliding back on my arm.”

“You can adjust them.”

“Like I never tried that.”

“You got girl’s arms or something?”

“They won’t stay on my wrist,” Hutch reiterated, sounding annoyed that he had to. “Just tell me the time, will you?”

Starsky didn’t budge. “Maybe you need to buy a girl’s watch then.” He heard Hutch get off his bed—as predicted—and lean over Starsky to grab his arm and pull his watch into view. Starsky had no choice but to open his eyes then—and look right into Hutch’s beautiful face—also something he could have predicted. “You look good enough to eat,” he noted, forgetting for half a minute that his head continued to reel and his stomach to churn and his breathing to feel shallow. “I mean, you do want me to eat something, right?”

“As much as I’d like to oblige you, sick boy, I’m going to tell you this again: you don’t want to make things worse by exerting yourself. It’s a quarter to ten,” he added, dropping Starsky’s arm. “I’m going to go down and see if I can’t find a remedy for what ails you.”

“Like a tank of oxygen?”

“If I can,” Hutch promised. He straightened, hands on hips, gazed down at Starsky, and seemed to melt with empathy for his troubled partner. “I’m sorry you’re feeling like shit.”

“Thanks, pal,” Starsky affectionately replied. He wished Hutch would make him feel better the sure-fire method, but he understood why he wouldn’t. Starsky didn’t feel punished; he did feel cared for—and loved. Hutch’s admiration and wanting Starsky was all right there on that man’s perfect face, in those blue eyes, in that deep concern that lay behind them. “You’re beautiful, you know that, Hutch?”

Hutch traded his sympathy for shyness and briefly looked away. When he made eye contact again, he said, “It takes beauty to see beauty.”

Starsky put out his hand. “I can’t wait to feel well enough to enjoy us again.”

“It won’t be long,” Hutch said, taking Starsky’s fingers in his and gently squeezing them. “But let’s see if we can move it along, okay? I’m going to go find what I can to help you.”

Hutch was warm to the touch, alive and responsively affectionate. Starsky knew his partner wanted to do what he could to ease his altitude sickness, but he wished Hutch would take a minute to first lie with him on the bed, hold him in his strong arms, feel him close and intimately, listen to him breathe for both of them; those kinds of moments alone would comfort Starsky. He didn’t even want to let go of Hutch’s hand. It would be so easy if Hutch would just take off his jeans and his black sweater—and then undress Starsky, so they could—

“Later,” Hutch said, reading Starsky’s mind. “You’re going to need endurance for that.”

Obviously, Hutch’s anxiousness to make his sick friend well would only get in the way of Starsky’s fantasy and lend itself to a less than gratifying union. Besides, the bed was a twin, and Starsky could barely move.

“You’ll come back, right, Hutch? You’re not going to leave me here.”

Hutch gently wiggled Starsky’s hand, as if to snap him out of his fear. “C’mon,” he said, finally releasing their hand-hold, “you know better than that, love-of-my-life. And when I come back, we’ll make you feel like a brand-new man.” He walked to the door. “Focus on deep, slow breaths while I’m gone, okay?”

They gazed at each other from across the small room, sharing that years-long nonverbal dialogue that spoke volumes between them, the reaffirmation of their commitment and promises to each other, and then they broke into soft smiles—Starsky out of gratitude, Hutch from that deep part of his soul where his loyalty lay.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a drag,” Starsky told him. They had such plans, a mountain of explorations and experiences to last them a lifetime over the next two weeks. It was a long way to Bolivia, a journey into a strange new world, one steeped in history and culture, into something completely different from what they were accustomed, but how it ended up making Starsky feel so vulnerable and paranoid, he would never have guessed. “It’s just the altitude, right? I mean, I didn’t get food poisoning on the plane or anything, you don’t think, do you?” He trusted Hutch to have the answer.

“We had the same food on the plane,” Hutch reminded him. “If you were poisoned, you’d be throwing up by now, and I’d be feeling like you are. It’s altitude, buddy. We’re at twelve thousand feet, a far cry from the 500 feet above sea level that you’re used to. You need to acclimate: rest, take it easy, breathe deeply and drink water. La Paz isn’t going anywhere.”

“Can you get a couple of those bottled waters while you’re downstairs? I’m almost done with this one.”

“There’s half a dozen more in my suitcase. Help yourself. I’ll be back as soon as you can say altiplano.”

Before Starsky could even decipher what word he’d heard, Hutch winked at him, and then he left the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

* * *

It was an abrupt gulp for oxygen that woke Starsky from his punch-drunk sleep. His eyes shot open as he sucked thin air into his lungs and felt the adrenaline wash over him. He didn’t recognize the ceiling’s beige color, nor its wooden beams, but he was perceptive enough to hear the silence and to know he was alone in the room. His self-aware isolation gave him the strength to lift his arm, check his watch through dopey eyes, and read the time. It had been nearly an hour since Hutch had left him.

“Hutch?!”

Starsky bolted upright on the bed, swung his legs over the mattress, and—despite his sluggish effort—was able to awkwardly climb to his feet. Something had to be wrong and he was determined to save the day.

In that same pulse beat, the bedroom door immediately opened and Hutch stood poised inside its casing.

For what felt like an eternity to Starsky, they stared wordlessly at each other, paralyzed by their unexpected, respective views: Starsky alarmed, but still visibly weak from mountain sickness, and Hutch obviously startled to find Starsky in a momentary flight of panic. When he seemed to realize Starsky was simply afraid his partner wouldn’t return and was about to search for him, Hutch closed the door, and calmly said, “I told you I’d be back.”

“A while ago,” Starsky reminded him, sounding as annoyed as he felt as his blood drained to his feet and his body burned off its unspent energy. He eased himself to the mattress again and rubbed his face. “You’ve been gone an hour,” he punishingly noted.

“So, in other words, I did come back.”

“But what took you so long?”

“I had a lot to do.”

Starsky looked up and noticed the paper bag tucked in Hutch’s arm. “I hope that isn’t food. I can’t eat or I’m going to be sick.”

“Despite that,” Hutch said, sitting beside Starsky on the bed and gently leaning into him, “you’re going to have to eat something or I’ll have no choice but to force-feed you.” He took a small loaf of fresh-baked sourdough bread out of the bag and placed it in Starsky’s hands. “It’s as close to crackers as I could find,” he explained. “It’ll help ease the nausea.” He then handed Starsky a store-bought bottle of orange juice and told him to be sure to drink all of it. “And, if you can manage it, eat some fruit, too.” He gave Starsky the bag. “But you have to eat something. Watching me eat dinner last night at the restaurant does not a meal make.”

“I don’t think you’re hearing me.”

“I don’t think you’re listening,” Hutch said, giving Starsky a squeeze around his shoulders. “I’m telling you what will make you feel better.”

“You were gone an hour to get me bread and juice?”

“It wasn’t an hour.”

“Damn near one.”

“I spent most of the time doing research—geographical and logistical. The doctor in me.”

“The doctor or the detective?”

“Good catch. A little of both. But, given that English is barely spoken in this country, it took longer than I’d hoped.”

Starsky looked into the bag and spied a couple of ripe bananas, a few things resembling small tangerines, except they were green, and what appeared to be off-red, egg-shaped, “Tomatoes?”

“Tamarillos,” Hutch said.

“Spanish for tomatoes?”

“Spanish for tamarillos.”

“Tomatoes.”

“Close enough. But sweeter. Try one. It doesn’t matter, Starsk. Eat the bread, drink the juice, try some fruit. Let’s keep you hydrated and give you some fuel. Then take a shower.”

Starsky wondered why bathing was required as a treatment for altitude sickness, and innocently asked, “Why do I have to do that?”

“Because you haven’t had one in forty-eight hours—and you love me, don’t you?”

Starsky sneered at him, but he was grateful for the guidance. His headache still plagued him. “And that’s all? Eat and drink and wash up?”

“That’s not all,” Hutch explained. He left Starsky to his tasks, hoisted one of their suitcases onto the neighboring bed, and unzipped it. “While you’re doing what I told you to do, I’m going to pack us an overnight bag.”

“We’re going somewhere?”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Coroico, a small village on the other side of the mountain.”

“Corkville?”

“Coroico,” Hutch reiterated with a sad chuckle at Starsky’s attempt to repeat what he’d heard. He rummaged through the suitcase and selected specific items from it, tossed them onto the mattress, and switched out the suitcases for his next search. “It’s less than half the altitude of La Paz,” he explained, when he realized the clarification was necessary. “We’ll spend a couple of days there—and you’ll be a new man in no time.”

Relief washed over Starsky when he heard those magic words—and that the plan was evidently a sound one. He popped the lid of his juice bottle and drank from it with renewed optimism. “How we gonna get there?”

“I have a car coming in about thirty minutes. That’s my logistics success.”

“And how long will it take to get there?”

“About three hours. More of my geography lesson.”

“So I’m going to be sick for three hours? I mean, can’t I eat this stuff when I get to the other side?”

“You’ll be feeling better an hour into the ride,” Hutch promised. “We’ll be over the mountain by then. So, c’mon, buddy, follow Dr. Hutchinson’s orders, and let’s get you right side up again.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Starsky said, but first he tore a piece of bread from the loaf with his teeth, chewed it with some gusto, and washed it down with a long swallow of juice. “I love how you take care of me, Hutch.”

“Because I love you,” Hutch said, as if the reason was apparent, but he said it anyway. He continued to busy himself with his overnight bag packing. “And I love you more than life itself.”

Starsky felt so outside of his element: he was altitude sick, hadn’t eaten in days, had traveled a long way to a culture and a country he couldn’t have fully envisioned despite how much he thought he knew about it beforehand, and he didn’t fluently know or speak the language. “Yeah, but just the same, I mean,” he said, spurred by his vulnerability and emphatic in his sentiment, “you’re so good to me. I’d be up shit’s creek without you.”

“Ditto, darling,” Hutch said in a singsong voice. “Ditto.”

* * *

Nothing came out of his stomach despite how certain he was that something would. Starsky was bent over, holding his knees to keep from dropping to them, head down and eyes closed, trying to catch a breath, and retching on the side of the road without any success in relieving his nausea, dizzy, and pain. He resented the car that had pulled onto the gravel road behind their stopped cab, as if he were some sort of circus clown purposed to amuse them, and he hated the bus that had done likewise ahead of them. Were Bolivians so drawn to the misery of another human being that they would stop to closely gawk?

He heard the stepping crunch of pulverized rock beneath Hutch’s shoes as his partner quickly left the cab and closed in on him. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” he heard Hutch say when Hutch knelt beside him, held his arm for balance, and soothingly rubbed his back through his jacket. “We’re trying to get you to lower elevation as fast as we can.”

Starsky appreciated the effort. “But I’m feeling worse,” he confessed, pausing to dry heave before he could close his mouth, more tightly shut his eyes, wish Hutch would fix it for him. His legs felt weak and his head hurt. He’d been doing what Hutch had instructed: drinking what seemed like gallons of water and eating what little he could. Still, Coroico and its relief felt a lifetime away.

“You might be worse,” Hutch said, not facetiously. “We’ve had to go over a mountain to get this far.”

They’d just passed a short-run line of vendors on the cliff side of the road, a sort of refuel-for-food, bathroom, and water pitstop, situated on a slope that seemed to be taking them higher. Starsky had hoped to find a toilet in which to get sick, as he imagined he would, but the public restroom was just an enclosure of cement walls with a hole in the ground. The stench would make anyone sick—and he simply couldn’t stand the added insult to his senses. He’d walked a few yards up the road before the sensation of vomiting overtook him—that, and his dizziness was more acute; he stumbled into the bent-over position he was then in, one he never thought he’d get out of.

“How much longer?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

“A couple of hours. Why don’t you go to the car and lie down in the back seat? Don’t give your brain more to deal with than it can handle right now.”

Starsky would be exactly where he was then: feeling nauseous, dizzy, with a pounding headache, weak in the knees and resentful, but at least he wouldn’t have to move; Hutch’s was a good idea. “What’s with these people?” he asked, about the car parked behind them and the bus that had pulled off ahead of them, having not heard either of those vehicles drive away. “Is this funny to them?”

Hutch squeezed Starsky’s arm and continued to caress his back. “We’re at a fork in the road,” he explained, easing Starsky’s emotional concern with every word he spoke, “and people pull over to talk to other people about the road conditions ahead.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because the bus driver was asking our cab driver if he had any news to report on accidents, in particular. I guess the ‘superhighway’ over the pass isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Oh, lucky me.”

“All the more reason you should get in the back seat, lie down, keep your eyes closed, and let us get you to healthier ground. You’re not going to be sick. There isn’t anything left in your stomach—of the little you ate. It just feels like it.”

“It’s a shitty feeling, Hutch.”

“I’m sure it is. C’mon. Let’s get this going.”

Starsky let Hutch lift him to standing and to walk him back to the car. He recalled another instance where he’d been so weak and sickened—because of a poison-filled syringe that had punctured his arm. Hutch had to walk him to a safe place to sit. That turned out all right in the long run. Maybe this would, too. In the end, Starsky had no choice but to trust Hutch’s direction. “All that water I drank,” he observed, “and I still haven’t had to pee like a racehorse. How come?”

“Because you’ve needed it,” Hutch assumed, opening the back seat car door for him and helping him into the vehicle. “Your body is using it and that’s a good thing.”

Hutch got into the front seat once Starsky was situated, and immediately began talking to the cab driver in Spanish. Starsky couldn’t understand most of the words they used, but he did sense that the young driver was concerned about him; the worry came through in his voice. His and Hutch’s conversation was lengthy, too, and made Starsky anxious about getting on the road. A couple more hours of sickness he could maybe handle, but waiting to get to it was excruciating.

The small car then lurched forward, jostling him on the back seat as he tried to get comfortable and not fall to the floor. His height was too long for the width he had available, so he scrunched against the plastic upholstery and turned his face into the rear cushion, closing his eyes. “Wake me when we get there, Hutch,” he sarcastically said, knowing he couldn’t sleep, and knowing Hutch knew he couldn’t. “I don’t want to miss Paradise.”

“We’ve had a change of plans,” Hutch replied, turning in his seat to talk to Starsky; he gripped Starsky’s jeans-covered ankle—a steadying and soothing contact they both appreciated. “Raul wanted to know what was wrong with you and, when I told him it was altitude sickness, he explained that we’d be better off going to. . .” He paused, presumably made some sort of eye speak with the driver, and then said, as if finally remembering and in unison with him, “Yanacachi.”

“Oh, good,” Starsky joked with a groan, though not feeling amused, “another town name I can’t remember to pronounce.”

“He said the road over the mountain is actually going to get higher—about two thousand feet higher—and that will only make you sicker. It’s a dangerous road, too, he said, and therefore not for the faint of heart—or stomach. He says if we take the right fork here instead of the left, we’ll immediately drop into a narrow valley; we’ll follow a river to a similar, but smaller village. You’ll be under 10,000 feet in less than half an hour, and at 6,000 by the time we reach town.”

“Six thousand is good?”

“Anything under eight is good, but 10,000 is better than the fifteen we were about to reach and the thirteen we’re at now. Hang in for 30 minutes, partner, and you’ll be a new man.”

“Sweet relief.” In fact, Starsky already felt it: just knowing he would feel better sooner than later alleviated his apprehension. “Hey, Hutch? You know all them words in Spanish to have figured that out with this guy?”

“We used a lot of hand gestures,” Hutch said with a light laugh, “and he knows a few English words. Altitude sickness is common around here and—lucky for us—you needed out of the car when you did. He wouldn’t have known to do something different to get you feeling better faster and, once on that dangerous road, he said it’s nearly impossible to turn around.”

* * *

Damn, if that blond boy hadn’t been right.

Starsky first heard himself gulp a breath, as if he’d just been let up from being held under water, and quickly opened his eyes with the confirming realization that he was still miraculously alive. But he was more aware of the relief that washed through his veins than figuring out where he was at that moment. A weight had mercifully been lifted and he was able to breathe deeply—repeatedly doing so with gusto.

From where he lay on his back across the car seat, he noticed the lush green foliage out the window that created a wall of vegetation on the mountain side of the road—an endless sweep of green as it passed by—as high as it was long. Only through the rear window could he see clear blue sky.

The vehicle that carried him moved at an interchanging slow-to-medium speed, depending on whether it rounded a curve—of which there were many—and Starsky sometimes struggled to keep his balance, using the back of Hutch’s seat to steady himself and occasionally dropping his hand to the floor to keep from rolling off the bench. Neither man in the front of the car was speaking; they’d either run out common words between them, or Hutch had fallen asleep.

When he felt his strength return, Starsky eventually sat up; he was about to say something to his partner—to let him know he was awake—but the view through the windshield and the one outside the passenger window took his breath away in an entirely different way. Before him, the rock-packed dirt road was exceptionally narrow, wide enough only for a single car. Rainwater pooled in numerous potholes and, in some areas, it completely poured across their pathway, as if it had recently rained from a cloudless sky. The truth was that the wall of green he’d noticed when he first opened his eyes was actually a rainforest.

But what was most striking was the view out of the passenger window: like a scene from a movie, the earth opened up alongside them, seemingly ripped apart by the swollen river below, one that snaked its way through a mountainous terrain covered in trees so dense that it would be impossible to navigate through them on foot.

The road’s elevation was roughly a quarter mile from the valley floor, dropping sharply in some places, sloping upward in others. Were it not for the driver’s obvious experience and intense focus on maneuvering the car along the road without missing a turn, Starsky would have thought he and Hutch had paid for an extra thrill on an exclusive Disney ride—and he himself hated roller coasters.

“Holy shit,” he swore just above the engine noise.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Hutch quipped, as if Starsky had admired the view and not been taken aback by it. “Talk about a world far from ours, huh, buddy?”

“And this is the better road? All he has to do is a miss a turn and—”

“That other road we were going to take is ten times higher and there’d be no walking away from a fall off of it.”

“You think we’d survive a fall from here?”

“More trees, I hear, to break the momentum.”

“You and your silver lining shit.”

Hutch reached behind his seat to gently squeeze Starsky’s calf. “I need you to stay calm.”

“I’m feeling real good, Hutch,” Starsky promised, clasping Hutch’s warm fingers and expressing his gratitude in the touch. “I can breathe again—so, as long as Mario Andretti stays on the road, I’ll be all right.”

Hutch eventually and gently ended their contact, patted Starsky’s leg, and returned his hand to his lap as Starsky noticed that the cab driver hadn’t seen the physical affection between them because he was preoccupied by his driving on such a perilous mountain road. Hutch had apparently known he was safe to show his fondness for another man in that instance, explaining his private and loving gesture.

Not able to take his eyes off the spectacular scenery, Starsky also needed to know his prognosis. “How much longer before we get to the village?”

“About an hour,” Hutch said. He turned in his seat to look at Starsky, flashing him a sincere smile and a friendly wink when their eyes met, having raised his sunglasses to his forehead so they could see each other without a filter. “We’re probably under eight thousand feet by now and we’re about to drop much closer to the river. Your color is back, and you look good.”

“It’s like a miracle,” Starsky claimed. “I don’t feel sick and I’m not dizzy. My head doesn’t hurt, either. It all went away, just like that.”

“Funny how that oxygen thing works, huh?”

“I think it’s overrated.”

“You mean underrated.”

“Oh, right. That’s definitely what I meant,” Starsky said, realizing his mistake, and laughing lightly at himself. “Maybe I’m not as clear-headed as I think I am.”

“Are you ever?”

Starsky noticed the sparkle in Hutch’s blues eyes, despite the man’s razzing him, and that his partner was both relieved for his buddy’s wellness and happy for his return to the living. “I hear you,” Starsky said, to answer the admiration he saw shining at him.

“Ditto, Starsk.”

“But look at that, man,” Starsky replied, distracted again by the view outside his window. “That’s some serious canyon stuff going on out there.”

“You missed the best part. We had to serpentine from the highway to the elevation we’re at now and it was no picnic, even for me. We owe this guy a meal when we get to town.”

“If we live to get there.”

“Beats the odds of being shot during a routine stakeout, doesn’t it?”

Starsky smirked. “I don’t know; does it? But how does another car, coming the opposite direction, get past us?”

“Oh, those are fun moments, too, which I’m sure you’ll get to experience before this ride is over. One car has to back to where the road is wide enough. Like I said . . . we owe this guy more than his asking price.”

“I’m glad neither one of us is behind the wheel.”

“Especially you,” Hutch joked.

Starsky playfully snarled at him. “Do you think you’ll be nice to me before this trip is over?”

“You bet I will,” Hutch said with conviction—and another wink.

Its implication broke through Starsky’s mock annoyance and he couldn’t help but smile—and feel excited, too. He looked back out the window to stall his immediate arousal and was overwhelmed again by the picture. “It’s amazing, the places where people live, hm, Hutch?”

Spring in Bolivia, in that part of the country, was cool and moist and low in humidity, despite the sunshine and the altitude, or maybe because of them. He was glad Hutch had insisted they wear jackets and that they brought sweaters and other cold air clothing on their trip—including rainwear. His partner had thought of everything.

Hutch turned away to enjoy the view, too. “And they don’t know anything different. This landscape is what’s normal for them.” He then spoke a few words to Raul, and was answered with, “Sí, sí, bueno.”

Two words Starsky understood. “Yes, yes, good.” And that sounded comforting. But a few minutes later, Raul pulled the car over to the edge of the road, on its cliff side, and killed the engine.

“What’s wrong?” Starsky wondered, immediately alarmed.

“Nothing,” Hutch quickly said. “I asked him if we could stop for a couple of minutes and he found a place where we can do that. C’mon . . . but use the other door, okay? You get out on THIS side and we’ll have to find a helicopter to pluck you out of the river.”

“You’re not funny,” Starsky mumbled, but given his still-muffled mind, he appreciated the guidance. He slid across the bench seat to the driver’s side to leave the car, stumbling over the duffle bag Hutch had packed for them, as Raul and Hutch exited likewise from the front.

Once outside, and without the noise of car tires over rocky terrain, the ambiance was alive with the sounds of nature: birds in fully leafed trees, the flow of water from the river below, insects and other invisible crawlies making their presence known with clacks and vibrations, and even the lifting mist of the air itself was melodic. They reminded Starsky of his two-month stay on Tetepare—except that Hutch was with him here, so the need to be anywhere else didn’t exist.

Despite his fear of heights and the apparent real danger, Starsky was compelled to stay rooted where he was beside Hutch—at the edge of the road that overlooked the river valley below. The beauty was stunning and the surrealness of their reality at that moment overshadowed his phobia.

“Is this where we jump, Butch?”

“You’re Butch,” Hutch righted him. “I’m Sundance.”

“Whatever, Hopalong. But you missed my point.”

“After you,” Hutch replied, gesturing to the vast openness before them, as if inviting Starsky to make the first unencumbered leap.

That’s when it struck Starsky, when the emotion of the moment rose to greet him and immediately pushed tears into his eyes. He saw Hutch notice the amazement that had suddenly swept over him; it was there in Hutch’s reactive expression of concern, the cock of his head. Starsky quickly explained.

“Look at us, Hutch. We’re standing in the middle of nowhere, on a crazy mountain road we’ll be lucky to survive, joking about jumping into the river the way those guys did, right here in the jungles of Bolivia.”

Hutch’s face softened when he realized Starsky wasn’t in trouble, but sentimentalizing. “Except the movie was filmed in Mexico.”

Starsky knew better than to believe Hutch had dismissed the wonderment of his feelings; Hutch downplayed them in that instance because they weren’t alone at the edge of a mountain road in the jungles of Bolivia, despite that Raul was beside and behind Starsky, admiring the view with them, and couldn’t see Starsky’s emotion when Starsky faced Hutch. Hutch was simply being careful, that was all. He was, as he’d often been, the voice of reason when Starsky withered or weakened under the softness of his sweet observations or lost cognizance of his own safety.

But Starsky also took advantage of that scenario: that he was safeguarded by the amazing experience they were having. To Hutch, and without words, he verbalized what had swelled in his heart. “Thank you for this unbelievable place I find myself: seeing this gorgeous river canyon in the heart of a Bolivian rainforest, this far from home and yet right where home has always been: beside you. I can’t thank you enough for taking care of me when I got so sick and forgiving me for losing time and changing our sightseeing plans. Your patience with me and your unconditional friendship is tested again and again and, again and again, you rise to it. You’re my friend, my hero, my soul, and no matter how sick or scared I get, you’re the only one whose arms I want to die in.”

He saw Hutch swallow—as if he’d been emotionally touched, having heard everything Starsky had conveyed to him in the dialogue that spoke from their eyes—and then he gave Starsky a slight nod, to tell him he’d tallied every silent word.

I love you, Ken Hutchinson, Starsky added, savoring Hutch’s beauty, too: his blue eyes and his translucent blond hair, his muscled build and his apparent maleness, his formidable height and his protective closeness. More than life itself. He expressed that love and those very words purely through the fondness in his eyes.

“Ditto,” Hutch said quietly, actually speaking, and not leaving eye contact, not even to assess Raul’s proximity to them or his attention, if there’d been any. “Ditto.”

It would be a word they’d come to use throughout the rest of their lives—when they found themselves in moments like that one, overwhelmed by their feelings, but not in a safe place to openly share them, aware of their gratitude for each other and the specialness of their relationship—and that life was unique and precarious, especially theirs, which made what they had together all that more exceptional.

Hutch handed Starsky his camera, having obviously remembered to pack it for their unplanned trip to a remote village in the jungle. “Because I knew you’d want it,” he added to an unspoken question.

Starsky zipped his jacket to his neck when he felt cooler air touch him, took the camera from Hutch, and turned toward the valley, feeling safe and warm and connected to life, the world, and to Hutch especially, as he set his eyes again to the dazzling view before them.

* * *

“They’re kind of a little people, hm, Hutch?”

“Little people?”

“I mean . . . overall . . . they’re . . . little.”

He and Hutch sat at a small round table, half inside a local food stall and half into the dirt street. The only so-called traffic on the road, besides an abundance of pedestrians, was an occasional donkey-pulled wagon, laden with fruit. It had recently rained, lightly, as it was known to do in a tropical environment, and it kept the dust at bay. The sky was a clear, clean blue; not a single contrail overhead, dissolved or otherwise—nor would there ever be.

Starsky had let Hutch order food for them—which became an eclectic assortment of breads, beans, fruit, grains, and potatoes—with various seasonings and sauces. None of their edibles were specifically familiar in appearance or texture, but they were tasty and filling, and Starsky understood the families to which the ingredients were related. A potato was a potato, after all, whether it was from Idaho or from Yanacachi, Bolivia, even if they didn’t exactly look alike.

“Do you think maybe it’s this village?” he wondered—when all he got from Hutch was a reprimanding glare from the corner of his eye. “I don’t remember people being this small in the city.”

“You were oxygen-deprived.”

“Okay. So they’re little everywhere then, right?”

“If what you’re asking is whether the average Bolivian is overall shorter than—”

“Well, I mean, do you think I’m being radical to ask that?”

“Radical isn’t the word you’re looking for.”

Starsky swallowed his mouthful of food and wiped his lips with a napkin before he enunciated his question with the contempt he mustered. “What word am I looking for, smart ass?”

“Racist.”

“You think I’m being racist?”

“I didn’t say that. I said that’s the word you were looking for.”

“Well, am I?”

“Are you, what?”

“A racist.”

Hutch chuckled at him and continued to focus on his meal. He sure was beautiful, Starsky noted—again—but Hutch could be quite the pain in the butt sometimes, too.

“Are you listening to me?” Starsky whined.

“Trying to.”

“What’s so hard to hear?”

“It’s not the hearing; it’s the deciphering.”

Out of frustration, Starsky asked more forcefully. “Am I racist?”

“No.”

“Then why I was looking for that word?”

“Because asking about a race of people isn’t radical.”

“What you’re saying is, that my asking if you think they’re little people is being racist.”

Hutch set down his knife, made eye contact with Starsky, and patronized him with the tone of his voice. “You’re not racist, Starsk. All I wanted to do was structure the question you were asking, which was: ‘Do you think I’m being racist to notice that Bolivians are smaller people than the people I’m used to seeing in the States?’ The answer is, no; it’s not racist to notice that. You’re noticing a difference, that’s all; you’re not passing a judgement.”

Relieved, Starsky held contact with Hutch’s eyes to let him know he appreciated the answer more than he cared about the syntax or grammar or whatever proper word he was supposed to use—and then went after his original intention. “So, are they, do you think? I mean, they’re little, right? Little people?”

“Littler people, but not little people. I think the average Bolivian height is about five feet three.”

“Where’d you learn that? Encyclopedia Britannica?”

Hutch shook his head and broke eye contact to take his next bite. He spoke while he chewed. “You didn’t read a single book I bought about this country before we came down here, did you?”

“When I had you to read them and serve as my personal tour guide? What? Do I look like someone who’d waste my time on that?”

“Would it really have been a waste of time?”

“Well, yeah . . . when I have you to do it for us. Why be rependant?”

“You mean redundant.”

“Why talk to you at all when you rewrite my sentences?”

“You couldn’t even crack a cover, could you?”

“I knew you’d know it all.”

“Not even to look at pictures.”

“I planned on taking those.”

“After the fact.”

“Look, Hutch, I’m here now, aren’t I? I’ve survived altitude sickness and a harrowing mountain road to get right to this spot in this little town. And you’re pissed off because I didn’t read the Atlas.”

Hutch broke a quiet laugh, looked Starsky in the eye, bit his lip as if to keep himself from saying something he’d regret, and slightly shook his head, telling Starsky, without words, that he was simply amused, if he was anything.

“I’m sorry,” Starsky replied, hearing more than he’d provoked in his partner. “I guess I’m just feeling bad about ruining our plans.”

“They weren’t ruined. We’re enjoying the fresh air, the Bolivian music, the local faire, the visual differences in the people and the landscape, all of which is exotic and thrilling and exciting to behold.”

Starsky noticed the blue in Hutch’s eyes; they shimmered with the love he felt emanating from that man, despite the verbal underlying punishment he sensed from him. “You always did forgive me for everything.”

“Stop beating yourself up. I’m having a damn good time. Put your hang-ups away, Starsk, and join me. None of this is as good without you.”

“Okay, so you’re not mad at me.”

“Haven’t been and I’m not now.”

“And you don’t think I’m racist.”

“It’s not in you. Feel free to mark the differences.”

“So, you agree that Bolivians are little people.”

“Littler people, yes. Most of the world’s peoples are smaller overall. And then there’s you and me: above average.”

Starsky winked at him. “In more ways than one.”

“That’s my boy.”

“That’s your boy.”

Hutch repressed his smile and returned to eating. “Do you like the food?”

“It’s good,” Starsky said, feeling a different sort of weight lift from him. He was relieved Hutch didn’t harbor any bad feelings for having had to change their plans—and to have been the one to primarily do the work in those revisions. “I like the stuff you pick.”

They’d checked into the only hacienda in the village prior to lunch—a small room with twin beds, less than modest, but comfortable and safe. Just as Hutch dropped the only duffle bag he’d brought onto the closest mattress, Starsky blurted, “I’m hungry.”

It was the first time that day that Hutch had said, “That’s my boy.”

Leaving behind their overnight bag, and with his camera slung over his shoulder, Starsky led the way from the hacienda to the main street through town, which was on a slope along a dirt and cobblestone-in-patches road. Hardly anyone they met along the way spoke a single word of English, but they were able to convey their questions using hand gestures for a recommendation of the best place to eat.

“I feel like a monkey,” Starsky said later, about having to speak purely with his hands—and the occasional grunt. Luckily, for them both, Hutch knew enough Spanish words in his vocabulary to make up the difference, and they found the family-owned eatery without much searching. It also helped that Yanacachi was a very small village, even by Bolivian standards, that it was atop a hill, and surrounded by stunning views of lush, tree-covered mountains, vibrant flower gardens, and an assortment of fruit and vegetable orchards and plantations.

But the thing that had struck Starsky the most was what the people didn’t have—despite their unique reed-instrument music and their colorful clothes and stylized hats—which was just about everything he’d come to take for granted in America.

“I guess, like everybody, they got their share of shit, hm, Hutch? I mean, there has to be violence here, don’t you think? Arguments and robberies, and such?” He’d finished his meal, felt satisfied, had pushed away from the table to scan the scenery, watch the passersby, and verbalize his thoughts as they randomly came to him.

“There’s pain all over the world,” Hutch replied, as if in agreement. “Are you aching for a case?”

“Just noticing stuff.”

Starsky noticed his partner, too: his mussed blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, easy expression and sometimes smile. They were both dressed for cool weather—long-sleeved shirts under lightweight jackets, jeans and hiking boots. They were clean-shaven, nicely groomed, relaxed overall. Starsky watched Hutch finish his meal while his mind continued to reflect on disconnected musings.

“So, yeah,” he said, finally contemplating a direction, “these people got problems like everybody else has got problems—except they got bigger problems, too.”

“Like what?” Hutch asked, only slightly distracted while he continued to eat his meal.

“Like they ain’t rich.”

Hutch glanced at him to read whether Starsky had intended to be sarcastic, but he hadn’t.

“I mean, they’re downright poor, Hutch. I know you see what I see.”

“I knew it before we got down here.”

“Nobody in this town owns a car. They’re lucky to have a donkey.”

“They farm right here on the land around their homes.”

“How many people you think live here, hm?”

“About five or six hundred.”

“So they grow what they need . . . and they get water from the river—”

“And the rain.”

“And they make their houses out of mud, Hutch.”

“Adobe—it’s one of the oldest building materials in the world.”

“Mud, Hutch.”

“Mud, straw . . . and shit.”

“But you get my point, right? I mean, they don’t have the modern building materials. You said so yourself that the walls were thin at the hotel because they don’t have insulation.”

“Only as much as the wood panels provide.”

“I’ll bet they freeze in winter.”

“It doesn’t get that cold.”

Starsky scoffed. “Well, how cold would it have to get to freeze to death down here, hm, smart mouth?”

“To freeze to death? It’d have to be freezing, Einstein.”

“Okay, listen, I can see you don’t want a serious conversation with me.”

Hutch laughed. “But I do, buddy, I do. I think your blood still needs more oxygen, is all. You’re not thinking straight.”

Starsky finally giggled when he realized the context of the last few words they’d shared. Perhaps Hutch was right and he would need more time to get back to full normalcy. “How much longer, do you think?”

“By morning,” Hutch promised him, reading his mind—something Starsky only noticed a couple of minutes after he heard the answer. “We’re going to take a hike after lunch,” Hutch continued. “Get you breathing harder to fill you back up sooner.”

Starsky flashed his eyebrows at Hutch when they made eye contact again. “I can think of more fun ways to get me breathing harder sooner—much sooner,” he said in a low voice, and with a flirtatious snicker.

Hutch simply rolled his eyes, pushed away his plate, slumped back in his chair, and turned his attention to the street goings-on. “Here we are, Starsky,” he said whimsically, sounding satisfied, “in the heart of a tropical forest in the middle of Bolivia.”

“And I still haven’t seen a llama.”

“Llama,” Hutch corrected him, using the Spanish pronunciation. “Yaw-ma,” he repeated more slowly. “When in Rome. . .”

“Speak Spanish?”

“All you had to learn were a few basic words and—”

“I know some,” Starsky replied defensively. Granted, he didn’t necessarily know how to properly pronounce them, but he could get by in a pinch.

“I’m not talking about, ‘¿Está Ramón aquí?’-level Spanish,” Hutch commented, condescendingly.

“I never did pay you back for setting me up that night. How do you say, ‘fuck you’ in Spanish, hm?”

“Vete a la mierda,” Hutch said, lowering his voice and leaning in so only Starsky would hear him.

It was Starsky’s turn to laugh. He’d been bested, but he was all right with that. He loved the play. In reply, he didn’t miss a beat, and asked, “so how would you say in Spanish, ‘Right here or someplace else? Now or later?’”

* * *

Even by Starsky’s standards, the vista surrounding the small village was breathtaking: lush green, temperate, a rare blue sky without threat of rain, and deep valley gorges in every direction; Yanacachi sat on a mountain in a range of rainforest-covered mountaintops that dwarfed the one they were on.

On the outskirts of town, where the boys found themselves for a couple of reasons—one, that Starsky wanted to take pictures of the unique countryside, and two, because they were in search of an appropriate place to urinate—they found themselves first distracted by the stunning views.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Starsky said, standing beside Hutch while they surveyed the awe-inspiring landscape. “These people managed to build a little town right here on this godforsaken ridge and—from the looks of it—they used whatever was available for materials.”

“Explains the adobe,” Hutch said with reflection. “And the fresh food we had for lunch.”

“Makes you appreciate it more. I mean, it makes me appreciate it more anyway.”

Only then did Starsky realize Hutch had already begun to relieve himself on the valley side of the grass-covered dirt pathway behind the shops and services. Starsky expected that they would have found a more private area to do their business. He quickly looked around to make sure they weren’t being watched, but what he discovered simply humbled him: other men, a few, had also emerged from the street side of town to relieve themselves in the open along that relatively untraveled path.

“When in Bolivia,” Hutch whimsically told him with a wink, “just observe the local customs.” He had turned his back to the village and faced the ravine that sharply sloped down to the river—the one they’d followed by car from La Paz only hours earlier. When Hutch finished, he tucked his penis inside his jeans and zipped the fly. “Let’s hope we don’t take these bad habits back to the States.”

“Speak for yourself, you extortionist.”

“You mean exhibitionist—and I’m not that, either. I wasn’t flaunting myself.”

“But there are people around.”

“All doing the same thing. And nobody notices, Starsk. It’s everyday life around here. Indoor plumbing is a luxury most of these folks can’t afford.”

After he snapped several pictures of the gorgeous scenery with a fresh roll of film in his SLR camera, Starsky slung it over his shoulder by its strap, and handed Hutch the paper bag of fruit and nuts they’d purchased from a vendor after lunch. “Take this while I piss,” he said, unable to hold his bladder another minute. “I’m guessing, because you’re an Americano and not a Boliviano, that you want to watch.”

“You should take that bet. I haven’t seen your dick in days.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I wasn’t blaming you.”

Starsky pulled his penis free of his fly and aimed it into the knee-high grass to urinate. The closest person to him, other than Hutch, was far enough away to not distinguish the details—and Hutch was probably right: no one cared to notice because it was everyday behavior.

“Besides,” Hutch said, as if commenting on an unheard part of their conversation, and stepping near Starsky, “they’d be jealous as hell if they saw what you got there.” He took the camera off Starsky’s shoulder and walked several paces away.

“Don’t you dare,” Starsky warned him; he hadn’t been serious when he suggested Hutch could watch, let alone take pictures.

But Hutch focused on a few yellow flowers he’d apparently discovered growing nearby. Only when Starsky had finished relieving himself did Hutch aim the camera in his partner’s direction and begin triggering the shutter. “C’mon, Grizzly Adams,” Hutch encouraged him, “give us a smile.”

Starsky faced him, imagining the spectacular mountains as a backdrop, and tried a smile just for a picture’s sake. “That do it for you?”

“Something sincere would be better.”

Starsky tried again, that time showing teeth in his grin. Hutch always said he loved Starsky’s smile, that it was warm and friendly, inviting and beautiful.

“That’s it,” Hutch said, clicking off a couple frames before Starsky lost the moment. “I love your face.”

Starsky realized he’d subconsciously parted with a sincere smile when he remembered how much Hutch loved to see it. When he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful Hutch was, especially in the context of the impressive panorama of Bolivia’s rainforests, that he loved Hutch’s face—and a whole lot more of him—his smile broadened, and Hutch continued to snap pictures. “Let me take some of you,” Starsky suggested, tiring of the attention after a minute. “Don’t go using up all the film on my ugly mug. Have to save some of it for the la . . . for the . . . ya-mas—if there are any around here.”

“I’ve seen some.”

Astounded, Starsky asked, “You’ve seen some ya-mas?”

“Yeah. A bunch of them.”

“Where did you see some?”

The idea of laying eyes on a “bona fide llama,” alive and in-person, excited Starsky just to think about it. He repeated his question when Hutch lowered the camera and appeared inexplicably sheepish. “C’mon, cowboy. Where did you see some ya-mas? On the road this morning . . . while I was fighting for my life on the backseat of a Bolivian cab out to dump us in a river?”

“Well,” Hutch said, ignoring Starsky’s melodrama, but making playful eye contact with him, “for starters . . . I saw those guys earlier. . .” He slowly approached Starsky and pointed to a place not far behind his partner.

Starsky turned around—and was immediately wowed. Not some dozen feet from him was a herd of llamas lazily grazing on the vegetation along the road. His knees went weak and he blurted with a laugh, “Holy shit, Hutch!” There hadn’t been a couple of llamas behind him; there weren’t even a few. About seven or eight of the herbivores, in various colors and heights, some with halters, others with ear tassels, had emerged seemingly from thin air to where Starsky and Hutch had paused for a bathroom break and an unplanned sightseeing moment.

Starsky danced as he walked toward them. “Do you think they’ll attack me?” he asked, only as an afterthought, and sensing Hutch’s presence beside him. “I mean, do they bite and stuff?”

“Spit, I think,” Hutch said. “But only if you provoke them.”

“Look at that, Hutch: a whole pod of them.” He giggled like a boy in a toy store discovering the newest train set. “I want to touch one.” He was afraid the beasts would fear him, but instead, once he was within their proximity, they lifted their heads from grazing, and approached him in return. “Bury me in Bolivia, Hutch,” he joked. “And make sure it says, ‘Killed by ya-mas’ on my headstone.”

He was soon surrounded by the odd-looking creatures and noticed their large eyes and soft, buttery muzzles as they sniffed him and nibbled on his jacket. “Look at those eyelashes,” he marveled, hearing the shutter repeatedly releasing on his camera as Hutch snapped more pictures. “Long and black.”

“Like yours,” Hutch said.

Starsky giggled. He couldn’t see enough: their bobbing heads, long necks, upright, pointed ears, turned inward, the length of hair in their coats. He had to touch, and the animals didn’t shy away. “It’s so thick,” he observed aloud, expecting the wool to be softer than it was. He was surrounded by them. Their greeting was casual, relaxed, non-threatening—and they seemed as curious about him as he was about them.

“Give them some apples,” Hutch suggested, pushing the paper bag into Starsky’s arms, “but watch your fingers.”

“Hey, guys,” Starsky said, excited for the llamas as he reached into the bag, and produced an apple, “you like this? you like this?” He held the apple firmly while a llama took half of the apple in one bite. While it chewed, he offered the remaining piece of fruit to the next llama. “They like it, Hutch.”

“Hey, Mikey!”

As he got crowded by the herd, Starsky fetched apple after apple out of the bag and fed each eager mouth, making sure that every llama got half an apple—and until all four of the apples were gone. He laughed and giggled and marveled again over his fortune and by their beauty and the uniqueness of that rare experience: feeding fresh fruit to a pack of llamas on a Bolivian mountain in the middle of a sun-filled rainforest—with Hutch by his side. “It don’t get better than this, Sundance,” he said, immersing himself in the moment and feeling entirely liberated from his past and future.

“They’re beautiful, Hutch, absolutely beautiful.”

“I know, buddy,” Hutch replied with an obvious warmth in his voice. “I know they’re beautiful. Just like you are.”

* * *

“Hey, Hutch?”

“Yeah, Starsk?”

The day had gotten warm by late afternoon. Warm and humid. Puffs of whispery clouds drifted through the mountain gorges, some of them below where Starsky and Hutch had stopped to rest after a strenuous hike.

Hutch lay on his side on a grassy slope, facing the inevitable sunset, temple in his palm, and looked up and back at Starsky. He repeated his acknowledgement. “What’ya need, pal?”

“I’ve been thinking about this place.”

“Yanacachi?”

“Bolivia.”

“Hard not to think about it,” Hutch said with a light laugh.

Starsky sat cross-legged on a cushion of grass and leaves. He knew he hadn’t been clear. “I mean . . . I’ve been thinking about the overall picture.”

“It’s a beautiful one,” Hutch agreed, turning his attention to the scenery again.

“I’m talking about the other part.”

“La Paz?”

“The poor part,” Starsky clarified. He’d been fascinated by Bolivia’s countryside, but also its colorful people—the women, especially, dressed in vibrantly colored skirts and black bowler hats; the men in tattered, homemade suits, ponchos, and woolen caps—and the visuals of the country’s exclusive architecture and services. But he couldn’t escape the obvious. He knew Hutch was aware of it; Hutch probably knew all about it even before they’d arrived. But Starsky wanted to come to terms with what he’d witnessed. “I can’t believe how poor these people are.”

Hutch didn’t comment; he continued to gaze over the mountain range and pick at the grass. What could he say, anyway? Starsky was right about what he’d come to fully see, but he had more to say than the obvious.

“Everywhere we’ve been, this country looks run down. The buildings are falling apart . . . the roads are mostly dirt . . . and where they’re paved, it’s cobblestone. Like you said, they’re lucky to have running water . . . or electricity . . . or a car to drive. They have to wash their clothes in the river and pee on the streets. The animals run loose—ya-mas and pigs and chickens and things.” He’d seen more of those while they hiked up one side of a mountain and down the other—to get Starsky breathing hard and build his lung capacity.

Hutch lowered his line of sight from the scenery to the ground in front of him to listen more closely.

“They work all day in the fields to harvest the food they produce,” Starsky continued, “and then sell it in town at those outdoor markets. They make their own clothes out of the ya-ma wool and the cotton they grow. We can’t drink the water here unless it’s bottled or we boil it.”

He didn’t tell Hutch anything Hutch didn’t already know, so what was his point?

“When we got here, Hutch, I got air sick.”

“Altitude sick.”

“And I was a drag—even to myself.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“And our plans got all upside down.”

“We traded one set of experiences for another.”

“But I want you to know something.”

Hutch looked up and back at him again, waited for the follow-up, and then rolled onto his belly when he realized it wouldn’t arrive as soon as he expected it would.

They made eye contact.

Hutch’s beautiful blue eyes, Starsky noticed—and that perfectly shaped face . . . the translucent flyaway blond hair that fell over his forehead . . . his apparent relaxation and his obvious muscle . . . his lifetime loyalty and his unconditional love. Starsky was unexpectedly sidetracked. In that suspended moment, in the warmth of a rainforest, in the heart of Bolivia, nearly five thousand miles from home, he was reminded again of the fortune in his life, of the serendipitous path he’d crossed some fourteen years earlier, when his eyes met Ken Hutchinson’s for the very first time, and he was given his forever soulmate.

Hutch shyly smiled, as if he’d read Starsky’s thoughts, and didn’t have the words to do his mutual feelings justice.

Starsky noticed that, too. He hadn’t meant to put Hutch on the spot, but he couldn’t intercept his vagary. “I’d die for you,” he said, impulsively. “You make every minute of my life the thrill of a lifetime.”

There was a readable innocence in Hutch’s eyes. He was touched, but equally puzzled. “How did you get here from the gloomy observations of a third world country?”

Starsky had direction again. “I was thinking about how this place wasn’t what I expected.”

“You were thinking more Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t think it would be this . . . poor, this broke, if you see what I’m saying. I didn’t expect to get air sick . . . or to ride on a road as insane as that one was . . . or to not have a toilet in our room.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m not. I’m not bummed about it. I’ve seen all this today, the good and the bad of it . . . and I’m coming to terms with the fact that I’ve never seen poverty like this before, not even on the other side of the tracks back home. And knowing all of that is kind of a gift.”

“How so?”

“I’m never going to see America the same way again.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not going to take what I have for granted anymore. A simple thing—like having a . . . daily newspaper, you know?”

Hutch folded his hands in front of him and continued to listen; his expression was firm and the contact he made with Starsky’s eyes was as strong.

“It’s not just the things,” Starsky said, trying again to explain. “It’s also the way of life. I mean, I’ve never had to think about whether I was going to get my next meal.”

“We’re wealthy people.”

“And I’ve known that in an abstract way, but to see it first-hand. . .”

“You don’t regret this trip,” Hutch assumed.

“The opposite. No matter what happens down here, I’m going to go home a different man when it comes to the stuff that matters.”

Hutch winked at him. “I love you for your . . . how did you say it to me earlier? . . . for your ‘silver lining shit.’”

Starsky laughed, but he was only mildly amused. He felt the weight of his revelations and couldn’t dilute them with the humor of his ways. “I’ll take it,” he said sincerely.

Hutch rolled to his back in the grass, crossed his arms over his chest, hugged himself and his jacket, and looked up at the sky. “I’m happy for you, buddy,” he said with genuine affection. “I was afraid you’d be disappointed, so I’m really happy for you.”

Starsky was happy for himself. His dedication to a more grateful life was liberating. But, in that same moment of his epiphany, he was aware of the limitations, ones he would face anywhere in the world; he wanted to lie beside Hutch in the grass, hold him in his arms, feel him close and strong, bond with him in a closer way than he’d been allowed since their airplane had landed, express his gratitude to the one person who made his life worth living.

“I miss you, Hutch,” he said quietly.

He saw Hutch close his eyes, as he understood the sentiment way beyond the words.

“Ditto, partner,” Hutch finally said. “Something fierce.”

* * *

Oh, the impeccable taste of Hutch’s mouth, its fresh smell and receptiveness, its warmth and sweetness; the longed-for touch immediately stirred Starsky’s desire, suddenly heating his blood and accelerating his heartbeat. The excruciating wait had been too long. The kiss, too short. Starsky opened his lips for a longer, deeper, more satisfying contact, feeling greedy and needy all at once, and was obliged with exhilarating wetness and warm tongue and arousing sensation.

They’d been back to their room for only a minute. Hutch sat in the only chair by the window, having returned with Starsky to drop off a paper bag of fruit and nuts, the second one they’d purchased that day after having fed the first to the llamas. Hutch had no sooner sat down for a moment’s rest when Starsky quickly blocked his escape, as if he had to, grasping both chair arms and leaning into Hutch for that highly anticipated and sought-after kiss.

Hutch hadn’t missed a beat in returning the intimacy, though he did have a split second to share a soft and triggered smile before their lips met. They inhaled each other’s life-giving breaths, their familiar smells and delicious tastes, the subtle cues and the same passionate wants. It had been more than a couple of days since either of them had been able to intimately engage the other—through no real fault of their own.

Starsky felt forever missed and promptly refound, and the effortless love Hutch gave him in those suspended moments pleased him as much as it did to finally dismiss Hutch’s prior absence. No time for words. Nothing to say. The kiss spoke volumes while a second kiss became the perfect addendum.

But where Starsky heard the pause or sensed the misgiving, he could never have placed it under the weight of such a necessary and urgent moment as that one; all he knew was that he’d been given the gift he so coveted, only to have it cruelly taken away from him in the next breath.

“Don’t,” he said in earnest, more from agitated disappointment than heated anger, spurred by his unexpected desperation, and despite what his instincts told him, that Hutch was merely the painful reminder, not the heartless messenger. “C’mon,” Starsky said when the kisses abruptly ended; he had never been able to take them without consent, and he’d just been denied. Maybe he could convince Hutch of some other certainty. “Don’t do this. Not now.”

Hutch slowly exhaled and chose his words carefully. “Let’s take this conversation outside.” His voice was sober and subdued, much like his current mood, as if he wouldn’t entertain a debate.

Starsky straightened off the chair, stood back, made compelling eye contact with Hutch in the room’s soft light. “It’s just a couple of kisses,” he explained, defensively.

“We can talk about it outside.”

“You’re paranoid.”

Hutch closed his mouth and glared at him. It was Starsky’s next move.

“I’m just saying that you’re turning what’s possible into something probable.”

Hutch was in no frame of mind to placate his partner. “Let’s have dinner . . . like we planned,” he said instead. “We can talk about it then.”

Starsky wasn’t usually frustrated to the point of annoyance; he’d never let rejection fuel hostility, but those were special circumstances and, if Hutch couldn’t understand and appreciate them, then who would? He resented Hutch for the unreasonable interruption and chose to punish him. “I’m losing my appetite.”

But Hutch would have none of Starsky’s indignation. He got to his feet and pushed Starsky toward the door. “Then let’s go find a way to make you hungry, okay, pal?”

* * *

“Am I allowed to have a drink?”

Starsky’s question triggered the disgusted expression from Hutch that he expected. But he wasn’t prepared for the snappy comeback.

“So much for your new life of gratitude, huh? Things don’t go your way and you turn on the ones you love.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Starsky said under his breath. He sat beside Hutch at the small table on the cobblestone sidewalk outside the Yanacachi eatery. It was a balmy night after the day’s humidity; the sun had set minutes earlier behind the tallest mountain, the one to the west of the village, and enabled the romantic lights to emerge in what would be a growing darkness. Even the candles had begun to shine. “You control every other aspect of my life,” Starsky lamented. He avoided eye contact because he knew he was unjustifiably childish under the circumstances. “You decide what I can do, where I can do it, how and why.”

“Are you done?” Hutch asked, browsing the handwritten menu in the light of a candle flame. “Let me know when you’re back to being an adult and we can have a grownup conversation.”

Starsky set his elbow on the table, his chin in his palm, and watched the passersby and the nighttime cafe patrons while he fumed. What was he angry about anyway? that he didn’t get the intimacy and sex he hoped for, or that he didn’t understand why he didn’t?

A waiter came to the table and exchanged a brief conversation with Hutch, all in Spanish with some common English words thrown in for good measure by both parties when it seemed they hit the language barrier. Starsky finally turned his head to watch the exchange, noticing Hutch’s good-natured demeanor and his amber-lit face—its wrinkles and contours, the way the light reflected in his blue eyes, that he appeared carefree and comfortable, even though he was in a fight with his lover.

When the waiter left, Hutch looked over at Starsky; they sat beside each other, not across from; a few more inches and they’d have touched shoulders. But Starsky wasn’t in the mood for closeness. He thought he could stare down his partner, make him surrender and beg for forgiveness, but Hutch winked at him—as Hutch was known to do when he attempted to break Starsky’s resolve.

“That ‘hotel’ we’re staying at,” Hutch said, realizing his subtle gesture hadn’t worked and he needed words instead, “has thin walls.”

“You made that clear.”

“And I’ve always been a man who fears God-fearing people.”

“So what does that mean, hm? That we can’t . . . the whole time we’re in Bolivia?”

“At least in this town.”

“I wasn’t asking for more than . . . what we did.”

“Weren’t you?”

If Starsky was honest with himself, then Hutch was right, of course. “But you think I wouldn’t have been quiet.”

“I thought we should talk about it first,” Hutch explained. “My fault. I figured we had time to have an understanding before we went to bed, that we would just drop the bag off and take another hike before dinner so we could discuss it then.”

“I see.”

“But you had other ideas.”

“I can be quiet. I’ve only been loud doing it with you.”

“Making my point for me.”

“But, I mean, I’m capable of being quiet—because I have been with women—and you think I don’t know when to be, right?”

“I don’t think we should play around at all while we’re in Yanacachi.”

The waiter brought them each a glass of wine and interrupted their conversation at a provocative moment, so Starsky drank a big swallow from his, hoping it would quickly calm his nerves. He set down his glass, licked the taste off his lips, and confronted Hutch. “How long are we here and have to go without, hm?”

“We’ll take a car to Coroico tomorrow after breakfast.”

“To Corkville? Tell me how that helps us.”

“It’s a much bigger town, by about twenty times, so I’m expecting the walls in the hotels there to be soundproof.”

“What about the altitude?”

“It’s about a thousand feet lower than here, but we’ll have more opportunity to hike and sightsee and continue building your lung capacity. Probably better and more variety food. A fascinating nightlife. And we can end each day doing what you want to do, if you know what I mean.”

Starsky knew what he meant. The promise of sex sooner than never eased his animus. “I still think you’re being paranoid here.”

“We’re the only white guys in a hundred-mile radius. I can’t help but feel we’re being watched.”

“Like I said,” Starsky replied with a sneer. “Paranoid.” He looked around the room; no one seemed to pay them attention. “There’s a white guy over there,” he noted, jutting his chin toward a table near the restaurant’s kitchen window. An older gentleman of some kind of European descent, along with a couple of young Bolivian men, had just taken his seat. “And that seems a lot weirder to me,” Starsky added with a chuckle, “like some slave owner taking his servants out to dinner and drink.”

“Slave owners owned slaves, not servants.”

“But you knew what I meant. We can’t be the only tourists in this town.”

“I think most tourists stay in La Paz.”

“So now it’s my fault.”

“Will you stop with all your assumptions?”

“But it’s okay for you to have them—about this town, I mean, that we have to be extra careful because we stand out in a crowd.”

“Remember when I advised you about not taking pictures of people while you’re here?”

“Because you said half this country believes taking their picture is stealing their soul.”

“That’s the kind of mentality we’re dealing with.”

“Just for half the population. You should only be a little bit paranoid.”

“I don’t want to be in a vulnerable position when some freak thing happens—like the maid walking in on us because she forgot the room was rented. Have you ever seen the inside of a Bolivian prison?”

“You think we’d end up in jail because we got caught fornicating?”

“That or beat to shit. Are the risks worth it for you to find out?”

Starsky looked off across the room again; he hated it when Hutch posed hard questions for him. His sight accidentally collided with that other Caucasian and he only held eye contact for a second because he noticed the unexpected smile he got—and it momentarily unsettled him. He looked back at Hutch. “I have a gut feeling that that white dude with the young native boys is hoping we’re one of his kind.”

“American? British? South African?”

“Peenie pals.”

Hutch shifted his eyes to the men at the neighboring table to size up Starsky’s assessment.

“Well, don’t look at him,” Starsky whined, abruptly hitting Hutch’s arm to stop him, but it was still too late. “We’re going to get solicited now.”

“Dream on.”

“You should be the one to be worried. He’s not my type.”

“You have a type?”

“Other than you? Yeah . . . those with tits.”

“Do us a favor. Go over and ask him what he recommends we should eat here tonight. You can put his mind to rest that we’re straight as arrows while you’re at it.”

“How’m I to do that, hm? Introduce myself as a heterosexual from the good ol’ USA?”

“You’re wearing a ‘wedding’ ring; tell him we’re waiting for our wives.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious about getting a recommendation on food. Besides, it might be wise to have compatriots to rely on in a pinch if we need one.”

“What if he wants to join us?”

“Wives. We got wives. We’re having a romantic night with our wives.”

“And when they don’t show up?”

“We tell him we have to look for them; they seemed to have gotten lost.”

“In this small town? Are you losing your mind?”

“I’m just trying to ease yours.”

“Yours is the paranoid one.”

“Yours is terrified you’re going to get hit on.”

“I’m terrified I won’t get hit on by you,” Starsky said.

Hutch’s expression softened, his smile emerged, he gazed longingly at Starsky. “If I had my way,” he said in a low voice just above the live street music halfway down the block, “I’d make out with you right here and now, and everyone be damned.”

Starsky felt patronized so he frowned at Hutch.

“I’d comb your hair with my fingers,” Hutch continued. “I’d tell you how much I love you and why. I’d drink wine from the same glass, eat off your plate, go down on you under the table.”

“You’re weird,” Starsky replied, rolling his eyes and focusing on the traffic, such as it was—pedestrians, donkeys, the occasional wagon. He did love the ambiance: the balminess of the night, the candles and street lamps, the bustle in the eatery, its aromas and relaxation, the uniquely Bolivian reed music emanating from up the block. “But if I had my way,” he replied, “I’d let you do all them things.”

“That’s my boy: take one for the team.”

“I’d take one all right.”

Their waiter seemed to appreciate that Hutch asked him for whatever dish they were serving that didn’t have animal parts in it; “Sorpréndanos”—“Surprise us”—because he first brought them fresh baked bread, followed by a lettuce and quinoa salad with roasted peanuts, and was pleased when his customers eagerly devoured it first with their eyes.

“Listen, Starsk,” Hutch said apologetically when they were alone again, “I didn’t mean to cut you off at the knees this afternoon.”

“Forgiven. Better than you busting my balls.”

“You have to know I want it as much as you do.”

“Sometimes I know that; other times . . . seems that nothing would stop you if you wanted it as much as me.”

“Or maybe I’m just better at self-discipline.”

“Maybe.”

“C’mon. Have I ever struck you as a guy who’d turn down a sure thing?”

“And, yet, you did.”

“Without good reason?”

“I’m done being mad at you. I’m still trying to talk you into something tonight.”

Hutch exhaled, audibly, sounding frustrated. He drank wine and ate more bread and didn’t say a word for a while.

“What about a compromised position?” Starsky asked, seeking a new angle, and bringing his partner’s attention back to the subject. “I mean, a vulnerable position, I’m thinking, means something like . . . like consummation, right? As in. . .”

“Someone’s peenie in someone’s ass?”

“Yeah, like that. But a compromised position . . . that could be . . . you know . . . just playing around.”

“Handling each other.”

“That would be okay, wouldn’t it?”

“Only with some safeguards.”

“Like what?”

“Furniture in front of the door.”

“We could use the nightstand.”

“In the dark.”

“We’d feel our way along,” Starsky said with a laugh and a raise of his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with that, hm?”

“Later in the night . . . when most everyone’s asleep.”

“Not like we haven’t done a lot of that in the wee hours of the morning.”

“And no noise.”

“I can be quiet.”

“So you’ve said.”

The waiter returned with a plate for each of them—topped with a rice and hearty vegetable meal of tomatoes and peas, potatoes and onions, spices and a flavorful sauce. Starsky was hungry—and excited—so he ate with purpose.

“We should have a story in case anyone asks,” Hutch said after they’d eaten for a couple of minutes and he’d apparently given new thought to their situation.

“A story?”

“Like, why you’re wearing a wedding ring.”

“Same as you.”

But the second Starsky made the comment, he noticed Hutch wasn’t wearing the ring he’d given him.

“When did you take it off?”

“Yesterday—after I told the cab driver we were brothers.”

“Where is it?”

“The ring? In my coin pocket.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that, Hutch.”

“You only noticed because I mentioned it.”

Starsky really didn’t know how he felt about it, but he was more surprised that it didn’t bother him enough to feel anything immediate. Maybe because Hutch was right: the less they advertised a situation, the better overall—in a country they didn’t know, in a culture with vastly different prejudices and convictions. From the outside looking in, there was merit to Hutch’s concern: why were two married men on vacation together; that ‘brother’ story wouldn’t have held up. Starsky was as different looking from Hutch as Hutch was from a Bolivian.

Starsky decided to go along with Hutch’s suggestions—especially since he’d talked his way into some semblance of sex later: behind a blocked door, in the dark, in the late night or early morning, with their hands, in relative silence—but sex just the same.

“Hey, you know what I know about ya-ma peenies that you probably don’t know?”

“If you know anything about ya-ma peenies,” Hutch said with a laugh, “it’s definitely something I don’t know.”

“They’re shaped like corkscrews.”

“You saw one today?”

“I read about it.”

“In Ya-Ma Yearly?”

“In one of those books of facts I like to read.”

“Oh, one of those,” Hutch said with a roll of his eyes. “The shit you think is reading material.”

“Encyclopedia Britannica,” Starsky quipped to shut up his partner. “You’d call them fact books, wouldn’t you? And newspapers. I like to read newspapers, too, don’t forget.”

“I always assumed you were just looking at the pictures.”

“Exactly. There was a picture of a ya-ma peenie in the encyclopedia—and it was shaped like a corkscrew.”

“For screwing, no doubt.”

“You’re funny.”

“Peenies are a curious lot.”

“Not yours. Yours is the picture-perfect example of a peenie.”

Hutch got shy again, the way he was known to be whenever he felt put on the spot or flattered for something he didn’t feel he deserved. Predictably, he deflected. “Maybe you just have a phallic preference.”

“Phallic?”

“Something that’s longer than it’s wide.”

“Well, I admit it: I have a preference for your phallic.”

He liked that they were using words all throughout their conversation in a way that, if anyone was translating, no one could decipher. He felt they’d been creative while being careful. And the food was good. And the promise of intimacy later was liberating. And the night was beautiful for all those reasons and more.

“That white guy is getting ready to leave,” Starsky noticed out of the corner of his eye. “Be prepared to be played.”

“You be sure to mention a wife.”

“What do I call her?”

“A name that’s female.”

“So, not . . . Terry.”

“Or Pat.”

“Or Alex.”

“Or Morgan.”

“Or Timmy.”

“Or Tracy.”

They only quit the banter because, indeed, the Caucasian gentleman approached their table, smiling broadly, dressed expensively, appearing friendly—but when he opened his mouth, he said, “Guten abend.” Starsky almost burst out laughing—even though he didn’t know what language he’d heard; he just knew it wasn’t—

“English,” he said to the man, gesturing at himself and Hutch. “English?” he asked, expecting the man to reply in kind if he said it twice.

“Ich spreche kein Englisch,” the guest replied, his voice masculine and kind. “Es tut mir leid, dich gestört zu haben.” And then he waved, bowed his head, and walked away with his Bolivian friends.

Starsky looked at Hutch. “What the hell was that?”

“German.”

“What did he say?”

“Something like . . . he didn’t understand or speak English and that he was sorry to have troubled or bothered us.”

“So, you see,” Starsky said with amazement, finishing his meal, “maybe he is a slave owner with some servants. I mean, he isn’t Bolivian.”

“We knew that from looking at him.”

“But he’s got some Bolivian boys, know what I mean?”

“Gay ones, right?”

“Well, yeah, I mean . . . if I had slaves . . . they’d have to be . . . you know . . . willing to—”

“Will you shut up?”

“I would, but I have a phallic preference.”

“He lives around here.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he was recognized by the waiter and some of the street people.”

“So what’s your point?”

“That we’re still the only Americans in a hundred-mile radius.”

“Which means?”

“We’re exotic.”

“Therefore?”

“People are taking notice.”

“Hence?”

Hutch chuckled at Starsky’s word choice, or maybe it was Starsky’s playfulness; Starsky didn’t know why. Hutch didn’t explain it, either. “Hence . . . we have to be careful.”

Starsky understood. “And only play in the dark in the middle of the night.”

“And no grunting.”

“I can play without grunting.”

“No whimpering.”

“I never whimper.”

“All you do is whimper.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It’s a fact. Look it up in your encyclopedia.”

“I can come, though, right? I mean, I’m allowed that much?”

“Only if you can do it without making a sound.”

“Can I hum? or is there some other constraint you want to apply?”

“I’m not controlling your life.”

“Sure you are. You decide whether we do and how we do it—right down to the sounds I can and can’t make.”

“I don’t think we should do it at all, in any form, but I’ve succumbed, haven’t I? I’m weak around you. So don’t go thinking it’s always me who drives this ship.”

Starsky noticed a Caucasian couple as they came into view and stopped to read the menu outside the kitchen window. “Look over there, Hutch,” he said, pointing toward them, “some more white people.”

“Slave owners?”

“Nah. These look like newlyweds.”

A young man and woman.

“Maybe they’re vivisectors,” Hutch suggested.

“What’s a vivisector?”

“Someone who cuts up things while they’re still alive.”

Starsky was glad he’d finished his dinner. “You’re a sick man, you know that?”

“And paranoid.”

“I’m glad we both agree.”

“Tell me their story.”

“They’re in love; you can tell.”

“They’re Spaniards,” Hutch played along, “leftovers from the Columbian period.”

“Columbos.”

Hutch cracked up laughing. “Clever you.”

“I want to get laid, Hutch. I’m on a roll.”

“I’ll lay you. Drink your wine first.”

The waiter arrived with two small plates and set one in front of each man. A dessert of fried banana sprinkled with sugar. He thanked them for their patronage and left them to their treats.

“This looks good,” Hutch said, taking a bite.

“And phallic,” Starsky said.

Hutch toasted him with what was left in his glass. “To your preferences,” he said with a smile.

Beautiful smile.

“How do you say ‘I love you’ in German?”

“German?”

“So none of these Bolivians or those Columbos know what we’re saying?”

“Ich liebe dich.”

“I asked you to translate ‘I love you,’ not ‘I want to suck your dick.’”

Hutch laughed again, enjoying Starsky’s silliness, looking so inviting and sexy and in love. He didn’t need to speak his desire in any language, but he did say, “Oh, but I do, boy. I do. Ich will deinen schwanz lutschen.”

“‘Schwanz.’ You don’t need to translate that for me, buddy. Just be sure to do it later.”

* * *

Starsky crept back to bed after he closed the window, and carefully got under the sheet and blanket, doing his best not to wake Hutch. The plan had been that they would play later in the night, with the light off, and having blocked the door with furniture. They’d even set up the room for such a rendezvous: moved the table lamp to the dresser, carefully wedged the one-drawer nightstand under the door handle, gingerly stripped the twin beds of their coverings and pushed them together—remaking the paired mattresses with two flat sheets and a blanket—and set the small almond oil bottle on the floor on Hutch’s side of the room.

They would sleep for a while, eventually waking the other—on the understanding that whoever was first to need a pit stop would do the honors. The initial order of business, however, was how they’d get out of the room to an in-hall toilet without the clatter of unrigging the door.

“Open a window,” Hutch had suggested, sounding serious. He sat in the only chair in the room and read from his English-to-Spanish paperback.

“And how’s that going to look?” Starsky whined. “One of us will be arrested as an intruder on his way back in.”

“I didn’t say leave the room for a piss.”

Standing in front of Hutch with his hands on his hips, Starsky incredulously asked, “Piss out the window?”

“You got a better idea?”

Starsky walked to the window and pressed his groin against the wall to size up their ability to urinate over the sill into the grassy road. Luckily, their hotel was on that edge-side of the village where they had earlier fed the llamas, so the only people prowling around at night would be men in similar need.

“Be glad for that big dick of yours,” Hutch commented, not looking up from his reading.

“Yeah, okay,” Starsky agreed with a chuckle. “Looks like we’ll be pissing out the window. You crack me up. You’ve been in some mood tonight.”

“Must have been the Singani.”

“Singani?”

“A sort of brandy . . . made only here in Bolivia. It’s what we drank tonight at dinner.”

“Yeah? It was pretty good. Hm. The shit you learn. But your weird mood has to be coming from someplace else. I drank Sinyani and I’m not weird.”

“Singani, not sinyani.”

“What difference does it make?”

“It’s the national drink; you may want to order it again sometime and not embarrass yourself.”

Starsky sat on the bed and faced Hutch. “When I have you to order for me, why would I need to know anything, hm?”

“If we get separated for any reason—”

“I won’t be stopping for a drink, if that’s where you’re taking us.”

“If we get separated for any reason. . .”

“Meet back at the hotel.”

“Right.”

“But how does that affect the price of tea in China, Hutch? Can we think of something else to do besides entertaining your deteriorating mind?”

Hutch finally looked up at him. “What time is it?”

Starsky checked his watch. “Ten-thirty.”

“So we have a couple hours to kill.”

“Exactly my point. What are we going to do with them besides me watch you read a book? I mean, it’s not even a book you can read to me.”

That turned out not to be true. Hutch began reading random words from the language book and, together, they made up their own stories around those words, both in English and Spanish, cracking each other up until they bored with it.

“We never cease to amaze me,” Starsky said, settling against the headboard at his back, “how far we stray from sense and reason whenever we’re killing time waiting for that real thing we want to do.”

“I say we get some sleep and the first one to wake up can jump the other.”

“By jump, you mean?”

“Like we planned.”

“Limited.”

“Yeah . . . to hands. We don’t want any rhythmic bed squeaking, if you hear me correctly.”

Starsky understood. Hutch had made himself abundantly clear over dinner. And, in the end, Hutch had been right to first discuss their play in a neutral environment before actually engaging in it: after returning to their room, they could plainly hear the Spanish-speaking couple on the other side of the wall discussing their travels, according to Hutch, in a scarily audible level which wasn’t above a normal tone of voice.

Starsky trusted Hutch’s instincts; he just didn’t always listen to them when his pent-up desires got the better of him. “I can’t wait much longer,” he said, even then, sounding as frustrated as he felt, “so let’s do like you say and get some sleep. When we wake up next, it’ll be for some fun.”

And so that was how the night transpired: a couple of hours of sleep later, and Starsky’s bladder woke him from a nondescript dream, forced him out of bed into the cool air of the room—and to the window, where he actually held his penis over the sill and urinated into the road outside, all while trying not to audibly laugh at himself.

But he had a change of heart by the time he came back to bed—and not because he no longer wanted sexual gratification, but because he was inexplicably reminded of how much Hutch cared about and loved him, how he’d taken care of his partner beginning from the trip to the Los Angeles airport to that very minute in that small, dilapidated hotel in Yanacachi, Bolivia. Hutch didn’t want to play because he feared for their safety, but he’d succumbed to Starsky’s charisma and Starsky’s charm and Starsky’s needs, offering up that silly compromise of sex-with-hands-only in order to placate him.

If Starsky loved Hutch as much, he wouldn’t push him into places he didn’t want to go. They would be in Coroico come the next night, so another day of sightseeing and road travel before finding a much more secure and safe hotel room was something Starsky could endure on his partner’s behalf. He crept back to bed, carefully slipped under the sheet and blanket, faced the outside wall, back-to-back to Hutch, pressed against his thoughts of orgasms and the warmth of Hutch’s nude body alongside his, and was proud of himself for not waking the man. He would tell Hutch all about his decision over breakfast.

Starsky had already learned, the hard way, that sleep was underrated. Just as he closed his eyes and prayed for a sound rest of his night, he felt Hutch stir on the bed behind him. Starsky hadn’t been as quiet as he thought he’d been. Or maybe Hutch’s bladder had finally called him out, too.

When Starsky didn’t hear Hutch leave the bed, but roll around on it instead, he figured Hutch simply turned in his sleep. Starsky froze; he barely took a breath as he waited for Hutch to drift away again. Instead. . .

He felt Hutch scoot up behind him and press along Starsky from head to foot. Their warm skin met with a familiar joining. Hutch’s arm came around Starsky’s waist as he pulled Starsky closer to him. Starsky heard Hutch’s breath, slow and deep, relaxed and content. He felt Hutch’s lips touch his shoulder with a kiss—and then more kisses, small, tender, loving kisses on his back and neck. He could feel Hutch’s penis, soft and unassuming, nestled into Starsky’s buttocks, seeming to enjoy the contact without the pressing need for any sort of entry or stroke.

Starsky’s penis swelled and began to ache. He turned toward Hutch so their mouths could wed, and they immersed themselves in the immediacy of sensual moist lips and tongues. Their breathing caught up with itself and became paired, inhaling and exhaling in tandem, deeper and more urgent with each kiss as they read each other’s minds and hardening bodies.

As needy as Starsky felt, he didn’t want to rush the joy he felt, the desire he so loved to build, nor dismiss the fact that Hutch, despite his own misgivings about sexual play in an unsafe environment, was willing to satisfy his man’s needs—because that was love in reverse. Starsky could feel guilty about that another time; he was too caught up in the moment of the gift to philosophize more than to just acknowledge how good Hutch was to him.

Hutch broke their lip contact to blaze a trail of arousing kisses from Starsky’s face to his haired chest to his hairy belly—teasing Starsky’s penis by caressing his skin with kisses everywhere except on his stiffening and longing-for-touch phallus. Starsky entwined Hutch’s hair in his fingers, hoping that would be sufficient in moving Hutch toward the desired coupling of Hutch’s mouth to his penis, while at the same time not wanting to hurry it, and knowing oral sex wasn’t on the menu. But, oh, that suspension between the desire and the doing was such an exquisite timelessness of pure ecstasy in its own right.

Starsky heard the faint pop of hard plastic; his brain didn’t register it until he felt the trickle of the cool almond oil drizzle over the underside of his erection as it lay against his belly, exposed and defenseless. He hissed from its stimulating contact, each drop heightening his sexual appetite more deeply than the previous one. To anticipate Hutch’s hand firmly sliding into the emollient to coat his penis with such viscous excitement caused his genital to unexpectedly throb, as it tried to close the distance on its own.

Hutch’s lips continued to place kisses across Starsky’s heaving belly while Hutch did nothing to satisfy the ache in Starsky’s penis, leaving it to pound with blood in the cool air, unattended. He opened his legs as if that would get him the action he craved, but Hutch either ignored him or simply chose not to placate him.

Starsky closed his eyes and buried himself in total blackness. All he could do was hear and feel—Hutch’s deep breathing, Hutch’s hardened penis against his leg, barely moving, as if it had no idea how it felt to be alive like that and not be satisfied. He could feel his own heart pumping forcefully in his chest, the perspiration break over his skin, the heat fuel and burn him from the inside.

C’mon, buddy, he said—but only in his mind; the rules prevented him from actually speaking, wish as he could. Take my dick in your hand. Squeeze it. His silent words fell unheard into the dark as Hutch’s fingers caressed Starsky’s thighs, slowly and with seemingly purposeful titillation. Starsky reached for Hutch’s penis, figuring that his action would be explicit enough, reminding Hutch that they had penises and just how special and needy they could be.

But Hutch intercepted Starsky’s intent; he pushed Starsky’s hand to his outside hip and held it against the mattress until the message was clear: that Starsky wasn’t to touch him until or unless Hutch gave permission.

When Hutch released his wrist, Starsky felt more oil drizzle over his inflamed and blood-filled erection, from over his sac to the head of his organ; it dribbled in random streaks of cool wetness off its sides and onto his belly, and he rolled his hips in a failed effort to have those sensations followed by actual touch.

What are you doing, Hutch? he silently asked, panting through his parted lips, and still keenly aware of Hutch’s mouth on his skin—everywhere except where he desperately needed to feel it—and that Hutch was pressed to him, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs to legs, Starsky’s open to expose his genitalia as purposefully as he could, and none of it seeming to mean anything.

You got me where you want me, Starsky continued. Please take my dick. He couldn’t even moan to express his want; he was barely allowed to breathe so audibly. Stroke my hard-on, baby. I know you know it’s there.

It wasn’t Hutch’s hand that made first contact. It was an unexpected and unplanned kiss that touched the cap of his penis, warm, wet, and gently sucking. Its surprise forced a heavy sigh. Starsky wouldn’t stop talking to Hutch, despite that he didn’t speak a single word.

Oh, what I’d give for you to suck me.

Hutch opened his mouth and swallowed his crown.

Greedily, Starsky begged for more. Take me in deep, Hutch.

Hutch slowly, as if ever so carefully, devoured Starsky’s entire shaft, using his tongue to coat its surface with almond oil and saliva.

Starsky hissed again, that time through more tightly clenched teeth. The ache in his penis had magnified, his anticipation eager and desperate for that return stroke. He gently pulled at Hutch’s hair to force him sooner into what would be the delirious retreat. I know you know how much I want it.

On the upstroke, Hutch added a tender hand to the slide.

Oh, oh, oh, Starsky softly cried, oh, that feels so good. Take me back down again, please, Hutch.

The downstroke was firmer, more pleasing, more satisfying, more powerful in its delivery, swelling Starsky’s shaft as far as it could go, hardening him to the max, pounding his heart and deepening his pant.

Please don’t stop. Please just suck me good and hard. Don’t make me wait for it.

Hutch seemed to have no intention of stalling Starsky. With the occasional break of contact with his hand, purely to cup and fondle Starsky’s sac while he drove him in and out of his willing and lubricious mouth, Hutch delivered the rhythm Starsky longed for. The dual sensation of intermittent and oiled touches from his testicles to the tip of his erection had him gulping for air. How he ever suppressed the instinctual grunts and moans and whimpers he was known to express during sex only the powers-that-be could explain, but manage he did.

Oh, Hutch, that feels so good, he praised him, feeling overwhelmed with appreciation and gratitude. A little harder, he begged, harder and faster. I want to come deep in your mouth.

Hutch’s pace accelerated and his fist tightened around Starsky’s shaft, firmly stroking it in his slickened hand, occasionally using his thumb in a circular motion for added benefit, all while his tongue tickled and teased Starsky’s frenulum, the ridge of his crown, the slit in its head, on each pass it made on the upward stroke.

I’m going to come, Hutch, Starsky told him; it wasn’t a warning because he knew it was what they both wanted. I’m gonna come hard, Hutch. His ecstasy mounted until it crested, pushing over itself when Hutch lingered on that sweet spot with his sucking lips and his squeezing hand, knowing full well what he did and why.

The only audible sound Starsky made, other than his labored breathing that night, was the irrepressible grunt of release when his ejaculation began, powerfully and with such force there was no holding back on the inevitable reaction. His semen pulsed in wave after glorious wave, short-lived but robust, while Hutch simply squeezed his shaft, abruptly ending the distracting strokes so Starsky could fully enjoy his orgasm.

He held Hutch’s head when it ended; he was spent and he was exhausted and he couldn’t believe how perfectly he’d been taken by his lover. Only when the spin in his brain and his desperate need for oxygen and his heart had returned to a steady beat did he realize that Hutch was reaching the end of his own pleasure. He used Starsky’s thigh and hip to ride his swelled penis, sliding in its own lubricating pre-cum and whatever oil Hutch had already given it.

Starsky reached to take his partner for him, but he was unable to grasp Hutch’s penis past Hutch’s own hand, except to fondle him whenever his shaft was exposed on a longer stroke. Hutch’s breath was heavy against Starsky’s perspiring skin, warm where it exhaled against his neck; Hutch’s face buried there and in his hair and kissing him on occasion.

I want to suck you, Hutch, Starsky told him—again. But there’d be no interrupting Hutch. He was way too close to the finish. His self-pumping was audible, his flesh slapping his flesh in accelerating strokes until he, too, erupted in orgasm and that same irrepressible grunt was forced out of him. He spilled his semen in spurts on Starsky’s leg, milking every wave of it out of himself, and then heavily slumped against Starsky when it was officially over.

Starsky heard Hutch’s light laugh. He was pleased for it: one, because Hutch hadn’t seemed to miss Starsky’s involvement in his climax, and second, because that familiar light laugh told Starsky all he ever needed to know about Hutch’s heart and mind when it came to the sex between them.

They listened to each other’s breathing as those sounds returned to an ultimate quiet, and until their hearts no longer registered in their chests, and until the heat had evaporated from their skin and the inevitable blanket got pulled up over them.

Starsky closed his eyes, snuggled backside into Hutch’s front, hugged Hutch’s arm around him to his chest, licked his fingers of their tastes and scents of almond oil and semen, and drew a deep breath. “I love you,” he whispered in the dark.

“Ditto,” Hutch replied in as hushed a voice.

* * *

“I can’t thank you enough for last night,” Starsky said. He poured a couple of heaping teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, and stirred. Having finished their tasty breakfasts, he was already on his second cup. Hutch promised to run him up the side of another mountain when they got to Coroico later in the day and Starsky figured more caffeine would boost his energy. “Know what I mean?”

“I believe I got something out of last night, too,” Hutch reminded him, leaning on the table, arms crossed, and holding eye contact with his partner. “I wasn’t doing you a favor.”

“In some ways you did, and you can’t convince me different.”

He noticed Hutch’s blue eyes and how they shimmered in the mid-morning sunlight. They sat outside another Yanacachi eatery, this one more packed and favored by locals than the previous day’s restaurant had been. Hutch was under the shade overhang where the light deepened the blue in his eyes and made them unusually shine. That, or Starsky’s fond memories of the night before heightened his awareness of the man who’d provided them.

“You read my mind,” he explained, taking a sip of coffee, deciding it wasn’t sweet enough, and adding another half teaspoon of sugar to the brew. “After you got past teasing me, you gave me everything I wanted at the very moment I wanted it.”

Hutch winked at him. “What are friends for?”

“It amazes me how you heard every word I didn’t say.”

“Can you read every word I’m not saying right now?”

Starsky laughed. “I bet I can. You’re telling me I’ve put too much sugar in my coffee.”

“I’m glad we understand each other so well.”

Starsky smirked and shrugged off the casual dismissal of his deeper sentiments; maybe Hutch wasn’t comfortable hearing them in public, despite that none of what Starsky had said had been explicit. Or maybe Hutch was, once again, shy in the face of idolatry. He looked closer at Hutch: his relaxed face, steady eye contact, outward interest in Starsky’s coffee sweetening. On second thought, Hutch was simply shy—but, deep down in his heart of hearts, he enjoyed the ego stroke Starsky gave him.

“You’re good to me, Hutch.”

“Ich liebe dich.”

“And you said you didn’t want to talk about those kind of things out here in the open,” Starsky joked, knowing Hutch had just told him he loved him, but pretending it was a comment about his ‘dick.’

“I’d say it in Spanish,” Hutch explained, “but I’d be understood—which has nothing to do with what I’m telling you.”

“I get it. And, if you could see you through my eyes, you’d know how much I am . . . the same . . . with you.”

Hutch smiled that warm, friendly, inviting, kind, loving smile, the one that made his eyes sparkle even more, and said, “I enjoyed myself last night as much as you did. Giving is an extremely pleasurable experience for me.”

“I get that, too. But there’s that kind of pleasure and then there’s the other kind—and I got the other kind more than you did last night. You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you, Hutch?”

“I agree with the difference—but not the degree.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Starsky replied with a light laugh. He drank coffee, watched the pedestrians, enjoyed the weather, despite that it was slightly cool, enough for them to wear their jackets, or maybe because of it. “But if you could only have one of those kinds . . . the giving kind or the receiving kind . . . and only one of them for the rest of your life . . . let me guess your answer.”

Hutch laughed. “I’ll let you win this debate.”

“Hey, check them out,” Starsky said, nodding toward a trio of young male Caucasians who’d suddenly appeared and stopped inside the neighboring doorway to browse the souvenirs.

After Hutch glanced at them, he rolled his eyes at Starsky. “You seem to be drawn to the white people around here.”

“Because they stand out like sore thumbs.”

“And not because you’re homesick?”

“Nope. Try again. Besides . . . home is where the heart is and mine is sitting across from me at this table.”

Hutch winked at him. “Good save.”

“You know it’s true.”

Not reluctantly, Hutch said, “I do.”

They were eventually interrupted by the three young men, an exuberant bunch that had apparently spied them, too, and all of whom spoke fluent English—in two distinct accents: one British, the other Australian. They introduced themselves—Jacob, William, and James—extended their hands in greeting, which Starsky and Hutch took turns shaking in friendly hellos, and immediately asked the two cops where they were from.

“Due north,” Hutch said. “Have a seat. Join us.”

The men pulled up chairs to the small round table, told the waiter, in Spanish, that they all wanted coffees, and got right to talking to Hutch and Starsky about their vacation from the United States. Only one of them was from England; the other two from Sydney—which triggered Starsky’s elaborate story about how he’d been diverted from a honeymoon to the Down Under city due to an airliner crash.

They, of course, had heard about the accident, and were sincerely intrigued and fascinated by Starsky’s survival story. During his telling of the tragic events—which ended with his rescue and his new lease on life, and explaining his trip to Bolivia in a roundabout way—he noticed that the young man from England had his eye on Hutch.

Meanwhile, Hutch shared his side of the accident story, how he’d believed Starsky had been killed in the crash, and the facts leading up to the truth. “I found him alive and well in the Solomon Islands on the second day of our search.”

“After two months on that island!” William exclaimed.

“That’s remarkable!” James echoed when Starsky and Hutch finished their story. “They should make your stories into a movie.”

“What brings you guys to Bolivia?” Starsky wondered. He noticed that they were athletic, clean-cut and clean-shaven, above-average height, much younger—early 20s perhaps—good looking, and energized, as if they’d never had a single moment of altitude sickness in their entire lives. He watched the British boy continue to study Hutch.

“We’re part of a bicycling team,” William, the more friendly of the Australians replied; he seemed to be the most outgoing, too; the first to introduce himself and shake their hands.

“You’re a long way from a bike path,” Hutch playfully noted.

“We ride the Yungas road every year around this time.”

“We love a good challenge—and that’s one of the most challenging roads in the world.”

“Yungas road?” Starsky asked.

“The one that goes over the mountain from La Paz to Coroico or—as we call it—the Death Road.”

Starsky exchanged glances with Hutch. “Death Road?”

“Hundreds of people die on it every year.”

“Hundreds?”

“Yeah. About three hundred or so.”

“And you ride it—for fun?”

“Doesn’t that sound like fun to you?” the young men laughed.

“Sounds like hell on earth to me,” Starsky mumbled.

“But here you are in Yanacachi,” Hutch observed, provoking an explanation from their guests about why they were in this particular town.

“Jacob,” James said, sitting next to and nudging Jacob, the Brit who couldn’t seem to stop looking at Hutch, “is like you, Starsky: afraid to be on that road, so we’re taking the long route to Coroico. We leave him there; then we ride halfway back to La Paz by car on the Death Road to meet up with the bicycle team, where we—”

“Get on bikes and ride back,” Starsky presumed.

“Like we said: fun.”

“I assume you don’t join the fun,” Starsky said to Jacob. He noticed the young man’s dark eyes and brown hair, his very quiet demeanor, and that he had to tear his eyes away from Hutch to look at the one who’d asked him the question.

“I’m on the praying team,” Jacob joked, “to make sure these guys get back alive.”

Starsky learned that the Australians had been to Bolivia numerous times, but Jacob was enjoying his maiden trip. He and Starsky then exchanged stories about their first impressions and experiences and how similar they’d been—right down to the reason Starsky and his blue-eyed partner were in Yanacachi: to avoid the Death Road; at least, to avoid its altitude.

The five men were headed to Coroico after breakfast. “If the cars weren’t so small,” James said, “we could all go together.”

Starsky wasn’t jealous. He didn’t think Jacob was attractive enough or interesting enough to get Hutch’s attention—and there was no way anyone could replace Starsky in Hutch’s life; that love was way too deep and unbelievably strong. But Starsky realized he didn’t like the way the obviously gay man seemed to hunger for his partner. While Hutch engaged the Australians about what they should eat for breakfast, Starsky stared at Jacob until Jacob noticed him instead.

They made eye contact.

“Falling in love over there, are you?” Starsky pointedly asked him, but not unkindly.

Embarrassed, startled, and apologetically, Jacob said, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s just that he doesn’t lean that way, you understand?”

It was Hutch who said something then; he’d apparently been listening to two conversations. To Jacob, he gently explained. “Nothing personal.”

“I’m sorry,” Jacob said, confessing, or at least trying to, “It’s just that. . .”

“He’s gorgeous,” Starsky finished for him.

“Well, yeah.”

“I didn’t want you praying all for naught to have him.”

“He’d have done more of that than he’d have prayed for us,” William noted. “None of us would have come back alive.”

They laughed; the Australians then chastised Jacob for his obvious attraction to Hutch, and Hutch told them no harm had been done.

“But I’m glad you set him straight,” James said, laughing, “assuming that’s not a contradiction in terms.”

“Otherwise, he’d be harassing Hutch to dance with him in Coroico,” William explained. “You guys are going to be there during the Virgen del Rosario celebration.”

“What’s that?” Starsky asked. He abandoned his guarded posture over Hutch, but not before he tossed out a playful dig. “Some kind of gay parade?”

“Our Lady of the Rosary,” William replied, smiling at Starsky’s wisecrack. “It’s the annual holy festival that they celebrate across the country first week of this month. You guys are going to Coroico at the right time: the festivities there are quainter than the ones in the city. You’re going to have a blast.”

* * *

The walk from Coroico to the bottom of the ridge upon which it had been built was an easy commute for the boys, especially because the dirt road they took out of town serpentined down to the Hanilla River without a single incline. They’d arrived in the new village early in the afternoon after a three-hour car ride from Yanacachi, most of which snaked along a valley after the road left the southbound river to the northeast. Coroico was everything Hutch promised it would be: better built, more populated, and offering a much wider array of shops and restaurants.

But, like everywhere else in Bolivia, it was also an impoverished community—comparative to other first world nations, in particular, and Starsky noticed it. He eventually shrugged off the sadness it caused him, and followed Hutch’s lead out of Coroico for a hike to strengthen his lung capacity—or so that was Hutch’s excuse; Starsky accused him of actually trying to kill him instead: the footbridge over the river was yet another harrowing experience he had to overcome.

“I thought you loved me,” Starsky whined when he got to terra firma and found himself facing an uphill climb on the opposite side of the valley. “Something about eye-bee-dicking . . . whatever that German phrase was you said. Remember?”

“We have lots to do when we get back to La Paz,” Hutch reminded him, leading them along a narrow-worn path that wound its way into the jungle brush right off the bridge. “I want you as healthy as a horse by the time we get there.”

“I can’t drink more water than I’m already drinking. And I keep telling you there are better, faster ways to get my heart pounding.”

Hutch laughed, but didn’t capitulate. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Huckleberry? Think about all the things we’ll get to see along the way.”

“Things like what?”

Even before Hutch could tell him, Starsky grabbed Hutch’s arm and pointed to a herd of sheep that grazed on the nearby hillside. “Are they wild, do you think?” He took pictures of them, regardless. He’d never seen a herd of sheep, alive and in-person, wild or domestic. “Woolies,” he mumbled with repressed excitement. He didn’t want to be ridiculed by his partner for the joy he felt in spying the ungulates.

Hutch stood beside him while Starsky snapped a few frames of film. “You weren’t too keen on that Jacob guy this morning,” he noted.

Starsky looked up from his camera’s viewfinder and searched the panorama for the mechanism that had triggered Hutch’s comment. He didn’t see one. “He was minding my business,” Starsky explained, resuming his picture-taking.

“Were you jealous?”

“No.”

“Proprietary?”

“Maybe.”

Starsky finished taking pictures after the sheep herd slowly moved away and he was no longer satisfied with the angle. “How come you’re asking me about this?” He didn’t like that he couldn’t see Hutch’s eyes behind those sunglasses. Was his partner fishing for something or trying to provoke him into something? “How do sheep relate to Jacob?”

“They didn’t. I was just thinking about how your day is going.”

They were dressed in jeans and their hiking boots, light jackets over long-sleeved, button-downed shirts, and sunglasses. Starsky had brought his camera; Hutch carried a water bottle. They stood close—and Hutch had obviously let his mind leave his nature study for a conversation about custody.

“Or maybe it bothered you that I made a point of that guy eyeballing you?” Starsky wondered.

“Well, I did like being looked after. You made me feel owned—and it was a nice feeling, really.”

Hutch turned on his heel and continued the climb along the grassy pathway. Starsky followed, somewhat reluctantly, but he’d go anywhere Hutch went, so there was no fighting or complaining about it. He was, however, reminded of the feeling he’d experienced when he discovered Jacob fantasizing about Hutch.

“If we were married,” he explained, from behind Hutch’s back, “I’d get to pop him in the mouth for hitting on the wife, know what I mean?”

“If we were married, he probably wouldn’t have coveted me—least of all in front of you.”

“Right? So, I mean, I was kind of annoyed about that, how we have to live like we’re not together that way. And he probably figured that I was married because of my ring.”

“And you told him the story about your honeymoon disaster.”

“Yeah. I did. So he thought we’re straight; he just wished you weren’t.”

“Which you so graciously pointed out to him.”

The slope upward wasn’t as strenuous as it appeared; perhaps the well-worn path was the reason; trailblazers had already found the easier route. But Starsky could feel it in his legs and that his breath had accelerated. None of it deterred his thoughts. “I was mad about something else, too.”

“That we didn’t get sex this morning before our ride to Coroico?”

“I mean about Jacob.”

“What’s that?”

“That he could be so open about his preference.”

“His DNA.”

“You know what I mean. He was there with a couple of pals and they knew he was gay. I knew he was gay. You obviously knew he was gay, too. He could just be himself like that. I was jealous of his freedom, I mean.”

“Envious.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You wanted your own freedom, not his freedom.”

That concept was way too deep for Starsky to contemplate at that moment; he stalked different prey: to purge his anger at the world in general. “Imagine if things had been different, Hutch. Go back in time and you see how our lives coulda been if we hadn’t had those restrictions on us. I mean, we have them now, but what if we could have, you know, become boyfriends fourteen years ago.”

“Worth giving up all that pussy for?”

“You know you would. Well, I mean, I speak for myself: yeah, worth it and then some.”

Hutch paused them to point out a couple of rabbits hurrying over the hillside opposite the slope they were on, but they were gone faster than Starsky could have taken pictures. It was enough to see them scamper away, one following the other, much the way Starsky followed Hutch.

When they resumed their hike, Hutch strayed from the path, and began to slowly pick his way through unbroken territory, most of it low-growth brush. Starsky painstakingly tagged behind.

“I mean,” he said sort of longingly, “imagine if we hadn’t been scared as shit when we went for that first kiss, hm? We could have been all excited and happy. What would that have felt like? Don’t you ever wonder about that?”

“I don’t tend to look back as far as you do.”

“But, suppose, I’m saying? I’m just explaining how different things would have been if we’d gotten to just be ourselves from the beginning—without having to discover how we felt because we had so much to climb out from under first.”

Hutch didn’t say anything.

After several minutes of silent hiking, Starsky began to complain about something else. “Don’t you think we shoulda stuck to the trail, Hutch?”

“I’m hoping to see things we wouldn’t see on the trail.”

“Like what? What they got here that we don’t have at home besides ya-mas and woolies?”

Hutch laughed. “Oh, things like . . . monkeys.”

“They got monkeys here?”

“It’s a jungle environment, isn’t it?”

The idea of seeing a monkey was appealing and Starsky got excited about the prospect. Excited and greedy. “What else they got?”

“Depends on where you go. When you’re feeling better, and after we get back to La Paz, we can go to Lake Titicaca and see the flamingos.”

“Did you say titi . . . caca?”

“The birthplace of the Incas.”

“Did you say titi . . . caca? Did you use those two words together?”

“Where flamingos can be found.”

“You’re making up shit,” Starsky said laughing—at his pun.

“Maybe you’d rather stay around here then . . . and look for the elusive jaguar.”

“As in car or cat?”

“Cat, of course. Jungle cat.”

Starsky stopped dead in his tracks and immediately looked around him, especially back toward the way they’d come, as if he could calculate how quickly he could run to the river—in record-breaking time—and leave Hutch to the predators.

When Hutch sensed Starsky was no longer walking behind him, he stopped, and faced Starsky. “Strength in numbers,” Hutch said, “and I’m going this way.” He pointed in the direction they’d been hiking.

“We’re seriously not going to run into jaguars, are we, Hutch?”

“We’d be lucky to; they’re a threatened species. But chances are, no, Starsk, we won’t. C’mon. We’ll walk another fifteen minutes and then head back. By the time we get to the village, we’ll have hiked about two hours. We can have dinner, drink wine or singani, dance the night away, and later . . . satisfy our other thirst in a soundproof room.”

Starsky did like that idea—and deep down he trusted Hutch wouldn’t put them in harm’s way of a wild jungle cat. Still, he didn’t know if their stray from the path was worth whatever exotic wildlife he’d see. But there’d be no convincing Hutch of that, so he fell in line again behind his partner, and indulged the climb.

“If we were bird watchers,” Hutch said, “we’d have really had the time of our lives on this walk. But I don’t know much about them.”

Neither did Starsky; he barely even noticed them. The only birds he’d ever given much attention to were the ones he had to catch on Tetepare in order to survive. They were beautiful and they sang as sweetly, and he hated having to kill them. The things in his past he wished he could forget. Had they been able to live honest lives, he never would have romanced Grace, never married her, never been on that honeymoon . . . that airplane . . . that island. Killed all those birds—and other things.

“I wish we could start over sometimes,” he mumbled aloud, not realizing he’d spoken his melancholic thought until Hutch abruptly stopped in front of him and Starsky ran smack into him. He nearly lost his balance, and quickly apologized for the pain both of them felt in the collision. “What did you see this time?” he asked, looking around for the reason Hutch had been distracted, but seeing nothing except the beautiful vista of the mountain range.

Starsky shifted his weight to balance himself and looked up at Hutch. “What gives?” he asked, sounding as curious as he felt. “Did you see an eluding jungle cat?”

Hutch laughed. He stood with his hands on his hips, and appeared more serious than he sounded. “You,” he finally said, “wishing we could start over.” He drank from the water bottle and then handed it to Starsky, saying, “We earned all that grief.”

Starsky drank, too, capped the bottle, and gave it back. “Remember that first kiss? Remember how terrified I was? I’m just saying that it would have been such a different thing if I’d been able to kiss you the first time and only be excited by it.”

“You don’t know what Jacob went through in his life to be where he is today. He’s with a couple of pals. He probably didn’t think anyone noticed he was ‘coveting’ me.”

“I’m not talking about him and whatever he went through or didn’t. I’m saying, for me, I mean. How it would have felt to be able to have kissed you that first time . . . out there in the grass like that . . . to kiss you the way I kissed a new woman, you know? All excited and nervous . . . but not scared shitless.”

“We’ll never know,” Hutch said solemnly, seeming to feel as sorry then as Starsky had been feeling. “We only get a first time once.”

“Which is why I’m pissed off about it.”

Hutch turned, began hiking again. From over his shoulder, he said, in a lower voice, “Remember that time we pretended to have just met? That date you took me on after my AIDS blood test?”

Starsky could never forget; it was one of the more fun things he’d done with Hutch: a first date, as if they’d just met, getting to know each other. “We stopped playing when we got home,” he recalled. What was Hutch’s purpose in mentioning that?

“Well, suppose we start over again like that? Suppose we just. . .” Hutch suddenly stopped, faced Starsky, put out his hand. “Ken Hutchinson,” he said. “United States. Who are you and how did you end up here?”

Starsky contemplated whether he wanted to play a game. He didn’t know if it would be fun or serve to make him miss what he could never have all the more. But Hutch stood there, beautiful and sexy and warm and willing to indulge Starsky—so Starsky took his hand. “David Starsky,” he said, having to summon the ability to sound playful. “Same country as you. Down here on a mission to find the erudite jungle jaguar.”

“Wildlife biologist?”

“Cat lover.”

Hutch laughed, genuinely, breaking out of his new character when Starsky was sharp-witted, but he quickly regained composure, and resumed. “Nice to meet you, Starpy.”

“Starsky. But you can call me smitten.”

“Smitten for kitten?”

“I didn’t expect to run into anyone as pretty as you.”

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making plans.”

“Don’t I know it.”

Starsky licked his lips. He thought the purpose of Hutch’s play was to lay the groundwork for a special kiss—there on the side of a Bolivian mountain on the edge of a rainforest under a sunny blue sky. They hadn’t seen anyone on their hike—except sheep and rabbits and birds, and probably a lot of other little beasts who simply lurked in the underbrush. “Are you married, Ken?”

Hutch showed him his clean hand. “Nope. Looks like you are, though.”

“Used to be. Not anymore.”

“Still missing the missus then?”

“Haven’t found anything I want to leave the old life behind for—until now.”

“You flatter me.”

“I’d rather fuck you.”

A smile spread over Hutch’s face—as if he was pleased and charmed at once. Starsky couldn’t but bathe in the warmth of Hutch’s expression. He knew why he loved that man—for everything that had transpired between them since the eye contact they made on that fateful day fourteen years earlier. But also because Hutch was kind and sincere and beautiful. “Fuck” wasn’t really the word Starsky wanted; he felt such love for Hutch, a deep desire that transcended the physical and the sexual even as those feelings stirred inside him.

Hutch stepped forward, closer, and pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head, revealing his blue eyes—and all the warmth and love in them.

And Starsky held his breath when Hutch leaned in and touched his lips with that sensual mouth, only then exhaling with the exhilaration it caused him. Had they kissed in the open like that since the day they kissed in the grass that first time? Starsky couldn’t remember, but he didn’t think they had. No place had been safe. Hutch never allowed it, even if it may have been. That Hutch chose the side of a Bolivian mountain to kiss Starsky in the outside made the kiss exceptionally titillating.

“I didn’t see that coming—much as I wanted it,” Starsky said, pushing his sunglasses up over his forehead, too, and smiling with his eyes. “You’re a fast mover.”

“What can I say? You’re a sexy man.”

“Now look who flatters who.”

“You exude animal magnetism that you’re probably not even aware you have.”

“It’s the jaguar in me.”

“Hmm. I pegged you more of a peenie lover than a pussy lover.”

Starsky laughed. “Okay, you got me there. But that’s because I assume you have a huge peenie.”

Hutch dropped the water bottle into the leafy foliage around them, and began to unbutton Starsky’s shirt. “You want another first with me, buddy?” he asked, making eye contact while he continued to slowly release buttons from their holes. “We can have one right here and now.”

Sex outside. Is that what Hutch meant? What other first could there be? But Starsky could no longer tell whether it was a game, all talk, just play, and he was being set up for disappointment, or if Hutch had finally found someplace he was willing to bare it all. “My safe word is spaghetti.”

“Okay,” Hutch said, searching Starsky’s eyes for his purpose in mentioning it.

“I’m using it now,” Starsky said, not playing around. “Spaghetti.”

Hutch paused. “You don’t want to do this?”

“I do. I just want to know if you’re really serious. I know how skittish you’ve been about us having sex in the open.”

Hutch leaned in again, kissed Starsky’s lips, sweet-tasting and sensual, and said, “I won’t tease you about something like this. I’m deadly serious, Starsk. I want to give us another first. We’re safe here. There isn’t anybody around for miles.”

* * *

“The sky didn’t fall,” Starsky said. He tapped his wine glass to Hutch’s in a toast. “Cheers to us. We pulled it off.”

“More like, put it in,” Hutch replied with a wink and a smile. “And in. And in again.”

They drank merlot while they waited for their dinners—sitting inside a restaurant, one surrounded by four walls. The hike back to their hotel that late afternoon had taken an hour—just as Hutch had predicted—down one side of a mountain and up another to the village. By the time they returned, they only had energy for their separate showers, and the fifteen-minute walk along the main street to find the restaurant. Hutch had only brought a few essentials from La Paz, so they dusted off their jeans and hiking boots, dressed in clean crewneck sweaters, left their jackets behind, and decided they were presentable enough for a night on the town.

“But what are you really trying to say, Starsk?” Hutch wondered, sipping wine, holding eye contact, and hinting toward mischief. “That we should be doing more of that particular sporting activity in the big outdoors?”

“It was amazing, Hutch.”

“Amazingly wonderful.”

“I never experienced anything like it before.”

“Two firsts then, huh, buddy? First time outside with me . . . and first time outside ever?”

“Proving that there are places in the world where we can do that.”

“They’re not this easy to find,” Hutch reminded him.

“We walked off the beaten track and there it was . . . the perfect spot . . . right below that rocky shelf . . . in a patch of grassy, leafy, cushiony . . . stuff.”

“Jungle.”

“I felt really safe there, Hutch.”

“Like I said . . . places like that aren’t easy to find.”

“It took you all of ten minutes to find it.”

“It took me two days,” Hutch argued. He squinted at Starsky, held the rim of his wine glass to his lips, didn’t sip, leveled his gaze. “Forty-eight hours,” he echoed under his quiet demeanor.

“What?” Starsky asked when he realized he’d been somewhat challenged and was confused instead. “Forty-eight hours ago was roughly yesterday.”

Hutch continued to stare at him; a pleased smile on his closed lips, so Starsky pressed further into Hutch’s mind as he struggled to understand, but he needed a hint. “Are you saying that you started looking for an outside place . . . when we got to Yannaville yesterday?”

Hutch finally broke eye contact and drank from his glass, confirming Starsky’s hunch. “Places like that aren’t easy to find,” he repeated himself. “I had to do a lot of searching.”

“Wait,” Starsky said, pausing Hutch from saying another word by touching his arm, so he could calculate. “Those hikes we took . . . you spent them looking for a peenie place?”

“Why else do you think I had that little bottle of almond oil in my pocket?”

“I thought because, like my camera, you carried it for safe-keeping, because you didn’t want to have it stolen.”

Hutch winked at him. “Well, I am a detective, Detective,” he said with a light laugh. “I wasn’t going to just stumble on a private playing-with-peenies place. I had to actually search—and then be prepared when I succeeded.”

“So, all that mountain climbing wasn’t about my lung capacity?”

“It was good exercise for us both.”

“But that wasn’t the purpose.”

“No. I’d seen enough on the drive into the village to believe that there were places out there for us to get lost in . . . I just had to find a good one.”

Starsky bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud; he didn’t want to encourage Hutch, play into the fact that he’d been outsmarted by his partner right under his nose. At the same time, he couldn’t have been more pleased to have been taken on that ride. “So . . . the place we ended up . . . how’d you know to leave the trail for it?”

“Hunch—and I knew that particular valley was ‘uninhabited’ because I could see into it from the edge of town when we started off on the hike this morning.”

“You looked across the gorge and decided on that valley before we went down the mountain to cross the river?”

“Yep,” Hutch said, matter-of-factly, grinning, proud of himself.

“Well, it wasn’t all uninhabited. There was a trail we followed.”

“Made by animals. Sheep, mostly, I think. Sheep and deer. Maybe some wayward ya-mas. But there weren’t people. No fruit orchards up that way, wild or otherwise. No sheepherders. No structures or running water or farming. Too steep on the downside for any of that.” He never left eye contact with Starsky, speaking as if he was abundantly impressed with himself. “Besides . . . anyone coming up that trail would have stayed on it and walked right past us. I saw the sound-proofing rock wall and knew I’d found the perfect place for—”

“Schwanzing,” Starsky finished with a laugh. “Damn, boy, you did us good. Can we go back tomorrow? I want to have that experience again.”

“Let’s plan on it. We’ll make it more fun than the first time.”

“How do you figure?”

“We get the anticipation of knowing we can.”

Starsky liked that idea; he would be able to anticipate the pleasure, though there’d never be a time like the first one. It had been such a joy for him to make love with Hutch on the cushioned ground that he was then anxious to have dinner, get to sleep, and take a hike the next day. “After breakfast,” he said.

“After lunch would be better,” Hutch countered. “The weather will be nicer in the afternoon.”

“Now if we could just get fed some dinner. We worked up an appetite and I’m starving.”

The restaurant was relatively packed, mostly with Bolivians, but there was a countrywide festival in play, one that had begun that morning, and meal delivery was understandably slow.

“I’ll make it come faster,” Hutch said, pushing his wine glass further onto the table, and his chair away from it as he stood. “I’m going to see a man about a horse. Naturally, while I’m gone, we’ll be served.”

“Don’t get lost out there,” Starsky advised him. “I think the whole town might be drunk.”

Only when Hutch departed to the back of the room did live music begin to play in the restaurant—and much of the patronage got up to dance and sing, entertaining Starsky for the few minutes he spent watching the merriment. He felt liberated from so much: from the history of his life, from the violence of his career, from the repressions of culture and the restrictions of his recently abandoned religion. In those minutes, he was keenly aware of his connections: to the miracle of his existence, the freedom of his convictions, and the love of his life. The intimacy he shared in the open that afternoon with the one person who mattered most to him had been well worth the wait and all the miles it had taken to find it.

He lowered his eyes to the table, stared past his wine glass, looked into the moments he’d experienced on the mountain only a few hours earlier, and was spellbound by his fond memories. That Hutch had helped to plan that special gift for them made his hindsight all the sweeter.

The sex had been one thing. They didn’t share anything in that regard that they hadn’t indulged before—except that it was outside, in nature, under a blue Bolivian sky, making everything about it feel the most natural it ever had. Even the air itself, not moving, but enveloping them, was alive with its consent. Starsky felt it on his face, on his bared buttocks, in his hands—even when he was holding Hutch’s.

He could have slept forever afterward, hugging Hutch as close to him as he did, and allowing time, once again, to stop for that proverbial eternity. But minutes passed as minutes do and life resumed. Hutch left his arms to walk several paces away, in bare feet, to relieve his bladder in the underbrush, returning a short while later. He sat on the bed of leaves and grass and their collective clothes, faced Starsky, smiling, with blue eyes shining, and handed him a yellow flower.

“For my beautiful boy,” Hutch said in a soft voice, sitting cross-legged beside his partner. “I think it’s a dandelion.”

Starsky rolled to his side, got to his elbow, looked at it closely. “They’re shaggier than ours look at the cabin.”

“I’ll share it with you.”

“How do you know it’s not poisonous?”

“Okay, I won’t share it with you.”

Starsky watched Hutch pull the petals off the flower and eat them. When Hutch got halfway through them, Starsky grabbed the dandelion out of Hutch’s hand. “If you’re going to get poisoned,” he explained, “let’s make sure you only got half a dose.” He himself ate the remaining dandelion petals, figuring they were harmless because he trusted Hutch’s instincts. The taste was as bitter as he remembered dandelions from home. “Even in the tea,” he complained, “we’d be adding sugar.”

Hutch took the flower stem from Starsky and hit the end of his nose with it. “You mean, you’d be adding sugar.” He held eye contact. “Did I do you good today, buddy?”

Starsky lay on his back and looked up at Hutch. Hutch could only be asking about the sexual pleasure he’d provided—penetrating his man from behind as they lay on their sides in a spooning position, and Hutch manually ejaculating Starsky with both his oiled hand on Starsky’s shaft and with his hardened penis inside Starsky’s anus. The animalistic frenzy they’d experienced in the free outdoors had definitely deepened Starsky’s orgasm. “Have you ever not done right by me?”

“This being a first time for you, sex in the outdoors, I mean, I didn’t know.”

“But in your heart of hearts, Casanova, what do you think?”

“I think I did you good.”

Starsky winked at him. “I never felt like that before, that way, I mean. That . . . free with it, you know? Like there was no one on Earth to see or hear us, and we could just really let go—even more than we do at the cabin or on the farm.”

“We probably scared the sheep away,” Hutch contemplated, but he didn’t look serious, not enough to be taken seriously. He laid down beside Starsky, stretched on his side, elbow under his head, looked at his lover, partner, soulmate, for a minute before he said the next unsettling thing. “You’re so beautiful. I couldn’t be a luckier man.”

At first, Starsky thought he’d been mocked for something, but he realized Hutch was sincere: truth shone in his blue eyes under that head of mussed blond hair, above that shy, pleased, warm smile. “You’re the beautiful one,” Starsky corrected him, rolling to his side to face Hutch. He didn’t feel placated, but he did have the need to set the record straight. “I’m the sexy one, or so they say.”

“You’re beautiful,” Hutch reiterated. “Sexy and beautiful.”

“But, I mean, if you put us both in a lineup . . . and you stripped away all the sound and the manner and the interaction . . . we’d say you’re the beautiful one.”

“I’m not denying that fact. I’m saying, though, that you’re beautiful, too.”

“But not in a lineup.”

“In a lineup, you’re beautiful.”

“How do you figure that, Hutch, hm? I mean, look at you. There’s nothing about you that anybody would redo. Me? First . . . we’d move my eyes a little further apart.”

“I don’t know who this ‘we’ is, but I know I wouldn’t touch your face, except this way. . .” He stroked Starsky’s cheek with his fingers, then outlined Starsky’s eyes with the tip of his index finger, gently and carefully and with some affection. “I love how they’re shaped, that your eyelids show . . . gives them a kind of romantic, sleepy, bedroom look that’s very seductive.”

“You’ve already gotten laid, Hutch.”

“The perfect slope of your nose,” Hutch continued, running his finger from between Starsky’s thick eyebrows to its tip. “Distinct. Kind of phallic, really . . . long and . . . with its little water drop shape right here.” He pressed Starsky’s nasal vestibule until Starsky smirked at him.

Hutch gently scratched Starsky’s head. “You’ve got great hair . . . wavy and thick and the perfect color.” He ran his fingers through it. “I mean, the deepest darkest brown and the bluest deep-set, bedroom eyes. The combination is killer, Starsky.”

“In a sexy way.”

“In a beautiful way. In a very attractive, spellbinding way.”

“You want something from me—something else, I mean.”

“For you to know how beautiful I think you are.”

Starsky felt the openness of the mountain embrace them. Hutch wasn’t looking for sex; he’d had plenty of it over the past hour. He’d emptied himself inside of Starsky at a nearly life-threatening intensity, spurred by nature and by the reception he’d been given because of her. His thrusts had begun so lovingly—sensually and with tenderness—and ended with such fury and frenzy, and yet he never lost the manual rhythm he provided his partner’s penis. They came nearly together, which was rare, so tuned into the other’s sexual freedom that it unexpectedly heightened their own. Hutch’s orgasm was enormous; he slammed his hips into Starsky’s buttocks with a dizzying force—and then emptied himself in waves of pleasure, crying Starsky’s name into the sky as the ecstasy rocked his body with uncontrollable spasms. Starsky couldn’t help but to follow along.

So what else could Hutch possibly want in that moment while he made love to Starsky in the aftermath, that time with mere words?

“I used to think,” Hutch said, as if he hadn’t been interrupted and his thought stream remained intact, “that a woman’s voluptuous lips were a kind of way to cheat about having sex with her. I’d imagine she had other lips as moist and voluptuous and inviting. Kiss her and fantasize about kissing between her legs. Use my tongue and imagine that my dick would find as warm a home.”

Starsky realized Hutch’s once-upon-a-time fantasies hadn’t been that far from his own.

“But then I found your mouth,” Hutch said. “Your lips are much thinner than mine, and mine are no woman’s. When you’re not smiling, it’s as if you’d never have the interest in taking me the way you do now. You’re closed and closed off. But when you smile. . .”

Hutch himself smiled then, as if reminiscing about Starsky’s smile, because he had no other way in that moment to express how beautiful he thought it was, to see Starsky smile. “You’ve got a great one, Starsk,” he said. “Your whole face lights up . . . becomes so friendly . . . is so perfect.”

Starsky bit the inside of his cheek—not to keep himself from smiling, but because he wasn’t sure why Hutch showered him with such loving words.

“In fact,” Hutch added, “your face has always been more expressive than mine. You say so much with your face—every emotion and thought, so much that you could have been an actor.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I’d rather be in no one else’s mouth than not be in yours.”

“Is that what you want? So soon, I mean? Want me to—”

“But not only because of what I get out of it. Because, like your eyes, your mouth tells me so much: how you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, what you want and need . . . and you don’t have to say a word. You have a beautiful face, partner.”

“Are you looking for brownie points?”

“I like your hands, too.”

“You want me to jerk you off?”

“My hands are big hands. Yours are perfect for the rest of you. Great nails. Musician’s fingers. You know you wouldn’t change them in any way.”

Starsky had always liked his hands; how did Hutch know that?

“And your feet are the same,” Hutch said. He rubbed Starsky’s foot with his own, not leaving eye contact. “You’ve got great legs, too. I mean, standing back and looking at the line-up . . . you’re proportionately perfect. I’m mostly legs.”

“I’m mostly torso.”

“Comparatively, maybe, but it fits better on your body.”

“I have short legs and you know it.”

“I think they’re the right height for you.”

“You’re mixing words now.”

“Mincing, I think you mean, but I’m not doing that, either.”

“You’re fishing for something.”

“I’m telling you what I think.”

“But, why?”

“Because I think you’re beautiful—and you thought we should compare.”

“I get it: beauty’s in the eyes of the beholder.”

“Then why are you insisting we compare?”

Starsky was speechless; there was really no answering that question.

“I love the hair, too,” Hutch continued, again as if he hadn’t strayed from his earlier intention. He stroked Starsky’s haired chest, squeezed his nipples between his finger and thumb, lovingly petted his hairy belly, never left eye contact.

Hutch did have beautiful eyes, more beautiful than Starsky’s—as far as Starsky was concerned, and no one could tell him otherwise. He could die right there on that Bolivian mountain under that blue Bolivian sky in the embrace of those beautiful blue eyes. He melted in them even as he gazed on them that minute. “It’s not easy for me to think I’m beautiful.”

“You don’t have to think it,” Hutch said. “I think it. You tell me who else matters and I’ll have a talk with them.”

Starsky had no answer because no one else mattered.

“You’re my beautiful boy, Starsky,” Hutch cooed. He stroked Starsky’s face again, gently and with pure affection, while deep and sincere emotion shone brightly in his eyes. “When I think I can’t love you more, I touch you . . . and the feeling grows.”

Tears emerged in Starsky’s eyes; he hadn’t meant to produce them. Hutch had reminded him, again, where home was, where it had always been, and where it would forever be. He didn’t know what to say in reply. All he could seem to muster was the continuing gaze into Hutch’s eyes and to know that—no matter where they were, what they did, what transpired in the world around them—they were home.

“Home,” Hutch said in a gentle voice. “Right here. Right now. Forever. How do I know? Because I can read it . . . on your perfect, beautiful face.”

He had. Every single unspoken word.

“I see I was right about dinner,” Hutch commented as he pulled the chair under himself and sat down—and unknowingly knocked Starsky right out of his trance. “Turn my back for one second, and the meal is delivered. How come you haven’t touched it? You no like? I know you’re hungry.”

Starsky hadn’t even realized the waiter had brought their appetizers. He hadn’t heard the music. Seen the dancers. Felt hunger pains. He wiped the tear from his eye before Hutch could see it and mumbled something about waiting for his partner to get back before he began eating. “What took you so long anyway, hm?”

“Turns out the streets are packed with revelers,” Hutch explained. “It wasn’t as easy finding a patch of grass like it was in Yanacachi.”

“You went outside?”

“As modern a place as this is for Bolivia,” Hutch said, sort of sadly for the country, “the bathrooms are down the street, but I got lost looking for one. Finally realized I was in Bolivia, turned my back to the crowds, and peed on a lamppost. Eat up,” he encouraged Starsky, himself biting into the rice dish he’d picked up on his fork, “and tell me what I missed while I was gone.”

“Nothing,” Starsky said, looking over at Hutch, into his eyes, feeling all that love in his heart for the man, but not having the words, nor was it the right place and time to tell Hutch how much he loved him and why. “You didn’t miss anything.”

Hutch lifted his wine glass and held it out for a toast. “No, I guess not,” he said, belying his words with his action. “But, just the same, eye-bee-dicking, too.” He played off Starsky’s earlier attempt to say “I love you” in German.

Starsky touched Hutch’s glass with his own and drank a long swallow—only because he couldn’t look away from Hutch’s full-of-love blue eyes.

It was Hutch who broke it; he felt compelled to end the affection in that crowded room for all of the obvious reasons. “We’ll make up for it tomorrow,” he promised.

And Starsky knew exactly what he meant. “I can’t wait,” he said, beginning to eat his meal. “I can’t tell you . . . how much . . . I can’t wait.”

* * *

They slept in that next morning—after a mutually satisfying oral copulation they managed to perform between their twin beds, complete with the resulting laughter. “Is there any place we can’t find a way?” Hutch chuckled, still naked, stretched on his back on a bed, and rubbing his face, tickled by their behavior.

“Where there’s a will,” Starsky commented, reluctantly getting to his feet, wrapping a towel around his waist, saluting Hutch, and then leaving the room. They took separate showers because the relatively clean bathroom was in the hall and shared by the other paying guests. Once showered, shaved, and dressed, they gave each other a lengthy hug of affection before they headed out the door for breakfast.

Their lazy walk to the restaurant was vastly different from the one in Yanacachi. Coroico wasn’t just a larger town; it was also a well-known tourist destination, the reward for having survived a trip over the Death Road from La Paz. The sidewalks were lined with vendors selling food and souvenirs. But the Virgen del Rosario festival had begun and Bolivians were already dancing in the streets to live bands of reed flutes, guitars, and makeshift drums, and with joyous chanting and singing. Even Starsky was overcome by the electricity in the air and, having also been sexually unburdened, was himself feeling quite liberated. On several occasions, he got caught up in the festivities and danced for a few paces alongside Hutch’s stride.

After choosing a restaurant and taking their seats at a table at the edge of the open doorway, Starsky eventually gave his undivided attention to his partner. “Don’t suppose they have pancakes here?” he asked, hoping Hutch would immediately confirm it for him.

“You can eat pancakes every day at home if you want,” Hutch reminded him, motioning for the waiter. “Let’s try something traditionally Bolivian, huh? Besides, pancakes here won’t be like pancakes there.”

“How come? They got raisins in them or something?”

Hutch winked at him—and then engaged the waiter in Spanish dialogue. When he left, Hutch squeezed Starsky’s arm. “Thank you for being brave enough to try something new.”

“What did you order?”

“Coffee.”

“All that for coffee?”

“And tucumanas.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. He knew Hutch played with him. “Is that Spanish for pancakes?” He had to tap Hutch’s arm to get his partner’s focus off of the goings-on in the street, and repeated his question.

“No,” Hutch said. He kept beat to the music with his fingers on the tabletop—and didn’t elaborate.

Starsky sat comfortably back in his chair and closely watched Hutch, studied him, lost himself again in the beauty of the man, before he, too, was distracted by dancers in the street, singing loudly and beating drums. “What’s all this for anyway, hm?”

“Some Catholic ceremony . . . celebration. It goes back hundreds of years.”

“So, it’s just a big party?”

“I guess so—followed by a huge feast at the end of the day. Our ‘white’ friends this morning were right: we’re going to enjoy being here, Starsk. Lots of dancing and drinking and dining.”

“But time on the mountain, too, right?”

Hutch looked over at him, made firm eye contact, was direct and steadfast in his answer. “We’re going back there this afternoon—if it’s the last thing we do.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear, Detective. Carry on.”

Both their freshly brewed coffees and the steaming tucumanas were delivered at the same time, with apologies, according to Hutch, for not bringing them sooner, but Hutch waved the waiter away to let him know no harm had been done.

“What’s in it?” Starsky asked about the food before he’d put anything in his mouth, and allowing Hutch again to be his taster. He watched Hutch cut the breaded whatever-it-was open with a table knife, study it for half a minute, and then willingly—or bravely—take a bite.

Hutch seemed to like the taste, raising his eyebrows approvingly at Starsky to express his pleasure. “It’s just a deep-fried pastry filled with vegetables,” he explained, eagerly taking his next mouthful. “It’s good. You’ll see.”

Starsky began with a small sampling of the dish and found it to be as delicious as Hutch implied. “Yeah,” he agreed, “it’s good. Kind of like a vegetable pot pie. Everything you’ve ordered for us has been really tasty, Hutch.”

“I just tell them to bring us something that doesn’t have anything in it that we don’t eat. Keeps it simple.”

“You’re a clever boy.”

“Or a simpleton.”

Starsky smiled at him. “You’re my beautiful boy, whether you’re clever or a simpleton. I’ll take you any way I can get you.” When he saw the return smile, he covered for the affection to hide it from public view with a sorry observation. “They eat a lot of meat here, too, Hutch. Those pigs and sheep we see all over the place, I guess, hm?”

“And dogs, I’m afraid.”

“And dogs?”

“And ya-mas.”

“They don’t eat ya-mas,” Starsky said with certainty and scoffing at Hutch’s declaration, as if he knew.

“I’m sorry, Starsk, but they do.”

“You didn’t have to tell me that,” Starsky whined, setting down his fork, and feeling both disgusted and heartbroken. “Somebody needs to teach you how to tell lies.”

“I won’t make excuses for any of it,” Hutch replied, “because we’ve come to see it all as the same, but let’s just agree not to adopt a couple of ya-mas the way we did a couple of pigs, okay?”

Starsky laughed, sadly. “They probably wouldn’t let us take them back on the plane.” He shrugged off the disconcerting thoughts and put his mind into something completely different by asking Hutch what their plans were for the day—other than that romp they anticipated on the mountain under the rock wall.

Hutch laid it out for him: sightseeing, mostly; there were churches to visit and a museum of interest to explore, one that would enable them to appreciate the local region’s history. They would shop the vendors’ booths, maybe buy themselves a couple of authentic Bolivian hats, try more of the country’s native fruits and breads, dance with the villagers, drink traditional liquors, “get to feeling really good,” Hutch said, “before we’re feeling really good, if you know what I mean. But first,” he added, “we’ll take a walk from one end of town to the other, get a feel for the place.”

All of those details satisfied Starsky’s curiosity about how the day would play out. “I told you I didn’t need to read about Bolivia because I had my own personal tour guide with me, and you’ve proved me right.”

“I don’t mind leading the way,” Hutch replied with a wink.

“You sure did lead us good yesterday.”

“And I’m a hundred percent sure I can find my way back.”

“I’m counting on it.”

They did everything Hutch said they would do after breakfast. They walked the streets, shopped the vendors, bought fruit and glass-bottled beers to take on their later hike, and tried on a number of hats, but never bought one; Starsky learned most of them were made from alpacas.

They eventually worked their way to the southern edge of Coroico, to where the view of the mountains and valleys, covered in lush, green rainforest brush and trees, took their breaths away again. Starsky snapped pictures while they stood in silence and admired the scenery, enjoyed the fresh mountain air, and each other’s presence.

“Imagine living someplace where you don’t need a car,” Hutch said, turning just his eyes over to Starsky for the predictable disgusted expression he expected in reply. “C’mon,” he coaxed his partner after he saw the snarl, “you wouldn’t miss what you never had.”

“I love my car,” Starsky reminded him. “I’d rather imagine that I live here with it. I’d be King of Corkville, you know?”

Hutch laughed. “And an eccentric one at that.”

“I don’t know. Seems these people love a lot of color.”

They could hear the music still playing in the streets to the north of them, making Starsky recall how colorful the villagers were dressed, in both their usual fashion of mixed reds and yellows, greens and blues, as well as the celebratory wraps and shawls of gold and purple. The townspeople would easily accept his ‘striped tomato,’ and the thought made him inwardly laugh. “But, really, Hutch, we could clean up in a place like this. We’re so rich compared to them. If we ever want to leave the bullets behind, we can come down here and open a sports bar.” After seeing a small herd of llamas on the ridge across the eastern valley, he said on second thought, “Or a ya-ma sanctuary.”

“Check this out,” Hutch said, drawing Starsky’s thoughts and attention to a patch of greenish white flowers. “Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

Starsky couldn’t believe what he laid eyes on—and he immediately began taking pictures. A large morpho butterfly had landed on a blooming flower, laying down its enormous wings—a span that had to measure more than seven inches. “Holy shit, Hutch,” he repeated several times while he snapped photos. “Look at that gorgeous thing! You can barely see him inside those wings.” The insect had a kind of metallic sheen to its scales; it shimmered in shades of iridescent blue, fringed in chocolate brown and white spots. “He’s fantastic!”

“Not only is it native to South America,” Hutch said, mostly assuming his observation, or so it seemed, “but it lives at high altitude, too. And just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

The butterfly flew away at a speed that Starsky could have easily overtaken. But as much as he wanted to possess such a thing of beauty, he knew it would die in his luggage. “That was some beautiful something,” he swore. He would have to be satisfied with his pictures. “Thanks for seeing that for me.” He framed a couple of shots of the flower the butterfly had rested or dined on because he wanted to remember everything about the experience.

Then he handed Hutch his camera. “Hold this while I get rid of some coffee.” He turned his back to the village, faced the valley slope, unzipped his jeans, and relieved himself in the nearby grass, despite the few partygoers who lingered on the outskirts of town. “I might get used to pissing on the spur of the moment,” he decided. “I’m beginning to like this place.”

They resumed their sightseeing after dropping the bag of fruit and beers at the hotel, and ended up in one of the few churches in the area, elaborately decorated in lights and candles, and heavily draped in flower garlands and clean linens. Tourists were respectful; Bolivians both worshipped and congregated.

“Tell me what they are here,” Starsky asked, leaning into Hutch so he could answer privately. “Religion, I mean.”

“Catholic.”

“Most of them?”

“Pretty close to, yes.”

“What are the others?”

“Christian religions.”

“I mean, like, what kind?”

“You know . . . Protestants and Evangelicals. . .”

Starsky studied the architecture and statues, the elaborate oil paintings and intricate candle holders, the high stained-glass windows, enormous chandeliers, and decorative tiled ceilings.

“Then there’s the indigenous religions,” Hutch added.

“That word again. Indigenous?”

“Native.”

“Oh, you mean, like the old school types of stuff?”

“Yeah,” Hutch said, amused with Starsky’s description. “Old school types of stuff.”

“Well, all I can say about this, Hutch, is that these places are goddamn amazing, hm?”

“Pun intended?”

Starsky laughed at himself. “I mean, look at this church. It’s all the more fantastic because you know it has to be really old. The work that went into it . . . the designing . . . the passion . . . right?”

“Right.”

“But, having said that, Hutch . . . I think maybe I don’t want to live in a country where it’s mostly people judging the kinds of things you and me do.”

Hutch didn’t say anything. Sure, he could have told Starsky that every country in the world frowned on the kind of behavior he and his partner had grown to love and want and need from each other. But, somehow, the poorer the nation, and the more religious it was, the animosity toward their way of love was probably all the greater. And that’s why Hutch didn’t say anything; he didn’t want to live long-term where he wasn’t welcome, either.

“Speaking of, you know, playing around,” Starsky said with a snicker, “I’m getting hungry for lunch, if you know what I mean.”

They’d eaten a light breakfast and worked up a new appetite from their shopping and walks, so lunch was the order of the moment. When Starsky was hungry, Starsky expected to be fed. They eventually stopped at a busy restaurant they found on the main street through town, specifically choosing it because it opened onto the sidewalk; they both wanted to watch the revelers and listen to the open-air music.

Starsky stopped Hutch from ordering for them because he wanted to give it a try himself. “No con carne,” he said repeatedly to the obviously patient waiter. “Comprendo?” The waiter smiled at him and left the table for the kitchen. “Did I do that right, Hutch?”

“Other than the syntax, I think you got the point across. We’ll know you did if they don’t bring us a plate of chicharron.”

“Ya-ma?”

“Pig.”

Starsky was disgusted. “Go back to lying to me, okay?”

“Well, that begs the question: Have I ever lied to you?”

“Probably.”

“C’mon, Starsk. Seriously.”

“Well, you went off to see my brother once and told me you were leaving for some other reason.”

“Some things you’ll never let me live down. But I’ve never lied to you to deceive you for my own benefit, have I?”

“No.”

Starsky didn’t want to argue with Hutch, especially on that afternoon. He’d thoroughly enjoyed his day, from the shopping to the butterfly to the sightseeing; even the food had been good, and he was proudly convinced he’d ordered their lunch without dead animal parts in it. They would drink and dine and probably dance, too—Starsky could feel it in his own blood and already see it in Hutch’s; Hutch practically danced in his chair while he waited to be served. And then they would hike to their mountain.

“What’s the plan tomorrow?” Starsky wondered.

“I figured we’d go back to La Paz,” Hutch said. “There’s a lot more to see there. The plazas and the churches. The cable car. The views and the markets and the nightlife. The food and the museums. We want to spend time at the Valley of the Moon, too. Lots to see and only ten days to take it all in.”

“Oh, yeah, that moon valley was one of the things on my list. That’s the weird rocky area that looks like it could be another planet.”

“Hence its name,” Hutch said to tease Starsky. He quickly held up the cocktail glass he’d just been handed to keep Starsky from admonishing him. “Cheers, buddy.”

They tapped glasses and drank.

“If we have time, we should go to the Lake, too,” Hutch suggested.

“The Lake?”

“Titicaca.”

“Oh, that lake,” Starsky said, laughing. “The first part of its name sounds interesting.”

“It’s the highest navigational lake in the world.”

“Am I going to have altitude sickness up there again?”

“I’m sure we’ll both feel a bit dizzy for the first couple of days, but I think you’re past the sickness. You’ve been eating well and resting well and staying hydrated—except for those times you’ve spilt that creamy bodily fluid.”

“Just trying to keep you hydrated, Hutch.”

“We can’t forget to drink more water before morning and on our way back tomorrow, okay?”

“We’re taking the route we came, right? Back through Yannaville and not the Death Road?”

“We can stop in Yanacachi for lunch. No reason for us to stay overnight. It’ll take us six hours from here to La Paz going that way, but I think it’ll be better for us than taking the dangerous route.”

Starsky liked the plan. He also liked the meal they were served—one without meat or cheese, something he would have closely called a plate of fajitas: black beans, lettuce, tomatoes, steamed vegetables of carrots and cauliflower, and served with guacamole and corn tortillas. Deep-fried potatoes with freshly seasoned and sliced tomatoes were set down between them on a separate plate. The offering reminded Starsky to buy a loaf of bread for their trip to the rock wall. “Let’s get some olives for the hike, too,” he told Hutch. “We can have a late picnic up there if we want.”

They ate everything in front of them that afternoon, but only drank one cocktail each, deciding it would be wiser to consume more water than alcohol.

“You pay the guy,” Hutch said after lunch, handing Starsky two currency bills, “while I hit the head.” When he stood, he was immediately solicited by a young Bolivian woman who encouraged him to dance with her just by wiggling around in front of him. The sudden interruption didn’t give Starsky time to complain about having to be the one to pay the bill; he didn’t know the first thing about the exchange rate. He tried to get Hutch’s attention to have the most basic question answered—how many Bolivian pesos to a dollar?—but Hutch was caught up in the dance.

And Starsky couldn’t help but stop to watch. He was mesmerized. Hutch looked so happy, appeared so free, was obviously tickled about having been asked to dance with a pretty young woman, or having been asked in Bolivia during one of its most special celebrations, because Hutch exuded excitement. He laughed, swiveled, clapped to the beat of the music, was alive with life and laughter, and exchanged joyful glances with Starsky, dancing with his partner by proxy.

Starsky aimed his camera at Hutch. The light from the street gave him all he needed to perfectly capture what became the one-and-only frame he was permitted of Hutch immersed in a Bolivian religious dance of joy. It was the last picture on the roll.

* * *

“What is it?” Starsky asked, and subconsciously not certain he wanted to know. “¿Qué es?” he tried in Spanish, when his native language didn’t get him an answer.

The woman patted her belly and replied, “Llamar al feto.”

Whatever that was.

But on careful study, Starsky began to realize it: he held in his hands a llama fetus. At first, he thought it was a replica of some kind of dinosaur, a boy’s toy or a science project, given its chiseled head and toothed jaws. But he soon recognized the llama skull, its attached skeleton, and that it was covered in mummified skin. He quickly dropped it, both disgusted and horrified. “Por que?” he asked the Bolivian vendor, and he sounded as disturbed and as demanding of an answer as he felt.

There was an entire basket filled with his gruesome discovery, some dozen or more fetuses in similar size and structure. On the back wall of the sales booth, he noticed larger llamas, of newborn size, their feet and legs tied, presumably to keep them from breaking off, and short, white wooly coats. They were obviously dead, hanging there in decorative pose, but their big black eyes gave away the once-upon-a-time promise of a soul. “Why would you do this?”

An English-speaking tourist answered him. “They supposedly bring good luck,” she said, standing near Starsky, and sounding as offended. “They sometimes bury them in walls of new construction to ward off evil spirits.” The woman was middle-aged, purchasing a shawl, and appeared rather rehearsed in Bolivian culture. “Sad, isn’t it?”

“That’s one word,” Starsky mumbled. He decided not to ask further questions, such as how the llamas had been killed. There were too many of them to believe that many female llamas had natural miscarriages. He thanked the woman for the information, and turned to face the street again. If Hutch had been standing there, he could have shed a comforting light, but Hutch still hadn’t emerged from his romp to the bathroom.

Starsky checked his watch. It had been nearly twenty minutes since Hutch had gone to the back of the restaurant, having paused only for a minute to exchange a few words with a Bolivian man wearing a cowboy hat. Starsky assumed Hutch had asked for directions because the cowboy pointed to a hallway behind the kitchen. After paying for the bill—and probably spending more than he was supposed to, not having Hutch to guide his money transaction, Starsky stepped outside the open restaurant front and waited for his partner while he watched the ongoing celebrations of the country’s holy day. It was then that he spied the vendor a few paces up the street, and decided to kill time there instead, keeping an eye on the eatery in case Hutch emerged sooner than later.

After ten minutes of that decision, Starsky moved closer to the door, then eventually peeked into the restaurant. Other than the Bolivian cowboy and a few of his friends dining and drinking beers at a table in the corner, the room was empty. The lull between lunch and the upcoming dinner feast was in full swing. But a half hour to use the men’s room, even with a too-many-beans bowel crisis, seemed a bit too long. Starsky finally decided to drag his boy out from wherever he was; he walked down the hallway behind the kitchen—but only found a dead end.

The discovery wasn’t surprising; it would have been an amazing rarity to find a plumbed toilet in any given building, as serendipitous as laying eyes on a blue morpho butterfly. But there was a back door, so Starsky stepped onto the street behind the restaurant and scanned it for signs of his partner, or at least for the whereabouts of a public restroom. He saw neither. Although the street was narrower, it was as filled with tourists and partygoers as the main street they’d entered from the front of the restaurant.

Starsky was more surprised by how much Spanish he knew. “¿Dónde está el baño?” he asked the cowboy, interrupting the older man’s meal with an apology. Starsky didn’t fully understand the answer, except that the toilet obviously wasn’t in the restaurant, but some streets over and a few streets up if he left through the back door. “El Americano. . .” Starsky explained, holding his hand level to the top of his head, “. . . con yellow hair. . . Mi amigo,” in case the cowboy had seen him with Hutch earlier. “¿Dónde está el hombre?”

“Ah, sí, sí, fur al baño.”

As Starsky suspected, Hutch had asked the cowboy for directions to a public bathroom. Starsky thanked him for the information, and then left the restaurant out the door from the rear hallway. Two streets over and several up weren’t as easy to navigate as they sounded; the crowds and vending booths—and the loose-running street animals—pigs, goats, and dogs—got in the way. Even when he was able to master the first part of his directions, the turns in the second part were somewhat confusing.

But Starsky eventually found a public restroom—packed to capacity and smelling as bad. He called into the cement-walled structure, but Hutch never answered. Starsky didn’t expect him to; Hutch would have urinated on a lamppost in broad daylight and full-on nudity before he’d enter into the stench Starsky had just encountered. Starsky then worked his way over to the outskirts of town, to where he and Hutch had already used the countryside for a culturally accepted area to relieve themselves.

“C’mon, Hutch,” Starsky growled to himself when he scanned the mostly deserted country trail and didn’t see his partner, “this is no time for hide-and-seek.” Starsky was aching to take that hike to the rock wall; they planned to stop by the hotel along the way and snatch a blanket off one of the twin beds to use for a cushion on the ground. Perhaps Hutch had done things in reverse: gone first for the blanket. None of that made logical sense, but if Hutch had needed to do more than empty his bladder, he may have ended up closer to the hotel for privacy.

Starsky returned to the restaurant. He would give Hutch a full hour from the moment he’d spoken to the cowboy, to have taken care of his personal business, to have picked up the blanket from the hotel, and gotten back to the restaurant to grab his partner for the mountain hike. But as time wore on and that hour passed, Starsky began to feel uneasy. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned against a wall near the eatery, kept his eyes on every person who walked past him, and continually checked his watch.

“This isn’t funny, Hutch,” he cussed, finally pushing off the rough stucco at his back, and heading for the hotel on the route they had used after breakfast. The sounds of music and laughter and singing began to dim in Starsky’s ears as apprehension and concern about Hutch’s whereabouts rolled over each other in his gut. He could kill Hutch once he found him, but, for then, Starsky was mostly perplexed. Of course, Hutch had only told Starsky to pay the bill while he ‘hit the head’; Hutch never said he’d be back to the restaurant.

Those conclusions were lame, Starsky realized, but he didn’t know what else to think. Once inside the hotel, and checking the hallway bathroom on his way into their bedroom, subsequently finding its door open and the room unoccupied, and then certain he’d catch Hutch in the middle of stripping a bed, he was floored when he entered the empty room.

Hutch’s jacket still adorned the back of the only chair; not alarming because neither of them had taken their jackets into town, assuming they wouldn’t need them until nightfall, but there was something ominous about its solitary presence in the room. Neither bed had been touched, and their duffle bag remained where they’d left it that morning at the foot of one mattress. Starsky rifled through it and decided that nothing seemed to be missing.

Nothing, but Hutch.

Starsky eventually sat in the chair and stared at a wall for nearly another hour as the minutes painfully passed. By then, his instincts had begun to eat away at his logic, and his vexation grew into serious worry. Hutch, where are you, partner?

When he couldn’t take another minute of waiting, Starsky asked for a pen and paper from the front desk; he got both, and quickly scribbled a note to Hutch, one that simply read, “I’ve gone back to the restaurant for a beer and I’m not leaving there until you show up. Bring our food bag—and the blanket.” He signed it, “Starsk,” and left it in plain view in the center of one bed.

The streets had emptied somewhat as Bolivians prepared for the sunsetting festival. None of the vendors had put away their wares and closed their booths, but they left many of them unattended for an afternoon break or siesta. It made Starsky’s trip to the restaurant easier to maneuver. The cowboy and his friends had gone; a few Japanese tourists remained at a table, mostly to kill time, it seemed, as they conversed among themselves and didn’t seem to notice they were in a fascinating land. Starsky parked himself at a table on the street and ordered a hot tea; he wanted his wits about him.

Another hour passed—and no sign of Hutch.

Had Starsky played it right? Should he have stayed at the hotel? Isn’t that where they had decided to meet up if they got separated? But, if that had been true, Hutch would have left him a note if he’d been there and decided to leave again. Wouldn’t he have?

The questions leapfrogged through Starsky’s mind and none came with sound answers. Even if he’d changed the rules, Hutch had plenty of time to read Starsky’s note and come to the restaurant. Or maybe Hutch hadn’t remembered the way. Or perhaps he’d stopped to dance with the locals? He could have easily gotten caught up in festivities.

None of Starsky’s thoughts made sense—and nothing he seemed to decide was the right action to take. The only thing that was certain as the day drew to a close was that there’d be no hike to the rock wall, even despite the waxing moon.

Some of Starsky’s anxiety evolved into anger. Not because he wasn’t going to enjoy the afternoon the way they’d planned, but because he didn’t know what to do with himself, except to make decisions and worry about their validity later.

On that note, he left the restaurant, walked to the south end of town, to where they’d earlier seen the butterfly, and searched the open fields for Hutch. There were few people on the outskirts, but more than there’d been the previous day, and most of them Bolivians, as was obvious by their smaller features and clothing. A tall blond American would most definitely stand out.

Starsky scoured the very edges of the entire ridge upon which Coroico had been built. In most places, it was too steep to imagine that Hutch had gone down them, even for an embarrassing bowel movement if he’d needed one. But there was no one in the grass, no Hutch in any of the more private places where other men relieved themselves, leaving Starsky to return to the hotel, determined to find Hutch angrily waiting for him there. Where else could he be?

“Fuck me,” Starsky whispered when he had to turn on the lamp and realized he stood in a still-empty room. Hutch’s jacket hung on the chair. The duffle bag sat on the bed. The mattresses hadn’t been stripped. Even Starsky’s note appeared to be untouched. He carefully read it for any sign of a sarcastic or informative reply; there were none. No scribbles. He looked in the grocery bag and saw that all of the fruit was still in it and the beers were unopened.

So he sat on a mattress and stared at the floor. Where did you go, Hutch? Are we ships passing in the night? If they had been, they’d taken different routes between the restaurant and the hotel, though Starsky was quite certain the one he’d traveled was the main road. They’d been separated for hours. Hutch would not have used a side street to and from anywhere if he was looking for Starsky—and there was no doubt in Starsky’s mind that Hutch was as concerned about their separation as he was.

He decided to stay at the hotel, getting hungry enough to eat the fruit and some old bread from the day before. He drank water while he paced the floor, looked out the window, walked down the hall whenever he heard the bathroom, or went outside the hotel to wait in its doorway.

Hours passed. Not one, but two.

There were no other answers, no considerations about simply missing each other in passing, no wondering if Hutch had gotten lost somewhere along the way. Something was wrong. Starsky wrote him another note, that time saying, “It’s 6:35 p.m. I’ve gone looking for you. Don’t leave when you get here. I’ll be back by 8 p.m.” He signed it, “Starsk,” and left it in place of his previous note. And then he set out, dressed in his jacket, deciding to leave Hutch’s in the room in case his partner returned and needed it, and began looking for Hutch in just about every open doorway and shop and building he passed.

Maybe Hutch had gotten into a fight and was knocked unconscious. Would anyone attend to him if he wasn’t Bolivian? Starsky asked tourists along the way if they had seen a tall blond ‘and beautiful’ forty-year-old American during their travels, but none had seen Hutch. He asked for directions to the hospital, which was a small clinic near the town square, and relatively unoccupied. Although he was told no such person of Hutch’s description had been or was still in the hospital, Starsky went looking through the hallways and the rooms on his own, discovering that no one had lied to or misled him about the patients in the building.

His next stop was the police station. Maybe Hutch had gotten into a fight with someone and found himself on the other side of some prison bars. But he wasn’t there, either, and no police had been notified of a fistfight or an accident; further, they couldn’t help him unless his partner had been missing for more than a day. They even suggested—through the translators Starsky was able to engage—that Hutch might have holed up with a friendly woman, rubbing their thumbs and fingers together to imply that his partner had solicited a prostitute.

Outside in the night air, Starsky felt the first fearful pang of his aloneness. He looked both ways up the street and was keenly aware at that moment that he was on his own in a very different country from the one he knew—barely able to speak its language without the help of others. The chill that passed through him had nothing to do with the falling temperature.

Where else was he supposed to look? It seemed he’d been everywhere in that relatively small village, walked every street, entered nearly every building, hunted around on its outskirts. But as the people began to emerge again, enlivening the town with new lights and fireworks and flaming torches, music, dancers, and singers, he understood that there was only one thing left for him to do: and that was to begin all over with his search.

From hotel to hospital to police station to main street to side streets to outskirts and back again, Starsky spent most of the night looking for Hutch. He stopped as many people as he could manage, those who weren’t dancing or drunk and appeared to know English or some semblance of it, so much that he believed everyone in Coroico knew a dark-haired American was frantically looking for his blond friend.

But no one had seen him.

Worse than that, Starsky hadn’t, either.

He walked until his legs ached. He walked until he was out of breath—and kept walking. He slipped down the sides of the ridge as far as he could go into the valley without falling into the river, traipsed through weeds and jungle and knee-high grass, not caring about the jaguars or the snakes or the bats or any other kind of beast that may have commonly lurked in a rainforest. He overturned water barrels, looked under wagon tarps, explored stairwells and alleyways, climbed the few several story buildings to both search them and to use them to look out over the lit-up and festive town below him.

Each pass he made by the hotel took him inside. He knocked on every door in the building to make certain Hutch hadn’t accidentally ended up in the wrong room. But Hutch never returned, never touched his jacket, didn’t move the duffle, hadn’t opened the paper bag, eaten a piece of fruit or drank a beer, or read or left Starsky a note.

Starsky was more than alarmed and anxious, more than sick to his stomach and emotionally exhausted. He was terrified.

* * *

It hadn’t been easy for Starsky to wait in the hotel room during those times he convinced himself that’s where Hutch would eventually end up; there was nothing to read, no television or radio, not anyone with whom he could exchange ideas and decipher clues. He felt purely on his own. The isolation only served to make him question his every move: should he have explained which of the two restaurants in his note Hutch was supposed to meet him, the breakfast or the lunch one? Should Starsky have stayed longer at either of those places?

The only confirmation Starsky got about making the right decisions was the fact that Hutch hadn’t left any notes or messages: not on paper in the room, not with the police or the hospital, not with restaurant owners or waiters. Hutch hadn’t been in touch with a single soul. In Starsky’s case, he’d made the rounds through town so many times during the night that a lot of the locals, and even some of the tourists, including the two Australians they’d met in Yanacachi, and Jacob, the Brit, recognized him when he began his hours-long search all over again after sunrise.

The Bolivian vendor who sold the llama fetuses he’d spoken to the day before, and throughout the long night, asked him if he’d found his partner—“¿Has encontrado a tu amigo?”—and by throwing out her hands as if to say, “Well?” when he arrived at the restaurant again that morning. “Nada,” he said.

The male waiter he knew from both his lunch the day before, and his attempts at passing messages to Hutch if he should speak to the man, brought Starsky a breakfast burrito while Starsky stood outside the venue and desperately surveyed the street. He didn’t realize how hungry he was until the aroma of the freshly made meal abruptly invaded his nostrils.

“No carne,” the waiter promised, trying a smile. He also handed Starsky a ceramic cup of hot coffee. “Con azúcar,” which sounded somewhat like ‘sugar’—and, in fact, was proven to be so after Starsky took his first sweet sip. He couldn’t thank the gentleman enough and hungrily ate while he continued to wait and hope Hutch had finally found his way back.

But the hours also passed and none held promise. Only when his bladder needed to be placated did Starsky leave his position in front of the restaurant for the outskirts of town. Before he departed, he attempted to pay for his morning meal, but the restaurant owner, and the waiter, too, refused the payment. He’d found his first allies.

Around the town again he hurriedly walked, stopping occasionally and long enough, as he did the night before, to empty his insides. Several times, he thought he might vomit—and not from food, but from pure anxiety. Nothing ever came of it except the heightening sick feeling in the pit of his soul. He even retraced his steps in reverse that morning, hoping for a different result, but wasn’t obliged.

His exhaustion and his fear began to take their toll: he prepared himself for knowing something, anything, about what happened to Hutch, even if it was the worst case imaginable. Not knowing was killing him.

It was late morning when a clue finally emerged. It was no less confusing—and maybe even more puzzling—but it was a bit of news that Starsky sorely needed. A forty-something Bolivian woman called him from several paces behind—“¡Señor! ¡Señor!” she yelled—before he realized she tried to catch him. He quickly turned around to face her; she, dressed in traditional fashion: wide colorful skirt, long-sleeved shirt under a buttoned-down wool sweater, and the iconic bowler hat, her hair in braids, wearing worn, dirty, flat shoes. She didn’t speak a word of English, but fervently grabbed Starsky’s arm, and repeatedly told him, “¡Vi a tu amigo! ¡Vi a tu amigo!”

“Can somebody here translate for me?” Starsky called into the crowd. “Please?” He knew enough of what she said to believe she had news about his friend. Hutch.

A fourteen-year-old American boy stepped up, and the woman spoke fluently to him. “Llevo toda la mañana buscando a este hombre. Vi a su amigo coger el autobús hacia La Paz.”

Starsky thought he understood the gist of her claim as she spoke it and his heart sank even before the boy translated it for him. “She says she’s been looking all morning for you because she saw your friend get on the bus to La Paz.”

“Have her describe my friend.”

“¿Cómo era su amigo?” the boy asked.

“Un americano,” she said, looking deeply into Starsky’s eyes while she answered the youngster, as if to convince Starsky with her sincerity where her words seemed to fail, “alto como él, con el pelo rubio y ojos azules. Estaba vestido con vaqueros azules y una camisa de manga corta y botas grandes.”

Just about none of that Starsky understood.

“She says he’s as tall as you, with blond hair and blue eyes, and that he was wearing blue jeans, a short-sleeve shirt, and big boots.”

“And he got on a bus?” Starsky asked, not sure he’d understood the first time.

“To La Paz,” the boy added.

“But ask her if she’s sure that’s what he did.”

“¿Seguro que cogió un autobús a La Paz?”

“Sí, sí,” she insisted. She let go of Starsky’s arm long enough to point toward the west.

In a series of exchanges, Starsky learned that the bus had left at 8 a.m. that morning, and another bus wouldn’t leave Coroico for La Paz until four that afternoon. He asked the woman if Hutch appeared drunk or drugged or threatened or disoriented, and she maintained that he was none of those things. She said she tried to stop him, to let him know his dark-haired friend was frantically looking for him, but she didn’t catch up with the vehicle in time before it pulled out of the town square. She then went to the hotel to let Starsky know what she had seen, but Starsky wasn’t there; she felt lucky to have found him when she did.

The bus trip from Coroico to La Paz was roughly three-and-a-half hours long, so perhaps he would get a message from Hutch via phone once he reached the city, routed through to the local police station. It was the only telephone in Coroico besides the one at the hospital, but they both only had service to the La Paz police, and every call was extremely expensive. It explained why the police never offered to call anyone on Starsky’s behalf; that, and because he’d never given the police a reason why Hutch would return to La Paz without him.

Especially then, it made even less sense. If Hutch had gotten confused about which hotel they were supposed to meet back at if they got separated, why would he have gone to La Paz without first checking in with the Coroico hotel, and secondly, why would he wait until morning to make that trip to the city—by himself, no less?

There could only be one answer. If the woman was correct, if she had indeed seen Hutch board the bus to La Paz, and Hutch had done so after all of the hours Starsky had spent searching for him, from the hotel to the inner and outer skirts of the village, after his notes and messages and visits to the hospital and the police station, then Hutch had suffered a serious bout of amnesia. He’d faked it once to pay Starsky back for poor judgment, but this was no joke anymore, and he knew Hutch well enough to know this wasn’t a prank his partner would pull a second time—not to this degree and not for no reason.

Hutch had amnesia. He’d either fallen or gotten punched or stopped along the way to eat something Starsky hadn’t, gotten seriously ill and lost his mind; but, if he truly boarded that bus, then he definitely didn’t know where he was or who he was with. He may have had enough in his memory, or had some of it jarred, to believe he was supposed to be in La Paz—and that explained why he left that morning, and not the afternoon before, on the four o’clock bus.

Hutch had amnesia. What other reason could there be for his absence and his departure from Coroico, if not this one?

What did Starsky have to lose if he, too, went back to the city? He didn’t have enough money on him to stay one more night in Coroico; Hutch carried the bulk of their pesos. All Starsky had in his pockets was some American currency. Their hotel in La Paz was paid through to the end of their stay, nine days from then. And they had no reason to return to Coroico after this visit; their plan had been to see all that the city had to offer, as well as the massive high-altitude lake north of it.

Returning to La Paz would be another decision Starsky would question having made, but he didn’t know what else to do. None of his searches had been successful—and there wasn’t any place else to look. So, he returned to the hotel, checked out of the room, taking his and Hutch’s jackets, the duffle bag, Starsky’s camera, and all that he wore on his back with him. He left the beers behind as a gratuity. He also wrote another note to Hutch, to tell him he’d returned to the La Paz hotel, where he would wait forever if he had to, having failed to find Hutch in Coroico, and impressed upon the front desk to make sure Hutch got the message if Hutch miraculously appeared.

Starsky then paid $30 to have a private car immediately take him to the city, flagging it down with the help of a couple of Bolivian vendors, and the driver was more than happy to accept American money for his service. For all Starsky knew, he’d given the man the equivalent of a hundred dollars, but every penny would have been worth it, despite that the vehicle he rode in was a small, beat-up flatbed truck with broken windows. Starsky’s knees were practically under his chin. But it had wheels, and the driver, named Cruz, although he knew only a few English words, seemed confident that they’d survive the journey.

It was another sunny day in Bolivia. Cool temperatures, a light breeze, clean air. The ride to the bottom of the valley was the same route Starsky and Hutch had walked to cross the river below, hike up the adjacent mountain, and eventually find the rock wall. The love they made in its shadow, both sexually and emotionally, would be a memory Starsky would cherish forever. As they passed the footbridge he and Hutch had crossed, and then left it behind in the rearview mirror, Starsky was terrified he’d never have a moment like that with Hutch again.

In the first forty-five minutes of their trip, Starsky didn’t understand why locals and tourists alike referred to the highway over the mountain as The Death Road. It wasn’t any more frightening than the roads they’d taken from La Paz to Yanacachi and from Yanacachi to Coroico—except none of those were ‘highways,’ and The Death Road wasn’t one, either. The eventual change in scenery, however, was a marked distinction from the surrounding areas when the truck climbed that neighboring ridge, and the road itself became something to be duly respected.

Unlike the roads he’d already traversed, this one was noticeably higher in altitude—and continued to ascend with no summit in sight—but it was also more of a rainforest environment. What he thought at first were clouds, and to some degree they were, turned out to be patches of fog, some so dense that the driver had to considerably slow the truck to keep from driving off the road in the low visibility. The road’s surface was mostly rocky dirt and its width quite narrow, especially in places where draining water from the forests above swept across it and apparently took parts of the road with it. The sheer drop to the bottom of the valley was so immediate along most of the road that Starsky couldn’t look out the passenger window. He kept his eyes steadfastly focused on the path ahead, as if a second pair of them would keep his otherwise obviously experienced driver from plunging over a cliff.

In no time, the Death Road quite quickly lived up to its name—while Starsky’s heart began to pound and his palms to sweat and his anxiety to build with each bend in the road. He didn’t know if he could withstand the next two hours on such a precarious and surreal passage through the Bolivian rainforest—but there was no way to turn around, either.

“What’s happening?” he blurted when the driver stopped the truck, shifted into reverse, and slowly backed them along the edge of the road, and around a tight curve. “What’s going on?”

“Viene un coche y hay que encontrar un lugar donde dejar que pase.”

Starsky didn’t understand, but he turned in his seat to face Cruz so he wouldn’t have to look at the perilous maneuver. It wasn’t until a car traveling in the opposite direction approached them from around the bend that Starsky appreciated what had transpired: Cruz had to find a place in the road where the two vehicles could pass each other. Understandable, yes, but Starsky wished they hadn’t been the ones required to hug the cliff-side of the road.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Cruz assured him. He’d apparently seen the oncoming car when Starsky hadn’t, and quickly made the customary alteration. It was second nature for the Bolivians.

Were it not for his more pressing anxiety about his partner’s welfare and whereabouts, Starsky could easily have had heart failure; at the very least, a panic attack. He rode in his new position of facing into the truck cab with just his eyes turned to watch the road ahead. As it climbed to 15,000 feet, two things began to materialize: one was that the passage became much narrower, wetter, and steeper, and the second was that Starsky had begun to feel the effects of altitude.

Hutch was right that Starsky wouldn’t feel as sick when he returned to such altitude—after all the water he’d drank and the hills he’d climbed; he didn’t even feel nauseous, but he did feel dizzy and a shortness of breath, and he did feel at times as if he were drugged. All those things heightened his anxiety and the physical discomforts of his heavily beating heart, cold sweat, and visible tremble.

“No hay mucho tráfico en la carretera esta tarde,” Cruz said in an observational tone of voice. “Debe ser pro la santa celebración.”

Cruz’ voice comforted Starsky only a little; was that its purpose? He did appreciate the man’s effort to console him, especially as the road began to feel as if it would never end and it would be the fear of it that would kill Starsky.

Around a more precipitous curve, they had no choice but to abruptly stop. Ahead in the roadway, a number of people, perhaps a couple dozen, had gathered outside their vehicles. A line of mostly large trucks were frozen in place, one behind the other, on what appeared to be the other side of an extremely narrow passage. It didn’t seem as if any of those trucks could cross the strip of road available to them; a car could barely make such a pass. Or maybe that was just Starsky’s assessment. Why they had stopped, however, wasn’t immediately clear.

But when Cruz drove them as close as he could to the strip of road they would have to navigate, Starsky understood better: part of the road had been swept away under the runoff from the forest above it.

Starsky drank cool water from his bottle with the hope that it would calm his stomach and his nerves. “We’re not really going to drive over that, are we?”

Cruz didn’t answer, and probably because he didn’t understand the question. Instead, he parked and left his truck to approach the crowd that had gathered at the edge of the cliff. Starsky did likewise, but he hugged the mountain side of the road, leaving the vehicle from the driver’s door, and planning to only get within earshot of the voices he heard to see what he could pick up about the situation. It turned out he didn’t need words to know.

A vehicle of some kind had been flushed off the mountain where the road had collapsed. Half a dozen men, hands on ropes, were pulling something or someone from down below; the rest of the crowd either watched or mingled, unable to do much more. When the catch they had at the end of their ropes turned out to be a man strapped into a sling chair—and holding onto what appeared to be a small human body—Starsky realized that a recovery mission was underway.

He also then noticed the several bodies under blankets alongside the road. He would never be able to describe in words just how mortified he felt in that moment—perhaps it was because of the altitude, or his own physical discomfort and fear of heights, or the ever-pressing terror he constantly pushed back against because Hutch was missing—but his reaction to the scene wasn’t a typical one from experiences he’d had as a police officer in times past. This was something different. This seemed like a nightmare unfolding before his very eyes—and he was about to be made the ultimate victim.

Cruz came back to where Starsky stood near the mountain. As he entered Starsky’s personal space, Starsky shifted his eyes to Cruz’s—and saw the regret and sorry on his face. Behind the man, Starsky could also see that others in the crowd now watched him, as if he’d become the star of the show. But he didn’t think they looked to him for rescue. No one knew he and Hutch were police officers. In his gut, in his heart-of-hearts, in his head, and in the deepest part of his soul, he instinctively prepared himself for the worst possible news. Starsky didn’t just watch a terrible scene play out in front of him, involving people he didn’t know; he had a role in that scenario that he would have given everything on earth not to have been assigned.

“El autobús ha superado el borde,” Cruz said, his voice sort of shaky.

Not ‘a’ bus, but ‘the’ bus had been swept into the canyon. That much, Starsky translated. The bus. Wasn’t that the difference in the words ‘el’ and ‘un’? But was it the bus from Coroico? Or the one coming from La Paz?

“Tu amigo,” Cruz said.

Starsky abruptly looked back into Cruz’s eyes. “What about him?”

“Creemos que está muerto.”

“No.”

Starsky wasn’t even sure what he’d heard, but he sensed the word ‘dead’ had been spoken. He fought back against it again. “No,” he said more firmly.

“Ven a ver conmigo,” Cruz gently said. “Come, come,” he added, taking a few steps away and motioning for Starsky to follow him. “See. Mira. Mira.”

No chasm in the world could keep Starsky from trailing behind Cruz just then, right up to its edge. He desperately needed to put Cruz’s assumptions behind him, to prove the man wrong, and then to walk himself over the remaining strip of road—and all the way to La Paz, if he had to, to find his partner. “No,” he repeated when he was quietly surrounded by other men who were at work on the scene. They stopped when he approached—and the man who’d been brought up in the sling was the one to address him.

“Hay un americano entre los muertos,” he said. “Lo siento.” He motioned for Starsky to accompany him to one of the tarp-covered bodies at the road’s edge. “Un hombre de pelo rubio,” he added. “Su cuerpo se ha quemado mucho.”

None of those were words Starsky understood, except that he’d come to know that ‘pelo rubio’ meant blond hair—and that his host had apologized in advance. Starsky wasn’t the only American in Bolivia, nor was Hutch the only blond American in the country. These men were simply mistaken about the identify of one of this accident’s victims. And yet Starsky still trembled, still felt dizzy and dreamlike and sick in his heart. He gestured that they could uncover the body.

The first thing Starsky noticed when they pulled back the blanket to reveal the deceased . . . was that the body was severely burned, all but it’s right arm and leg. Starsky’s initial reaction was what he’d hoped: these men had come to the wrong conclusion about the dead’s identity. But as he scanned the mangled and charred corpse more slowly, pushing every sort of feeling for himself out of his own body as he could manage in order to make a rational and reasonable assessment, he was suddenly not so certain they were mistaken.

A patch of blond hair was still visible, though singed, from the back of the skull. The victim was obviously male, a fact Starsky could deduct from its height alone—a formidable one, like his and Hutch’s, in a land of mostly small people. It was dressed still in belted blue jeans—was that Hutch’s buckle?—and one hiking boot, familiar in style; the other foot, like most of that half of the body was damaged beyond recognition. Only the badly burned watch on its left wrist was distinguishable; that, and the slightly smoke-damaged ring on its right finger. If Starsky looked at it closely, he might think it was Hutch’s class ring, but he was not prepared to believe he was standing over Hutch’s dead body. The face was so disfigured as to be utterly grotesque; nothing but charred skin and melted-out eyes. Starsky couldn’t even glance at it for long without feeling overwhelmed with nausea and dread, using instead the rest of the clues from the corpse to make a determination—and even then, he wasn’t convinced.

Because he didn’t want to be.

The men spoke to themselves in Spanish while Starsky stared in defiance at the horrific view beneath him, that of an accident victim burned nearly beyond recognition. But the facts were these: a bus had gone over the cliff when the road washed away; it was filled with people who had no chance to survive the explosive impact below. Some of those victims had been brought up to the road in what had to be a painstaking process underway for hours. “The bus,” he said in a strained voice, not even knowing where to begin to say those words in Spanish, “which way was it going?” He crossed his arms and pointed in both directions.

“A La Paz,” was the unanimous answer.

Starsky didn’t know what that meant: did they say the bus had come from the city or that it was on its way there? He must have looked confused because several men at once, all in the same fashion, swept their arms from Coroico and pointed into the direction of La Paz. “A La Paz,” they repeated.

Starsky’s knees felt weak and the terror choked his throat. He didn’t know what to do because he was too stunned to move. Were this any other accident, involving any other person, he would have taken control of the situation in the blink of an eye, and found all those answers, of this he was sure. But he was shaky and unsteady, dizzy and debilitated, exhausted and overwhelmingly paralyzed with fear.

The leader of the men leaned over the body and respectfully combed through all of its clothes, eventually removing a mostly undamaged billfold and a passport from the right hip jeans pocket. He opened them and studied their contents before he carefully handed them to Starsky. “Americano,” he said, confirming the nationality. “Este es tu amigo, ¿verdad?”

With a pounding heart and labored breath, Starsky cautiously opened the wallet. He laid his tired eyes on the confirming identification therein: a California driver’s license. LN: Hutchinson.

And then Starsky dropped to his knees.

* * *

There were maybe six chairs in the morgue lobby, if that. None matched. No reason to care whether they did, either. It was simply something Starsky noticed as he sat alone against the rear wall, facing the street, staring into oblivion—and seeing only the byproducts of carpentry. There was a counter in the room, and a door that opened into the back of the building, presumably to where the ovens were housed.

“I need to talk to you, Hutch,” he said into the empty. “I’m going to need some answers.”

No one came from the back to see Starsky, but he didn’t have to wait long. Col. Norman Roberts from the United States Air Force, compliments of the U.S. Embassy in La Paz, arrived less than fifteen minutes later.

They’d met the day before, early evening, a couple of hours after Cruz had gotten them safely to the city, stopping at the morgue long enough to transfer Hutch’s body, and then driving Starsky to the hotel, compliments of the $30 Starsky had already paid him. It had been one of the most painful journeys of Starsky’s life.

The men at the scene of the accident had insisted that Starsky walk across the narrow strip of what remained of the road from the washout, following behind Cruz’s flatbed truck—carrying Hutch’s remains—to avoid any further death should the small truck get washed away as well. Starsky kept his eyes on the rocky surface as he crossed the wet ground, mostly to avoid looking at the back of the truck and seeing that corpse-covered shape in its bed.

When Cruz braked on the other side to allow Starsky into the cab, Starsky collapsed for the second time—right there on the road between the flatbed and the long line of heavy-duty fruit trucks that had been stopped by the recovery crew. Presumably, until a good section of the mountain could be carved out to widen the road, no one was going anywhere, except Cruz’s vehicle. It was narrow enough to squeeze past the roadblock, as well as the wider fruit trucks. He had suggested that Starsky continue to walk until they’d gotten beyond the paralyzed traffic, so that Starsky wouldn’t ride at the very edge of the road, but when Starsky collapsed out of despair in front of everyone, Cruz changed his mind.

It no longer mattered to Starsky that he had to travel at the very precipice of the road; in fact, he didn’t care if the truck plunged into the river below and it, too, exploded on impact. He was in shock, stupefied, numb, monumentally speechless, and crippled by the horror that had just become his life. It could never be worse than it was at that minute.

He remained in a state of collapse all the way into the city, slumped in his seat against the door; he didn’t see the Bolivian people, hear their music, smell their food, appreciate their plight, notice their livelihoods and busyness. He spent the two remaining hours of travel staring into nothing, unable to feel anything because he couldn’t bring himself to form a single thought. It was Cruz who had to take over most of the decisions they made that afternoon, from instructing Starsky to sign the papers at the morgue, to helping him get his room key from the front desk at the hotel.

Cruz even bought him a cheese sandwich, which he left on the small table in Starsky’s room after he carried the duffle bag and their jackets in for him. He said his goodbyes, but not before he gave Starsky his condolences. “Lo siento,” were two words Starsky understood, but he could barely carve out a thank you in reply.

He sat on one of the two beds and stared at the other, refusing to remember the conversations and experiences he’d had with Hutch in that room only a few nights earlier—when Hutch took care of his altitude sickness—and forcing himself to stay ahead of any thought that wasn’t focused on nothingness.

The beds had since been made, the towels refreshed, the sink and floor cleaned; their luggage was neatly set, side by side, in the small closet whose door was open. Starsky could see several of their shirts—both his and Hutch’s—on hangers inside. He tore his eyes away, avoiding everything he could that would remind him of. . .

“I need to talk to you, Hutch.”

A knock sounded on the door—and caused Starsky to gasp. In that same instant, he understood it hadn’t been an answer to his prayers.

“Come in,” he said. “It’s open.”

He expected to see a maid or other wait staff; even Cruz would have been predictable, but the man he laid eyes on wasn’t anyone he’d ever met.

“Col. Norman Roberts,” the late-thirties gentleman said. He was dressed in the standard-issue U.S. Air Force blue uniform, complete with shoulder epaulets on his jacket and the recognizable black-belted, bullion-embroidered cap on his short-haircut head. He further explained himself as having been sent by the U.S. Embassy in La Paz, as was routine when an American was killed or died in-country, having been contacted by the city’s morgue when Starsky signed off on the admittance papers. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he told Starsky, apologetically squeezing Starsky’s arm rather than shaking his hand.

Starsky hadn’t moved from his position on the bed. “I don’t know how I’m going to get through this.” He wanted to say that he didn’t know how he could possibly ever live without Hutch, but those words didn’t get past the filter. In the suspended moments of not knowing how he’d survive, Starsky realized just how robbed he was of fully expressing his immeasurable grief.

“One minute at a time,” Col. Roberts said, “and I will do everything in my power to help you along the way.” He gave Starsky his contact number at the Embassy, as well as the street address, and impressed upon Starsky that he was to use the Embassy’s services and provisions to the fullest.

Perhaps it was standard procedure, or maybe Col. Roberts could see how visibly devastated Starsky was, but he insisted that Starsky return to the Embassy with him. After the formalities, Roberts promised to buy Starsky a meal, reminding Starsky that he had to eat something besides bread and cheese, that he would need both his physical and his mental strength over the next few days.

Weeks.

Months.

Years.

Lifetime.

Starsky only followed Col. Roberts out the door because he’d been instructed to go with him. He was numb from the inside out, so close to a total breakdown, he feared he’d never recover. One foot in front of the other, as Col. Roberts advised him, but even to think of it was an exhausting effort.

In Roberts’ office, the Colonel gently outlined the practicalities of Starsky’s ordeal, having learned two things: that Starsky and Hutch were decorated, undercover detectives in California, and that they’d been police partners for close to fifteen years. “Would you prefer to be the one to tell his next of kin?” Roberts asked. “We can do it for you, or we can tell your captain, and he can tell them.”

“I’m his next of kin,” Starsky managed to say.

There was a long pause; Starsky knew Roberts meant something else and he simply waited for Starsky to understand his intention. “Please tell our captain,” Starsky finally decided in a low voice. “I know I can’t do it.”

“Very well,” Roberts said. “In the meantime, you should know that the Embassy will provide a proper container to ship your partner to the States. The paperwork will take a few days: to release him from Bolivia, to accept him in America.”

Starsky appreciated that Roberts referred to Hutch as ‘him’ and not as ‘the body,’ but he was unable to express his gratitude for that; he simply couldn’t say more than he was forced to say, to answer questions, or confirm decisions.

“You may leave the country at any time,” Roberts reminded him. He sat beside Starsky in a chair, not behind his desk, seeming more personal than official in that regard. “If you want to return with him, like I said, it’ll be a few days, but you don’t have to stay.”

Starsky couldn’t bear to leave Hutch.

“You may very well have talked to your partner about his end-of-life preferences,” Roberts added, easing into his words, “but if his family chose to have him cremated here, he could be released into your custody as early as tomorrow—and you could take the midnight flight home. The United States will be paying all these costs, so don’t let those factor into your decision.”

Starsky stared at the back of Roberts’ desk, using its empty surface to summon the courage to say what he did. “He wants to be cremated. I’m the executor of his will and I know that’s what he wants.”

“I assume you don’t have that document in your possession. Who’s the executor in your absence?”

“His attorney—in Los Angeles.”

“We’ll call him now for that information. While we wait for the paperwork, let’s get you something to eat.”

Starsky could barely swallow food, but did so whenever Roberts instructed him to take another bite. They’d gone to a quiet, out-of-the-way hole-in-the-wall restaurant within walking distance of the Embassy, and Roberts ordered a couple of meals for them, choosing wisely when Starsky said, “We don’t eat animals anymore.”

No alcohol for Starsky, despite that he probably needed some; he only drank water; that’s what Hutch would have wanted him to do, and it seemed to help the altitude dizziness, or maybe his shock had eased or masked it. Feeding off Starsky’s comment about his diet preferences, Roberts opened their dialogue with talk about Bolivia’s animals: its iconic llamas and toucans, Titicaca’s flamingoes and the jungle’s jaguars. At first, Starsky didn’t understand why the Colonel was commenting on such minor observations until Roberts’ remarks evolved into facts about the country in general and, eventually, the Death Road.

“We’ve tried for years,” he said, “to inform tourists to stay off that road; especially to stay off buses that travel that road. And, yet, the number of thrill seekers grows every year: bicyclists love that downhill stretch from the summit to Coroico; I’m sure you noticed how sharply and for how long it climbs to fifteen thousand feet.”

Starsky didn’t want to remember. He stared at his plate, nodded.

“No guardrails,” Roberts continued. “Heavy rainfall and landslides. Hairpin turns. You know how narrow it is—and that sheer drop . . . what is it? two thousand feet down in some places? Last summer, a way overloaded bus with about a hundred passengers went off the cliff. It’s an accident waiting to happen every single day, Starsky, and it should have long-ago been closed.”

Not soon enough for Hutch.

“There are some grumblings about building a new road over the pass, one mountain to the north, one that’s not so treacherous, terrain-wise, I mean,” Roberts explained, “but this government is so corrupt, and the costs so high. . . Well, maybe someday.”

Someday wasn’t soon enough for Hutch, either.

“I’m simply saying it was purely an accident,” Roberts added in closing. He’d tried his best to find a roundabout way to alleviate whatever guilt he assumed Starsky might be feeling. “That road is infamous for these things.”

“I don’t know why he left,” Starsky blurted.

“Why he left?”

“Why he left that town. I don’t know why he left without me.”

“Why do you think he did?”

“He went missing yesterday afternoon. I looked everywhere for him,” Starsky said, his voice breaking on nearly every word. “I looked everywhere and more than once. He disappeared into thin air . . . and then . . . this morning . . . he got on a bus.”

“You were in Coroico for more than a day?”

“We went to Yanna. . .”

“Yanacachi?”

“Yeah, to get me out of the altitude here. From there we went up to. . .”

“Coroico.”

“We planned to come back to La Paz . . . today.”

“So you haven’t been staying in La Paz this whole time, with day trips to the villages?”

Starsky nodded. It had taken such effort to explain the little he had. He pushed back against the gnawing grief. “So, I think he musta got amnesia . . . and that’s why he left on the bus.”

“Maybe he thought you’d gone back to La Paz?”

Starsky hadn’t considered that scenario until then, but he quickly dismissed it. “He left his jacket behind at the hotel.”

“I’m really sorry, Officer. I wish I had answers for you.”

Not even with his rank as a United States Air Force Colonel could he solve that puzzle. How was Starsky supposed to understand it?

When they returned to the Embassy, and given the time zone differences, a return fax had already been sent to Col. Roberts’ attention, from Hutch’s lawyer, confirming that Starsky was the executor of Hutch’s will; he included the entire document, nearly a dozen pages long, complete with notarized letterhead releasing all relevant decisions to David Starsky.

David Starsky then instructed the U.S. Embassy to proceed with its task to have Kenneth Hutchinson cremated.

At the morgue that next day, sitting alone against the wall in one of six chairs, waiting for Roberts, and having brought additional documents with him, Starsky was keenly aware that he survived on fumes alone. He’d only eaten what Roberts had encouraged him to eat. He dressed in the same clothes. He barely slept. He hadn’t showered. He stared into space. Maybe when he got home, he could lie down under a fruit tree that Hutch himself had planted, and cry himself into oblivion. For then, he managed to stay the course of protocol and procedure; anything to get home as soon as the world released him.

He showed Roberts the necessary identification: his own driver’s license and passport. He gave Roberts his and Hutch’s airline tickets; his original return flight was useless to him. The United States of America would fly him back with his partner on its dime late that night.

Roberts rang the bell for staff when they were ready. A Bolivian woman emerged from the back, carrying a couple of large envelopes, and a Bolivian man did likewise with several items. Starsky barely paid them notice. Roberts was in charge. He first compared the identification they’d taken from Hutch’s jeans—his driver’s license and passport—after the recovery crew on the Death Road had tucked it into the waistband on Hutch’s body, and confirmed and signed paperwork attesting to the identity of the victim.

Then he called Starsky to the counter to begin the transition of Hutch’s few belongings. He handed Starsky Hutch’s driver’s license. There was a photo of Hutch on the left. That beautiful smile. HAIR: BLO. EYES: BLU. SEX: M. HGT: 6’1”. Starsky couldn’t bear to read more. The same was true for Hutch’s passport, but he did verify them; they weren’t the forgeries he hoped they’d be. The woman inserted them into a new large envelope when Starsky gave them to her to do so.

Next he was handed Hutch’s watch and his ring. The watch didn’t give him pause one way or another—he couldn’t remember whether he’d seen it before or not—but on closer inspection, it was definitely Hutch’s class ring, the one he often wore, and had worn since college, long before Starsky knew him. The woman tucked those items into the envelope. She spoke to him in Spanish, but he didn’t understand.

“She asks if you want to keep his shirt,” Roberts translated.

Starsky realized the woman held a mostly damaged garment toward him. There was barely much of it and what was there was burned and tattered. “No,” he said.

She held up Hutch’s belt—another item that had been scorched; only the two ends of the belt were intact. “The buckle,” he said, and Roberts translated his words to the woman. She quickly removed both pieces from the leather and put them into the envelope.

Did Starsky want Hutch’s only salvaged boot? No, nor the sock that had been pushed into it—both were useless and impersonal. He presumably wanted Hutch’s wallet. Yes, and he went through it in front of Roberts and the morgue staff so she could make an official inventory of its contents. None of its credit cards or cash seemed to be missing. Starsky figured he’d trade the pesos for American dollars when he got to the airport.

“¿Su jeans?” she asked, holding out the last of Hutch’s clothes. They had been folded somewhat, because more material was intact than had been burned, and they were tattered and stained, but unlike the other items he’d decided to keep, these would only remind him of the bus accident and the fire and that horrific image of Hutch’s melted face and the moment Starsky’s life stopped.

“No,” he said. But as she began to put the jeans aside, he changed his mind, not to keep them, but to go through them. He remembered another ring. And he would have given anything in the world just then to have reached inside that tiny coin pocket on the right hip and not found that band of gold and diamonds because it would have meant that it really wasn’t Hutch who had become another statistic on Bolivia’s Death Road. Tragically, though, he felt the cool metal of that precious piece of special jewelry tucked inside that small pocket where Hutch had put it—and Starsky’s heart sank that little bit further.

He braced himself against the wooden counter and slipped Hutch’s ring over his middle finger, next to the matching ring he wore, and not caring if Roberts noticed or if Roberts cared. Starsky only had one person to answer to and that person was gone. Forever.

But there was something else, something Starsky didn’t expect, nor could he have guessed what it was if he hadn’t seen it. When he began to give the jeans back to the woman, he felt something hard and small in the larger pocket on that right hip. It couldn’t have been keys; Starsky was the one who’d driven them to the Los Angeles airport when they left the country. Hutch had no reason to have keys on him.

It couldn’t have been the key to their hotel room in Yanacachi because they returned it when they left. And it couldn’t have been the key to the hotel room in Coroico because those were kept at the front desk. A roll of film? Nail clippers? A cigarette lighter? Hutch didn’t smoke.

He didn’t leave Coroico for no reason, either.

Starsky reached inside the pocket, immediately felt the hard plastic at his fingers, but still had to pull it out to know what it was. His knees went weak and his legs buckled, and he had to hold onto the countertop to keep from collapsing right there in front of witnesses. In his hand, he held the now damaged, empty plastic squeeze bottle they used to carry almond oil. And an entire life of unconditional love dissolved right there before Starsky’s eyes.

Starsky was way too frail then to withstand the next blow.

He asked the question purely to distract Roberts and the woman from knowing how close to the emotional edge he’d gotten. “What’s that?” and he pointed to the small red metal box that had been set on the counter beside the envelope that would soon be solely in his possession.

The woman looked at Roberts for aid.

Roberts squeezed Starsky’s arm. In a soft voice, and as gently as it seemed he could possibly say it, he replied, “I’m sorry to have to say this, Starsky, but those are your partner’s remains.”

* * *

“I know where you’re going with this, Starsky,” Davis said carefully, easing onto the stool in the kitchen, and not being timid about making firm eye contact with his friend. “So let me be the devil’s advocate here. There’s still the distinct possibility that Hutch bought that watch during the hours you couldn’t find him.”

“It’s not possible,” Starsky argued. He never felt more certain about anything in his life. He began to pace the kitchen, doing his best to keep from being excited about a fantastical idea while, at the same time, arguing his case. If he could convince the devil’s advocate, then the world would turn right side up again. “You had to be there, Davis. Those people sold things like cheap soda and plastic whistles and wool scarves they made from alpacas and ya-ma fetuses for good luck charms.”

“Your point is that no one in that entire town could have sold Hutch a watch?”

“Wait here a second,” Starsky told him. He quickly left the kitchen, hurried down the hall, and entered Hutch’s room—for the first time in days. He was on a mission and didn’t have time to think about the room’s contents; the envelope that contained Hutch’s personal belongings from that fateful day was right on top of a box in plain view. He grabbed it and returned to Davis, getting the watch out of the envelope before he got back.

“You tell me,” he said, pushing the watch into Davis’ hands. “That strike you like a piece of jewelry someone would sell in a Bolivian tourist trap? Remember how poor that country is.” He watched Davis closely examine the watch. “They sold mostly clothes,” Starsky continued, “and all the same kind of clothes, too: shawls and scarves and hats and ponchos. They sold lots of bread and fruit and potatoes and stuff like that. I never saw jewelry for sale, let alone that quality.”

“‘Helmut Sinn Spezialuhren,’” Davis said, reading the small print on the back of the watch face.

“It doesn’t sound Spanish to me,” Starsky said. He stood anxiously at the counter, beside Davis, and waited for the next supposition he could dispute.

“It’s not Spanish,” Davis agreed. “It’s German.”

Starsky felt the blood drain to his feet. “We ran into a German while we were there.”

“‘For Thomas,’” Davis continued reading, turning the watch in the light to make out the engraving, “‘with all my love.’” He looked up at Starsky. “I assume this German you ran into was a woman?”

“Actually, he was some older guy,” Starsky replied, disappointed. He hoped it would be a clue. “So I guess he wasn’t related to ‘Thomas’ then. But what you’re saying is that Hutch stopped long enough to buy a—”

“Hot watch.”

“But why would he, hm? I mean, he had no reason to have a watch. In fact, when we were in La Paz that first day, he told me how much he hated watches and why he’d stopped wearing them. He got annoyed with me because I wouldn’t immediately give him the time.”

“What I’m saying, Starsky, is that it’s possible Hutch bought this watch off some hustler—for as freakish a reason as it was that he went off on his own, and eventually got on that bus.”

Starsky walked to the kitchen window, folded his hands behind his head, looked into the outside, and gave deep thought to Davis’ words. Was he kidding himself into believing Hutch was alive because he so desperately wanted Hutch to be alive? And would looking for Hutch for the rest of his life, even if he never found him, at least give him something to live for again?

“What I don’t want to see you do, buddy,” Davis explained, “is think he’s alive somewhere when, in fact—and I’m sorry to be blunt in saying this—he’s down the hall in a red metal box because you were unable to let him go when you went up to the cabin over the holidays.”

Starsky dropped his arms and faced Davis. Everything Davis said had truth to it. But truth came in many forms. “I let them convince me of something using circumstantial evidence,” he admitted, still pleading for that light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. “I walked right into it and never gave it a second thought.”

“Who’s they?”

“Whoever took him. Whoever did this didn’t do it alone.”

“I would argue you have tangible evidence,” Davis reminded him.

“Except the convenience of Hutch’s face.”

Davis pushed the watch away onto the counter. He sat back on the stool, crossed his arms, leveled Starsky’s gaze. “Why would anyone go through all that trouble to make you think he was dead?”

“So I’d leave the country and never look for him.”

“What would they want with him?”

“How would I know? Why would anyone kidnap somebody? To hold him for ransom.”

“There’s been no call—”

“To sell him for sex.”

“He’s beyond his prime.”

“He’s still beautiful,” Starsky insisted. He leaned on the counter across from Davis and kept the same eye contact with him. He needed the sounding board and the voice-of-reason, if only to confirm for himself that he would no longer be played the fool. “You said so yourself when you saw that picture. Your exact words were, ‘damn, he was a gorgeous man.’”

“I did say that, but the sex trade tends to prey on weaker victims, too.”

“Then the labor trade. The entertainment trade. The ‘I just want a pretty boy to play with’ trade. I mean, don’t you think it’s suspicious that I got all those things—his clothes, his ring, his identification—but I never got to see his face?”

“Because it was burned off in the accident.”

“He left that town, if he left it at all, for a reason,” Starsky insisted.

“Explain the watch on his arm,” Davis challenged him.

“They fucked up. They forgot to take it off whoever’s arm it was. Maybe it’s Thomas in that box down the hall.”

“Starsky, you’re talking about a situation now for which you have zero evidence.”

“I have evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“I know Hutch. I mean, I really know Hutch. We have the same mind, not just the same body and heart. That’s what’s bugged me for months: why did he leave? why did he get on that bus? why didn’t he try to find me? He wouldn’t have left Corkville without me. I just know it. That’s my evidence.”

“Even you believed it was possible he had amnesia.”

“Because I couldn’t come up with any other reasonable answer.”

“So hell with the tangible evidence? His wallet, his license, his passport, rings, belt . . . that bottle in his pocket?”

“I’m not saying those things aren’t his; I’m saying they were planted on somebody else’s corpse.”

“His jeans?”

“Why not? His jeans, his shirt, his shoes.”

“And all of that so you’d go home and stop looking for him? That’s your logic?”

“Fuck logic. I’m going to go with my gut on this one, Davis. Some years back, he and I played this hide-and-seek game one weekend to prove that he could outsmart me and that made him the better detective. He was sure he’d win; I told him I’d have him nailed before the day ended.”

Starsky recalled those words, just about verbatim, and they were as true then as they were in that kitchen. They got his heart to pounding.

“‘I’ll have you wrapped up by tomorrow night, chump. I’ve done my homework for seven years. I know how, where, when you eat, walk, sleep, talk. And I know who you know, what you know, and how you know it. And ain’t no hiding behind that.’”

“Who won the game?” Davis asked.

“I did.”

* * *

GIVEN BY THE MOON

It was an unusually sultry night that early January. But it was the peak of Bolivia’s summer, too—its celebrated rainy season—slightly humid, breezy, with mild temperatures ranging from comfortable to warm.

Hutch had asked Elena to leave the windows open before she departed for the evening, and a less than muggy draft of fresh rainforest breeze passed through the room. The skies were clear and evolving gradually from their cobalt blue to a dusky bluish orange as the bright sun inevitably set in the west and the full moon rose in its leaving.

Although the day had begun as typically as had most of the others over the past few months, and had ended as fairly, Hutch felt the effects of alcohol quite keenly—because he’d had more than his usual to drink that early evening. Dinner had been exceptionally delicious and had become one of his favorite meals: a pasta dish made especially for him, one of linguini and homegrown sautéed eggplant, topped by a thick, hours-long-simmered marinara sauce, coupled with freshly steamed broccoli, red potatoes, and crisp asparagus. The toasted garlic sourdough bread was an enjoyable complimentary taste, too. And, of course, the red wine, from one of the finest vintners in the world.

It explained, in part, why he was on his second glass. Since early October, Hutch had been given the best of everything that money could buy: clothes, food, shelter, servants. Exotic presents were regularly offered to him for no reason, and gifts of pleasure to tantalize all of his senses were never more than an ask away. He had indeed become a rich man among the rich—just as Ryker had promised he would.

“It is good, no?” Ryker asked. He licked his thin lips to savor a swallow from his own glass. Then he went on again about the weather. He did love to talk—to sit there in his comfortable armchair, that time after dinner, in his black silk robe and matching slippers, and tell his well-spoken stories. On this night, the weather was so perfect, he couldn’t help but speak of it.

Hutch sat in his cushioned chair at the table by the window, relaxed, attentive, listening to Ryker, and twirled his wine glass on its smooth, wood-planked surface. Two candles on the table slowly burned in their bronze candelabrums; incense smoldered and smoked from a brass, vented dish, and wafted through the air, filling the room with its perfumed aroma of sandalwood. A ceramic saucer of freshly poured jojoba oil had customarily been placed near the table’s edge. Hutch had finished his meal—and it was time for his deliverance.

While Ryker compared summer night temperatures from years past, and mostly with himself, Hutch dipped his right index finger into the wine in his own glass and then outlined its rim, allowing the liquid to roll off its crystal curved sides. He repeated the subtle, provocative motion until Ryker’s eyes shifted to Hutch’s action—and he stopped talking mid-sentence.

On Hutch’s third dip into his wine glass, he coated his lips with the wine, kept his eyes locked on the brown ones that hungrily gazed back at him, and gently sucked his fingertip. He loved that Ryker was so easily aroused.

The breeze tickled the leaves on the palm trees outside the window; it was the only sound either of them heard. That, and Ryker’s breath when he finally let it out.

“Are you going to tease me tonight?” Ryker expectantly asked. He had a hint of a German accent, having been born a German, but raised in Great Britain. There was even a touch of a Bolivian undertone in his words, giving him an international mix of sounds. He was, in fact, quite worldly, having lived and experienced many different cultures in his 62 years. “Must you be so mean?”

Hutch relaxed further into his chair, raised the wine glass to his mouth, smiled at Ryker with his eyes from over its rim, and drank a long swallow. The alcohol was as smooth as melted ice cream, but warm in its engagement—and it gave Hutch the further high he desired.

He slightly opened his legs. Barefoot and only wearing his white linen robe, the move parted the cloth over his thighs, enough to promise, but not so far as to expose him. Ryker’s eyes dropped from Hutch’s face to between his legs and it was obvious he further undressed Hutch in his mind. “You are such a bad boy,” Ryker said, belying his words with a shy smile and another lick of his lips, that time for a taste he’d not yet consumed.

Hutch set his glass on the table, repositioned himself closer to the edge of the chair cushion, slumped back, rolled his head to the side so he wouldn’t break eye contact with Ryker, and deeply exhaled. The warmth of the wine had saturated his blood. All that was missing in those suspended moments was the feel of a wet, sucking mouth on his penis to take him from his sleepy demeanor to one of heightened ecstasy. He knew Ryker would deliver. He counted on it.

“That is what you want, is it not, Michael?” Ryker asked when Hutch closed his eyes. The invitation was obviously there. “You want me to suck your cock, do you not, sweet boy?”

Tender kisses, gentle licks, warm tongue, oiled hands. Thoughts of those sensations alone visibly hardened Hutch, and he tugged at his robe to pull it open just that little bit extra, exposing most of his sac, but only a sliver of his stiffening penis.

“Show it all to me, Michael,” Ryker encouraged him. His words were breathless, not as melodious in nature, and deepened with the confidence of his German language, as he, too, began to swell and ache for sexual thrill and contact. “Show me your hard cock.”

Hutch opened his eyes, gazed dreamily at Ryker, noticing his rounder face, his change in expression—from titillated curiosity to full-on desire; Ryker was a fairly attractive man, more charismatic than beautiful, exuding confidence and intelligence. Hutch’s lips broke a smile, a soft one, teasing and inviting, using the language of his beauty to further entice, rather than spoil it with words.

Hutch had finally found a usefulness for his sexy self.

Ryker sat in his armchair across from Hutch to keep Hutch in full view, to admire the blond, blue-eyed gem from head to foot—even while talking about the weather. He never missed a moment of Hutch’s every move when they were together, often expressing his delight in a nuance he’d just discovered by rolling in gleeful laughter. “Oh, you please me so,” he would say.

On that long-awaited January night, all Hutch had to do was allow Ryker to fellate him. His work was done.

“Please, dear boy, show me your cock,” Ryker encouraged him. He further begged Hutch by sliding out of his chair and onto the alpaca wool area rug, promising to come closer only if Hutch would oblige him with intensifying visual cues.

Hutch eventually pulled away the linen cloth that still covered his enlarging phallus, exposing it in its nearly complete fullness. It lay against his bared belly from its patch of blond hair, stiffened and engorged, confirming its desire and expectations. “I know how badly you want to suck it,” he said, the most words he’d used in a single sentence since he’d first awakened in that room.

Ryker couldn’t contain himself as he practically crawled on his hands and knees to sit at Hutch’s feet between his legs, and eagerly feasted his eyes and his senses on Hutch’s smooth, bulging sac, his large, upright shaft, rounded crown, oozing pre-cum. “Oh, Michael,” he exclaimed with utter abandon, desperately kissing the inside of Hutch’s thigh with wet lips, “your cock is magnificent!”

“Magnificent” was the first word Hutch had heard Ryker say.

In English.

* * *

Hutch’s initial contact with Ryker—at the restaurant in Yanacachi some six days earlier—Hutch had only heard the 62-year-old German speak in his native language. But, when Ryker came into Hutch’s room that first evening, the deluxe suite of a residence that he’d been given by Ryker, even by First World standards, Hutch immediately recognized him.

Hutch was seated at the table by the window in a cushioned dining chair. He’d been dressed in white linen lounge-wear, was barefoot, had finally showered, but still hadn’t eaten much of anything—not even hunger could get him to eat all of his mostly meat meals—but he did drink the water he’d been poured.

Ryker closed the door as he entered the room, made direct eye contact with Hutch, tried a smile, and then crossed the floor to sit across from Hutch in an oversized armchair some six feet away when he didn’t get a smile in return. Ryker was dressed in black silk pajamas, a matching and sashed robe, and slippers. He obviously had retired early and dressed for comfort.

The servants had also retired for the night, as was their customary routine, and Hutch was alone with Ryker for the very first time. The German looked him over, seeming to admire him from the soles of his feet to his blond hair and back again—and he liked what he saw.

“Magnificent,” he whispered under his breath, speaking in a softer version of his homeland accent. “You must know by now how beautiful you are.”

Something in Ryker’s words, his tone of voice, the look in his eyes, made Hutch wary enough to keep his mouth closed. He’d come to this place unwillingly and, although no one had yet physically hurt him, he was naturally suspicious of why.

“My name is Stefan Ryker,” Ryker introduced himself. “We met in Yanacachi, briefly, but I first saw you in La Paz. I think it may have been the evening you arrived because your friend was having trouble with the altitude and, between the two of you, you seemed to be the only one eating at the time.”

Hutch remembered. He and Starsky had only been in La Paz that one night, and gone out to dinner; the next morning, Hutch pushed Starsky into a rented car so they could leave the city for a lower altitude.

“I am sorry about the way I had to handle the invitation to bring you here,” Ryker added, sounding apologetic.

Hutch’s memory of the so-called invitation made him feel sick even then to think about it.

He felt as if he had been in a metal tube, maybe some sort of air conditioning shaft, as the sounds around him materialized from an echoing and indistinguishable cacophony of noise to clear and specific words, even though most of them were in Spanish. There was an urgency to them, as if Hutch had suffered a traumatic stroke or life-threatening accident, and his custodians were hurried to get him to safety.

The jostling wagon in which he rode, slumped against the wooden boards in the small bed, had brought him sooner to his senses, and he moaned purely from the extreme nausea he’d begun to feel from the ride—or from whatever else may have ailed him. He could barely open his eyes, and he lacked the power to sit up; when he valiantly tried, he was pushed back against the floor of the four-wheeled cart by several pairs of hands, while voices, in broken English, urged him to stay quiet.

He only did what he was told because he was too weak to resist. The light was too bright. The weight of his body too heavy. His strength, gone. He passed out again after several minutes.

“Ten cuidado, ten cuidado,” he repeatedly heard when consciousness temporarily returned; “be careful, be careful,” the words meant, and not from anyone with authority, but purely out of an abundance of caution. The wagon had stopped and an equine snorted. Hutch felt the rumble of the parked vehicle nearby, listened to its idling engine, tried to speak, but couldn’t form a sentence, let alone get his mouth to move. He was sick and he was powerless and he didn’t understand why.

“Salirá de esto demasiado pronto,” which was an observation he understood to mean “he’s coming out of this too soon.” At first, he imagined that was a positive thing, but his mind didn’t grasp the negative until the follow-up order was given.

“Dale un poco más de eso. Vamos a dejarlo hasta que volvamos a la plantación.” Give him a little bit more of that. Let’s knock him out until we get him to the plantation.

Hutch didn’t recognize all of the words he heard, but he knew then that his condition had in no way been accidental. He struggled to roll to his belly, but there were many more hands on him, and the battle he waged was futile. He never felt the pinprick before the light dimmed again.

“I am sorry I have not come to visit you until now,” Ryker said as he continued to gaze on Hutch from his more comfortable chair. His second apology. “But I could not bear to see you until you had surrendered to your fate. It would have been as disturbing as watching a desperate animal in a trap. And no one can withstand to witness such cruelty, can they?”

Hutch didn’t answer. Ryker’s choice of words, his assessment of the situation, and that he was obviously the one who’d created it, were clues Hutch had been given to say no more than would be necessary.

“I am truly sorry,” Ryker repeated, as if he implored Hutch to forgive him. “I do not like that our friendship had to begin with such pain on your part. You have lost the life you had. But I promise to make up for it in ways that go beyond your wildest dreams.”

It was beginning to dawn on Hutch that he had been captured by a madman.

“I promise I will never hurt you,” Ryker continued, relaxing, it seemed, when Hutch didn’t try to attack him, even with words. Ryker then looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “It is a lovely place, do you agree? You have the best linens on your bed as you do on your body.” His eyes returned to study Hutch, admiring the white-clad beauty before him, snapping himself out of his trance after half a minute to continue. “A marbled floor bathroom and all the amenities. A handmade table from Mexico. The armoire from France. A desk from Argentina. Alpaca blankets. Silks and furs. And I have yet to introduce you to all the fine food and wine you could possibly consume.”

He thought a moment before observing, as if to himself, “but I do not understand why you are not eating. Well, that will change, of course,” he said on second thought. “I simply came in tonight to formally introduce myself. Perhaps now you will tell me who you are.”

Hutch leveled a stare at him, but said nothing.

“Are you going to speak to me at all?” Ryker asked. When Hutch didn’t answer him, Ryker confessed. “I told my men that I did not want to know anything about you or your friend—that I did not want to know anything about you that you did not tell me yourself. They took it to heart, I am happy to say. I did not want to have any preconceived ideas about who you are, where you are from, why you are in Bolivia. I want to learn everything there is to know about you . . . from you.”

Hutch squinted at him. His mind was so jumbled, he didn’t know what to believe or trust about himself anymore. Ryker was delusional; Hutch may have been able to escape a reasonable man without much effort, but his situation in Ryker’s deranged clutches was fast becoming more dire.

“I am sorry about the leash,” Ryker added, preparing to leave, “but of course I have to keep you under that circumstance until you accept your new life. I am not any happier about it than you are. I do not like to see you in such pain.” He stood. “We will meet every night,” he promised. “We will get to know each other. And you will come to love me as I already love you. I have never seen a more beautiful man. For this, I will give you the world.”

He walked to the door, faced Hutch when he reached it, and compelled his captive to do things his way. “Please eat,” he said, sounding concerned. “I need you strong. You are angry with me now, and I understand this, but I know you will forgive me someday. We will take all the time we need for you to come around.”

Hutch knew only then that he had power he didn’t realize he had. Ryker had stripped him of everything else: his clothes, his identification, his access to the outside world, his freedom.

His partner.

But the weight of the steel chain locked around Hutch’s left wrist would never outmuscle the strength in his silence. Of this, he was prepared to leverage it all.

* * *

Hutch had been redressed in loose clothing: an oversized button-down linen shirt and tie-wasted heavy cotton pants, no socks or shoes, and his own clothes were nowhere to be found. He indeed had felt like a trapped animal—after the drug wore off that first day following his capture and he woke on his back on a bed in a semi-dark room to discover the 22-foot chain attached to his arm. Its other end was bolted to the base of a hardwood wall. He spent a couple of hours frantically looking for the means to free himself, but there wasn’t anything in reach: no utensils or tools, no knobs on cabinets or drawers, no personal care items in the bathroom that could do the job, nothing that could have enabled him to dislodge the heavy screws from the metal plate and set him free. And there wasn’t anything even remotely capable of opening the lock around his wrist—nothing short of the lock’s key itself.

When he accepted his failure to release himself, and it dawned on him that no one would probably come to the room until morning—except maybe Starsky—he found the light switch on the bathroom wall, and took a mental inventory. The chain was long enough to allow him to enter the bathroom, use its plumbed toilet and shower, and to sit in the bedroom at the round table beside the window in a cushioned dining chair, but not to open the window itself. He couldn’t reach the armoire along the back wall in the large room, nor could he get close to the door. He couldn’t even sit in the armchair that faced the table, even if he wanted to, though its disturbing existence, outside his radius, would eventually be explained.

There was an unopened plastic bottle of water on the table, from which he eventually drank most of it at one time, having become very thirsty as a side effect of whatever drug they’d used to immobilize him. And he did have to urinate not long after, discovering that the clean porcelain toilet was complete with tissue paper, and that the bathroom was fully stocked with towels, first aid supplies of bandages and cotton swabs, a toothbrush and paste, and a plastic razor, no shaving cream. There were two bars of soap, both in small bronze dishes: one at the pedestal sink and the other in the tiled shower stall, but no curtain. The bathroom was also windowless, the floor marbled, and the entry doorless. Hutch noticed there was no mirror in the room, either, although a large, beautifully framed, full-length mirror was bolted to the wall in his bedroom to the right of the desk—out of his reach, but not outside his vision. He obviously had no means to shatter it in order to use a shard of glass as a weapon.

He’d begun to realize that his captors had gone to great lengths to give him all of the comforts of home without the ability to use any of it to benefit an escape or to harm those who’d cornered him. Even the bed, an oversized, hand-built one of solid wood and intricate carvings, boasted a comfortable mattress, silk comforters, flannel sheets and blankets, and tons of decorative pillows, but nothing on or near it that he could use to free himself.

The room’s floor was covered in wool rugs, and its large and only window likewise in silk curtains from the high ceilings to the floor. From the sounds below and around him, he guessed, or rather sensed, that he was in a master bedroom on the second floor of an extremely large estate—owned by a wealthy family.

After fully exhausting his efforts to find anything, even something impossibly useful, to break out of the chain, he finally sat at the table. His leash allowed him to go from the bed to the bathroom and to the dining chair, having been precisely calculated to limit his freedom to those areas—and no further. A basket of fruit, bread, and cheese was also on the table, wrapped in a cloth napkin. He ate the bread while he gave more thought to. . .

Starsky.

It obviously wasn’t the first time he’d given thought to his partner. All throughout his ordeal, after waking from his drug-induced unconsciousness until that very moment, he knew Starsky was in that predicament with him; he silently spoke to him, sending Starsky mental vibes of the few clues he had about his whereabouts. Of course, all he could manage were snippets of memory: the jostling wagon, the equine—a donkey or horse, and probably the former—the idling engine, the drug itself, the many hands on him at once. He’d been brought down a mountain, he then remembered, assuming it from his slumped position in the wagon as gravity pulled him against its front board in a downhill direction. But which side of the mountain—and to where?

How was Starsky ever going to figure it out? Hutch couldn’t even remember how he’d gotten from the back of the restaurant and into the wagon, except to assume he’d been ambushed, overpowered, and immediately disarmed and disabled. Had he gone to the men’s room as he’d been directed? Would there be enough clues to put Starsky on his trail? He himself couldn’t imagine a single one.

So there he sat, awaiting his fate and, with it, the door to freedom as he intended to find it. It was the middle of the night, he assumed, although the light from the fading full moon outside his window didn’t give any clues as to the actual time. Staring for minutes, he eventually noticed a hand-painted canvas privacy screen in the corner next to the window, presumably for clothes-changing, but not one he could access beyond the length of his chain.

They had set him up, whoever they were, and left him for the night, believing that he would still be in their grip come morning—because there was simply no way he could extricate himself, at least not physically nor by himself, from the mid-weight metal chain locked around his wrist.

Starsky.

His partner had to be beside himself with torturous worry by then. That thought alone, and not his own circumstance, caused Hutch to pound the top of the table with his fist. It was one thing not to be able to placate himself, but to be unable to ease Starsky’s certain pain was more than Hutch could emotionally bear.

* * *

“You will not even tell me your name?” Ryker asked, seeming surprised. He’d returned for his second visit all the more relaxed as he sat in his armchair and once again admired his captive from a safe distance. “I like this about you,” he admitted. “Playing hard to get is such a titillating game, is it not?”

Hutch only looked at Ryker long enough to pick up any clues he might have needed to disarm his abductor and free himself, but there were none: Ryker was dressed in his black silk pajamas and slippers, and this time his robe without its sash. Hutch’s first thought was that Ryker had figured out that such a piece of cloth could be used to strangle him if Hutch could get close enough to snatch it. The idea had definitely crossed Hutch’s mind.

“Suppose I give you a name until you feel generous enough to tell me yours?” Ryker considered.

Hutch looked out the window at the darkening sky, hoping he could insultingly ignore Ryker long enough that the man would tire of his own boredom and leave the room—to spare himself the indulgence of the man’s whimsies.

“Frederick,” Ryker said, throwing out a name, but quickly retrieving it. “No, no, Frederick sounds too much like our German Friedrich—which means, of course, ‘peaceful ruler.’ Are you peaceful? Did you rule a Kingdom from where you have come?”

In some sense, in light of that translation, Frederick would have been the perfect name for Hutch—he’d spent his career as a peace officer, but he wasn’t about to tell Ryker a single thing about his life.

After a minute of silence, during which Ryker presumably tossed about other names to call Hutch, he finally settled on one. “Michael,” he said with conviction. “I shall call you Michael. I believe the Hebrew meaning is ‘gift from God’—and you are most certainly God’s gift. Have you seen yourself lately, Michael, dressed now as you are? Have you looked in the mirror I purposefully bought for you?”

Hutch continued to gaze out the window, sitting in the dining chair, dressed then in linen pajamas and a robe, sans a sash. When the housekeeper came into his room the morning after his first inspection by Ryker, she laid the new garments at the foot his mattress. He had tried everything to appeal to her humanity and help him get loose, but she first pretended, it seemed, not to understand English, then not to grasp Spanish, even though she looked very much Bolivian, and she didn’t even give him a moment’s notice when he tried universal hand gestures.

He had the same failure with the girl who brought him his breakfast. She removed the water bottle and empty bread-basket from the table and gave him his plate and plastic cup. When he spoke to her, she didn’t reply, not even to make eye contact or signal that she heard a word he said, even those in Spanish.

“Michael,” Ryker said, taking Hutch’s attention, but not his focus, “if you could appreciate how beautiful you are, you would better understand why I had no choice but to invite you to spend our lives together.”

Hutch felt his blood heat and his heart rate accelerate, and he did his best to stay calm when what he really wanted was to scream at the man and throw objects at him and demand answers that only a voice of reason could extract from this psychopath.

“You are magnificent, Michael,” Ryker continued. He was quite calm and reflective, and seemed to love that word. “I had the added pleasure of examining you when the girls changed your clothes after your arrival. You had soiled yourself,” he explained, sorrily, “but they were meticulous in cleaning you up, washing you with our finest silk cloths, and giving me the opportunity to see every inch of your privates. I suspect you have a most magnificent cock, too—when it is hard, Michael, when it is hard and wanting. To see it during your bath, asleep as it was inside its blanket, was impressive even then.”

Hutch closed his eyes to shut down the disgust and embarrassment he suddenly felt, and ground his teeth. He would have balled his fists, but Ryker may have noticed the reaction—as he apparently then saw the subtle expression on Hutch’s face.

“Oh, no, Michael,” Ryker quickly said, sounding defensive, “I did not touch you. I did not lay a finger on you. I would not have violated you in that way. I simply watched the girls wash you, first your front side—making sure they handled your cock with utmost care—and then your backside after they rolled you over.”

Hutch opened his eyes to let out his breath, parting his lips and quietly panting, staring into the night outside the window, and wishing he had the means to block his hearing while the assault of words continued.

“The men laid you on the bed there . . . I had them leave before you were exposed, Michael. I did not wish for anyone else to explore your nudity with their eyes, but I myself could not wait to see, as you might imagine, and the girls had their job to do. Oh, Michael, the beauty that you are, dressed in what I presume were American clothes, could only reveal something even more delicious when they were removed from your body—and I was right! I plan to pleasure you someday, if you will allow me, of course, and I have ways to seduce you that you will later thank me for. Oh, your balls, too, so large and full, and, your cock, Michael!” he said excitedly, “all there for the viewing because it had to be done, not because I forced it on you. You must understand this.”

What Hutch understood, yet again, was that he’d been seized by a delusional nutcase.

“Are you listening, Michael? I will not be forcing you. I will not be hurting you. If those things happen to you, it will have been because you brought them onto yourself. But I have no desire to harm you, even if you should find a clever way to hurt me. I can forgive you because I know you are angry.”

Hutch was more than angry; he was enraged to the point of violence, but helpless in its wake. He was embarrassed and disgusted, and he felt abused in ways he couldn’t describe, at least not then. Ryker’s plans, his desires and his fantasies, were fast becoming more disturbing. Could Hutch trust anything Ryker told him? Did Ryker really mean he’d cause Hutch no harm? Or were they all just promises, even those that were sexual in nature, designed to break Hutch’s spirit?

Ryker wanted Hutch to lose his self-esteem, his dignity, his sense of self-preservation and inner strength. Perhaps Ryker’s designs were far greater than what he alluded to; his plans for Hutch were so bizarre that not even Hutch could figure them out, try as he might. Was it really just his beauty for which he’d been captured, to be used as some kind of sex toy, or was there some other nefarious plot Ryker had planned for him?

“Hear me on what I am about to tell you, Michael,” Ryker said firmly, “because I only plan to say it once. I do not like to threaten you, so I shall not repeat myself, but this is something you should know.”

Only then did Hutch turn his head and meet Ryker’s gaze. No doubt the fire of contempt that he felt for his captor shone brightly in his eyes, but Ryker ignored it if he saw it.

“Our plantation is halfway between La Paz and Coroico—situated right here on the North Yungas Road, or what many outsiders call the Road of Death. Yes, it has claimed many lives—particularly those with stupid minds: they overload trucks and buses, and they cross visibly weakened sections of road that quite obviously will not withstand more pressure, so I say be done with them.”

Hutch wasn’t sure if Ryker told him what he did as some kind of threat—one he might or may have already leveraged against Starsky—or if he indirectly threatened Hutch purposefully. His next words answered that question.

“If you should escape the tether, and then the house, you have only two options: one is to climb the mountain beyond the plantation which, I can tell you now, is much too steep and slippery, even for the sure-footed llamas, and you will only end up in more jungle. By now you have seen how many mountaintops there are in this range.”

His voice had lowered when Hutch looked at him; he didn’t sound threatening, but his words were to the point. “If you leave through the gate—which is simply a small iron bar to block traffic—you will immediately be on the Death Road. To the west is La Paz; to the east, Coroico—but the road is as dangerous in either direction for as far a distance.”

Hutch had apparently been brought to the ‘plantation’ on the Death Road, but he’d been unconscious, and hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

“What I am telling you, Michael, is that you will not make it very far no matter which way you decide to go because a vehicle will long overtake you once you are missing. The only option left for you, should that be the case, will be to jump to your death. So, you see, these are the ways you would hurt yourself. But I will never hurt you, not even in retaliation. Once you are off your leash and it is understood that you do not leave the plantation without suffering these consequences, and you should break the rules and subsequently be recaptured, I will not harm a hair on your exquisite body even then. I will, of course, have to return you to your binding for another very long time—but I do not suspect the restriction will ever be in the way of the kinds of pleasure I have planned for you.”

He tried a smile, a sort of flirtatious, whimsical one, and licked his lips. When Hutch didn’t react to his come-on, he dropped the lure and said, seemingly with a ring of truth, “On that note, Michael, you will come to believe that I am no murderer. In fact, I did not even hurt your friend. Oh, yes, of course, understandably, he is sad that you have gone missing, but none of my men, nor I myself, have touched him. That should help you to sleep tonight, should it not, Michael?”

It was relief, Hutch had to admit, pure and unfiltered. Was it true? He wanted to believe it was. But ‘harm’ wasn’t an objective word by Ryker’s definition. He claimed not to have hurt Hutch and yet there Hutch was, chained like an animal with seemingly no means of escape. Ryker’s plan was to rob Hutch of everything: his name, his past life, his future.

His partner.

If Ryker couldn’t see the harm in that, then what was Ryker’s definition of ‘hurt’? Hutch could ask him, but given Ryker’s delusions and his derangement, there was nothing Ryker could tell him that he’d fully believe.

“I shall get you proof,” Ryker promised, as if he’d read Hutch’s mind. “I shall have my men bring you proof that your friend is alive and unharmed. You will see that I am a man of my word.”

He paused, studied Hutch more closely, undressed him again with his eyes, licked his lips. “Oh, yes, Michael, I do not lie to you. I am going to make doubly sure for you that your friend is safe, and I am going to shower you with the finest material possessions the world has to offer for as long as you shall live, and I am definitely going to pleasure your magnificent cock every chance you will allow me.”

He got out of his chair without another word and walked to the door. When he reached it, he turned to face Hutch before saying goodnight, but first he said, “you will thank me for all these pleasures.” He rubbed his crotch through his silk robe. “You are a well-endowed man; you will come to beg me for them. You shall see.”

* * *

Hutch sat on his bed that next night, legs bent, hands between his knees; he pressed up against the wall, not the headboard, and faced into the room, remaining there even when Ryker came by for his nightly check-in. Hutch didn’t make eye contact with his abductor, nor did he take the bait to sit at the table after one of the girls removed his dinner plate and left a glass of wine in its place.

Ryker sounded surprised not to have found Hutch in his dining chair—and his drink untouched. “Are you not feeling well today?” He walked to the table, crossing into Hutch’s line of sight, and got the glass for himself. He would have been well within striking distance if Hutch had been as far as his chain would allow him to go.

But one thing Ryker wasn’t: he wasn’t stupid. In fact, he’d outsmarted Starsky and Hutch; stalked his prey with such stealth and cunning that neither detective had seen it coming.

In that instance, taking Hutch’s wine for himself and being within Hutch’s radius, Ryker knew he’d easily escape Hutch’s grasp if his captive lunged at him from the bed. There had been no risk.

“Come to me, beautiful boy,” Ryker said, sitting in his armchair and getting comfortable as if he planned to stay longer than usual. “I know you are sad. Let me cheer you up.”

Sad was the least of Hutch’s feelings; he was terrified—and not for himself, despite Ryker’s long-term plans for him. With every passing minute, Hutch elaborated on the stories he told himself about Starsky’s welfare. He’d long ago expected Starsky to help him save the day, but not only had Starsky not come for him, Ryker wasn’t even on guard for such a possibility. He had to know something Hutch didn’t—and it couldn’t be a good thing.

“I told you I would have proof for you about your friend’s safety,” Ryker promised, seeming to read Hutch’s mind, “but it will take a few days to get it. This is Bolivia, after all. Nothing happens immediately.”

Nothing, except Hutch having been taken hostage inside of four days upon his arrival in the impoverished country. He stared at his fingers, noticing only then that he was missing his class ring: one more insult to injury. He must have lost it in the struggle during his capture.

How was Hutch supposed to believe a word Ryker said? The man was detached from reality. Did he speak of Starsky figuratively? Starsky was ‘safe’ because he was dead and therefore no harm could come to a corpse? Even without having physically harmed Starsky, the pain Starsky suffered not knowing where Hutch was had to be monumental. They’d been there before with each other, one of them missing, and it was excruciating. Hutch was mentally exhausted by his own countless scenarios about how his partner fared, and not as much about how he himself could escape. Maybe that was, in part, because he’d tried every conceivable means to dislodge or break the chain, and knew he couldn’t. He’d given up trying; instead, he desperately wanted to know about Starsky, and yet wouldn’t believe a word of Ryker’s answer. If Ryker truly had proof, Hutch was willing to wait for it. It was all he could do.

“I know the two of you must have been close,” Ryker observed, sipping wine, slouched in his chair, speaking into the silence. “You came to Bolivia together, after all. But I tested the waters when we met in Yanacachi; I smiled at him the way a man would smile at a man he favored. He did not smile back—not in that knowing way. I could not even get him to hold eye contact with me.”

Hutch couldn’t remember if he’d given Ryker a second thought, let alone a glance. He’d only been struck that day by what he believed was a tourist from Germany—and was impressed with himself for understanding the language Ryker spoke when he said hello to them.

“I mean to say,” Ryker added, “that you and your friend do not strike me as . . . so close that he will not recover from this loss and go on to live a full and enriched life. There is an air of confidence in him that speaks to my assessment, would you not agree?”

Hutch didn’t want to give Ryker a single piece of information or evidence to use against him—or his partner. If anyone was going to trip over himself between the two of them, it had to be his captor. Hutch felt so rattled at times by his circumstance, mostly by Starsky’s whereabouts and welfare, that he couldn’t trust his own instincts. He chose to do as any animal would do—and remain self-preserving and highly unpredictable.

“I had no reason to hurt him,” Ryker explained—when his previous words hadn’t brought Hutch to the table. “He never did anything to me. He was nowhere around when you were taken. We did not even have to fight him off.”

Hutch remembered then: that he’d gone to the rear of the building to find the men’s room, and that he’d left through the back door when he was told the only option available was the public restroom a couple of streets to the west and a few streets north from there. Starsky wasn’t with him.

“It was just our luck that you did not want to use Coroico’s baño; it is a shit-hole,” Ryker said with a laugh at his own pun. “You instead headed for the outskirts of town—on the side of the ridge closest to Río Huarnilla. You made it easy for us, Michael. We thought we might have to stay longer in the village. That would have been more difficult to get you home without all the festive commotion in the streets if you remained there after the celebrations had ended.”

Hutch looked across to the window. The skies had slowly darkened over the past few nights as the full moon began to wane. None of what Ryker told him that evening had anything to do with Starsky’s state of mind. If Ryker hadn’t hurt Starsky or immobilized him, then Starsky was frantically searching for Hutch—this Hutch knew in his heart-of-hearts. It meant that Starsky was barely eating, hardly sleeping, that he felt nothing but sick and worry and despair at times. He would not be taking care of himself—any more than Hutch actually took care of himself, either. He, too, barely ate, hardly slept, felt nothing but sick and worry and despair at times.

“He will get past you, Michael,” Ryker assured him. “At some point, he will let go. If he has a family in his homeland, he will return to loving arms and other priorities. Or he will find new friends and live happily ever after. But you will never escape this mountain—and he will never find you. These are hard facts, Michael, and you must come to accept them.”

Ryker knew very little about hope.

“I know this is painful for you,” Ryker said, drinking wine, crossing his feet at the ankles, relaxing further, and speaking in a tone of authoritative knowledge, “but you will overcome this, too. In time. I have so much to offer you, so many experiences to share with you, such pleasures await us both. Someday I shall tell you about Thomas. His story will inspire you. But, for now, you must get past the emotional hold you have on your past life.”

Hutch’s gaze didn’t leave the window. He never once looked at Ryker. He was exhausted. In the couple of days since his capture, he’d spent almost every minute feeling restless; he was uncertain, at times, confused, and fearful. He didn’t like Ryker’s words, deranged as they often sounded and were, but he also despised the words Ryker used to describe Starsky’s motivations and ambitions. The Starsky Hutch knew would never leave Bolivia without him.

* * *

“I see Anna changed your clothes today,” Ryker noticed, pleased, and showing his satisfaction with a smile. He stood by his chair with a glass of wine in hand and looked over his captive; Hutch could feel the man’s lecherous eyes on him. “Once we figured out where to sew the buttons on the sleeve,” Ryker explained, “Anna has now made you several shirts.”

Those ‘buttons’ were placed along the left sleeve seam, enabling Hutch to be dressed while his wrist was still attached to a chain. He didn’t mind the redressing; he’d been in the linen clothes since his capture and was grateful for something washed, despite that his new clothes were simply more of the same: white linen.

Hutch had considered using Anna as a hostage—or maybe one of the other girls who delivered his food, cleaned his room, who daily brought him freshly cut flowers in crystal vases—but he soon realized that Ryker was never in the room when they were, perhaps for just that reason. Sometimes two hours would pass from the removal of his dinner plate until Ryker appeared. Hutch could hold a girl hostage for that long, but what then? Threaten to kill her—terrorize her, in essence—and have Ryker call his bluff? The girls who cared for him couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen years of age. Hutch wouldn’t traumatize a child, not even for his own escape.

Could he do it for Starsky?

“I will give you the finest garments to wear,” Ryker promised, finally sitting, and seeming to settle in for his nightly one-sided conversation. “Once you are off your binding, you will be able to dress yourself the way you wish, and you will have silks and other luxury fabrics to choose from. But you are so handsome in white linen, Michael. It reflects your purity.”

Hutch sat beside the table and returned the steady eye contact. His dinner plate had already been taken away, a glass of wine left in its place; it seemed the two were never at his disposal together. He could throw the glass at Ryker, hit him in the eye, slice open his face, draw some serious blood, but he’d never be able to do any serious damage to the man, none that would inevitably allow him to flee the scene. At his meals, Hutch was only given a fork and spoon, both of which were removed with his plate, and never cutlery, not even a table knife. Anything that needed cutting arrived already cut.

Ryker thought of everything.

“I wish you would drink with me,” Ryker said, encouragingly, and nodding toward Hutch’s glass while he sipped from his own. “It would help to relax you. You would be more open to all the things I want to tell you about how I am going to take care of you, Michael. I do not just mean your cock.”

Hutch exhaled and looked away, out the window into the blackening night, expressing not only his disgust of the idea in his heavy breath, but his tired boredom with it, too. Maybe Ryker was just all words; he didn’t have the courage to act on his depraved fantasies. After all, Ryker hadn’t actually made any physical overtures.

“I like that you do not like men,” Ryker said in reply to Hutch’s disinterested reaction. “I like that I shall be the first. This is a good thing. It is what I meant by my enjoyment to see you in virgin white.”

Hutch avoided Ryker and fixed his stare.

“I will have proof of your friend’s safety to you tomorrow night,” Ryker promised. “I appreciate that you have patiently waited, but it was out of my hands. Bolivia is a poor country and these kinds of indulgences cannot be rushed. You must have some sense of this, do you not, Michael?”

Hutch would give anything to know Starsky was safe; how Ryker would prove that, Hutch couldn’t even guess—except to have pictures or film that would show Starsky with evidence positively identifying the last few days—some sort of calendar, news event, difference in Starsky’s clothing . . .

Hutch also realized that Ryker hadn’t seen nor followed him and Starsky to the rock wall. Ryker would never have made those ‘virgin’ comments about Hutch’s homosexual relations had he even remotely caught sight of Hutch and Starsky making love in broad daylight outside the confines of Coroico. He and his partner had done a better job of not allowing anyone to sense the depth of their intimacy while they were in public—more than he’d realized. For that, Hutch was grateful. Starsky didn’t have to contend with the kinds of threats he’d face were it otherwise.

Ryker patted his leg, or so it sounded, and forced Hutch to look over at him. He held a lock key up for Hutch’s notice. “There is only one,” he said, answering Hutch’s unasked questions as he dropped the key into his robe pocket. “I always have it on me—in case of fire, Michael. I would not want you to burn.” Ryker looked away for a moment, as if to consider a minor detail, sort of laughed, sadly, dismissed his distraction, and then continued. “I have much to tell you and you have as much to tell me. We will drink and dine and share stories. When we are done, I will pamper your cock. You will thereby sleep soundly, wake feeling full of life, and we shall have yet another day of being spoiled together.” He laughed, delightedly, and drank more wine.

Hutch still hadn’t touched his, not even to handle the glass.

“Yes, Michael, I confess that I wish to pleasure you into orgasm. But do you not notice that I have never asked for reciprocation? For this reason, I think you should consider what I am offering. You only have to give back what you wish—and not a thing more—and have everything you want in life.”

Except Starsky.

* * *

“I have not seen them,” Ryker said, sliding the small package across the wood floor from his chair to Hutch’s before he sat. “I know what they entail, of course, but I have not looked. I want you to be the first.”

Hutch was able to leave his chair, bend down, and retrieve the item; he assumed it was what it appeared to be: a pack of pictures. Dressed in his linen pajamas, cotton robe, and white socks, he carefully sat back in the chair and quickly opened the envelope. Inside he found what he expected. There were six pictures in all—and the one on top of the stack knocked the breath out of him.

It was a closeup of Starsky.

“Your friend is important to you,” Ryker noticed; Hutch hadn’t been able to contain his reaction to the photograph. “Is he more important to you than I am realizing?”

Hutch gave Ryker a snarled look, to tell Ryker he was offended by the implication, so Ryker wouldn’t suspect him and Starsky of being lovers. It was to both his and his partner’s advantage, and Ryker seemed to buy it.

In the picture, Starsky sat at a small sidewalk table, held his chin in his palm, stared past the immediate into a world beyond all worlds. There was no mistaking his face: his beautiful, heavy-lidded blue eyes and long, black eyelashes, the slope of his narrow nose, his thick brows, thin lips, dark wavy hair, the mole on his left cheek, visible between his fingers. He wore an open-collared shirt and jacket, and not a combination Hutch had seen him wear in Bolivia, one that parted in such a way that Hutch could make out the curls of hair that blanketed his chest. He recognized Starsky’s hand, too, the shapes of his nails, the curl of his fingers, that special ring of gold and diamonds.

Although he didn’t look at the camera, didn’t even seem to know it was there, Hutch could tell that Starsky was in painful thought: the frown over his forehead, the stare in his eyes, the emptiness in his expression—as if he’d lost Hutch and would never be able to find him.

Subsequent pictures in the pack showed the same image except from further away, their backgrounds the evidence that Starsky was still in Bolivia, more specifically in La Paz. Bolivian passersby and taxi cabs and tourists filled the backdrop. Starsky was alone at the table, a plate of mostly untouched food beside him, also dressed in jeans and his hiking boots, and looking lost himself. It seemed he barely had strength enough to hold his head in his hand.

Hutch cycled through the pictures, one by one, making mental notes of every clue they gave him. He wouldn’t be placated; he wouldn’t believe Starsky appeared unharmed in those pictures if he wasn’t. Hutch wouldn’t tell himself such lies. Starsky did seem to be physically all right; his body posture and his facial expression told a different story—but he was alive and unbroken.

Except in his heart.

Hutch finally looked up at Ryker. He was about to ask a verbal question had Ryker not offered the information when he did.

“It took a while to get the pictures developed,” he explained. “Those were taken eight days ago. We had no reason to harm him then and we have had no reason to harm him since. But, not even with an army of detectives, will he ever find you here. Our plantation is in the heart of one of the most dangerous places in the world—and no clues lead to our estate.”

Hutch wasn’t as concerned about Ryker’s assessment of Starsky’s detective capabilities as he was that Starsky stayed alive and well, even if he was heartbroken. But heartbreak was pain, too, maybe even the worst kind. Ryker had harmed Starsky in that way and, for this, Hutch would never forgive him. He stared at Ryker until his captor looked away.

“Your friend did not see the taking,” Ryker insisted. “Yes, yes, of course, he ran into many people who aided this endeavor. They work for me. They depend on me for everything about their small lives. When I ask them for favors, they are granted to me.”

Hutch returned his gaze to the photos, to the closeup of Starsky, in particular; it was as near to the man as he’d been in days—days that felt like eternities. If he could pass a message to Starsky purely through the silver lining in a photograph, he’d implore Starsky to not give up hope, to never stop looking, to remember everything they’d been through together, and how they always managed to land on their feet. He’d tell Starsky how much he missed him, how desperately he wanted to be in his arms again, and how much he loved him—and forever would. But Hutch didn’t believe in the supernatural; he could only wish it were so.

“No one touched him,” Ryker furthered. He was adamant in his repeated claim. “No, no, that is not true.” When Hutch abruptly looked up at him again, Ryker quickly confessed. “The woman who told him you had gotten on the bus to La Paz grabbed his arm to get his attention. But no other person laid a hand on him, Michael, of this I swear to you.”

The bus to La Paz. It explained why Starsky had returned to the city. A clever ploy, Hutch realized, because La Paz was a much larger area to search. It would take Starsky weeks, if not months. But what leads would he have besides a bus? Had Ryker created false witnesses and planted fake clues? Were there even more liars afoot? They could have Starsky running in circles. What was the end game then? To have him exhaust himself to the point of not caring anymore whether he found Hutch, so he’d go home, back to his own country, to the land of the free?

Hutch understood better then. Ryker had bet it all on time itself.

Which of them would cave first?

“I thought you would be pleased to see your friend alive and well in La Paz,” Ryker told him as he stood and tightened the robe sash around his waist. “But I can see it has made you angry in some ways, too. I shall leave you to yourself then. I do not wish to make you angrier. You think about this and remember that I came through on my promise to prove to you we have not harmed him.” He walked to the closed bedroom door, grasped its handle, and turned to face Hutch for his ending, “Good night, Michael. We shall talk tomorrow.”

* * *

“What is your favorite color?” Ryker asked.

Hutch didn’t answer.

“I would guess blue,” Ryker said. “To compliment your eyes. They are much like your hair: translucent.” He sat in his chair, drank a cocktail from a small glass that he’d brought in with him, and studied Hutch.

Hutch didn’t even look at Ryker. He’d been right that his room was on the second floor of a large house. In daytime, he could see the tops of several large bushes, and he could also see over the wall that blocked his view of the road. But he could tell, because it was so obvious, that the edge of that notorious route was right there, just a few feet from the plantation’s front boundary. Across the ravine, another mountain rose into the sometimes clouds, and was covered in dense rainforest. It was beautiful in the morning—when the sun poured its light over the valley and before the humidity formed its patches of fog.

When Hutch gazed out the window at night, he imagined how it looked during the day, reminding him there was still a world beyond his room, one filled with life and timelessness. And that Starsky was out there in it, somewhere, turning over every stone, looking under every leaf, and no rest for his weary heart. But how? How could he possibly ever find his partner? If Ryker could be so blasé that he could take the time to ask Hutch about his favorite color, then he really didn’t worry about Starsky bursting into the room at any second to save his one-and-only.

No matter how much Hutch longed for that moment.

“Because you will not speak to me,” Ryker explained, “I have to answer these questions for you.” He sounded lighthearted, as if he enjoyed the game, as if Hutch was a consenting player. “When I ask you why you do not eat everything on your plate . . . I have to figure it out for myself. In this instance, Michael, I think I have.”

What took you so long? Hutch silently wondered. Some things seemed so obvious to Hutch, and Ryker so clever, that Hutch couldn’t help but be dismayed when Ryker couldn’t put the pieces together. He’d never make a good detective.

“You eat the fruit,” Ryker concluded. “The fruits and the grains and the vegetables. You leave the meat. I have made sure that various kinds have been placed before you, so it is not their tastes; it is that you have aversion to flesh, yes? Oh, but of course, I mean the dead kind, Michael!”

Hutch looked over at him. He wanted it confirmed that he didn’t eat animals, so Ryker would stop serving them to him, but his convictions got in the way of his self-preservation for the first time and backfired on him because Ryker noticed the change.

“Oh, now we are getting somewhere in the more personal details,” Ryker exclaimed with excitement when they made eye contact. “You have responded to something I said. This is a special day, Michael!” He lifted his glass in toast and drank. “As you wish, then: no more meat on your plate. How else can I care for you?”

Let me off this chain. Give me some shoes. Hand me a coat. And show me the way to the door.

“I have given you a beautiful suite, the best wine, the finest food, servants who keep your room clean and the flowers fresh. I think you are getting comfortable, Michael. I understand that you do not want to speak to me. I do not deserve that kindness—yet. But you are talking to me in other ways—by your silence, by the things you do and those you do not.”

Hutch hadn’t meant to send a message of anything, except his anger about having been held prisoner. Ryker knew this; he simply ignored it in pursuit of his dreams.

“Taking you has been sort of sporting, Michael. Your quietude has been a challenge—and I am up for it! I love the mystery of you. I admit that I did not expect it to take as long to know you, but you have been with me now for a couple of weeks and I still know so little.”

Those couple of weeks had felt like a lifetime for Hutch. He’d racked his brain almost every minute of every day to find the clues he imagined Starsky had found, as if knowing could prepare him for the exact moment he’d be freed. More than that: for that precious embrace when he’d be reunited with Starsky.

Hutch resented that Ryker considered it all a romp in the park.

“I am going to be more of a detective,” Ryker concluded. “You are going to teach me about you without words. And, from what I learn, you will discover me. Oh, Michael, this is splendid!”

Maybe it would be, although Hutch would not have used that word. But maybe he could direct Ryker in ways he couldn’t if he actually spoke the words. Ryker had learned about his eating preferences. What else could Hutch teach him and how could he do it in a way that benefited his escape?

Ryker studied him closely again, went silent himself for some time as he examined Hutch with his eyes. All he could see of his ensnared prize were his hands and his head, but he obviously undressed the rest of Hutch; having seen his nudity under close inspection, there wasn’t much for Ryker to imagine.

“I may not know much about you, Michael,” Ryker said in a low voice, settling his eyes on Hutch’s, “but I do know you are a man. And a man has needs. It has been weeks since yours have been met. Perhaps longer. Tell me otherwise: have you bedded a Bolivian chica? I suspect not. They would be beneath you. But a man with your sizable cock cannot go too long without. Under normal circumstances, you would be home by now, laying the ladies.”

Hutch didn’t waver in his steady and unreadable eye contact. He’d been humiliated enough by his depraved jailer, and he refused to feel embarrassed again. He braced himself for the inevitable.

“I have made another decision,” Ryker told him, as certain of his next words as he had been of his previous ones. “I shall begin pleasuring you this week. We do not want your balls to turn blue, now, do we, Michael?” He snickered. “In this case, it would not be our favorite color.”

* * *

Hutch was wide awake in bed. The lights were off. The bedroom door closed and locked—from the outside. The full moon had already dissolved into a quarter moon and clouds nearly covered the sky, darkening his room further. The mental weight of Hutch’s chain was far greater than its entire physical mass. He hugged his pillow—probably made of expensive goose down and wrapped in embroidered cases—and stared into the black.

Where was Starsky?

More than that, how was he? Still as safe as those photographs implied? How many more lies had Ryker and his cronies told his partner? how far had they led him astray? What possible clues could Starsky latch on to long enough to unravel a mystery neither of them suspected had been forming around their every move?

Hutch tried to figure it out for him. He retraced his own steps in his mind and imagined Starsky had to have done likewise: followed Hutch’s trail from the back of the building to the public restroom, realized Hutch would not have used it, that he’d have gone to the outskirts of town to relieve himself in the grass. Starsky would not have found him there, of course; he would have returned to the restaurant or the hotel or both. He would have left Hutch a note or a message with staff. He would have turned Coroico upside down.

Ryker’s men—and perhaps Ryker himself—watched Starsky’s frantic search from a distance, following his every step, setting him up along the way, steering him in the direction they wanted him to go. Apparently, their destination was La Paz, where they could force Starsky further into confusion and hopelessness, ultimately pushing him right out of the country.

But there were other factors at play. Starsky wouldn’t leave Bolivia without Hutch—something none of these men understood about him. He would search for Hutch for the remaining years of his life if he had to. He wouldn’t leave without knowing exactly what had happened to the most important person in the world to him. It was a promise they’d made each other—in front of a burning fire, on the blanketed-cushioned floor of their cabin, on a Christmas Eve only eleven months earlier.

But Hutch also wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t kill Starsky if he didn’t abandon his search by some arbitrary deadline. They would begin to worry that he just might crack the code after all. The longer Starsky looked for Hutch, the more questions he will have asked, miles he will have walked, clues he will have eliminated and gathered; he would get closer to knowing what had happened to Hutch. Ryker couldn’t afford Starsky’s relentless presence—not for long.

Ryker also wanted something from Hutch: obviously, some kind of intimate or sexual relationship. He’d made that abundantly clear and in very distinct language. But Hutch wouldn’t give anything away. Not willingly. A trade for Starsky’s well-being would be elective.

That much, Hutch knew.

Rain began to fall late that night while Hutch lay musing, making its presence known on the roof, and telling Hutch that the building he was in was only two stories high. He didn’t know what he’d do with the clues—from voices he heard in hallways to vehicles coming and going through the front gate to the fog in the ravine to rain on a two-story roof—but he tallied them just the same. Knowledge was power.

Hutch had been victimized before: Monk and his gang of assholes came first to mind. He’d been violated and exploited in times past. But this felt somehow more emotionally damaging. Lessons learned, perhaps? Or that the love between himself and Starsky was so much greater now and any harm to one was therefore magnified in its pain and fear for the other?

Or that this violation, and its further and pending humiliations, was deeply personal—and Hutch was left to endure its disturbing wrath without being under the influence of any illicit drug.

* * *

“I am happy to see that you have been eating more of your meals ever since we stopped serving you the things you will not eat,” Ryker said, speaking in a louder voice so Hutch could hear him from the bathroom, and sounding anxious for Hutch to join him. “I also notice that you are trying new things. We grow the finest papayas in the country; no doubt, you have tasted them before. But that you devour all of the achachairú and pachio we give you warms my heart. At this rate, I trust you will fall in love with Bolivia as you will most definitely fall in love with. . .” He waited for Hutch to enter the room, which he did right then, to finish his sentence. “. . . me.”

Hutch only made a quick glance of eye contact with Ryker sitting in his armchair as he himself stepped in front of the dining chair and sat down. He rested his right arm on the table, his left—and its chain—to his side and, with an audible sigh, prepared himself for the onslaught he knew was forthcoming. When Ryker didn’t say anything after a minute, as if he patiently gave Hutch time to acknowledge the claim that he would one day fall in love with his captor, Hutch lifted his eyes.

Ryker smiled at him. “There is my pretty boy,” he said affectionately. A stack of books was on his lap. “I love your blue eyes. Have I told you this? Well, someday they will not be so angry at me.” He waited another beat for some reply and then addressed the books when he didn’t get it. “A smart man like yourself needs things to occupy his mind—or it will run rampant. I know you speak English, Michael, so I have brought you some English books—meaning they are written in English, not necessarily that they are from England.” He laughed lightly at himself. “In any event, Michael, what you read will teach me something about you.” He set the short stack on the floor beside his feet and leaned back in his chair. “Do you appreciate that some of the pleasures I have for you are not related to your cock, but to your brain?”

Hutch leveled the man’s gaze. What did Ryker really expect of him? The German seemed to be intelligent, albeit in a deranged kind of way. But did he honestly believe Hutch would fall in love with him? that Hutch enjoyed hearing how he would be sexually abused? that Hutch wanted to spend his time reading fiction? Was Ryker that irrational? Or was it all for show? One thing Hutch did know: he was worn out by his own questions.

“Do you get a twinge of desire when I speak of your cock, Michael?”

Hutch didn’t answer.

“I get very aroused by the talk,” Ryker admitted. “Yet, I have not subjected you to my self-pleasuring. I speak to you and leave you for the night. You give me much to fantasize about in the privacy of my room.”

Hutch had come to believe that Ryker’s room was next to his—and probably much bigger and more elaborately decorated. Hutch also assumed the layout of the upstairs floor plan because he’d grown accustomed to hearing the door in the hallway, just outside his own as it opened each morning, usually followed by Ryker’s voice giving orders to servants. Then the busy footsteps as if Ryker hurried to and from an in-house office further down the hall or to appointments, perhaps those as benign as breakfast downstairs.

While Ryker dined or was gone for those first few morning hours, the servants refreshed Hutch’s room and flowers, and brought him his breakfast, which he sat at the table to eat and gaze over the mountain outside his window. And, each morning, he hoped to hear sounds he hadn’t come to know—the trucks that came and went, the male voices of farmers and handymen, the doors that opened and closed, from inside the house and from out. He hoped to hear a new and different sound, one that would tell him Starsky had arrived on the premises—backed by the entire Bolivian army.

But none of those routine noises gave way to anything out of the ordinary. Not even the birds changed their songs as the dry winter rolled into the wet summer.

Ryker had his attention again. “I do not subject myself to you,” he explained, “because I never want you to feel forced into being pleasured. Do you think it is possible, Michael, to force a man into pleasure?”

Hutch subtlety shook his head, almost unconsciously, but not quite. He didn’t want to agree with Ryker any more than was good strategy, but maybe easing his resistance would buy him time he wouldn’t have otherwise.

“I think not, too,” Ryker said, smiling because Hutch had finally communicated with him in his most unsubtle way to date. “I am not a rapist, Michael. I have already promised you that you will never have to reciprocate. I can buy that sort of thing any time I want it. But to give pleasure . . . would you not agree, Michael? it has more meaning?”

Hutch lowered his eyes to the stack of books at Ryker’s feet, hoping it would derail the conversation. It did serve to change it.

“Allow me to tell you about Thomas,” Ryker began, his story perhaps triggered by the reminder of the books. “He was a beautiful boy, like yourself—although you have a much more masculine beauty than he. He, too, was blond and blue-eyed. He was as tall and as built as you are. Truly, a fine-looking measure of a man. I was so in love with him, Michael. So in love. Have you been in love?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Then you know how broken my heart has been to lose Thomas.”

Probably nowhere near how it felt to lose Starsky, Hutch imagined. At least he and I are sane.

“I did not have to take Thomas the way I took you,” Ryker confessed, sorry in his voice for the latter. “He was much, much younger, and in need of direction. A lost boy, you might say. You, by your age now, have lived life, know who you are, where you want to go, how to care for yourself. He knew none of such things. And so, he gladly accepted my invite to live here. This was his room, Michael.”

Ryker paused so they could both admire it again, but Hutch didn’t even pretend to. He kept his eyes on Ryker and watched him instead, sizing up the man one more time, confirming for himself that he could take Ryker down if given the chance; the man was formidable in his own right, but he was older and he was heavier set, and he probably hadn’t had the practice Hutch did of fist-to-cuffs.

“He came and went as he pleased,” Ryker continued, about Thomas, “as you will someday. I gave him everything he ever dreamed to have, and much more. He was safe here and provided for—and he provided for me. I do not think I am purely homosexual, Michael, for I have loved some ladies in my youth, but there is nothing like the love of a man. A man is much more forgiving—sooner—is more accepting of your foibles, and understands the needs of the cock in ways the fairer sex never will.”

Ryker seemed to be on a roll that night. Hutch might never get to sleep. For the first time since his capture, he looked forward to simply reading a book. Everything Ryker had said about man-love were truths Hutch already knew, but he didn’t dare let on. Nor did he allow himself to give those concepts much thought, lest they bring on feelings he had for Starsky that he never wanted to reveal. Ryker could continue to believe that Hutch was a virgin when it came to sexual experiences with men. That fact might be useful in the long run.

“I want you to think about these things,” Ryker suggested, “when we are not together. Imagine having all of your dreams fulfilled, including those you have for sex. I am capable—and willing—to do anything to your body that you wish. If you can think of it, if you think you would enjoy it, no matter what it is, Michael, I would love the opportunity to indulge you. If you have ever wanted to feel a tongue in places no woman would touch you. . .” He winked. “But back to Thomas. I assumed he would outlive me and that I would never have reason to replace him. He was such a joy, so refreshing, so energized, and vivacious. And young boys are very horny, Michael. I could not keep up!” He laughed at both his failings and his pun.

Hutch wasn’t amused. But he appreciated that Ryker kept talking; the more he said the things he did, the closer Hutch got to knowing him. Even though he obviously didn’t appreciate or agree with Ryker’s assessments and actions, he began to think he might be able to leverage his empathy; the German did seem to have an understanding of mutually-benefitting relationships—and maybe even love.

“As I got older,” Ryker concluded, “I found I could not keep up as much. You will soon discover that I can perform for you every day, but for myself, every two or three days. These are the sad realities of age, Michael. They forced me to give Thomas permission to play with other boys to satisfy his young body, but I let him go too far.”

He left you? Who wouldn’t, at first chance?

“On a stay in the mountains outside Caranavi about two months ago,” Ryker explained, “Thomas succumbed days later from a severe bout of malaria.” His voice broke on those words, as if he really was saddened by the loss—and perhaps he was. He was also wordless for at least a minute after the notation. When he composed himself, he added, matter-of-factly, “You will learn to be careful around this common disease; even here on the plantation, the mosquitoes can be quite dangerous in some years.”

Had Thomas died from malaria—or had he died from AIDS? Ryker had described Thomas as both a healthy, energetic young gay man with raging hormones. But who was Hutch to know about Bolivia’s diseases? He was just thankful Starsky had survived Tetepare’s.

Ryker stood. “I am tired, Michael. It has been a long day. I have brought you the books—to give you something to do, but also to show you that I have your other interests and pleasures in mind, as well. We will visit again tomorrow night. By then, you will probably have read one of these—I am assuming you can read,” he said with a laugh, “and you will do something to please me in return. Open your mind, Michael! We have much in common!”

* * *

Hutch’s breakfast was a healthy one of toast and jam, fresh fruit, robust oatmeal, and a variety of nuts, served with hot coffee and papaya juice. His bed sheets were washed and replaced, his room dusted and swept, newly cut flowers adorned both the desk in colorful decoration—which was out of his reach—and the table by the window. He was also given clean towels for his shower, a small bottle of cologne, and a new razor. All of the late morning’s fuss were actions Hutch understood to be part of the “pleasing” atmosphere Ryker planned for them later that night.

But Hutch was first alarmed, and then furious, when he stepped out of the shower, towel-drying himself, and soon discovered that the housekeeper had—on Ryker’s orders, no doubt—removed his clothes from the room while he had bathed. He instead quickly wrapped himself in a linen blanket from the bed, both for privacy and warmth, and sat on the mattress, against the wall, to read one of the books Ryker had left him the night before—John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men—and first and foremost to keep his obsessive thoughts about Starsky from consuming him in a way that could interfere with his smarts and inventiveness. Besides, would Ryker expect a book report after dinner?

Hutch’s sarcasm was fast becoming his only weapon.

On this particular night, Ryker arrived dressed in casual street clothes: pants, untucked button-down shirt, and walking shoes. He noticed that Hutch sat on the bed, buried in a blanket and a book—which is where Hutch had spent most of his day and then his evening—and seemed pleased that Hutch was reading.

“I think you are American, based on what I know of your native language, your accent as I recall it from Yanacachi, and your ongoing beauty,” Ryker said as he sat in his armchair. “Perhaps you have read Steinbeck before. Always worthy of another read, would you not agree, Michael?”

Hutch didn’t look up from the book’s pages, but he stared blankly at them as he slouched on the mattress under the floor lamp beside his bed, and waited for Ryker’s move.

“So I have learned you can read,” Ryker said with a light laugh. “You see? We have made progress! Now, why not be a good boy, and come over here to your chair.”

Hutch ignored him while his heart began to slowly pound.

“Come now, Michael. Pleasing me will not hurt you. I promise. You will not even have to touch me. I will show you what I mean. Come. Sit.”

Would Ryker make Hutch an offer he couldn’t refuse? Hutch wasn’t compelled to oblige otherwise. Or he could allow Ryker to get close—and then vomit out of disgust all over him. That would be a pleasure Hutch would love to have.

“I have made this as easy as possible for you,” Ryker observed, impatiently tapping the arm of his chair. “I had your clothes taken so you do not have the awkwardness of undressing. When we are finished, I will return them all to you.”

That wasn’t the offer Hutch had in mind. There would have to be something far more significant on the plate to get him to budge. Even then, he felt so disgusted by the prospect of Ryker’s invitation, and all it entailed, that he wasn’t certain he could trade anything for it.

Except to have Starsky, to at least know he was still safe. Just about anything was worth that to Hutch. Ryker had told him he didn’t have to reciprocate. What did Ryker have in mind on this, the first real overture of consequence? Ryker hadn’t arrived in loose clothing, so what were his real motive?

Silence fell over the room for a while, as Hutch stared at the neatly printed words in the book, and didn’t see a single one. He held his breath. Was Ryker more bark than bite?

“I tell you what I will do, Michael. You come sit in the chair and please my eyes . . . and I will give you a photo afterward that you have not yet seen.”

Hutch shifted his sight from the book to Ryker. His heart suddenly pounded forcefully in his chest. Did Ryker have a new picture of Starsky so soon after the last batch—or from the same one? Was it simply bait with no return? What was Hutch to believe?

Define ‘please my eyes,’ he said silently to the German.

“You may bring your blanket, Michael. I do not want you to feel immodest until you are in the moment. Come. You will be glad you did—for the photograph, if nothing else. I will not mind your reason.”

Hutch felt warm, and not because he had been subliminally and sexually provoked. He was desperate for that photograph—assuming it was of Starsky; Ryker hadn’t actually confirmed the picture’s depiction. But maybe by shortening the distance, Hutch would learn more. He closed his book, scooted off the bed, wrapped the blanket around himself in a way that never exposed him, and took his seat in the dining chair, his arm still chained twenty-two feet from the wall.

He made solid eye contact with Ryker, noticing again his brown eyes, the grey in his otherwise dark brown hair, the aging lines in his round face, and that he appeared quite happy that Hutch had joined him. He gave Hutch a nod of appreciation.

“I would like to see you,” Ryker said bluntly, moving his line of sight from Hutch’s eyes to Hutch’s overall. “Would you please open your blanket for me? I want to feast my eyes on your manhood.”

Hutch didn’t move, not even to blink.

“You will want this picture of your friend,” Ryker told him, obviously using it as a lure when his less-than-romantic solicitation hadn’t done the job. “I apologize that I do not have the picture in my possession at this very moment; I shall have to bring it to you tomorrow night—but only if you will indulge me tonight.”

Hutch wondered how many other pictures his captor held in his possession that he would use to ply Hutch—and in what ways. But Hutch still needed more information. He didn’t want to be tricked.

“I have to have some leverage,” Ryker explained, sounding cornered, and again reading Hutch’s mind. “We are quite a ways from the lives I have planned for us, but I do wish to be teased in the meantime.”

Hutch had broken a sweat. He honestly didn’t know what to do. What kind of cruelty was this, to hold evidence of the welfare of his most precious possession over his self-identity and integrity? What kind of test was this of his love for ‘a friend’?

He opened the blanket, first the right-wrapped side, which revealed nothing but more blanket, and then the left, which exposed his entire body from the top of his head to the soles of his bared feet. He felt the cool air wash over his nearly unblemished skin and harden his nipples, tickle his penis, heighten the sense of his vulnerability and nakedness—and the look of pure lust as it plainly emerged in Ryker’s eyes.

“Oh, Michael,” he exclaimed. “Your cock, even in its dormancy, is transcendent. I do not have the words to tell you how thrilled I have been to lay eyes on its excellence. I can only assume it will swell to grandiose proportions.”

Hutch couldn’t look at Ryker while Ryker leered at him. He could barely withstand the man’s attention, let alone his actions or his words, all of which humiliated and embarrassed him. But if this was the price he’d have to pay to—

“Push the blanket off your hips,” Ryker instructed him, “and open your legs so I can take it all in. I will not be touching you tonight—but, of course, I must see it all, so I may dream. And it is not just your cock, Michael. It is your cock and the entire picture of you!”

Hutch opened his knees and was praised for the wider visual of his genitalia; his sheathed and flaccid penis lay over its patch of blond hair and pointed up toward his right hip, fully exposing its underside, and his fleshy sac. His nipples were erect and his skin as smooth as the silk Ryker loved to wear. Hutch glistened in the light of the small lamps in the room, shadows contouring his hip bones and the valley of his flat belly, the muscled shapes of his arms and legs.

“Oh, Michael,” Ryker repeated in stunning delight, that time in a whisper, his eyes wide with desire, and seeming to torture himself as he pressed his hips into the chair cushion and rubbed his crotch through his pants. “What a lovely man you are—a lovely, sexy, endowed man. I shall not sleep tonight until I have indulged the fantasy! Oh, my sweet boy, to see you come—even if only in my mind!”

It became more than Hutch could withstand. He immediately pulled the blanket around himself and sat up in the chair to stop his indignity from exploding into helpless rage. His heart pounded and he had to struggle to breathe, none of which Ryker seemed to notice—or, rather, he thrived on Hutch’s reaction to color his own seductive illusions.

Ryker stood, stepped a few feet closer to Hutch, the closest he’d been while Hutch was conscious, and looked down at him. “I will take care of myself in private again,” he said, as if Hutch cared to know it, “this time with a more vivid and fresher image of you. You are welcome to ejaculate yourself, too,” he added, as if giving Hutch permission, “but I would prefer to watch, if you do—for my own enjoyment, and because I will need to know that you adore our playfulness. In the meantime, Michael, we have a date tomorrow night with your precious photograph. I shall see you then, and hope that your dreams will be as sweet as mine.”

* * *

The routine had become the same, even on the day for which Hutch knew he’d be receiving another picture of Starsky: Hutch would wake in the morning after a fitful night of sleep, listen to the sounds outside his window in the courtyard below, and to the noises in the hallways, as the estate came to life with hard-working farmers and servants. Only on rare occasion did he hear a man’s voice in the house; those seemed to be relegated to the outdoors. Only girls’ voices were heard in the hallways and other rooms, both upstairs and down. And all seemed to go as planned: the morning bustle, the aromas of food—theirs and his—the truck engines starting and the men yelling orders, the girls serving Ryker his laundry or his late morning coffee. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Everyone on the plantation went about their business as they’d always done—as if Hutch didn’t even exist. But he knew they were aware of his plight; some of them had helped to capture him, after all, and the girls daily served him, knowing he was chained to a wall.

Yet no one came to his rescue.

Not even Starsky.

He kept to his own routine: the shower and shave, the towel-drying, after which he’d sit on the bed, pull on his linen pajama bottoms, wait for the girl who’d put his shirt on for him, buttoning the sleeve around his shackled arm, occasionally trimming his nails. He’d given up talking to any of them about freeing him, even despite the words he knew in Spanish. Ryker was the key to his freedom, both figuratively and literally, and Hutch was so exhausted by end of day with thoughts of Starsky and his welfare that he just couldn’t seem to outsmart his jailer. Even the bait he’d been promised from the night before got in the way of critical thinking. All he could seem to concentrate on that day was laying his eyes on that precious picture.

He ate his breakfast at the window, sometimes open when the weather was warmer, sometimes closed when it rained. But the curtains were always drawn, enabling him to see stars in a cloudless and now-moonless sky, and to see the mountain across the ravine from the Death Road. He would stare long into the outside as he slowly nursed the rest of his coffee. And then he’d explore the room again, as if he might find some accidentally dropped item that could help him dislodge the wall bolts at the end of the chain.

Ryker hadn’t given him a clock and none of the servants would tell Hutch the time of day nor the date when he asked for it. But Hutch was able to begin keeping track of the days as they passed by collecting a seed each morning from a piece of fruit and storing it in an empty plastic shampoo bottle he’d emptied down the drain. He also got quite good at guessing when certain things were about to happen: when the house would come to life in the morning, when the farmers returned for a siesta early afternoon, when dinner would be served. And when Ryker would come to his room.

Like clockwork, and because Hutch was so anxious to see the photograph Ryker promised him, Hutch had it nailed almost to the minute when that door would open and Ryker would appear.

“You’re going to like this picture,” Ryker assured him after he sat in his armchair and got comfortable, taking those first few minutes to study Hutch across from him, to admire the man in his linen clothes and seemingly more relaxed demeanor. “I only spoke to your friend the one time,” he added, “so I must guess that he looks untroubled here.” He reached inside his robe pocket and removed the 4×6 photograph, examining it first before he handed it to Hutch. “He is an attractive, sexy man, I admit. Maybe I should have invited you both to live here.”

Hutch was too desperate to see Starsky that he ignored the insult, fully knowing Ryker had meant it as a compliment. That Ryker would show any kind of lust toward Starsky, even if only on the surface, made Hutch want to punch him in the face.

But the image of Starsky in the photograph stopped every bad feeling Hutch had at that moment. In it, Starsky stood on a street corner, as if waiting to cross, or in deep contemplation, dressed in jeans and shirt and jacket, his hiking boots, and looking off past the camera. His dark hair and sultry eyes, his build and his muscle, his beautiful face, were all so familiar to Hutch, and so painfully missed. But did Starsky appear untroubled? Hardly. His expression was intense, lost in his world of profound thoughts, none of which were appealing to him. His pose was, on its surface, relaxed; Hutch knew it to be one of helpless indirection. Starsky didn’t know what to do next.

He was apparently still in Bolivia—as evidenced by the people to either side of him, dressed as they were in traditional garb—and that they were obviously Bolivians in DNA. The road was cobblestone; there were blurred images of street vendors in the background, and a stray dog close by. There he was, Starsky, alone in a crowd, lost in a search that bore no clues, and no idea about where to look that he hadn’t yet.

Please don’t give up, buddy, Hutch silently begged him. Don’t lose faith. I know I haven’t.

“Do you look at him that way,” Ryker asked, breaking into Hutch’s thoughts, “because you have special feelings for him—or because you know he is the only means to returning you to your past life?”

Hutch looked up from the photograph at Ryker. The German seemed genuinely wanting to know how Hutch felt, but Hutch wasn’t about to tell him. He’d rather sell his body than his mind. In the long run, he could live with that.

“Whatever your answer,” Ryker decided, “you only wish to leave here because you have not yet enjoyed the bounties of Bolivia, least of all those I will shower upon you. I am having a special gift brought in tomorrow,” he added, as if Hutch would be happy to exchange whatever it was for whatever it was his ‘friend’ did for him, “all the way from Germany. I know it will brighten your day. The last one we had broke while Thomas was alive and I never sought to replace it.”

Hutch looked back at Starsky. It was an easier image to lay eyes on than the previous ones he’d been given. Starsky didn’t seem as lost as he did in those, as demoralized and empty. Hutch would keep this picture closer and look at it more often, and hope he could send cosmic clues through it and into Starsky’s mind. Please don’t give up.

“I have more where those came from,” Ryker confessed, abruptly taking Hutch’s attention. “When you please me, I will please you. What do you make of such a deal, Michael?”

Hutch settled into his chair and prepared to undress; perhaps he’d pull his penis through the fly in his pajama bottoms and—

“No, no,” Ryker quickly said when he noticed Hutch’s subtle action. “Oh, my dear boy, not tonight. I had such a hard come last night to thoughts of you, I could not summon such a thing again so soon.” He didn’t even squeeze himself to provoke an urge. “You forget my age! Of course, if you wish me to pleasure your cock, I can do this whenever you ask.” He raised his eyebrows and waited, as if he’d get the chance to fulfill that fantasy right then. “But you are not ready. I would be disappointed, Michael, if you were. It will take you a while to warm up to me. I understand this and I have all the patience in the world.”

Hutch simply gazed back at Ryker, controlling his pressing thoughts in their silence; the blood drained to his feet and his heartbeat slowed. He was glad he didn’t have to perform again that night, but he’d have given anything for another picture of Starsky. How greedy he’d become.

* * *

Every now and then, Ryker would surprise Hutch—as he had done one night with a stack of books. On another occasion, Ryker gave Hutch a jigsaw puzzle, which Hutch laid out on one side of the table by the window. After dinner, while waiting for his kidnapper to join him, Hutch would play with the puzzle, using it to escape into his memories of Starsky lying with him on the blanketed floor of their cabin in front of the fire—roasting marshmallows, reading stories, futzing with the puzzle, sharing a meal and a single glass of wine.

Ryker’s new gift, the one he said had broken prior to Thomas’ death, was a record player, which Ryker set up in the hallway outside Hutch’s door. He would leave a record playing—and the door open—while he readied for work in the morning, and again in the afternoon when the siesta was over, and then during his nightly visits. He would tell stories, too, about his childhood, the places he’d lived, how he’d come to Bolivia and why he decided to stay, all while music played in the background—a soothing, comforting sound that often enabled Hutch to only hear it and not Ryker’s meandering voice.

Hutch would lay his head against the back of his chair, close his eyes, drink his wine, and allow the classical sounds to overtake his tired mind, including and especially his growing thoughts that Starsky would never find him and that this life would, indeed, be the one he’d live forever. When the windows were open and the evening breeze, with its hint of humidity, passed through the room, under the influence of Cabernet and Mozart, Hutch would dream. And, every so often, when Ryker needed to be visually pleased, Hutch would expose himself, feed the hungry man’s eyes, and allow the music to help him forget that he was once again being humiliated.

Ryker naturally needed change over time. He ordered the servants to light a couple of candles in the room when they removed Hutch’s dinner plate and utensils. They placed a small table beside Ryker’s chair to host a large candle in a ceramic bowl, and another two larger candles on candlesticks three feet high to cast their amber glow on Hutch’s nude body when it was time for him to display it. Ryker would praise him with descriptive and rank words, as he was known to do, and Hutch would endure the onslaught—because it meant that he’d be given another picture of Starsky.

But it didn’t take Hutch long to notice that all of the pictures he’d been given were of Starsky in the same clothes. Ryker’s explanation was that his men had taken a roll of 24 exposures all within a single day, and the film took more than a week to have developed. Ryker gave Hutch a picture every few days in exchange for his eye candy, and after all 24 had been delivered, Ryker would send his men to take more.

“But I’m going to need more, too,” Ryker said. “By Christmas—at least by the New Year—I hope to be sucking your cock. Oh, Michael, you have no idea how badly I wish to do this—and how patient I have been for you to come around. It is because I know this pleasure will endear you to me in ways you cannot yet imagine. You do not know the unbridled passion of a man who understands the needs of another man. Once you experience this the first time, Michael, you will beg me for this pleasure.”

No man on earth could pleasure Hutch more than the man who was out there in that difficult world looking for him. And Ryker had not the depth of soul to understand that.

“So, in this next month,” Ryker suggested, “let us get better acquainted with each other. I want to see more, and you will relax showing me more. I will masturbate in front of you and you will do the same for me. We will enjoy watching the pleasure of the other and knowing we are responsible for it. These steps, Michael, will bring us closer—until we can actually touch. You will wonder why you waited so long!”

What Hutch wanted were new pictures. The sooner he could get Ryker to giving him those, the better. And whatever it took to speed that process, albeit Ryker’s physical limitations determining the pace, Hutch was committed.

It was Hutch’s non-reaction that excited Ryker. “Good,” he said. “We shall start tomorrow night then. We will build slowly. You need to release yourself. You have been too troubled, I am sure, to enjoy an orgasm until now. But I will have it set up for us, so our first time is perfect. And I shall bring a photograph.”

* * *

It was another one of those changes Hutch didn’t expect. After he showered and shaved and came to the table for breakfast, he discovered that the servants, possibly men that time, had switched his dining chair for Ryker’s armchair—that Hutch would be the one to have the more comfortable seat. The candles still remained where they’d been placed, out of Hutch’s reach, and not a single match in sight. Ryker usually carried those in his robe pocket.

He came to the room that night practically dancing through the doorway while a livelier piece of music softly played in the hall, and he arrived with two glasses and a bottle of Scotch. He was dressed only in his robe and slippers, but he appeared to have recently showered because his hair was wet and slicked back. Even from where he sat on the dining chair, Hutch could smell his cologne.

“I will get myself a better chair,” Ryker mumbled to himself, “but I wanted you to be comfortable so that everything about our experience tonight is positive for you.” He poured them each a drink as Hutch sat in the armchair and watched him. “Dinner was exceptionally good tonight, was it not, Michael? I think Elena is learning how to make our side dishes more appetizing because they are the ones you love so much.”

Thanks be to Elena.

“You did notice that I asked her to leave jojoba oil on the table, did you not, Michael? You see it there in that small dish. You will use it on your cock.”

Ryker then set a glass of Scotch on the wood floor and pushed it to Hutch; it was stopped by the area rug, just inside Hutch’s reach. He drank a long swallow, kept his eyes on Ryker, and let the liquid drug numb his senses to some degree.

His day had been spent in reading, puzzle-making, eating, and simply listening to music while he gazed out the window. What was it they said about why the caged bird sings? He was anxious for his new photograph, too, but there was a gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach that there would be no further pictures of Starsky after this one had been delivered—because Starsky was really dead.

“I want you to go to the bed, Michael,” Ryker said, “and take your clothes off there. I want to see your ass in the dark with just the candlelight from here to outline its shape. Please do that now and then wait for further instruction.”

Hutch got out of his chair, drawing a deep and courageous breath, swallowing his pride and his dignity, and convincing himself that he was simply in a men’s locker room, and who knew how many others had coveted his buttocks in visual silence over the years? He undressed at the foot of the bed, first his robe, then his shirt, discovering that Alicia had only buttoned two of the nine buttons that morning to make it easy for him. Clever Ryker, he mused. He then lowered his pants, straightened, and stood with his back to Ryker, feeling the cool air on his naked skin.

“Beautiful muscle, Michael,” Ryker said under his breath and just above the music. He was then silent for several minutes, presumably massaging his growing erection through the slit in his robe, and devouring Hutch’s bared buttocks in the candlelight with his eyes. “Now, turn around and face me, but do not yet approach.”

Hutch turned, breathing slowly and as quietly as he could; he didn’t want Ryker to know how violated he felt as he stood, exposed, displaying his entire front side to the man, his unveiled chest, and his exposed, flaccid penis hanging over his scrotum. He waited for the cue to return to the chair, but Ryker was in no hurry.

“Oh, Michael,” he whispered, speechless otherwise. He did as Hutch imagined he did: massaged himself through the break in his robe—then licked his lips. “Come,” he finally said. “Sit.” He watched Hutch approach, savoring every step he saw, his eyes taking in the entire view of the beauty before him, focusing mostly on Hutch’s sheathed penis.

When Hutch returned to the chair, he tried to sit as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and maybe he pulled it off, but nothing inside him was calm. He drank long from his glass of Scotch.

“Dip your fingers in the oil, Michael,” Ryker ordered him. “Then I want you to bring your ass to the edge of the cushion, lie back in the chair, and put one leg over each of the arms. I want the full view, Michael.” Ryker opened his robe and fully exposed his hardening erection. “This is all I have,” he laughed at himself, showing off his average-sized penis, and pointing its head momentarily in Hutch’s direction. “But it suits me. Do as I say now.”

Hutch had only glanced at Ryker, mainly to know how far along he was in his arousal—and he was obviously quite hard—but also to judge how eager Ryker was to be placated. Somewhere in his robe pocket, there was a picture of Starsky that Hutch had not yet seen.

As instructed, he grabbed a generous swipe of oil from the small dish, scooted to the edge of the chair, leaned back into its thick cushion, resting his head on the high back, aware of the candlelit room and the music in the hall through the open door, and then hung his legs over each of the chair’s cushioned arms, first one and then the other, spreading them wide. He heard Ryker gasp for breath, coupled with the fleshy rhythmic pump of his shaft.

Hutch closed his eyes and exhaled everything about that present moment, with the exception of the music in the hallway.

He took himself in hand and began the pleasing, lubricated stroke, all while picturing Starsky—his beautiful blue eyes and his thick wavy hair and his ever-so warm smile on that extraordinarily handsome face.

In the room with him.

In his arms.

Alive and with all the love for the world in his heart.

* * *

“How do you feel tonight?”

Hutch wasn’t shy with eye contact. He raised his brow. On the surface, he was just fine, if not sarcastic. How else was he supposed to feel wearing a manacle and having had to masturbate for a psychopath?

“Splendid,” Ryker said, pleased by Hutch’s silent answer about his mood. “I was so satisfied with our play last night that I slept like an infant, and I hope you did, as well.” They sat across from each other, dressed in pajamas and robes, drinking Scotch by candlelight. Ryker seemed more relaxed, beyond the effects of alcohol, and lavishly reminisced.

“Your body is resplendent, Michael.”

Hutch couldn’t help himself. Perhaps it was the Scotch, maybe the orgasm he’d experienced the night before, or that he’d grown to trust one thing: a new picture of Starsky every few days. Maybe it was all those things that caused him to let his guard down—with a shake of his head and a light laugh at Ryker’s latest word choice.

“Oh, you find me entertaining!” Ryker noted, charmed by the idea. “Are my flowery words about your beauty too much?”

Hutch gave him that, ‘yeah, pretty much’ expression, and swallowed another gulp of Scotch.

Ryker laughed. “It is how I learned English,” he said defensively, but amused by himself, too. “And you are quite beautiful. This you must know, yes, Michael?”

Hutch shrugged, pretending as if he had never given any thought whatsoever to his appearance. Or that he didn’t know how attractive he was. But he never expected it to cost him his known life and his freedom.

Or that he’d have to be bribed with a photograph of the man he desperately loved and sorely missed in exchange for masturbating in front of a total stranger, who was also deranged.

“I hope someday you will actually speak to me, Michael. You will tell me all about your past relationships, your lost loves, the things that thrill you, the dreams you have yet to live. . .” Ryker did seem dreamy-eyed himself. He’d made his plans quite obvious.

“I have tried not to interfere in your days,” he said, “but tomorrow morning, I have something to show you. You will be honest with me about it, if you would, please.”

Hutch nodded, promising he would—but only that ‘something’ could determine the route he’d take. He studied the flame on the candle beside Ryker’s chair and listened to music from the hall. He was thankful Ryker let him keep the pictures of Starsky that he’d been given to date. Hutch couldn’t imagine where he’d be emotionally if he didn’t have them to hold in his hands and against his heart.

He then shifted his eyes to Ryker’s and bore into his soul. You aren’t lying to me, are you, Ryker? Starsky isn’t dead, is he? You don’t want to take EVERYTHING from me, do you?

Ryker closed his mouth and squinted at Hutch. He sensed he’d been called upon to answer unspoken questions. Music played. Candles burned. Time passed. They held eye contact while Ryker searched his mind to read Hutch’s.

“Your friend is alive,” he finally promised after a minute.

Hutch was guarded in his relief, but he nodded his gratitude. And then, together, he and Ryker drank Scotch.

* * *

“Do you like it?” Ryker asked. Two Bolivian ranch hands leaned the massive, ornamentally framed painting against the wall on the floor beside Hutch’s desk, and Ryker stepped back to view it. “It arrived from Italy yesterday,” he said proudly. “I thought the colors might suit you.”

The artwork was impressive: a tapestry of rolling green rows of grapes and contrasting terra cotta roofs; the Tuscany wine country in all its splendor. Including its frame, the oil painting was six feet wide by nine feet high. It would also take two men to hang, and Ryker’s assistants had already left the room. Did Ryker expect Hutch to help him?

“What do you think?” Ryker asked again, when they both realized Hutch hadn’t answered the question. “We will place it there on the wall above the desk, but only with your approval.”

The deep taupe color of the wall was perfect for the painting’s palette. Hutch stood in the middle of his room, toward the end of his chain, and imagined the combination. Ryker was beyond his grasp, but it was the first time the two men stood anywhere that wasn’t near their chairs. There was a casualness to their proximity—and for the reason they had met in that space.

“Yes,” Hutch said. The very first word he’d spoken to Ryker. It may have been the last, but it was monumental for then.

“Your voice,” Ryker said with a gasp. “Oh, Michael, is there nothing about you that is not beautiful?”

* * *

“I put your age somewhere around mid-thirties,” Ryker decided, squinting as he studied Hutch from his chair, and confirming it with a nod. “You are about 15 years older than Thomas when he passed. And you are so much younger than I. Or is it . . . younger than ‘me’?”

Hutch didn’t answer.

“Well, anyway, Michael, please do not assume you are Thomas’ replacement. I did not go looking for such a thing that night. I rarely get to La Paz—except to the airport. I prefer Coroico. It suits me more; my kind of people, as the English say. But I was on my way home from France and dined with friends in the city before making that horrible ride to the plantation. You just happened to walk into the restaurant that night with your friend—who seemed not to be doing well.”

Hutch dropped his eyes to his lap as he remembered poor Starsky, suffering so from the altitude those first couple of days in Bolivia. Starsky’s regrets and his guilt compounded his physical wretchedness. Hutch couldn’t seem to convince him that it simply meant a change in plans, but Hutch was never angry or disappointed in any of their adventures. He enjoyed every second with his man.

“Not everyone can handle the altitude,” Ryker said, assuming Starsky’s trouble. “I suppose that is why you went to Yanacachi the next day, to get to lower ground.” When Hutch looked up at him out of surprise, Ryker quickly explained. “We followed your car. I thought maybe your friend would confront us because we had to pull over behind you when he got out to be sick on the side of the road. But, I suppose, he was too overwhelmed with nausea to start a fight. The poor boy. We did not mean to watch.”

Hutch remembered that Starsky was annoyed by the car that had pulled off the road when they did; yet another clue he and his partner ignored, Hutch especially. He could kick himself.

“I do think you are settling in,” Ryker observed, sounding pleased with the idea. “I suspect you are no longer as shocked by the change in your life. And, for whatever reason you indulge me, I am not perplexed; it matters not, your motives. Eventually, the pleasures we share will grow into physical touch between us and you will have grown to love all you have here and all you will have with me. Someday, I will be a very old man and you will still have much vitality. You will inherit all my wealth and do great things with it and your dreams.”

Hutch would have loved to begin right then.

He had tired of Ryker’s words. Not once had Hutch eagerly waited for Ryker’s visits, even though many of them had ended in his own orgasms—and with a new picture of Starsky. Hutch was buying time—as perhaps Ryker was, too, but for different reasons. Hutch expected Starsky to save the day or, failing that, for a fire to break out in the house, during which Ryker—as he had promised—would cut Hutch loose in order to save his life.

But neither of those things occurred, at least not soon enough for Hutch. He gave what he had to Ryker in exchange for what he needed: a new photograph of his beloved partner. Ryker hadn’t deceived him into believing the photographs he earned were of Starsky on different days, but Hutch couldn’t get all 24 fast enough. He assumed Ryker had already taken a new roll, in that it took eight days to develop one, and Ryker wouldn’t risk losing ground in what had become a routine of orgasms for himself.

Every couple of nights, Ryker visited Hutch’s room—candles and drink and music playing in the hall—and he would instruct Hutch to sit naked in the armchair, and he would tell Hutch how to oil himself, how to fondle and stroke himself, how to ejaculate himself, describing in detail how much he enjoyed Hutch’s moans of ecstasy, and was spellbound by the visual stimulation—right down to finite descriptions of Hutch’s semen spurting over his bared chest and heaving belly.

Ryker would ejaculate right after Hutch did or soon thereafter, howling into the room like the wild beast he was, as if he didn’t care if the girls downstairs could hear him. He would pull a light cloth from his robe pocket and wipe himself down; then he’d finish his drink with small talk, give Hutch his highly anticipated photograph, and leave the room with a ‘good night/sweet dreams’ wish for his captive. Hutch was only allowed to clean up once he was alone; Ryker would continue to enjoy the visual of Hutch’s drying semen as it lay on his body and initially glistened in the candlelight.

Hutch always took a shower afterward, even if he’d had one that morning—and mostly to wash away the offense Ryker had forced on him. He’d quickly learned to control his reactions to new photos of Starsky—ever since Ryker had noticed that Hutch looked at it with such desperation and fondness. He couldn’t afford to have Ryker think Starsky meant more to him than he did, lest Ryker find new ways to hurt Hutch by using Starsky’s pain or his life as leverage.

Following Hutch’s after-masturbation shower, he would slip under the flannel sheets in his bed by lamplight, and longingly look at every pixel in the picture, studying Starsky’s face and his features, trying to read his mind, imagining what Starsky may have learned and how it would lead him. “Go back to Coroico,” Hutch would compel him in a soft voice. “Find the woman who told you I’d gotten on a bus. Begin there, Detective.”

It was the only concrete lead Ryker had given him, so it was the only one he had to pass on to his partner. “Go back to Coroico.”

* * *

Two men came with Ryker to Hutch’s room while he was having breakfast—sent by Ryker to hang the Italian oil painting over his desk. Ryker profusely apologized to Hutch for the intrusion. “I could not hang it without Carlos to supervise,” he insisted, “and he was unable to make any other time. I don’t let just anyone into the house.”

Hutch looked over to the workers who’d come to hang the painting—and right away he recognized the Bolivian in the cowboy hat. Hutch’s heart sank while his breathing accelerated; he was in an instinctive fight-or-flight posture, and no way to expel it except by an attack of pure agitation. His eyes narrowed and he growled, though not enough to be heard by any of the men as they busied themselves with attaching the hooks on the wall.

Hutch couldn’t eat while his mind raced. What did the cowboy know that he could tell Hutch, even inadvertently or by accident? And how many players had Ryker hired for his sinister plot?

Only after the anchors had been hammered into the wall studs and the framed painting hung on them did Hutch make his presence known. He pretended to trip over his chain when he got up from his chair at the table as if to join Ryker in admiring the art on the wall. All three men heard him and turned quickly to see the commotion.

Ryker was immediately relieved to see that Hutch had landed on his feet, and did ask him if he was all right, but it was the cowboy that Hutch made direct and firm eye contact with. He bore through his eyes a very simple question, albeit silent. “Remember me?”

The cowboy first appeared startled, and not because he recognized Hutch, but because he thought, too, that something terrible had happened behind their backs, and he needed to address it. His expression then softened when he realized all was well—and then it changed dramatically.

Hutch understood in that moment of wordless communication that the cowboy did recognize him—but something else, too. The cowboy’s dark eyes saw another image altogether: this, the immediate and inescapable fact that the Americano whom he had helped capture was actually shackled to a wall; his eyes followed the length of the chain from Hutch’s wrist to the baseboard to which it was attached. He then looked abruptly back into Hutch’s eyes, seeming genuinely confused, and then glanced at Ryker, as if he’d find his answers there.

The men spoke in Spanish, but all Hutch heard was Ryker thanking them for the help to hang the large painting, and that he would see them later in the day. He patted their backs and walked them to the door. And then, just like that, whatever semblance of humanity he’d seen in the only face to show it in that month of his incarceration . . . was gone.

* * *

They sat on the floor, sharing a bowl of pistachios, and played a card game. Gin and tonic was the drink of choice that night. Ryker mixed it right there at his small table beside the candle. He’d since returned the dining chair to Hutch’s table—so Hutch had both chairs—and brought in a new one for himself, a smaller, but more comfortable room chair, preferring to leave Hutch with the most comfortable one, given that his prisoner did most of the work, in Ryker’s eyes.

These casual games and time-killers nagged at Hutch’s subconscious. He didn’t like that Ryker wasn’t always on guard for a raid; he suspected that Ryker hadn’t told him the truth about Starsky’s safety, and prayed Ryker never lied to him at the same time. But only the next roll of film would prove it for him—and they were fast closing in on the night when Ryker would have to produce an image not related to the original pack of pictures.

“You are a smart man, Michael,” Ryker observed as he lost another round of cards. “I wish now to play chess with you. Thomas could never master the challenge. I think you would be a formidable player.” He shuffled the card deck and dealt more cards. “Did you ever think, Michael, that we would sit on the floor together, drink and laugh by candlelight, play with cards, and talk about our future?”

I still don’t believe that’s what I’m doing. You, maybe. Me? I’m just buying time and trying to stay alive.

“I love how much cock control you have,” Ryker said with a gleeful laugh. “You have made our masturbatory exchanges quite thrilling. You do everything I ask right down to the precise detail.”

I’m making love to Starsky. You can thank him.

“Self-pleasuring in front of you—while watching you milk yourself—is far better than my imagination. You must feel likewise, no, Michael? I trust you like my dirty talk.”

I’m not really listening anymore.

“I like to talk nasty,” Ryker admitted. “I did not do so much with Thomas. He had very little cock control. Oh, the pitfalls of being so young, I suppose. But, as I have gotten older, and in wanting to take things slowly with you, I find I enjoy the teasing talk. My English words are not always the best ones, but they apparently make you hard, so they suffice.”

You ARE delusional if you think it’s you and your foul-mouthed depiction of romance that’s making me hard.

“Even now, Michael,” Ryker giggled, “I am getting hard just talking about my dirty talk. Perhaps I shall show you what I mean.” He untied his sash and opened his robe. “I know it is in here somewhere, Michael!” he laughed, fishing around his pajama’s fly to find his penis. When he did, he pulled it through and thrust his hips to display most of it in the amber light. “Do you see how hard the talk has made me?”

Hutch drew a breath of courage. It always took courage to oblige his captor. He hadn’t expected to have to perform for Ryker that night, having done so the night before, but a new picture of Starsky was its promise. He gazed on Ryker’s fat erection, and nodded as if to say he not only saw it, but was impressed by it.

Ryker tucked it back into his pajamas and continued to play the card game. “I know it is all show tonight,” he said, disappointed. “You get to be my age, Michael, and you will know your limits. There is no point in even trying. It would only leave me frustrated. But I do like to tease myself.”

So you’ve said. And now you’ve teased me, too, with a taunt of a Starsky picture. Number 24. The last of the roll. He sorely wanted that image in his hands so the next one would be more telling. The nearly two dozen pictures he’d been given—six in the first batch, and one each time after that for a disrobing or masturbation performance—were all too similar in nature. Starsky, alone, in La Paz, on the streets, at a table, in deep thought, seeming lost, dressed the same, going . . . nowhere.

“Oh, look!” Ryker exclaimed, laughing so hard at himself that he rolled sideways onto the floor, propped by his elbow. “I am distracted by my cock—and you win yet another game! Very clever of you, Michael!”

If only Ryker’s observation were a metaphor for Hutch’s overall predicament.

* * *

Hutch stopped dead in his tracks when he came out of the shower that next morning. He was in the middle of towel-drying his hair, something he’d learned to do without hitting himself in the face with his shackle, and immediately saw the classical guitar leaning upright against his bed.

He looked quickly into the rest of the room to see if anyone was there, but it was empty, sans the new flowers in their vase on the table. He then dressed and turned his attention to the instrument, studying it first as if it were booby-trapped before he would touch it. Deciding it was harmless, he sat on the mattress, and set the guitar in his lap. He’d never told Ryker he could play. Was it simply Ryker’s guess or did his jailer hope Hutch would eventually learn how?

Hutch really didn’t care which. He tuned the guitar, taking his time, enjoying even those distorted sounds at his fingertips. The instrument was a beauty: a David Rubio Cambridge 1980, full of pianistic quality and clear bell-like tones. As if brand new, stored, and now uncovered. Playing it was like riding a bicycle.

The music in the hall had ended when Ryker left after his own breakfast, and the door to Hutch’s bedroom was closed. He was alone with an old friend he’d never met, and he immersed himself in its mournful song, for which he was purely the medium. He filled the room with its music. And he played for hours—just about every piece he knew, from classical to folk to ballad and everything in between.

Replenishing his soul with the art of making music, he only broke for lunch, after which he read from another book Ryker had left him: Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. Hutch shaved again later that afternoon and, for the first time, wore some of the cologne Ryker had previously gifted him.

Hutch had already been given the last of the pictures in that 24-exposure roll, and he anticipated that he would soon be bribed with a new photograph of Starsky, one in a different environment. Masturbation had never been anything Hutch had to plan for himself at any time in his life, but he had come to realize that performing like some circus animal required preparation.

He set his stack of Starsky pictures on the table—but not until after he’d longingly browsed them in order one more time. He hoped the new pictures would show Starsky smiling, at least less burdened, despite that he hadn’t yet found Hutch; to know Starsky’s concern and panic had diminished would ease Hutch’s sorrow. Starsky would have resigned himself to the long haul—very much the way Hutch had.

What he would give to feel Starsky in his arms again.

Ryker didn’t have to know that Hutch fantasized about another man. All Ryker was concerned about was his twisted belief that he owned the beautiful bombshell in front of him—and everything that involved: Hutch’s body, mind, heart, and soul.

In fact, Ryker owned none of it.

He arrived on time with his customary two glasses and, on this occasion, a bottle of port, which he proudly claimed was from California’s Napa Valley. Maybe he simply wanted Hutch to elaborate on his specific origins, but Hutch hadn’t said a word to him since the ‘yes’ he’d used when he agreed to have the oil painting hung over the desk in his room.

Ryker took to his chair, dressed again only in his robe and slippers. He joked that he wished he were stupid enough to smoke cigars so they could truly have a run at all of the pleasures in life. But, alas, his mother had taught him well. He lit the three candles in the room, asked Hutch to turn off the only burning lamp, and to then join him at the table. He slid a glass of port to Hutch on the floor, not in a wine glass, but in a cocktail glass, so it wouldn’t tip in the slide.

When Hutch retrieved it and took his first sip, he was told to sit back in the chair and relax, something he already had in mind.

“To our cocks,” Ryker said, raising his glass in a toast, and laughing as if he were clever.

Hutch raised his and got the reaction he expected.

“I know you are loving this, Michael!”

Hutch held his lustful gaze.

“I trust you saw the gift I left by your bedside this morning,” Ryker said about the guitar. “I hope you will learn to play it. You seem to love listening to music as much as I do—and you have such beautiful hands.”

Hutch playfully toasted that sentiment, and Ryker oozed with delight. “We are getting somewhere!” he declared. “Now, if you would please, open your robe. Let me feast my eyes once again!”

Hutch had only worn his robe to the table; unlike Ryker, he was also barefoot. When he unwrapped himself, he could smell the strong waft of cologne he’d splashed on himself, and figured Ryker would soon smell it, too. Exposed and with a slightly swelling penis, Hutch moved his buttocks to the edge of the chair cushion, and opened his legs. He adjusted his phallus, pulling it more upright to his navel, and gave it a couple of enjoyable strokes.

“Use the jojoba,” Ryker ordered him. “I like to see it glisten.”

Hutch dabbed oil onto a finger and allowed it to very slowly drip from its tip onto the crown of his penis. He visibly reacted to it with a soft moan and a brief close of his eyes.

“Oh, Michael,” Ryker cooed. He exposed his own penis and began to stroke it. “You are pleasing me already.”

Hutch gently pumped himself, coating his entire shaft with the lubricant, hardening himself with each pass. His belly began to heave and his breath to deepen as his heart pounded and a light sweat broke over his skin.

“Michael,” Ryker called, softly, as if to keep from interrupting Hutch while, at the same time, he needed to give Hutch instruction. “Put your legs over the chair arms; spread them wide for me the way you do.”

Hutch could hear the light slapping rhythm Ryker gave his penis—and knew he had the man right where he wanted him.

Hutch took his hand off himself, opened his mouth to pant off the arousal he’d created inside his own flesh, and opened his eyes to level Ryker’s dreamy stare.

“No,” Hutch said as he dropped his hand to the chair arm and stopped all action. “No,” he repeated in a lower voice. It was only the second word he’d ever said to Ryker—and he wasn’t afraid to use it. Twice.

“No?” Ryker asked, incredulously, sitting up in alarm. “Did you suggest you will not pleasure yourself tonight for me?”

Hutch pushed back into the chair, sat upright, took a long swallow of port, and then faced toward the table. He had right on his side, but he also had a power that fueled his courage. One by one, he laid the pictures of Starsky onto the table, careful not to smudge them with his oiled fingers, and in the order they were taken, three rows of eight. Hutch then sank again into the armchair, leaving his robe open, and his exposed and oiled erection, fading as it were, to shine in candlelight, as he looked back at Ryker.

Ryker stared at him. “What are you telling me, Michael? Do you think I will not give you a picture tonight?”

Hutch waited; if there was a picture, Ryker would have to prove it. First.

“Oh, Michael, please do not do this to me. I have been so good to you these many weeks. I have given you so much. And I have never lied to you about your friend: he is alive. Of this, I swear to you on Thomas’ memory!”

Hutch would move Heaven and Earth to believe Ryker. He simply wanted proof.

Ryker looked Hutch over, licking his lips, studying Hutch’s sizable penis, his bulging sac, his chest and his arms and legs, his face and his eyes, appearing tortured to not be able to witness it in throes of sexual ecstasy, and he sighed, sounding defeated.

“You are right, Michael. I do not have a photograph for you tonight.”

Hutch’s heart sank, but he did everything in his power not to let that weakness, his fondness, his immeasurable love and concern for Starsky, to show in his expression or his actions.

“I have been honest with you, Michael, that I do not care of your reason to pleasure yourself for me. I have been truthful with you that I hope and I expect that someday you will do this and more for me because you will love me. But we did have a deal and I am not living up to it tonight.”

He wrapped and tied his robe around himself, and shoved the cork back into the half-drank wine bottle. “You are right to deny me,” he agreed, sounding ashamed. “And I will have to do better tomorrow night after we have both slept on this most disappointing situation. I cannot be excited while you are this angry with me.”

He slid the wine bottle across the floor until it hit the area rug inside Hutch’s reach. “You may finish that without me. You deserve it. I will have something for you tomorrow night, Michael, something that will prove your friend is still alive. Nothing changes between us.”

Hutch wanted to believe him, but how could he?

Ryker walked to the door, grasped the door handle, and opened it—just as the wine bottle shattered on the wall beside the doorframe, not some two feet from his head, and splattering its red contents all over the taupe plaster. Ryker didn’t even turn around to admonish Hutch. He simply paused when the crash startled him, gave himself a moment to compose himself, and then said in a grateful voice before leaving, “I know if you meant to hit me with that, you would have. I thank you for your mercy.”

* * *

Ryker appeared contrite, reserved, and visibly composed as if he had a confession too difficult to admit. He was dressed in street clothes and didn’t come to the room that next night with drink—or cards or a chess board or any other gift of grandeur—but he did sit in his armchair and place a small paper envelope on his lap. He wouldn’t make eye contact with Hutch for at least a minute while he prepared himself.

Hutch was dressed in his linen pants and shirt, barefoot, and not missing his glass of wine. He gave Ryker the time he needed without interrupting him with action or a single sigh of impatience. It was the second full moon of his captivity and he had learned to play his cards close to his chest. Most of the time.

“I heard something today,” Ryker began, finally lifting his eyes and looking into Hutch’s, “something I did not expect to hear so soon, or in the way I did.” Hutch was about to guess what Ryker heard, but Ryker beat him to it. “You were playing the guitar. I was downstairs when you began, but I came to the hallway when I realized it was not a record.”

If Hutch had known Ryker was listening, he may have pretended not to know how to play, so he could convince Ryker he’d learned it in captivity, as some kind of weapon he might later use. But that was now moot.

“More than that,” Ryker continued, “I heard you singing.”

Hutch ground his teeth. He hadn’t been as careful as he thought he’d been.

“I have never heard a voice so sweet,” Ryker told him. “You are much more talented and beautiful than I ever realized. You are so special to me, Michael.”

Whatever. Get to your point. What’s in the envelope?

“You have been more than fair with me,” Ryker conceded. “You have played by the rules, obliged a man you barely know and have not yet fallen in love with, and you have only once lost your temper with me.” He laughed lightly, imagining that Hutch might also erupt in chuckle, but returned to his proclamation when Hutch didn’t. “Trust is earned, is it not? I have not been forthcoming in a way that enables you to trust me, but I hope to change that, beginning tonight.”

As if I could ever trust a man who’s kidnapped me and destroyed my life.

“We took 36 pictures of your friend, not 24, because I did want you to know that we never hurt him. I never planned to make any of them a tit-for-tat; our agreement simply evolved into our mutually agreed arrangement: I give you a picture in exchange for watching you self-pleasure. But I cannot take new pictures of your friend because . . . because he left Bolivia two months ago. It is not that your friend cannot find you, Michael. It is that he is not looking for you.”

Hutch couldn’t unravel what he just heard fast enough. It immediately left him stunned, and with too many questions. He didn’t know which to ask first. But his heart already pounded and he sat straight in his chair and he broke a sweat under his arms and he searched the air with his eyes in a desperate effort to learn more sooner.

Starsky wouldn’t leave Bolivia without me—unless you threatened to kill him. Or you threatened to kill me if he didn’t leave.

“It fast became obvious to us that your friend would not stop looking for you so long as he believed he would find you.”

Don’t you dare have hurt him.

“I swear to you we never laid a hand on him.”

You threatened him in other ways.

“We gave him the loss he needed.”

What the hell does that mean?

“We faked your death,” Ryker blurted.

Hutch could barely contain himself. Starsky would never have believed Hutch was dead without. . .

“We gave him a body and made him believe it was yours.”

That makes no sense. The only way he could believe a dead body was mine would be because. . . Hutch swallowed the gasp he felt. What did you do, Ryker?

“We staged an accident. We detonated a part of the road that has been known in the past to give way . . . and with a few corpses from the plantation’s graveyard . . . we were able to convince everyone that afternoon that a bus had gone over the edge. It happens all the time.”

The bus from Coroico to La Paz. The one you had a woman tell Starsky I had boarded. Down a two-thousand-foot drop from which he’d never be able to retrieve victims.

“We dressed Thomas’ body in your clothes, complete with all of your identification and your jewelry.” Ryker made the sign of the Christian cross. “Forgive me, Thomas,” he whispered after a lengthy pause. “I was not there for the damage they did to him so that your friend would believe Thomas was you, but I know they had to burn his face.”

You fucking assholes.

“The bystanders at the ‘accident’ scene were my workers. The cab driver who took your friend to La Paz and helped him to get to the morgue and then to his hotel . . . one of my best workers. Cruz. Your friend was then contacted by the U.S. Embassy—which is also how I have known that you are American—and they took over from there.”

To do what?

“I suppose they convinced your friend that the fastest way to transfer a body from Bolivia to the States was to have it cremated. Your friend left the country the next night—with Thomas’ remains.”

Did Hutch believe him? Was any of this true? It sounded plausible, but where was the proof? He dropped his eyes to the item in Ryker’s lap. And then he put out his hand.

Ryker handed him the envelope. “When we took these, Michael, I did not know how or whether I would use them. I simply knew they had to be taken. The photographs I have given you so far were of the day your friend spent waiting for the morgue to release the remains. That is all. He had to wait. He was not looking for you.”

Hutch removed the remaining pictures from the envelope and slowly browsed them. It was everything he could manage to keep his breath from being audible, or his heart from exploding. In his hands were images showing Starsky arriving at the El Alto International Airport, walking through the terminal, validating his ticket with the agent, and boarding an airliner bound for America.

Hutch was thoroughly devastated. It wasn’t that he’d lost his key to salvation. It wasn’t that he realized how alone he’d just become. It wasn’t even that he’d lost Starsky on some level—although that was, by itself, shattering to the core. The crush was far greater than those blows. What hurt Hutch most in that moment of sheer despair and immeasurable grief was the undeniable fact that Starsky had suffered the ultimate shock of losing Hutch. Hutch had experienced that depth of suffering; it was an anguish he wished on no one, least of all his beloved Starsky.

A tear threatened to spill from Hutch’s eye. He knew he was being watched, examined, closely studied, and he summoned every bit of emotional strength he had—coupled with a rare prayer to the powers-that-be—that his tears not empty from his eyes, or that he break down right then and there in uncontrollable sobbing.

The test was even more challenging under the weight of Ryker’s next words.

“So, you see, Michael . . . I have you. And your friend has Thomas. I consider this exchange a fair trade.”

* * *

The weather warmed as December unfolded and the spirit of Christmas seemed to enliven the air, at least the kinds of music in the house, and the number of people coming and going. Voices of gratitude were often heard in the foyer downstairs; perhaps Ryker invited working families to his home to bestow them with gifts and money and the promise of a lucrative new year.

Hutch’s relationship with Ryker had changed. His captor wasn’t as pursuant, at least not for the couple of weeks after his coming clean about what he’d done to Hutch in regards to his partner. Ryker didn’t lay low, by any means; he continued to visit Hutch in his room every night after the servants had cleared away Hutch’s dinner dishes. And he told his stories—from throughout his lifetime to minor details of his day, as if Hutch was the only one who cared to listen.

Ryker had a larger table brought into the room and switched it out with the small one by the window. The new, rectangular table enabled Hutch to be closer to the window without being able to open it, but it gave Ryker the ability to sit with Hutch while he dined, and to spend that time talking to his prisoner. Ryker could tell more stories during Hutch’s meal, and it probably gave him the sense that Hutch appreciated hearing them because he had to have something to occupy his mind while he ate.

Hutch didn’t have to disrobe for Ryker, nor masturbate for him—at least not until mid-December, as if Ryker gave Hutch the short two-week reprieve to cool his temper. Ryker would never know that Hutch’s immeasurable grief outweighed Hutch’s blind anger; the German may have loved Thomas, but not nearly as much as Hutch loved Starsky.

And therein lay the only confusion Hutch felt about his situation: Why did you leave, Starsky? Not, why did Starsky leave Bolivia when he discovered what he believed to be Hutch’s body killed in a bus accident on the notorious Death Road, but why did Starsky assume Hutch would have gotten on that bus from Coroico to La Paz in the first place? Hutch couldn’t make sense of it. Did you forget who we were together? he would incessantly ask his partner in those moments of retrospection and solitude. And there would be no understanding it, except to think. . .

Starsky could only have believed Hutch got on the bus without him because Hutch had amnesia. Or some dumb thing like that.

Ryker began to have his own dinner in Hutch’s room, sitting at the other end of the table, having Elena serve them as if they dined in a restaurant, and sharing the same bottle of wine, eventually passing it back and forth to each other on the wood-planked tabletop. After dinner, while they enjoyed dessert, Ryker would make mixed drinks, and he would get loose and tell more stories, and laugh more easily—and, of course, be quite rank about his desires on Hutch’s privates.

Hutch was obviously aware that any time he wished to enjoy fellatio, all he had to do was ask; Ryker wasn’t all bark.

But Ryker wanted Hutch to trust him, promising him, as matter of routine, that he would never deceive Hutch again. He had no reason to, he explained more than once. “The threat of losing you has long passed.” Such a claim was a subtle reminder to Hutch that Starsky was in mourning, and that he would be for a long time.

One morning, a week before Christmas, Hutch heard a commotion outside his bathroom, and quickly wrapped himself in a robe to investigate the noise. He discovered that two men, including the Bolivian in a cowboy hat, had removed the bedroom door at its hinges, and were delivering a piano into the room. Ryker’s latest gift.

He’d already bought Hutch a hand-carved marble chess board from Denmark, more pillows and blankets and clothes from Peru and other parts of South America, and added to Hutch’s cologne collection from some of the finest fragrance companies in the world. He showered Hutch with all the riches life had to offer: gourmet food and candies, fine wine and drink, art and music and furniture. He promised Hutch the plantation—when it was time—and all of the comforts and power a man could want that came with it. Other than the ‘debacle’ with Hutch’s ‘friend,’ as Ryker called it, Ryker didn’t go back on his word to provide for Hutch in all ways possible.

When Ryker had a Christmas tree delivered to Hutch’s room, he made certain a portion of it was inside Hutch’s reach so Hutch could, in part, help decorate it with a few ornaments and a string of lights. Elena dressed the back of the tree while Hutch busied with its front, and Ryker joined the decorating later that night to add a few pieces he said were personal to him, ones he had gifted to Thomas in years past.

“All that is left, Michael,” Ryker would say with a wink now and then, “is for us to resume our sexual exploits together. I do not have bribes for you; you may have whatever you want whenever you want it, and I hope by now I have proved this. All I ask in return is that you allow me to lay eyes on your magnificent cock—and to someday pleasure it. Then we shall have everything together!”

Hutch usually responded to those solicitations with steady eye contact, not giving away a thought or feeling on any spectrum, leaving Ryker to guess and wonder and anticipate. When and if Hutch would use his sexuality to his benefit, and in what ways, as well as for which gains, Hutch had decided would be determined by . . . the moon.

“Do you self-pleasure when you are alone, Michael?” Ryker asked him one night. He ate his dinner and broke eye contact as if he could force Hutch into answering him with audible words instead of silent expression.

Hutch hadn’t masturbated alone since his capture; he especially didn’t have the urge at all those past two weeks. How could he want ecstasy when Starsky was suffering so? What was there to feel good about, anyway? Material things, even those of the culinary kind, were no substitute for happiness. Ryker had yet to learn that truth, if he ever would.

“You do not have to kiss me, Michael,” Ryker said, still not looking at Hutch while they ate. “As I have said in the past, you do not have to reciprocate the pleasure—because I get so much of it from watching. And from giving.”

Hutch sat quietly at his end of the table and chewed his food and drank his wine and appreciated the candlelight and the music in the hall and the breeze that came through the open window. He understood the joy of doing for others. He believed Ryker on that point. But Ryker must get his sex from places other than just watching Hutch enjoy it. So, did Ryker have boys in the city who did his bidding, or was he purely a masturbator?

Maybe Hutch would ask Ryker, someday, why he was so obsessed with ‘cock,’ and how did he really rank it among all of the other splendors he indulged? Was he purely fixed on Hutch’s body and beauty because he couldn’t have it? As time passed that night, and Hutch listened to Ryker’s voice and ignored answering his questions, he imagined there might be a moment when he’d just lean back in his chair and let go with all the questions he’d stored up for the German over the past couple of months.

But that night wasn’t it.

“Elena says you have not played the piano since it was brought to your room,” Ryker noted. He had finished eating and waited for the servant to remove their plates, bring them dessert, and open an after-dinner bottle of some liqueur. “Shall I assume, Michael, that you do not know how to play . . . and, if not, would you like to learn?” Ryker then laughed at himself. “Two questions at once; I will not be able to decipher your answer!”

Hutch set down his fork, lifted his face, looked directly into Ryker’s eyes, bore into him so firmly that Ryker shut his mouth and seemed to brace for Hutch’s angry outburst.

But Hutch only wanted to make the man hear him—without actually speaking to him. When he had Ryker’s full attention, he pushed back out of his chair, rose to his bare feet, and walked to the piano. He sat on its small bench, opened the cover over its keys, and began playing . . . a Christmas song. O Holy Night.

“Oh, Michael!” Ryker exclaimed, jumping out of his chair and rushing to Hutch’s side. He nearly collided with him he was so rushed. “Oh, my sweet boy! You are a master!” He was spellbound, sincerely moved by both the music and that Hutch played so softly, gently, and perfectly, filling the room with deep melodies of sweet sounds.

Hutch played from memory, closing his eyes to bathe himself in the music he made. He felt Ryker’s presence beside him, first at arm’s length, and then as Ryker eased himself onto the piano bench.

When Hutch began to sing, he heard Ryker heavily sigh with pure admiration as Ryker melted into the melodious and seasonally familiar music—especially because it was Hutch who gave it to him. “Oh, Michael,” he would whisper. “Do you see yourself, sweet boy? Can you appreciate that which I feast my eyes? You in the candlelight, dressed as you are in white linen, playing the songs of our precious day?”

“Long lay the world in sin and error pining,” Hutch sang, his voice as warm as a sun-kissed flower and just as soft, “till He appeared and the soul felt its worth. . .” He turned his head while he sang, looked into Ryker’s eyes, to answer the man’s question about whether he could see himself as beautifully, and gently shook his head. Yes, of course, Hutch knew he was an attractive man, but he’d never been in that moment before, not even with Starsky. How was he supposed to know how to see himself?

He finished the song, joined by Ryker in passionate singing through its pivotal ending—and not with any mockery; Ryker was honestly moved by the experience. It was, Hutch imagined, even more thrilling and fulfilling than watching another man bring himself to climax. Hutch’s fingers stopped on the keys when the next thought hit him and he chuckled to himself: He would have to eat those words if that other man was David Starsky. Eventually, he lowered his hands to his lap and breathed deeply, remembering Starsky on that quiet summer night, just days before Christmas.

“You thrill me to no end, Michael,” Ryker said, affectionately squeezing Hutch’s knee with his gratitude. “I have learned many beautiful things about you—and all without words. You have taught me to be patient.”

In that same moment, Ryker realized something else—and it shocked him off his seat. He jumped from the piano bench and two feet back in a single leap. He immediately panted, as if he’d panicked, and then laughed at himself, but not with amusement—more from self-induced disappointment and dread. “Oh, what have I done?”

Hutch turned on the bench to face him. What have you done? he asked with his eyes. But Hutch knew.

“I was inside your boundary, Michael. I did not take any precaution.”

Hutch shrugged at him, as if to say no harm had been done.

“You could have attacked me, Michael,” Ryker explained. He trembled as he stood outside Hutch’s reach, shaken to the core. “I was absent-minded, preoccupied with the moment, unaware of myself. That is not like me.”

Hutch gave him a disgruntled sigh, one that told Ryker he wasn’t as impressed by the incident, and then Hutch got to his feet and walked back to the table, dragging his chain behind him. He sat in his chair, drank the last of the wine in his glass, and waited for his dinner guest to join him; they had not yet finished for the night.

Ryker took his seat at the table a minute later, having shaken off his immediate alarm. “Do you realize what happened, Michael? Do you understand that I was within your realm and yet you did not harm me?”

Hutch looked Ryker square in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “I’m fully aware of that.”

Completely disarmed, Ryker sank into his chair. “I absolutely adore your voice, Michael. I wish you would speak to me more often. Do you think this will be possible?”

Hutch nodded. Because he didn’t answer with a word, it made them both laugh, and Ryker more than Hutch.

“You tease me,” Ryker said. “But I think we have gotten somewhere tonight, and for this, I am very thankful. I look forward to more teasing. Will you tease me more, Michael?”

Hutch nodded again, gave Ryker a small, warm smile, and then showed him his empty glass.

“But, of course,” Ryker replied. “Shame on me for not having noticed.” He began to push the wine bottle across the table, but hesitated at the moment, carefully looked at Hutch, and made another decision. Instead, he picked up the bottle, rose from his chair, and walked the wine to Hutch’s end of the table—actually pouring it into Hutch’s glass. Again, he was within Hutch’s reach and, although Ryker did exhale an audible sigh of relief when he got back to his safety zone, he was quite pleased to have had the privilege, more than he was to have survived it.

“Will you disrobe for me, Michael? I have not seen your manhood in some time now and I am hungry for it.”

Hutch slouched in his chair, kept an eye on Ryker, gave thought to an answer. His stall solicited a follow-up.

“On Christmas Day, Michael? Would you treat my eyes to a feast? I know you do not have gifts to give, except that one, and it might make you feel good to bless me with such a thing on so special a day?”

Who knew Hutch would ever be asked to show off his 41-year-old nude body to another man, let alone as a Christmas present? “Yes,” he said into the almost quiet of the room.

And without a second thought.

* * *

Ryker retired early from his time with Hutch on Christmas Eve; he had house guests to entertain in what was conceivably a large living room downstairs complete with a colorfully decorated and massive Christmas tree. He dined with Hutch, drank a toast to the holiday, gave Hutch his good night and sweet dreams wish, told Hutch he looked forward to his ‘most sacred’ present of all: Hutch’s resumption of their intimate and sexy sharing come the next night, and he was off to his party.

For hours, Hutch listened to the loud music rising from the floor below, and felt its vibration. There was laughter and a cacophony of voices, often breaking into song, all in Spanish, and none of it decipherable. Ryker was definitely a generous host. Perhaps in another lifetime, Hutch could respect the man for his hospitality and charity, but the German had one major flaw.

The obvious one, and also that he still wouldn’t leave Hutch with a candle. He’d have set the house on fire, or so Ryker assumed. In fact, it was a risk Hutch would never have taken except in his darkest hours. On that night, Christmas Eve, Hutch had to settle for a small lamp to give his otherwise empty room the ambiance he craved. Ryker had gifted him a colorfully wrapped pair of silk pajamas, so Hutch tied the ribbon to his headboard and made a bow. For you, Starsk, he thought, lying on the mattress in the soft light, gazing toward his Christmas tree lit in blue and red and white—the colors of his homeland—and listening to the last of the partygoers as they eventually left and faded into the night. Ryker disappeared into his own room not long after the last guest departed, and the house was still again.

“Merry Christmas,” Hutch whispered to Starsky. He remembered the previous Christmas Eve as his fondest: he and Starsky had gone to their cabin for the holiday—to celebrate their reunion more than they did to enjoy Christmas. They made their blanket bed on the floor before the fireplace. Starsky roasted marshmallows. They drank wine, ate dinner, opened presents. He couldn’t remember what Starsky gave him, except that the love and intimacy bestowed on him that night was like none other he’d experienced—because no other person could make Hutch feel that loved.

No one.

He couldn’t imagine the pain Starsky must have been feeling over this new Christmas, believing he’d lost Hutch, and having such an empty, cold, hopeless time of it. All Hutch could do was cry when he felt empathy for him swell in his heart—and know that it had nowhere to go. Starsky loved Christmas more than Hutch did, and Hutch was very fond of it. He’d come to love the giving—to his partner, and in all the ways they had grown to share it.

If Starsky were with him then, whether they were in Bolivia or the United States or stranded on some tropical Pacific island, they would spend it indulging each other: with precious gifts, and homemade meals, candies and dessert and drinks. They would play music, too, and sing songs, and reminisce about their lives, dream about their futures.

They would lie in each other’s arms, feel the warmth between them, listen to their familiar voices, the soft laughs, the gentle verbal affection. The intimacy would eventually evolve into a physical ache as they each sought yet another way to express the passion he held sacred in his heart for the man he’d already proven he’d give his life for. And were there yet a realm beyond the mental and the physical and the sexual and the emotional that they could enter, they’d have taken it together, too. But earthlings were limited, after all.

Thoughts of Starsky’s warm body, his eager touches, his quicker arousal to push for more, joining them in heart and soul, began to touch Hutch as he lay alone on his bed on a Bolivian plantation in the middle of a rainforest on the infamous Death Road. On Christmas Eve.

He hoped Starsky also had a decorated Christmas tree, whether he spent the time at the farm or their cabin, and that he roasted marshmallows, drank wine, finished a satisfying meal, listened to soft music, played with a puzzle, felt warm in front of the fire while it perhaps snowed around him. He’d be dressed in Hutch’s sweat clothes, wearing double socks to keep his feet from freezing, and maybe he’d read a couple of Sherlock Holmes stories to himself. Out loud. Because he would probably want Hutch to hear them, believing that Hutch, although gone in body, was not gone in spirit.

That would be a perfect Christmas for Starsky, even if he had to spend it without Hutch. Starsky would keep Hutch alive in his heart.

But if Hutch was there, he’d be certain to give his man the experience of pure joy that only his body could provide him. If I was there, Starsky. Hutch lowered his pajamas as he lay on his back on top of his blanketed bed, and eventually removed them completely. His erection had already grown simply from thinking about Starsky’s Christmas warmth and its cheer, even the little he imagined Starsky could find. I would caress you like this, Hutch told him; he spit into his palm, and used its lubricious qualities to stroke his shaft. The sensation was pleasing and heightened his desire to reach orgasm. I would help you to feel this precious ache . . . the wet and the warmth of it . . . the desire and the need for it . . . the love and the want I have for you. . .

Pre-cum enabled Hutch to more fully feel the pleasure of each slide. He pictured Starsky in his mind: watched him lie back on those blankets in front of the fire, aglow in candlelight, saw his pants down to his knees, the broad smile over his face, his closed eyes and dark lashes, his thick and aching erection, that patch of black curly hair, his heaving and hairy belly, his erect nipples buried in the fur of his tanned chest, hear the sound of his labored breath, the moan of more want and anticipation, felt the pound of his beautiful heart through the meaty shaft in Hutch’s hand. . .

Hutch would bring Starsky to orgasm on that Christmas Eve as certainly as he brought himself.

* * *

It was an unusually sultry night that early January. But it was the peak of Bolivia’s summer, too—its celebrated rainy season—slightly humid, breezy, with mild temperatures ranging from comfortable to warm.

Hutch had asked Elena to leave the windows open before she departed for the evening, and a less than muggy draft of fresh rainforest breeze passed through the room. The skies were clear and evolving gradually from their cobalt blue to a dusky bluish orange as the bright sun inevitably set in the west and the full moon rose in its leaving.

Although the day had begun as typically as had most of the others over the past few months, and had ended as fairly, Hutch felt the effects of alcohol quite keenly—because he’d had more than his usual to drink that early evening. Dinner had been exceptionally delicious and had become one of his favorite meals: a pasta dish made especially for him, one of linguini and homegrown sautéed eggplant, topped by a thick, hours-long-simmered marinara sauce, coupled with freshly steamed broccoli, red potatoes, and crisp asparagus. The toasted garlic sourdough bread was an enjoyable complimentary taste, too. And, of course, the red wine, from one of the finest vintners in the world.

It explained, in part, why he was on his second glass. Since early October, Hutch had been given the best of everything that money could buy: clothes, food, shelter, servants. Exotic presents were regularly offered to him for no reason, and gifts of pleasure to tantalize all of his senses were never more than an ask away. He had indeed become a rich man among the rich—just as Ryker had promised he would.

“It is good, no?” Ryker asked. He licked his thin lips to savor a swallow from his own glass. Then he went on again about the weather. He did love to talk—sit there in his comfortable armchair, that time after dinner, in his black silk robe and matching slippers, and tell his well-spoken stories. On this night, the weather was so perfect, he couldn’t help but speak of it.

Hutch sat in his cushioned chair at the table by the window, relaxed, attentive, listening to Ryker, and twirled his wine glass on its smooth, wood-planked surface. Two candles on the table slowly burned in their bronze candelabrums; incense smoldered and smoked from a brass, vented dish, and wafted through the air, filling the room with its perfumed aroma of sandalwood. Ryker had finally allowed Hutch to have access to fire, small as it was in candle flame. A ceramic saucer of freshly poured jojoba oil had customarily been placed near the table’s edge. Hutch had finished his meal—and it was time for his deliverance.

While Ryker compared summer night temperatures from years past, and mostly with himself, Hutch dipped his right index finger into the wine in his own glass and then outlined its rim, allowing the liquid to roll off its crystal curved sides. He repeated the subtle, provocative motion until Ryker’s eyes shifted to Hutch’s action—and he stopped talking mid-sentence.

Since Christmas Day, Hutch had disrobed for Ryker on three occasions. They had returned to their seated positions for the unveilings: Ryker in his armchair, Hutch in his, stripping naked in the candle glow, standing for a while in full view of his captor, displaying his nudity and his genitalia quite comfortably by then. Afterward, Hutch would sit in the armchair, drape his legs over its arms, open them wide, and roll his hips so Ryker could enjoy the complete view of Hutch’s sheathed, mostly flaccid penis and scrotum. And Ryker would rage with descriptive words to heighten his own arousal. Until Hutch was willing to resume their mutual masturbations, Ryker seemed content to return to his room not long after each unveiling, and presumably masturbate in private.

On Hutch’s third dip into his wine glass on that particular January night, he coated his lips with the wine, kept his eyes locked on the brown ones that hungrily gazed back at him, and gently sucked his fingertip. He loved that Ryker was so easily aroused.

The breeze tickled the leaves on the palm trees outside the window; it was the only sound either of them heard. That, and Ryker’s breath when he finally let it out. Hutch had changed the intent of their evening; he had not yet disrobed because he had other plans.

“Are you going to tease me tonight?” Ryker expectantly asked. “Must you be so mean?”

Hutch relaxed further into his chair, raised the wine glass to his mouth, smiled at Ryker with his eyes from over its rim, and drank a long swallow. The alcohol was as smooth as melted ice cream, but warm in its engagement—and it gave Hutch the further high he desired.

He slightly opened his legs. Barefoot and only wearing his white linen robe, the move parted the cloth over his thighs, enough to promise, but not so far as to expose him. Ryker’s eyes dropped from Hutch’s face to between his legs and it was obvious he further undressed Hutch in his mind. “You are such a bad boy,” Ryker said, belying his words with a shy smile and another lick of his lips, that time for a taste he’d not yet consumed.

Hutch set his glass on the table, repositioned himself to the edge of the chair cushion, slumped back, rolled his head to the side so he wouldn’t break eye contact with Ryker, and deeply exhaled. The warmth of the wine had saturated his blood. All that was missing in those suspended moments—other than to be free from his months-long chain—was the feel of a wet, sucking mouth on his penis, preferably Starsky’s, to take him from his sleepy demeanor to one of heightened ecstasy. But he knew Ryker would deliver. He counted on it.

“That is what you want, is it not, Michael?” Ryker asked when Hutch closed his eyes. The invitation was obviously there. “You want me to suck your cock, do you not, sweet boy?”

Tender kisses, gentle licks, warm tongue, oiled hands. Thoughts of those sensations alone visibly hardened Hutch, and he tugged at his robe to pull it open just that little bit extra, exposing most of his sac, but only a sliver of his stiffening penis.

“Show it all to me, Michael,” Ryker encouraged him. His words were breathless, not as melodious in nature, and deepened with the confidence of his German language, as he, too, began to swell and ache for sexual thrill and contact. “Show me your hard cock.”

Hutch opened his eyes, gazed dreamily at Ryker, noticing his rounder face, his change in expression—from titillated curiosity to full-on desire. Hutch’s lips broke a smile, a soft one, teasing and inviting, using the language of his beauty to further entice, rather than spoil it with words.

Hutch had finally found a usefulness for his sexy self.

“Oh, you please me so,” Ryker said.

Being pleased in return was something Hutch desired. Over the past few months, he’d been regularly pleasured. By himself. For himself. Sometimes, early on, in exchange for pictures of Starsky, images that would remind him of those tender kisses, gentle licks, warm tongue, oiled hands. Hutch’s self-pleasing wasn’t as meticulously delivered the way his partner could award it; not even Hutch could make himself feel that good. But thoughts of his partner and the feel of his own hand were all that separated him that night from the rest of his life.

All Hutch had to do was allow Ryker to fellate him.

“Please, dear boy, show me your cock,” Ryker encouraged him. He further begged Hutch by sliding out of his chair and onto the alpaca wool area rug, promising to come closer only if Hutch would oblige him with intensifying visual cues.

Hutch eventually pulled away the linen cloth that still covered his enlarging phallus, exposing it in its nearly complete fullness. It lay against his bared belly from its patch of blond hair, stiffened and engorged, confirming its desire and expectations. “I know how badly you want to suck it,” he said, the most words he’d used in a single sentence since he’d awakened in that room.

Ryker couldn’t contain himself as he practically crawled on his hands and knees to sit at Hutch’s feet between his legs, and eagerly feasted his eyes and his senses on Hutch’s smooth, bulging sac, his large, upright shaft, rounded crown, oozing pre-cum. “Oh, Michael,” he exclaimed with utter abandon, desperately kissing the inside of Hutch’s thigh with wet lips, “your cock is magnificent!”

“Magnificent” was the first word Hutch had heard Ryker say.

In English.

And it would be his last.

“Look at me,” Hutch said, pushing Ryker off his thigh with his leg and forcing the man to make eye contact with him. “I have something to say.”

Ryker seemed almost as excited by the prospect of hearing Hutch speak for more than a half dozen words at one time as he did to finally orally pleasure his captive. His mouth fell agape, his eyes widened with joyful anticipation, and his breath labored under the thrilling weight of his heightened elation.

Hutch’s heart pounded. He was keenly aware of Ryker’s sexual and emotional intensity in that moment. It was a pity the man was so inexplicably sick of mind. He had so much to offer and to find rewarding in life without having to force himself on its gifts. But mercy was sometimes a terrible motivator.

“My name is Detective Ken Hutchinson,” Hutch said, unwavering, and as direct in his statement as he was in his tone. “I’ve been a peace officer with the Los Angeles Police Department for the past two decades. The friend you sent home because you convinced him I was dead was my partner in the line of duty for the past 15 years. His name is Detective David Starsky. We are both decorated officers.”

Ryker’s expression dropped and he appeared confused then—as if everything he’d done to Hutch for the past several months was about to be avenged in some way and yet he couldn’t imagine how. His compelling sexual arousal prevented him from fully grasping the fundamental intention of Hutch’s declaration.

“Starsky is also my best friend, my life’s blood, my soulmate, and my lover,” Hutch continued, steadily on point. He’d long ago lost his self-induced sexual arousal, having summoned it only as bait. “He is the single most important person in the world to me—and forever will be. I’d sooner die than live the rest of my life without him. You have hurt him in a way so deep and devastating as to be unforgivable. Destroying him meant nothing more to you than swatting a fly.”

Ryker’s eager smile faded, but he didn’t leave fervent contact with Hutch’s eyes, almost beggingly as he tried to foresee an outcome he couldn’t yet visualize—or he’d have tried to make his escape while he had some chance to do so.

“It is for him,” Hutch concluded, regrettably but with certainty, speaking in a mesmerizing voice as he restrained Ryker between his legs, and committed himself to the inevitable, no matter its outcome, “that I do now what I must do. I cannot bear the pain of his pain a single minute more.”

The heated flush of sheer panic rose in a sudden wave of red over Ryker’s wide-eyed face, but he was simply too late to save himself. In one determined and fluid motion, for which there would be no turning back, Hutch quickly double-wrapped his chain tightly around Ryker’s neck. Using both hands, and all of his muscle, he squeezed the steel against itself with his entire might.

And he did not let go until he knew for certain that he had nothing more to lose.

* * *

After everything Hutch had meticulously plotted and planned for more than a month, after his exceptional carefulness right down to the finest detail, after his sometimes nearly irrepressible constraint under pressure despite the weight, Hutch could not believe his escape would have been thwarted so early on.

When he had learned that Starsky actually wasn’t looking for him, and hadn’t been for all that time, when Hutch realized how terribly heartbroken Starsky had to be and would be for years to come, Hutch had put into play the only scenario he could imagine would free him: to murder Stefan Ryker in cold blood.

Hutch had been thankful for his own foresight to collect a seed each day from a piece of fruit, so he could know exactly how long he’d been in captivity; every so often, he would empty the small shampoo bottle onto the table, and count up the days. But the seeds also enabled him to forecast the phases of the moon. There could be no leaving the plantation at the edge of a cliff in total darkness. It would have proved suicidal.

In was during December’s full moon that Hutch had learned Starsky had been tricked into returning to America. That gave Hutch exactly 30 days to figure out his own rescue. January 6, 1985, was his target date. Assuming the skies wouldn’t be filled with clouds, he would probably have enough light to maneuver the Death Road in the otherwise black of night.

He also planned to kill Ryker as early into their evening as he could arrange it; an earlier dispatch would give Hutch more hours on the road before daylight. He understood that a wall of rock and rainforest hugged the left side of the life-taking road while a cliff graced the other—and that he would conceivably run into drivers along the way. Ryker had even warned him that he would be overtaken by vehicles if he went missing long before he could reach the end of road in either direction. In essence, Hutch would be trapped on it until the mountain sloped toward the city.

Although the distance to Coroico from the plantation was shorter than the one to La Paz, Hutch had long understood that Ryker ruled the village. It was from Coroico that Hutch had been taken and where his partner had been so cleverly deceived. Ryker and his henchmen—and women—probably would never have succeeded in staging a fatal bus accident had they been assigned to outsmarting Detective Starsky in such a populous city as La Paz. Hutch would take his chances in the longer route to freedom by going west on the Road of Death.

The murder itself had gone as planned. Ryker didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary that night; in fact, he was so overwhelmed by the possibility of living his lecherous dream of fellating Hutch that he couldn’t imagine Hutch would hurt him, let alone kill him. They had dined and drank and shared communication as they had done together long before Christmas. Hutch had disrobed for Ryker on several occasions before that January night, leading Ryker into a false security as Hutch promised him more than just a routine masturbation between friends.

The servants had done their jobs and retired to their rooms. The farmhands had either gone to bed for the night or to the village for drink and sex, but they wouldn’t come into the house regardless. Except for Christmas, Hutch had never heard another male voice in the house after dark. And, past a certain hour, it had only ever been Ryker who visited Hutch’s room. Hutch assumed that Ryker had early on given his girls strict orders not to interrupt him when he was in sexual pursuit of his captive because no one, not once in those entire three months, had entered Hutch’s bedroom after Ryker did.

Although Hutch had never been in other parts of the house—he could barely see down the hallway from his door—he had a sense of its floor plan just from the routine sounds he’d heard emanating from its other rooms. He believed Ryker’s room was next to his own, a shared bathroom in the hallway, a large landing at the top of the stairs, the servants quarters downstairs behind the kitchen which was situated opposite the living room. And he knew exactly where that was because he’d endured the music vibrations on Christmas Eve right below him.

Hutch had also never been able to open the armoire in his room, but he’d seen the girls store his linens and his loungewear in it over the months, and he believed it probably still had many of Thomas’ clothes folded up or hung inside. If they had convinced Starsky that Thomas’ body was similar to Hutch’s, then he might find enough dark clothing to wear for his escape. He would also need shoes.

He’d kept a couple of plastic water bottles on a shelf in the bathroom that neither of the girls had noticed enough to take from him. And he pocketed half the loaf of bread from dinner to give him added energy while out on the road. Nuts and seeds, a banana, and a few sugar cookies rounded out his stash. It would take him hours to get from the plantation to the highway intersect where he would no longer be trapped by wall and cliff. In dark clothes, he could easily hide in the brush along that paved road all the way to the city. Perhaps he’d hitch a ride with a willing driver.

Hutch had also prepared for his breakout by enlisting a routine of simple exercises, especially in the few weeks leading up to January 6. He was much stronger for the push-ups and the leg crunches and the running in place. He had a date with destiny, and he had made the most of every minute leading up to it.

He had no doubt that he could kill Ryker. Once he got the man inside the chain, the German was as good as dead. Still, of course, there was a struggle, the frantic writhing on Ryker’s part to break the fatal grip Hutch had on him. Ryker grunted and groaned, but he was unable to scream. As the veins in his neck became engorged with interrupted blood flow, and his face turned blue and he hissed with spittle on his lips, he fought harder, violently kicking and throwing contactless punches. He pulled and he pushed; he whimpered and squealed; he labored for breath, and fiercely thrashed around right there between Hutch’s legs—but all to no avail. Hutch didn’t have to budge from his chair. He snuffed the life out of Stefan Ryker with every ounce of contempt he felt for the man—and didn’t miss a beat.

When Ryker stopped breathing, Hutch waited several more minutes to be certain he was dead, and then finally let him go. Ryker slumped to the floor.

The one and only concern Hutch had—and it did terrify him to think he had misjudged it—was that the key to the lock on his wrist wasn’t in Ryker’s robe as his kidnapper had sworn to. Hutch unwrapped the chain from Ryker’s neck, and immediately checked his pocket. He instantly found the key and, for the first time in three months, the shackle opened and the chain fell away.

The first thing Hutch did was drag Ryker’s body to behind the privacy screen in the corner of the room. The barrier had been an unused fixture all that time; no one would discover Ryker’s body until well after it would be concluded that Ryker was truly missing.

Hutch then ransacked the armoire. He found several things he desperately needed: a wool chullo hat with ear flaps, mostly black, and decorated with a ring of light brown llamas around the headband. He found dark wool pants and a heavier weight, midnight-blue shirt. More importantly, he found shoes; boots, in fact, and they fit like a glove. In Ryker’s room, which did turn out to be next to Hutch’s, Hutch found navy blue cotton socks and a black wool sweater, and quickly redressed.

The first item he securely pocketed was the well-earned envelope of pictures Ryker had given him; despite how sad Starsky appeared in them, the photos had helped to keep Hutch’s eyes on the prize and he continued to hold them close to his heart.

Were he to guess the time, he would have bet it was close to 10 p.m. because the sun hadn’t gone behind the mountain but half an hour earlier—and the full moon was on the rise.

He straightened up his bedroom so nothing appeared out of the ordinary or the result of a struggle, and stuffed his pants pockets with as much of the food he’d saved as would fit. He used a white linen pillowcase to carry the rest, along with his water, rolling it all and tying it to his waist and under his sweater for concealment with a robe sash. He then closed both bedroom doors and went downstairs. Just as he imagined, there was a large landing at the top of the steps, and the front door off the living room was right below his bedroom.

After a quick glance into the courtyard, confirming for him that the plantation residents had either gone to their rooms, to their beds, or to the village, he knew he would be alone long enough to get from the porch to the road without being seen.

The humid, but cooling night air made him glad he’d found the sweater and the wool cap. They would keep him warm, not just hide his white skin and blond hair. It was damp outside, and he had a long walk ahead of him, one he hoped he could make before sunrise.

But one thing was certain: the Death Road was everything it promised it would be: a 2,000-foot sheer drop emerged just outside the plantation’s gate—and it would run most of the length of the 60-mile route from La Paz to Coroico. Hutch quickly learned, from where the moonlight sharply dropped into pitch blackness, that the Death Road was no more than nine to ten feet wide. He would have to keep his wits about him, and hug the rainforest side of the mountain as much as possible. In some places, that wasn’t always doable: rainwater poured off the mountain top and forced him closer to the edge, lest he get wet, become cold, catch hypothermia. He did his best to avoid both dangers.

The most difficult part of navigating the hairpin turns was that he couldn’t always hear a vehicle approaching until it was right upon him. But, either his quick reflexes to jump into the rainforest foliage on the roadside hid him from view, or the drivers who passed him simply didn’t care that a man without a car was afoot on the road, no one seemed to pay him attention, except to slow when they passed. He quickly learned to turn his back to the headlights, press himself tightly into the brush, and cover his head and face in his arms, and mostly he went unseen.

But were it not for the full moon, Hutch may have become another Death Road statistic—the one Starsky already believed he was—in a misstep off the precipice. It was simply that lightless otherwise, literally pitch black where there was no road; in its place, a precipitous fall into a seemingly bottomless chasm. No one would ever know he’d plunged to his death there.

Hutch was but an hour into his arduous escape, headed west on Bolivia’s infamous highway to hell, dodging loose rock and mud underfoot and cold rain from the forest, mercilessly slamming himself into the hard mountain to hide from the occasional fruit truck that passed, and not certain he’d succeed given how little there was to conceal him, when he finally got intercepted.

It was around a turn on a sharp curve, one that seemed to almost double back upon itself, when he confronted a convoy of several cars on its way from La Paz to Coroico—headed into the direction from which he’d come. Hutch never saw the trio of headlights until it was too late, didn’t hear their engines or their wheels in the mud, and couldn’t move fast enough to not have been seen. He froze in his tracks like a deer in the shattering light of darkness, and took his chances as the cars simultaneously hit their brakes. Not everyone in Bolivia worked for Stefan Ryker, did they?

But when the two front doors in the lead car opened and a Bolivian in a cowboy hat emerged from the driver’s side, and another gentleman in a military cap from its passenger side, Hutch had to reverse his conviction—and abandon his hope.

He dropped his arms to his sides, straightened as he surrendered, struggled to find the words in Spanish that he would need to appeal to the only person who, despite his involvement in Hutch’s kidnapping, could show him an ounce of mercy, and resigned himself again to silence.

But it was the far back door of that first car opening that took Hutch’s immediate attention at that minute. He couldn’t pinpoint any specific detail, isolate any particular nuance, identify a distinct trait about the person who’d stepped out onto the rocky, muddy road and approached him from around the car and into its headlights. It was purely sense, or presence, he felt, one he’d grown to know so deeply and love so unequivocally and need so desperately over the past fourteen years.

Hutch found his voice, though he could barely speak. In the end, all he needed was one word.

“Starsky?”

* * *

THE INTERROGATION

“Hutch?”

It had taken Starsky half a minute to realize that the lone person in the beam of the car’s headlights right there at an unmarked mile on Bolivia’s Road of Death in the middle of the night was quite possibly Detective Ken Hutchinson. Something in the way he stepped back, dropped his weight, settled, and seemed to surrender to his fate, compelled Starsky toward him.

Carlos Gonzalez and Col. Roberts had both exited the car by then, leaving Starsky in the back seat with Officer Nava. At first, there simply appeared to be an obstacle in the road that had stopped the convoy: an unidentified man wandered aimlessly on the moonlit mountain passage, perhaps drugged or drunk—an obvious danger to himself, regardless.

But there was something else, some intuition maybe, nothing descriptively tangible, just the commanding feel it gave Starsky, that made him leave the car and be the first to approach the darkly clothed figure who was brightly lit by the vehicle’s dark-shattering lights.

Starsky’s heart noticeably pounded, pumping his veins full of adrenaline, and pushed him forward within that narrow width between life and death, as if his entire body knew more than his mind could ever grasp in that moment. He felt no fear. He was not confused. He could not be wrong. As he got closer—called upon by some great force to investigate; he among a more qualified battalion of investigators and detectives and police officers—Starsky swore it was Hutch’s perfect face that he saw illuminated in the night by both car and moon.

It was Hutch standing there on that precipitous road in the heart of a Bolivian rainforest, wasn’t it? He was alive, after all, wasn’t he? Didn’t he look at Starsky with the same bewilderment and desperation in his blue eyes as Starsky felt in his own? Wasn’t it Hutch, the man himself, just as Starsky had prayed for, begged and died for, a million times over? Or did Starsky’s eyes and his sixth sense deceive him? He stepped closer. “Hutch?” he asked again when he didn’t get an immediate answer, at least not one in words.

If he touched the man, felt his skin and his muscle, made him real in his hands, would he dissolve right there in the damp mountain air under the full moon? The night traveler looked like Hutch—Hutch’s face and his eyes, his nose and his mouth, his hands and his height—but he wasn’t clothed like Hutch. This man had to be Bolivian, dressed as he was in his dark wool pants and sweater, his llama-decorated chullo hat, his calf-high rain boots, and despite his white skin. Hutch would never be caught. . .

The shiver ran down Starsky’s spine. The last time he’d found himself on Bolivia’s Death Road, he was identifying a different kind of body, one he’d been made to believe belonged to Ken Hutchinson, his hero and his soulmate, pulled out of the deep ravine after a fatal bus crash had left everyone on board burned beyond recognition. Starsky would never forget his charred face, melted-out eyes, twisted limbs, or the horrific tragedy that he believed had ended Hutch’s innocent and beautiful life. Starsky had been made sick by it, in his stomach and in his heart.

In that disturbing and fleeting moment in which Starsky could barely lay eyes on the incinerated corpse, he had been forever devastated. Nothing had been more crushing in his life than losing Hutch.

But, did Hutch now actually stand there on that hazardous road, surrendering to some unseen fate, recognizing who approached him, rallying for a long-awaited reunion, and about to come to life with all the love he had for Starsky when he realized his dream had just materialized before his eyes, too?

It had been the watch. The watch had been their mistake. They left it on the corpse when they hurriedly redressed it, torched it, passed it off as Hutch. But Hutch didn’t wear a watch, and he wasn’t wearing a watch that day. What kept Starsky from not noticing it then? How had that glaring detail gotten past him so easily? Exhaustion and desperation had dulled his senses—and cost him the emptying of his soul. Who knew what it had done to Hutch?

But facts were facts, weren’t they? Hutch wasn’t dead. Circumstantial evidence, in the end, had proved . . . nothing.

Wasn’t it Hutch standing there in the headlights—dressed in Bolivian clothes, wet and shivering—waiting for Starsky to confirm for him that his hero and his soulmate had finally come back for him?

Or was it simply Hutch’s ghost—rising out of the depth of that pitch-black chasm, not that far from where the hapless bus had tumbled into the jungle abyss—and Starsky’s nightmare lived on?

* * *

Starsky had reached Col. Roberts within minutes of discovering that Hutch wasn’t wearing a watch in the picture he’d taken of him just moments before Hutch disappeared. The international telephone connection was punctuated with static and was quite weak at times, but the overall point was made: Starsky would return to Bolivia by morning, using some of Hutch’s life insurance payout to cover his airfare and lodging. Starsky booked the trip within an hour, packed two suitcases in less than half that time, and was long on his way to the Los Angeles airport before sunset for his nighttime flight to South America.

Col. Roberts met him on time at El Alto International airport early the following morning, greeting Starsky with a welcoming tank of oxygen which was his to keep for the duration of his visit, or until the effects of high altitude no longer troubled him. They drove immediately to the same hacienda in La Paz where Starsky had stayed with Hutch several months earlier, dropped his luggage, and went first for a quick bite, and then straight to the U.S. Embassy.

As Starsky more thoroughly explained his reason for returning, in words he could never have articulated by phone even with clear telecommunications, he admitted he only had four pieces of evidence to make his case:

One, a photograph that, on its surface, only proved what it didn’t reveal; two, that Starsky swore on all things sacred to him that he saw a watch on the body before it was loaded onto the back of Cruz’s pickup truck at the scene of the accident; three, a document showing an inventory of items he’d received from the La Paz morgue for Hutch’s personal effects included a German-made watch; and four, that Starsky simply believed in his heart-of-hearts, and was willing to bank everything on it, that Hutch would never have boarded a bus from Coroico to La Paz without him.

Roberts mulled over the information. He was a man not easily convinced, but seemed willing to let Starsky sway him. Perhaps he trusted the detective’s unwavering convictions. The longer Starsky talked, the closer Roberts listened.

“The one thing I couldn’t get past,” Starsky said with palpable certainty, “was why he would get on that bus without ever having tried to reach me. He didn’t leave any notes or messages. He didn’t go to the police and file any reports. He didn’t come back to our hotel room and take or leave anything to let me know he was looking for me.”

Starsky leaned on the table, across from Roberts, made pleading eye contact with him, repeated himself, impressed upon the Colonel that his mistake had been in believing that a scorched body at the scene of a staged accident had been that of his partner’s. “Can you look it up?” he asked. “I mean, you’d believe me if there is no existing record of that accident, wouldn’t you?—because there never was an accident that day.”

“Starsky, busses go off that road all year long—trucks and cars and pedestrians—and it isn’t something we at the Embassy keep track of. You’d have to contact Bolivia’s transportation agency—but I wouldn’t put much faith in what they have or don’t have. This is Bolivia, as dirt poor as you’ll ever find. Such a record’s non-existence wouldn’t prove anything.”

“Then hear me out. It had to be a fake accident if that wasn’t Hutch; the whole thing was set up to make me stop asking questions and go home.”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Detective. I can see with my own eyes, and I was there and I remember: you were given a watch. There’s no watch on your partner’s arm in this photo,” he observed, staring at it again. “But the Bolivian police may justifiably decide you’re simply mistaken in what you think you saw on the body at the scene. The error about the watch was actually made at the morgue.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. The reason I believe you saw a watch on the body at the scene, or at least I’m leaning in that direction, is because you’re so damn adamant about Hutch not leaving Coroico the way he did. Too many hours passed without any sign of him until that next morning, when he supposedly boarded a bus. You’re right that it doesn’t make sense.”

“And whoever took him didn’t act alone,” Starsky said fervently. “I’m as sure of this as I am anything. It could not have been the work of one man.”

Roberts dropped the photo on the table, sat back, stared into the possibilities, and considered whether he would accept an official role in Starsky’s investigation.

“It would have to be someone with resources,” Starsky impatiently said, hoping to push Roberts sooner into his decision. “It had to be someone who could hire co-conspirators, who knew the lay of the land, who had means and motive. Someone with power. Someone with smarts. Someone who is all those things and has all those means and knows Corkville well enough to get around in it during a religious festival when the streets are full of noise and people.”

Roberts continued to think, allowing Starsky’s further observations to feed his mental database. “Answer me this,” he finally asked, “why Hutch? Why would they take him?”

“I don’t know why Hutch. And, yet, I could give you a hundred reasons why Hutch.”

Roberts wordlessly and reluctantly agreed. “It is Bolivia, after all,” he muttered.

“It also had to be someone who had access to a tall, blond, white guy,” Starsky added, “a white guy who may or may not have already been dead—a white guy who looked a lot like Hutch, and one so convincing, they could trick me into thinking it was him simply by destroying his face.”

Roberts abruptly shifted his eyes to Starsky’s—and stared blankly at him.

“What?” Starsky asked, excited and terrified at once when he saw the Colonel’s revelatory expression. “Do you know somebody with all those means?”

“I do,” Roberts said carefully, but not wanting to jump to conclusions without more details. He drew a calming breath and then, from a different perspective, he started over. “Tell me again the part about the Bolivian cowboy—and the German.”

* * *

Carlos’ face dropped dramatically when he entered the small conference room later that evening and saw Starsky seated at the head of the table. It must have immediately dawned on him why he had been summoned to the U.S. Embassy on such short notice because he slumped right into a chair and put his hands up as if to surrender.

Roberts hadn’t been willing to drive to the Ryker plantation on a hunch; the road was too perilous to make what could have been a futile, and therefore unnecessary, excursion. So he hired a private car to fetch the man instead. The Colonel told Starsky he might have to wait hours, if not days, to find Carlos, but the Bolivian cowboy who knew a German was the only solid lead he had. “He’s Stefan Ryker’s right-hand man, and he owes us a few favors,” Roberts told Starsky. “Now is as good a time as any to collect on a debt. But I’m not promising you this is a solid lead.”

Any lead was a lead Starsky didn’t have. He stayed close to the lobby at his hotel to wait for news from the Embassy, occasionally stepping out for a walk in the sunshine to refresh his mind, or to browse the nearby vendors while he mentally backtracked over the past three months, searching for new clues, or to eat candy or bread to kill his hunger when he didn’t feel much like eating, or just to send his prayers out to the cosmos to comfort Hutch wherever he was. Starsky also knew he had to take things slowly to acclimate himself to the altitude, sometimes questioning his decision to return to Bolivia for breathing reasons alone, but each time concluding it was the right action to take no matter what it cost him in lung capacity. The effects of altitude on him for this trip paled in comparison to the urgency of his mission.

Hutch was alive; of this, Starsky was convinced. There’d be no going home without him.

While Starsky waited, he also familiarized himself with Bolivia’s geography, and better understood his route with Hutch to Yanacachi, then to Coroico, and how the Death Road meandered its way over the mountains to La Paz. He read as much as he could from a few books and maps he bought at a souvenir shop, all the things he probably should have done before his initial trip to Bolivia with Hutch, but had dismissed, falsely figuring he’d always have his personal tour guide with him. He spent so much time reading and browsing and making mental and printed notes on paper that he ended up being served dinner at the outside restaurant table he’d claimed that afternoon. It wasn’t a free meal, but he welcomed it just the same.

Starsky was eventually called back to the office mid-evening from a messenger informing him that Carlos had arrived at the Embassy, and that he was willing to talk to Roberts without legal counsel. Roberts suggested that Starsky go into the conference room first, so he could identify Carlos the moment the cowboy walked in—and they both instantly recognized each other. Starsky could never forget the older Bolivian’s face and his trademark western hat; he stood out in a crowd. He was also the last man Starsky knew to have seen Hutch. That alone was an indelible impression.

Roberts didn’t even have to ask a question; Carlos began talking straight off. He spoke mostly Spanish with a few broken words of English, but Roberts’ aide was able to keep up with the translation. What Carlos said was disturbing.

“I helped Mr. Ryker capture the blond man,” he admitted. “He said the Americano owed him and I was to get him to the plantation without his friend knowing where he had gone. It was a much bigger job than we thought it would be—and the job became the goal, more than questioning it.

“I did not see the blond for several weeks or more. Mr. Ryker asked me to help hang a painting in the house and I saw the blond again at that time. I was surprised to see him, to know he was still with Mr. Ryker, but I was also concerned to see the blond was on a chain.”

“A chain?” Starsky asked, breaking into the conversation after the aide translated. When Starsky pushed for clarification, he was told that Hutch had apparently been chained to a wall. The disclosure narrowed Starsky’s eyes as his blood boiled.

Carlos quickly responded to Starsky’s reaction—in Spanish. “He did not look hurt. He was wearing nice clothes, and he and Mr. Ryker decided together where to hang the painting. I was dismayed, you understand, but I put it out of my mind: I decided it was just a game the Americano and Mr. Ryker played together. Mr. Ryker is very . . . how do you say? . . . eccentric. He is not without surprises.”

Starsky didn’t know what to make of Carlos’ assessment about Hutch’s casualness while chained to a wall. Perhaps something had gotten lost in translation. But then he heard the word ‘Thomas’ and pressed Carlos for the details.

“Mr. Ryker had an English boy who went everywhere with him, and whom he pampered, much the way he spoiled the Americano. But Thomas died a couple of months ago. I had to think the Americano took his place and he was happy to do it. The blond didn’t even ask me for help.”

“Maybe because Hutch couldn’t trust you,” Starsky said to Carlos, but no one translated for him. Roberts didn’t want to lose Carlos’ willingness, least of all because the Americano’s friend was heated—and Roberts was right to keep things cool. Starsky should do likewise, but he was desperate in a way no one else in that room could ever be.

Roberts showed Carlos Starsky’s photo of Hutch. “Is this the Americano you helped to capture?”

Carlos didn’t study the picture for long. “Yes, that is him.”

“Is this also the man you saw in Mr. Ryker’s house?”

“Yes, yes, the same man.”

“Is he still at the house?”

“I do not know. I haven’t been in the room for over a month.”

“You haven’t seen the Americano since then?”

“No.”

“None of the house servants or farm hands told you they’d seen him?”

“Mr. Ryker would not allow any of us to talk about him.”

“Why not?”

“Because Mr. Ryker said we were not to speak about men who. . .”

“Who what?”

“Who lay down with other men.”

* * *

Starsky still had so many unanswered questions when they began the treacherous drive to Ryker’s plantation. He asked some of those questions in the car, translating through Nava, the Bolivian police officer who accompanied them in their vehicle. Carlos drove because he was highly experienced driving the Death Road. Two other cars followed, packed with police and government officials from both countries.

The decision to storm the plantation at night instead of daytime was apparent: Ryker would never suspect visitors that late. He would be off-guard, maybe even asleep, and Carlos promised he would fully cooperate during the raid in exchange for immunity.

Was Ryker gay? Starsky wanted to know. Carlos said it was assumed that he was, but Ryker had never showed any public affection for men. Why would Ryker or Carlos accuse Hutch of ‘laying down with other men’ unless they believed Hutch was gay, or even Ryker himself? The question Starsky silently asked, over and again in his head, was whether Ryker or any of his men had seen Hutch with Starsky at the rock wall. But it wasn’t a question he dared ask out loud.

More silent questions: Did Hutch have Stockholm Syndrome? Had he fallen in love with his captor? Was he even a captive? Starsky himself often tied Hutch up during sex, as a matter of play and titillation. Is that what Carlos had witnessed? He’d said Hutch was dressed in ‘nice clothes’ and even helped Ryker decide where to hang a painting.

All these questions and their elusive answers fell over themselves in Starsky’s mind as the car climbed the mountain and entered the most dangerous part of the road. Starsky had to take a couple of hits of oxygen off his tank along the way, deciding only when his head temporarily stopped reeling, that the answer to all of his questions about Hutch straying from who Hutch was were that he hadn’t.

Starsky drew his own conclusions: Ryker had seen Hutch, was taken in by his beauty, needed to possess him, kidnapped him for love or lust or both. The only way he could keep Hutch was to chain him. And the only way Hutch would escape would be to trick his jailer into believing they had fallen in love. Hutch had to have known Starsky wasn’t looking for him. Ryker was smart enough to catch Hutch; he was smart enough to know the only way to Hutch’s heart was to prove he’d broken Starsky’s.

And so it was settled in Starsky’s mind, all those answers to every question he could imagine, long before they made that hairpin turn on the Death Road and stopped Ken Hutchinson in his tracks on what had become the unexpected night of his escape. Hutch would fill in the minor details later—assuming, of course, that the man caught in the headlights really was Hutch and not his ghost.

It had seemed like an eternity—between the moment Starsky got out of the car to when he approached Hutch on the muddy road; and it felt like a lifetime had passed from the second their eyes met to that very first touch—but, in reality, it all happened in an instant.

Starsky got out of the car and heard his name. He replied as incredulously. “Hutch?” He rushed desperately forward as he repeated his question, not really needing an answer, not in words. He saw those blue eyes and the depth of their soul and knew in his heart who that man was; no ghost, he. Starsky felt the overwhelming love and the burning urgency that married them in that suspended moment. And he knew that neither of them could get fast enough into the other’s arms.

But Starsky wasn’t sure that his legs would completely carry him there. Just as he reached Hutch, at the very moment he put his arms around flesh and bone—and felt Hutch’s arms take him in hungry return—Starsky’s legs buckled. He went down, but didn’t let go. He went down not caring if he landed hard. He went down laughing. He went down crying. He went down with graciousness and relief. He went down begging for forgiveness. But it was Hutch who caught him before his knees hit the ground.

Hutch not only stopped Starsky from a painful impact with the rock-hard surface of the muddy road; he pulled Starsky back up, too—and right into his tight embrace, a hug so inflexible, they would never leave each other’s arms again. Maybe Hutch laughed, maybe he cried, maybe he did both those things, maybe he sang and he hummed and he cooed. Starsky didn’t hear him because he himself so loudly wept. And, in between his sobs, his relentless, “I’m sorry”s.

Nothing felt different to Starsky: Hutch’s weight and his height, his strength and his breath, his warmth and his feel—cheek to each other’s cheek, arms in arms. He no longer needed to question whether Hutch was man or hallucination—yet, still, when Hutch released him long enough to look into his tear-filled eyes, Starsky couldn’t help but to pull the ear-flapped hat off Hutch’s head. “Americano,” he whispered as he soaked in the visual of Hutch’s face under his head of blond hair, mussed and damp as it was. “I’ve come to take you home.”

They were then surrounded by the men from the cars—the police officers and the government officials; even Carlos joined the gathering there on that road in the middle of the night. Roberts had many questions, the first of which had probably been answered for him when he saw the two men grab each other on sight.

The next was, “Did you just come from the Ryker plantation?”

Hutch had to let go of Starsky to address the interrogators; that, and he was probably aware right then that he wasn’t alone with Starsky. He answered, simply, “Yes.”

“Is Ryker home?”

“He’s dead,” Hutch bluntly said, sharing a quick glance with Starsky—and seeming to know how relieved and appreciative Starsky was to hear it. “I killed him. About an hour ago.”

“You killed him? How?”

“I strangled him,” Hutch said. “With a chain.”

The answer told Starsky all he needed to know about the sequence of events. It confirmed his already certain conviction that Hutch had never willingly remained in captivity.

A truck appeared in the road behind Hutch, coming from the opposite direction, and met a stopped convoy of cars. Two police officers approached it to explain the temporary circumstances that blocked the path, and it was the impetus to get wheels rolling again. Roberts gave the orders. Starsky and Hutch were to return to La Paz with the police in the third car, which would be the easiest vehicle to turn around on the narrow road. Carlos, Nava, and the first and second cars in their convoy, along with Roberts, would go on to the plantation. Hutch told Roberts where they would find Ryker’s body, and Roberts, squeezing Hutch’s arm, replied with sincerity, “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that, Detective.”

A couple of hours earlier and the investigative team could have prevented a murder and still enabled an escape. But Hutch seemed to misunderstand. “I did what I had to do.”

“I’m sure you did,” Roberts agreed. He told Hutch and Starsky that he would speak to them later in the afternoon. “You guys won’t get back to the city until 2 a.m. and you’re going to need some rest. We’ll take the report tomorrow.” He then fully faced Starsky, smiled sort of wistfully at him, apologized to him for all he had been through, too, and waved them off into the night.

* * *

“I’ll make you some tea,” Starsky said, “but first let’s get you out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower, hm?” He turned on the bath water to give it the couple minutes it needed to heat up to the right temperature. “You haven’t stopped shivering since we found you.”

Starsky had barely noticed Hutch’s tremble because he spent most of the ride back to La Paz in Hutch’s lap, silently crying, his shoulders quaking, doing his best not to be overly dramatic in front of the cops who rode in the front seat, one of them their driver who didn’t need the distraction from navigating the harrowing road.

Starsky bent over Hutch’s lap from where he sat on the left side of the car, hugged Hutch’s knees, pressed up against him, his eyes tightly closed, and yet the tears still made their escape from his eyes to soak Hutch’s wool pants. He felt Hutch’s arm around his waist, occasionally squeezing him, held that arm to his chest and Hutch’s fingers to his face, while Hutch’s other hand petted and combed his hair, but Hutch didn’t stop the purge—because there could be no stopping it.

In the hotel room, and as quietly as they could so they didn’t wake the other guests, he and Hutch, together, undressed Hutch, first pulling off his boots and socks, then his pants, his shirt, and the sweater over his head. In the undressing, Starsky discovered Hutch’s pockets were full of fruit, and he had to help untie the food-filled, rolled pillowcase from around Hutch’s waist. “You were planning to be gone a while,” Starsky sadly laughed, noticing how much fruit and bread Hutch had carried.

“Isn’t it one of the 12 Boy Scout laws?” Hutch quietly asked. “Be prepared?”

“I don’t remember it,” Starsky replied. He steadied Hutch, and not because of the altitude, but because Hutch momentarily lost his balance as he turned toward the bathroom and the welcoming steam of the hot shower. Hutch was visibly tired.

But before Hutch could enter the stall, Starsky asked him to turn around. He’d already seen enough of Hutch from behind him: his unblemished back and buttocks, his muscled legs and shoulders. “Let me see you,” he said.

Hutch faced him in the doorway and watched while Starsky looked him over.

Starsky did notice Hutch’s sheathed penis and his sac; he couldn’t help but notice, although his thoughts weren’t conscious. But his partner’s nudity wasn’t what he looked for. “You say you killed a man tonight?”

“Yes.”

“And not a scratch on you—except on your face.”

“No. I guess not.”

“How’d you get the scrapes on your cheek?”

“In the brush on the road when I hid from traffic.”

Starsky accepted the answer and told Hutch he could proceed with his shower. In the meantime, Starsky made Hutch that promised hot cup of tea, heating bottled water on the room’s burner plate. He would make one for himself, too, and not just because he was also cold from the mountain’s damp air, but because he wanted to share the hotel’s hospitalities with Hutch.

While the water heated and Hutch showered, Starsky opened one of the two suitcases he had brought, and pulled a pair of Hutch’s sweat clothes and some socks from it. He set them neatly on one of the beds. He also got a toothbrush out of the toiletries bag and put it on the sink for Hutch, next to his own. He hadn’t expected to do it sooner—and he couldn’t believe he was actually doing it then.

He left the water on the burner until Hutch turned off the shower, stepped out of the stall onto the tiled floor, and dried himself with a towel. Starsky sat in the chair in the room and watched him. He couldn’t believe he was actually seeing that, either, but there it was: Ken Hutchinson in the hotel bathroom, washed, dripping wet, fully nude, finishing up after a shower. Tears came back to Starsky’s eyes.

When Hutch straightened, he saw them, and shyly smiled. “Amazing night, isn’t it?” he softly asked, returning to the room without a towel, noticing the clothes laid out for him, and getting dressed.

Starsky felt as if he might burst out sobbing again. He bit his lip. Only then did he remember the tea and got up to prepare a couple of cups of it, his with sugar. “Are you still cold?”

“No.”

Starsky handed Hutch a steaming cup. “Careful. It’s hot.” He sat in the chair again while Hutch sat on the bed. “You’ve been through something,” he gently said, opening the door for Hutch to talk about it if he wanted to.

“So have you,” Hutch replied, making eye contact, and saying, without words, that he believed Starsky’s ordeal had been worse. He gingerly sipped the hot tea and nodded his approval of the taste.

Starsky didn’t argue with him. He knew Hutch’s torture had been more painful than Starsky’s turmoil during those two months Starsky was stranded on Tetepare. There was no greater agony than believing the other was dead. They silently agreed on that point.

“I’m sorry,” Starsky whispered. He would spend his lifetime making amends.

“You haven’t done anything to apologize for,” Hutch said, his voice low, its tone soft.

Starsky could belabor that point after they’d slept, to when he felt more competent to wage battle; the wee hours of the morning after such an ordeal wasn’t the time. “But, just the same,” he replied, easing into a question, “do you want to put the beds together tonight or would you rather sleep by yourself?”

“Why would I want to sleep by myself?”

“To make sure you sleep sound?”

“Nothing is going to keep me awake tonight. I think I’m going to sleep better than I have in months.”

Starsky could say the same. Hutch had forgiven him, at least with words, and in his heart, but Starsky didn’t feel deserving of it. He was willing to be kept at arm’s length if that’s what Hutch needed for a while. But Hutch didn’t seem interested in such a thing. They ended up pushing the two beds together, remaking them as one, and eventually crawling under the sheet and blankets after they ate a bit of fruit and bread and finished their hot brews. Starsky was thankful Roberts allowed them the time to rest before the government interrogation they would endure later that day. It was 4 a.m. by the time their heads hit their pillows.

Starsky thought he might be the one to sleep behind Hutch, hold him in his arms, keep him safe and warm and close while they slept, but before he could maneuver into that position, Hutch beat him to it.

Hutch’s embrace was telling. It was strong—even after he fell asleep—and it was affectionate. He kissed Starsky’s head and his neck and his shoulder before he seemed to drift away into a desperately needed slumber. He didn’t even get to hear Starsky’s gentle, ‘good night,’ before he was gone, and his breath turned to deep inhales, soft moans on the exhales. Starsky held Hutch’s arm around him, squeezed him close, kissed his fingers, one after another after another—just the way he’d done in the car while he wept in Hutch’s lap—and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

Starsky woke earlier than Hutch and took a shower, having not had one the night before. He shaved and combed his hair and cleaned his teeth, dressed and splashed himself with cologne, but still Hutch hadn’t awakened. He had truly needed the rest. So Starsky sat in the chair and nursed another cup of tea while he skimmed through the books and maps he’d bought the previous day.

“Hey, sleepy head,” he called Hutch when his partner finally woke up, close to one in the afternoon. “You were beginning to worry me.”

Hutch lay on his back, under blankets, his arm up over his head, his eyes on Starsky, wordless, but with a hint of a smile on his lips.

“And by now,” Starsky continued, “I’m—”

“Hungry,” Hutch finished the sentence for him.

“I was about to dive into your stash of bread and fruit.”

“Help yourself.”

“I’m saving up the pain for a hot meal,” Starsky explained. He leaned forward in his chair and tried to impress on Hutch with his eyes and his eager expression that he needed Hutch to get his butt out of bed so they could go eat.

“Okay, okay,” Hutch replied to the unspoken words. He headed for the bathroom, used the toilet with the door closed, brushed his teeth, and joined Starsky near the bed while he combed his hair; he didn’t shave. When he realized that Starsky had set out more clothes for him, he got dressed. “Are we going to be late for the meeting?”

“We’ve got time to kill,” Starsky explained, watching Hutch dress, and feeling guilty about enjoying the view while he did. “I thought maybe we’d have some food and then head over to the Valley of the Moon or something; you know, kill us some time.”

“We got that much of it?”

“I think so. Roberts said we’d all meet ‘later’ in the day. I came to La Paz yesterday without a return flight, so here’s hoping we can get out of Dodge tomorrow.”

“You got down here yesterday?”

“Do you want to know the sequence of events right now?”

“Tell me at the restaurant.”

Hutch finished dressing, so Starsky got up from the chair, gave his partner a long and affectionate hug, reluctantly let him go, and then opened the door for him to pass. “After you, Blue Eyes.”

When Hutch walked past him, he gave Starsky’s left buttock a firm squeeze. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said in a singsong voice.

* * *

“You can’t believe your eyes,” Hutch noted. He said it kindly, smiling at Starsky, and with a certain empathy.

Starsky had been brought to tears again, unexpectedly, impulsively, while watching Hutch eat veggie tacos, Bolivian style, across the table from him. “I never thought I’d hear the sound of your voice again, either.”

“Is it as you remember?”

“Funny thing, because I dug out my old answering machine yesterday morning and heard you for the first time in months.” His voice broke when he spoke, remembering that moment in the kitchen, listening to the rain, hearing Hutch, believing he’d be alone forever. “Then I looked at pictures of you, the ones I took when we were down here, and noticed that you weren’t wearing a watch in the last one I took.”

Hutch was chewing when he made eye contact, asking, without words, why that was significant, and appreciating the answer. He listened to Starsky tell him how the events unfolded—the involvement of the U.S. Embassy, finding Carlos, organizing the convoy—but Hutch didn’t share the finer details with Starsky of how he’d ended up on the Death Road at midnight.

“How are you feeling?” Starsky wondered after a minute of silence between them, and not wanting to push Hutch into more than he could handle. Hutch would tell all in due time. “I mean, you killed somebody last night.”

“I feel fine,” Hutch said, as if he intended to joke about it, that he could murder someone and be completely unaffected by it. “He had it coming.”

“Yeah, but still . . . you musta had to plan it.”

Hutch nodded, but said nothing else, so Starsky dropped the subject. He looked off across the street toward the mountains instead. La Paz was surrounded by them—and he noticed Mt. Illimani for the first time. “Holy shit, Hutch, look at that!”

Hutch followed his gaze toward what was the highest mountain in western Bolivia, and the second highest in the country, a snow-capped, four-peaked range that dwarfed the city. Hutch admired it for a minute, but didn’t comment on it, either.

“Imagine seeing that from the ridge,” Starsky said, whimsically. “How did we miss it the first time?”

“We were looking at each other,” Hutch said with a wink.

“Yeah, maybe.” Starsky actually remembered that he didn’t look up at all during their first trip to La Paz and, on his second visit, he was too devastated by Hutch’s death to notice anything. “I’m doing better with the altitude,” he said, changing the subject on himself. “I might be able to keep up with you now.”

Hutch had ordered the food for them, asking for items Starsky hadn’t eaten with him—Bolivian tacos?—so Hutch must have broadened his palette in Starsky’s absence. It concerned Starsky at first, despite that he enjoyed the new tastes, and he wondered if Hutch missed Ryker, even though he had to kill him.

Nothing Hutch said that day, unless he was asked, was related to the traumatic experiences he’d suffered over the past few months. He probably wanted to forget about them. Better yet, Starsky wished they could rewind and start all over. He’d never take his eyes off Hutch again.

* * *

Col. Roberts was present. Members of the Bolivian police were present. Other government nationals were in the room and at the table—more than half a dozen—and all male. People in an official capacity included translators and stenographers. Pads of paper were placed in front of everyone and were opened, except the two before the American detectives. Neither of them felt compelled to take notes.

They’d enjoyed a low-key day after lunch, visiting the Valley of the Moon and its unique landscape: the stalagmites and narrow pathways. They absent-mindedly browsed souvenir vendors, aimlessly walked sidewalks and cobblestone streets—but with Hutch always in the lead. “I’m not losing sight of you again,” Starsky promised, pushing Hutch in front of him whenever the passage narrowed and they couldn’t walk side-by-side. And they drank beer while they rested and surveyed the surrounding mountains and the blue sky and the architecture of La Paz’ dwellings. Starsky nibbled on hard candy; Hutch on fruit.

“Can you tell me anything I need to know before we walk into the hornet’s nest?” Starsky asked during one of their breaks from the relative nothing day they were having. “I don’t want to be too surprised, know what I mean?”

Hutch looked him in the eye, seemed immediately rattled, shrugged. “Ask me anything.”

“What I’m asking . . . is more . . . what can you tell me?”

“They grabbed me on the way to the bathroom in Coroico,” Hutch replied, not unkindly, but with a certain guarded inflection in his tone.

“This much I know.”

“I woke up chained to a wall.”

“Were you beaten, tortured, abused?”

“I was cared for and I was fed and I spent three months doing what I had to do.”

“Which was what?”

“Earn his trust.”

“For what purpose?”

“So I could get close enough to kill him.”

Starsky rested his forearms on the table, leaned in, not so he’d be better heard in the public outing, but to remind Hutch that he was his partner, his mentor, his best friend, his lover, his confidant, and gently said, “I’m not the enemy here.”

Hutch broke eye contact, dropped his head, nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s that . . . I’m embarrassed and disgusted with myself for what I had to do.”

“For killing him?”

“For killing him. For earning his trust.”

“What did you have to do for that?”

“Pretend he was growing on me.”

“Pretend you had to like him?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what he wanted?”

“He wanted us to be soulmates.”

“You and him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know about you and me?”

“No.”

Starsky thought that was actually a good thing, and had all along. “Did you know about the staged accident and that I believed you were killed in it?”

“Not until two months in.”

“So . . . a month ago?”

“I knew then I had to use the next full moon to make my escape.”

Starsky understood—at least the gist of it all. What was he missing? “Did he touch you?”

“Only once, and not like that.”

“Did you touch him?”

“No.”

“So, it’s like you were an animal he had chained up . . . and, if he fed you and took care of you long enough, you’d come to see life his way?”

“Yes.”

“And that embarrasses you? Why are you the one to be embarrassed? Ryker sounds like he was kind of a . . . sick fucker.”

Hutch nodded again, looked up at Starsky, into his eyes. “I don’t need to tell them more than all that, right?”

“Is there more to tell?”

“Not really.”

Evidence would be helpful, Starsky knew. “What’s at the crime scene?”

“The way I left the room.”

“Chain still on the wall?”

“Yes.”

“How’d you get out of it?”

“Key.”

“Key still there?”

“Yes.”

“Any other witnesses besides Cowboy Carlos?”

“The house servants.”

“They’re still there?”

“They live downstairs.”

“Anybody else see you chained up?”

“A couple of ranch hands who delivered the heavy stuff.”

Starsky studied Hutch for half a minute, noticing his protective posture, the way he sat upright, hands tucked between his knees, trying to hold eye contact sometimes. The last thing Starsky wanted was to make Hutch feel anything but safe. “I think, between the witnesses and the staged accident, the morgue and the proof that you’re alive . . . this is a slam-dunk.”

Hutch nodded again, forced a smile, appreciated Starsky for his words with a whispered, “thanks, Starsk,” and then said, “I trust you brought my passport back with you.”

“C’mon,” Starsky razzed him. “I brought you your toothbrush. You think I’d forget your passport?”

The light talk gave them a short reprieve from the weight of their circumstances. Within the hour, they arrived at the U.S. Embassy. Starsky sat beside Hutch closest to the door. Despite all the intimidating brass, the conference room felt comfortable. Hutch was a victim, not a criminal, and Starsky was sure they would all see it through the same lens by the time Hutch finished answering their questions.

But the first question to be asked, translated from Spanish, hit Starsky the wrong way, and it wasn’t even directed at him. It came from the Bolivian police. “Carlos Gonzales testified that he saw you help Stefan Ryker hang a painting.”

Roberts had warned Starsky and Hutch that the Bolivian police were among the most corrupt in the world. Perhaps they owed Ryker something. The matter was also a delicate one because an American national had murdered a Bolivian citizen, a detail the L.A. cops learned that afternoon: Ryker had dual citizenship with Bolivia and his home country.

But Hutch was forthright, as if he’d tell them every secret he held. “I approved the spot where Ryker wanted to hang the painting,” he calmly said, facing the men at the table and making easy eye contact with his questioners.

“Gonzalez said you were dressed in ‘fine clothes.’”

“I had no say in what I wore.”

“You were in a nicely furnished suite.”

“I had no say in where I was.”

“There were candles. . .”

“I had no say in the decor.”

Annoyed, Starsky took over the interrogation. He didn’t want Hutch to sound defensive. “Did you say you also ‘wore’ a chain?”

Hutch turned toward his partner, and just as flatly answered, “Yes.”

“Against your will?”

“Yes.”

“How long were you chained?”

“Three months.”

“Were you chained during the entire time you were in Ryker’s house?”

Hutch pivoted more in Starsky’s direction, as he sensed the interrogation would focus only on Starsky’s questions. “Yes.”

“How long was the chain?”

“Twenty . . . twenty-five feet.”

“Did you want to be chained?”

“No,” Hutch said, emphatically.

“Were you ever off of the chain?”

“Not once. Not until last night.”

With direct questions and simple answers, Starsky walked Hutch through the details of his capture, reminding those listening that Carlos Gonzales himself had also testified to helping kidnap Hutch against his will, and that there would be other corroborating witnesses.

“What did Ryker want from you?” Starsky asked. He tread on fragile ground because he entered a series of questions for which he didn’t know all the answers, nor could guess.

“Companionship,” Hutch said with a shrug.

“He kidnapped you to be his friend?”

“Primarily, yes, I think so.”

“What made you think so?”

“He told me so.”

“Did he tell you he would ever set you free?”

Hutch’s blue eyes shined in the room light. “He imagined that day would come.”

“What would determine it?”

“That I would have fallen in love.”

“With him?”

Hutch nodded, but then had to speak the word ‘yes’ for the stenographers.

“So he wanted you for more than just companionship?”

“I think he was a lonely man. Companionship was his primary interest.”

“Did he ever tell you he wanted more than friendship?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you he wanted sex from you?”

Hutch broke eye contact with Starsky, briefly, to examine the question first—or the answer? Then he resumed his direct responses. “Yes. He wanted sex from me.”

There was an uncomfortable, wordless shift in the room.

“Did he get sex from you?”

Hutch didn’t answer right away; the light in his eyes changed. His pause troubled Starsky. Did Hutch hear the question? Or was the answer too embarrassing? Didn’t Hutch tell him an hour earlier that Ryker had only touched him once, and “not like that”?

Hutch finally said, “No.”

“Did he ever touch you?”

“Once.”

“Where and why?”

“He touched my leg to thank me for playing the piano for him.”

“You played the piano for him?” Officer Nava injected. “Were you becoming his friend?”

Hutch faced the police officer. “I was setting up my escape.”

“By playing the piano?”

“To convince him he could trust me.”

Starsky laid it out for them with the question he used to take back the narrative. “In order to escape, you had to earn his trust, get him close enough to . . . disarm him, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Did earning that trust take you three months?”

“Mostly.”

It wasn’t the answer Starsky expected. He gathered his thoughts before asking the next question. “For what period of time were you not working on an escape?”

“In the beginning,” Hutch confessed, “I thought I would be rescued.”

The answer was more than Starsky hoped for. “Did you want to kill Ryker?”

“I didn’t want to kill anyone—not even him. But he convinced me that no one was looking for me.”

“How did you get out of the chain?”

“Ryker carried the key to the lock in his pocket.”

“And you knew this because. . .?”

“He told me so and showed me so.”

“Why did you choose last night to escape?”

“I needed the light.”

“The light?” At first, even Starsky was confused by that answer.

“The moonlight,” Hutch clarified. “I needed the moon to show me the way on the Death Road.”

There wasn’t a Bolivian in attendance who didn’t understand those implications.

“What you’re telling us here today, Detective Hutchinson,” Starsky said in a firm voice, grateful for the silence in the room so everyone could clearly hear him and the person who translated for him, “is that you were kidnapped by a man who wanted to buy your friendship, your companionship, perhaps buy himself a lover, and—in exchange for that bought relationship—he kept you chained to a wall for three months while he showered you with ‘fine clothes’ and a ‘nicely furnished suite’ and a painting and a . . . piano?”

“Yes.”

“Are you gay, Detective?”

“No.”

“Did Ryker’s lavish gifts ever make you feel attracted to him?”

“No.”

“What is the sentence in your country for kidnapping?”

“Life in prison, possibility of parole.”

“What is the sentence in your country for kidnapping a police officer?”

“Mandatory life sentence, no parole.”

“The United States takes kidnapping quite seriously, would you say?”

“Yes. I would.”

Starsky had made the several strong points he’d hoped to make, designed to paint the overall picture that Hutch was an innocent victim, that he’d had no choice but to kill Ryker to escape him, and that America herself was closely watching the outcome of this particular case. Bolivia would be wise to give it the pass it was due.

“Is there anything you would like to add, Officer Hutchinson?” Starsky asked him. “Any question you want to answer that I haven’t asked?”

“No.”

They shifted their eyes to the rest of the room and waited. It was Starsky’s gut feeling that the investigation would be closed; to pursue it, even for those who were indebted to Ryker, would be to expose their King to a scandal they probably preferred to avoid. In the end, Starsky’s instinct was sound.

Roberts addressed them, confirming Starsky’s hunch. “As much as we’ve loved having you, would you boys like to go home tonight?”

Starsky waited on Hutch to answer Roberts for them. He would do whatever Hutch wanted to do: leave, or have downtime for a couple of days before the long journey home. After a brief, wordless glance between them, Hutch turned to Roberts and gently said, “We’ll take that flight.”

* * *

They barely slept on the plane; the enormous relief Starsky felt when the wheels left the tarmac had gotten him too excited to shut his eyes for long. He was finally able to drown himself in all things Ken Hutchinson: his look and his presence, his warmth and his laughter. They shared talks about aviation and altitude, water filtration systems, the differences between llamas, alpacas, and vicuñas, whether they should stay overnight in Peru to take advantage of the short layover for a visit to Machu Picchu, but ruling it out, and other nonsensical conversation.

For the first time in three months, Starsky returned to his little boy self at times, reveling in the shadow of his more mature guardian angel. They ate spaghetti on the plane and allowed themselves to get slightly intoxicated by the champagne and wine they were served in First Class, and they told stupid jokes, and reminisced about their academy days.

But their arrival at the farm stripped it all away and forced them into their more practical and pragmatic lives: what to buy from the market on the way home to stock the refrigerator, that Hutch would need his badge and his wallet whenever Starsky could get around to getting it for him, and that the electric bill was overdue.

Starsky followed Hutch down the hall, he on his way to the guest bathroom, Hutch to the master toilet, but both got stopped in the doorway to their shared bedroom when Hutch opened its door. Starsky hadn’t seen it in days, Hutch not in months, and they were each paused by their own reflections. It was Hutch who broke the silence.

“You stripped the bed, but didn’t remake it?”

Starsky stalled on his answer, looking over Hutch’s shoulder at the bare mattress, trying to figure out the best words to use to explain himself. He came up against the hard truth. “I took the room apart when I got home the first time,” he admitted, “and I never put it back together.”

“Took it apart?”

“Put your stuff away.”

“In storage?”

“In boxes. In the gym room.”

Silence.

They still hadn’t moved from their position in the bedroom doorway. Starsky could tell Hutch continued to contemplate what he’d heard. So Starsky offered more information before he got asked. “I couldn’t bear to look at anything that reminded me of you.”

Hutch seemed to understand that and finally pushed off his slouch and into the room. “I’m going to shower. How about I meet you back here in ten minutes? Get the sheets and we’ll make the bed together—like old times.”

Starsky was all for that. When he returned to the room, bed linens under his arm, he saw Hutch come out of the master bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Hutch flashed him a smile and then walked to his dresser, pulled open a drawer, and found it empty. “My clothes?” he asked, incredulously.

“In a box, in the gym,” Starsky said, braving the words. “C’mon, man, I thought you were dead. I’ll get your clothes as soon as we’re done here. I’ll have to dig them out.”

“No rush. I’ll just hang around naked.”

“Suits me fine.”

Despite his so-called threat, Hutch returned to the bathroom for a robe; usually two hung on the back of the door, but only Starsky’s was still there, and Hutch had no problem wearing it. Together, they remade the bed, a chore they sometimes did with each other, but not always. On that late morning, Starsky let Hutch give directions. “Hold that.” “Tuck it there.” “Pull that tight.” As the bed gradually got made, Starsky’s mood slowly dissolved into a kind of melancholy. They would obviously sleep together, maybe even right after the bed was ready, given how exhausted they were, but he didn’t know the score.

“Can I ask you something, Hutch?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“How come you haven’t. . .”

“Told you I love you?”

“Not that. I know you love me.” He waited a moment, felt the beat, then asked, “You do love me, Hutch, don’t you?”

“Something fierce.”

“But, I mean, we’ve been apart for three months.”

“I counted the days in seeds.”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t have a calendar.”

Starsky thought he understood. He had to solve the equation on his own. “Oh,” he said, shaking it off for his more important concern. “Is it because I thought you were dead that I’ve, you know, been crying like a baby since we got back together?”

Hutch straightened, gazed at him from the other side of the mattress. “Is that your question?”—implying that only Starsky would know its answer.

“Well, I mean, how come you haven’t. . .”

“Shed a tear?”

“Yeah. How come, hm?”

Hutch shrugged. “I’m overjoyed being with you again.”

“Yeah, but you’re the bigger sap between us. That kind of joy should have you on your knees sobbing in a pool of tears.”

Hutch pulled the blanket to the top of the mattress. “Maybe you’re right,” he suggested.

“About what?”

“Maybe it’s because I came back to life for you that you’ve been crying.”

“Except you came back to life for me before I even got down there. I went believing you were alive. It wasn’t like you going to Tettypair and not knowing if you’d find me alive.”

“Tetepare.”

“Whatever, man.”

“You’re mad at me because I’m not crying?”

“I’m not mad at you at all. I’m just wondering. There’s something off about you.”

“I’m tired.”

“I’m tired, too. Am I off to you?”

Hutch tossed Starsky a pillow so he could case it. “I don’t know what to tell you, Starsky.”

“Maybe the whole truth,” Starsky replied, surprised himself by his thought-free comment until after it had been delivered and was too late to take it back.

“What part of the truth do you think I didn’t tell you?” Hutch asked, not heated, not defensively, but with a hint of annoyance. “I answered all of your questions.”

“And you answered them truthfully?”

“It’s all I had: the truth.”

Starsky shoved the pillow into the case. “Are you saying there’s nothing else to tell me?”

Hutch exhaled, broke their eye connection, stood with a defeated posture, and stared at the mostly made bed. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask.”

“Did you have sex with Ryker?”

“Asked and answered.”

“Well, maybe you didn’t hear it the right way the first couple of times I asked it?”

The question startled them both, it seemed, and they abruptly locked eyes with each other. Starsky didn’t mean to sound accusing, but his gut definitely told him there was more to the Ryker story than he’d been led to believe. A minute passed.

“Did you hear my question this time?”

“I heard you.”

“What’s taking you so long to answer?”

“You’re going to need to define ‘sex.’”

Starsky blew up at him. “Are you fucking kidding me? After all we’ve been through together, all those sessions with Jade, our coming to terms with what we believe together on this subject, and you’re saying this to me now?”

“Because I don’t really have the answer.”

The very last thing Starsky wanted was to be infuriated or patronizing. He never expected to slam up against Hutch the way he did in that exchange of words. He’d have given anything to have been nothing but loving and generous and accommodating to Hutch as their lives returned to a long-awaited normalcy. But Starsky was short-fused, and not just because of his confusion, but because of his delicate emotional state, the one he’d been a victim of for months.

Hutch seemed visibly guarded then. He was usually the one to break them out of a misunderstanding, but he didn’t say a word, not even to explain himself. He waited. And appeared helpless, too.

Starsky checked his rage. “Why don’t you tell me what you did, and we’ll define it together.”

“It has nothing to do with my not shedding a tear.”

“Maybe it doesn’t, but maybe it does.”

Hutch seemed to accept, with a slight nod, that maybe it did, that maybe he just wasn’t aware that it had any bearing. He tightened the sash around his waist. “I performed for him.”

Those were words Starsky didn’t expect to hear—nor did he understand them. “How so?”

“I disrobed for him—”

“You mean, got naked?”

“Yes.”

“So he could look you over, kind of thing?”

“Yes.”

“Did you mean what you said when you told us that he only touched you the one time—at the piano?”

“Yes.”

“He put you on display for himself; that’s what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“Was that all there was to it?”

“No.”

“What else did he have you do?” Starsky wondered, dismayed and disgusted even before he knew the answer.

It did seem to take courage for Hutch to reply to that question; he was visibly embarrassed just to speak the words, but he was forthcoming, too. “I masturbated.”

Starsky subconsciously dropped the pillow to the mattress. “You mean, he watched you jerk off?” He was hurt by the revelation, not angry.

“Yes.”

“Can I assume he jerked off with you?”

“Yes. To what he watched.”

“He jerked off to you jerking off?”

“Yes.”

“Did he threaten you into that?”

“No.”

“Did he threaten you with hurting me into that?”

“No.”

“Then, why’d you do it?”

“For a picture.”

“Of what?”

“You.”

Starsky was taken aback. “Where did he get pictures of me?”

“In La Paz—while you waited for the morgue.”

Starsky remembered: he’d spent most of that day wandering in a daze on the city’s streets, sitting at a table trying to eat, wondering how he’d ever be able to live another minute of his life. “So, you took your clothes off and masturbated for him . . . for a picture?”

“Yes. Each time for a picture.”

“How many pictures?”

“More than . . . a dozen, I guess.”

Starsky’s hurt deepened. “Oh. So each time you wanted a picture from the roll, you had to jerk off for him?”

Hutch didn’t mean to sound glib; his regret was apparent in his submissive tone. “Give or take,” he said. “And then. . .”

“Then, what?”

“After he showed me the pictures of you at the airport. . .”

That was when Ken Hutchinson’s eyes finally shimmered with tears—and Starsky’s heart broke for him.

“. . .and you left,” Hutch continued, his voice splintering with emotion, “I did it for him to earn his trust.”

“So you could kill him.”

Hutch nodded, using that pause to compose himself. “I didn’t mean to be flippant.”

“When?”

“Telling you I didn’t know if what I did for him was sex—by your definition.”

“It’s sex assault is what it is.”

Starsky’s words were another impulsive purge he didn’t see coming. They didn’t leave eye contact as the weight of his characterization hit them squarely in the face—and slowly sank in.

* * *

Starsky stared at the ceiling. He’d been awake for almost an hour and it didn’t seem he’d ever get back to sleep. They had no sooner crawled under the blankets after making the bed that late morning and snuggled into each other than Hutch was fast asleep, almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Starsky couldn’t blame him. Hutch was exhausted, and in more ways than just physically. Starsky was, too, but he still couldn’t find the push into slumber.

He may have only slept half an hour before someone knocked on their front door. Expecting it would wake Hutch, Starsky stalled to let his partner decide whether they would be interrupted. But Hutch didn’t hear the knock and, after several louder raps, Starsky slipped out from under Hutch’s arm, dressed in the robe Hutch had left lying at the foot of the mattress, and went to the door.

“I want to see him!” Davis exclaimed excitedly, peering around Starsky for a glimpse of Hutch after he gave Starsky a welcome home hug. Davis was visibly disappointed to learn that his best friend was asleep, that there would be no waking him, and that he would have to settle for a short visit with Starsky instead; not that he minded, but he was anxious to see Hutch. So Starsky insisted that Davis join them for dinner wherein he could lay eyes on that which he, too, had believed was once dead, and Davis was happy to accept the invitation.

Starsky had barely closed the front door after Davis left when the phone rang. Dobey wanted to talk to Hutch, to hear his voice, and he was also disappointed to be told Hutch was asleep. “You can’t wake the guy?” he asked. “He’s got plenty of time to sleep.” In the end, he understood, of course, told Starsky to give Hutch his best, and reminded Starsky not to spend too much of Hutch’s life insurance payout. “You’re going to need to give it back someday,” his superior warned. “Yeah, yeah,” Starsky playfully mumbled, as if he had other ideas for it.

Hutch didn’t wake when Starsky returned to the bed. He didn’t even stir, so Starsky removed his robe and slid naked under the covers beside him, stared at the ceiling, the blankets pulled to his chin, his arms behind his head, and prepared to stay a while with nothing but silence and his musings. Oh, there were things he could do: unpack their suitcases, do some laundry, dig out Hutch’s clothes for him, but he didn’t want to miss a moment of being with Hutch, awake or asleep.

Hutch’s breathing was comforting: a slow, deep, relaxed cadence of inhales and exhales; the subtle move of the sheet and blanket on each of his belly rises and dips. He lay on his side, facing Starsky, eyes and mouth closed in blissful sleep. Starsky watched on occasion, studying Hutch’s face, its familiar lines and features, and noticing the scrapes on his cheek from his recent brushes with disaster. It was a far cry from the incinerated corpse Starsky had been led to believe belonged to Hutch; its memory caused a shudder throughout him, and he looked back to the ceiling.

He kicked himself for more than just having been so gullible. He was ashamed for not noticing the clues sooner; he could have spared Hutch months of fear, aloneness, humiliation, and embarrassment. But Starsky was also guilty for his thoughtless blow up at Hutch after they got home to the farm, when Hutch was trying to figure out whether his encounters with Ryker were assault or sex. Starsky could have been more patient, better understanding, and helped Hutch to heal in that moment, not magnify his hurt.

Hutch’s breathing noticeably changed, became shallow, quieter, and uneven. Starsky turned his head to surprisingly find Hutch’s blue eyes smiling at him. He couldn’t drink in the man’s soul deeply enough.

“Did I wake you?” Hutch sleepily asked.

“You’re a funny man,” Starsky replied, rolling to his side to better see Hutch, and gently squeezing Hutch’s arm. “The fact is, I can’t seem to sleep.”

Hutch frowned. “There’s something on your mind.”

“Yeah, but I know you’ll tell me in time.”

“I’ll tell you now—whatever you want to know.”

“The thing is, Hutch . . . I probably already know whatever I want to know. I mean, I can’t think of anything you’d say that I couldn’t guess you’d say.”

“Try me.”

Starsky impulsively accepted the invite. “Did you ever have second thoughts about who you wanted to be with for the rest of your life, knowing all you could have had in Ryker’s world if you stayed?”

“No.”

“See? I knew you’d say that.”

“Ask me something else.”

“If you thought I was looking for you all that time, would you have gone through with what he wanted to keep the peace . . . had sex with him, I mean?”

“If I had to.”

Starsky really did appreciate the honesty, as much as it also dismayed him. He could trust Hutch’s answers. “Did you ever think you might like the guy? start to feel something good for him?”

“No and no.”

Starsky gave that a brief consideration, tried not to smile, and said, “Yeah, I knew you’d say that, too.” He found another question, more explicit in nature. “Did you ever get off on his getting off while he was getting off on you?”

“No.”

“How’d you get hard then?”

“Thinking of you.”

Starsky noticed the sparkle in Hutch’s blue eyes, twinkling the way they did in the room’s daylight. Hutch’s answer was such a kind one and it shone outward through his soul. Still, Starsky couldn’t help himself. “Is that the truth?”

“A hundred percent,” Hutch gently replied, lightly stroking Starsky’s cheek. “I’m not placating you.”

“I’m still it for you then, hm?” Starsky asked. He knew it was a childish question, something only an insecure person would ask, especially knowing how much they meant to each other. But Starsky needed certain closures; he wanted to hear particular words. He’d failed to protect Hutch, so the voices of his regret and remorse told him he was no longer deserving of Hutch’s love and affection. It was a terrible fate to which Hutch had been abandoned—and Hutch had every right to be angry over it.

But Hutch failed to speak that part of his mind. Instead, he continued to stroke Starsky’s cheek, smiled at him, in his eyes and on his face. No words. He closed the distance between them and kissed Starsky’s lips, tenderly and with endearment. He didn’t placate Starsky in one way, but it seemed he might in another.

The touch was magical and spurred Starsky forward; he closed his eyes as they fused tongues, hands, bodies, breath. Starsky couldn’t feel enough of Hutch’s warm and naked skin, his wet and sucking mouth, his strong embraces, and his hardening penis. It was a mutual joining; neither of them took the lead, led the way, directed the experience. Hutch’s hand was on Starsky’s shaft, stroking him with gentle determination, and driving him into a compelling desire.

In blissful return, Starsky pulled Hutch into a tighter union, fingers in his hair, spurring an urgent rhythm of deep breathing, his and Hutch’s, as they ratcheted up each other’s eagerness. Hutch was his willing partner, his hungry lover, and the provider of Starsky’s animal needs—but also the liberator of his passion.

It had been months of separation, of loss and aloneness, of feeling adrift in an abyss of emptiness. The intimacy they shared with each other on their mattress that early afternoon was more instinctive than it was intentional. Starsky whimpered in anticipation long before he could consciously understand the emotional ramifications that awaited him. Hutch rolled over inside his arms, wordlessly giving Starsky permission to take him; they had become fully erect in one of the shortest durations of their sex-making, and the urgency was upon them.

Generously spitting into his available hand, Starsky coated the crown of his own penis, momentarily enjoying the sensation of the lubrication, and then glazed the shaft under its head with more saliva, exciting himself further. But there was simply nothing like the erotic hypersensitivity he experienced throughout every cell in his body and brain as when he pushed into Hutch’s snug, but slippery opening. With such care and regard for Hutch, Starsky eased himself in, remarkably mindful of his action, controlling himself past the initial tightness, and resisting the temptation to follow the nature of his hard-wiring to satisfy his desire for pleasing thrusts.

Hutch fervently moaned on Starsky’s entry, not like a man in any kind of pain, but one who purely loved the arousing feel of the slide. Starsky’s right arm was under Hutch; Hutch held Starsky’s hand to his lips while he sucked and kissed his fingers; Starsky’s other arm was over Hutch’s hip, pleasingly squeezing Hutch’s burning erection, as he buried himself as far as he could into the man.

The sensations and the sounds and the emotional feelings were unbelievably familiar; it seemed as if they hadn’t missed a moment during those three painful months. Nothing in their touches, strokes, kisses, gentleness, arousal, orgasmic excitement differed in kind or degree.

Starsky was known for his sometimes out-of-control endings, but on this day, he was drawn to Hutch’s experience more than his own—as if it had been Hutch who had suffered the most, despite what both their hearts would tell them. Starsky wasn’t rushed, not even under the height of his euphoria and his desperation to express all of his love and want in a single moment with the person he would purposefully die for.

It was Hutch he first hardened to the max—with his tight and stroking hand around Hutch’s enlarged and sensitive shaft, crown, head, teasing its frenulum with his wet thumb on an occasional pass, and using his swollen penis to stroke the man from the inside. He withdrew to his own tip, gave Hutch that tantalizing beat of renewed want, and then drove into him again, deeply and with all the kindness in his heart. He paced himself according to Hutch’s soft moans, deeper breaths, words of, “oh, yes.”

The ride was a steadily building climb to ecstasy—and Hutch spilled purely from reaching his peak and its sudden lack of endurance. Starsky gave him his semen-pulsing waves of pleasure without distraction, bathing in the notion that he had delivered all that was monumentally essential to his lover: sexual gratification, a strong sense of belonging, and the knowing he was loved. The sentimental pleasure of their union, expressed in Hutch’s grunts and long moans of fulfilling delectation, and his light laugh, the one that inevitably followed every one of his climaxes, were enough for Starsky to feel justified in finally taking his own.

Using the viscousness of Hutch’s semen, a spurt of which he had caught in the cup of his hand during Hutch’s ejaculation, Starsky lubricated himself thoroughly on the stroke of a complete withdrawal, and then buried his penis more easily into Hutch on the return.

But the wave that eventually came over Starsky wasn’t an orgasm; it was something altogether different and completely unexpected. It was grief. It was shame. It was sorrow and disbelief. How had it been earthly possible for him to have forever lost Hutch, in one moment, to making love with him again in the next—and all in the same lifetime?

He began to uncontrollably cry while he repeatedly apologized. His entire body slumped and his head fell against Hutch’s back. He held Hutch’s bicep to keep from falling backward, and simply surrendered to the anguish that had overwhelmed him. He cried until his tears wet his cheeks and moistened Hutch’s warm skin.

“Hey, hey,” he heard Hutch say. Hutch’s lips kissed his fingers again. “Hey, c’mon,” Hutch begged him. “It’s okay,” he added, more than once, and in soft whispers.

Starsky didn’t have the words to explain himself; he didn’t understand the mix of emotions that had welled up inside him and spilled out when he’d least expected it—except to know in his heart, at least in that moment, that he didn’t deserve this beautiful man with the kind soul.

“Let me go,” Hutch said. He reached over his own to pat Starsky’s hip. “Take a breath, sweetheart, and let me go.” He even tried a laugh when the touch didn’t work. “Let’s talk about this.”

Starsky had obviously lost his erection by then. “I’m sorry,” he said again, that time in a silent bid for forgiveness, easing himself out of Hutch, and not able to enjoy the departing sensation because of his emotional pain. “I messed up.”

“Only for yourself,” Hutch reminded him, trying to sound light-hearted. He rolled back to face Starsky, momentarily took him in his arms and squeezed him tight, and then looked him forgivingly in the eye.

“I messed up and you paid for it,” Starsky blurted before Hutch could say anything. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a roller coaster,” Hutch explained. “I don’t know which end is up any more than you do lately.”

Hutch’s eyes were especially blue. His mussed blond hair, perspiring forehead, gentle smile, all told Starsky what Starsky knew in the deepest part of his psyche, but he still never should have failed to protect his partner. In those fragile moments of his self-loathing, Starsky needed Hutch’s guidance. Was Hutch able to provide it—given that he, too, as he’d just explained, didn’t know what either of them was supposed to feel?

“Do you think there’s something I’m not telling you?” Hutch asked when Starsky was able to calm down and breathe.

Starsky had to think about the answer. Was there anything he still wanted to know? Ryker and his men had kidnapped Hutch, convinced Starsky that Hutch was dead, held Hutch for sex favors in exchange for his someday freedom. Neither Ryker nor Hutch had technically laid a hand on each other. Hutch would answer any question Starsky asked. Whatever he needed yet to know were simply details. But none of that assuaged Starsky’s guilt.

“I guess I just don’t understand why you’re so. . .”

“Why I’m so . . . what?” Hutch asked, authentically curious and concerned.

“. . . quiet.”

“Oh,” Hutch said.

“There you go again. ‘Oh.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘No.’ ‘Okay.’ You barely say anything—and I end up thinking it’s because you’re mad at me.”

“Coming in your hand a minute ago didn’t tell you anything?”

“I can’t put my finger on it, Hutch. You seem okay with me, you say you’re okay with me, but you’re so damn quiet.”

“Maybe because I didn’t talk all that much while I was gone.”

“You didn’t talk to Ryker?”

“In three months, I said maybe a dozen words.”

“Are you serious?”

“He called me Michael.”

Starsky was taken aback. “Why would he do that?”

“Because I refused to tell him my name.”

“Did he know it’s my middle name?”

“He didn’t know anything about us; that was the way he wanted it: to learn all about me from me.”

“So the whole time he called you Michael and you barely said a dozen words to him?”

“Yes.”

“Stop with the ‘yes.’ C’mon, it’s Hutch talking to Starsky here. Speak to me the way you would to your partner, okay?”

“Yeah, I’m serious,” Hutch replied, rewording his answer accordingly. “I barely spoke to Ryker. I kept him guessing all the way to the end.”

“What you’re saying is that we have to break you out of your routine then, right? We get you to use complete sentences?”

Hutch shyly smiled at him, but he also looked amused.

“Imagine that,” Starsky razzed him. “Having to teach Ken Hutchinson the English language all over again.”

“Okay.”

Starsky frowned and lightly hit the end of Hutch’s nose to reprimand him.

Hutch rethought his answer. “I’m happy to start talking again, but you may wish I’d stayed ‘shut-the-fuck-up.’”

“There’s the Hutch I know.”

They gazed into each other’s eyes for a minute, listening to silence and the wordless dialogue between them. Starsky didn’t remember Hutch’s eyes being so blue. Or his lips so full. Or his kindness so deep. It hurt to think about the things he could have forgotten over time if Hutch had really been dead. There would be so much to miss.

“I have an idea,” Starsky said, sounding extra excited so he could convince Hutch to agree to it. “We didn’t get to have Christmas together. What if we go up to the cabin and have ourselves a better-late-than-never one, hm? I can finish my book while we’re up there.”

“You’re reading a book?”

“Writing one.”

“No shit?”

“Mary at Mary Books read some of it and said all it needs is the punctuation and spelling stuff . . . and an ending.”

“She’d know.”

“I was going to end it, you know, with the way it ended—but it doesn’t look like I will have to now. I get to put a different period on that last chapter.”

“You do indeed.”

“And I bet I know me a person who can edit it, too.”

“I won’t take that bet.”

“So, what do you say? Go up to the cabin tomorrow for a couple of days, have ourselves a Merry Little Christmas, and don’t come home until we’re you and me again?”

Hutch smiled, warmly and with appreciation. “I think going to the cabin for a belated Christmas is the best idea you’ve had in a long time—next to coming back to Bolivia for me.”

Starsky laughed, sadly, but he was still excited. “Great! But first, there’s something I want to show you after I take my shower. I’ll meet you in the backyard in fifteen.”

* * *

EPILOGUE

“Do you think a man can give another man a better hand job than the man getting the hand job can give himself?”

Hutch laughed in disbelief of the question, and admonishingly replied, “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I gave you a hand job yesterday and I wonder how it compares to you giving yourself hand jobs.”

They’d packed the truck with supplies the previous afternoon for their stay at the cabin after Hutch had enjoyed orgasmic pleasure completely via Starsky’s deliverance—but Starsky had thwarted his own with his unexpected crying outburst. He didn’t try again to take care of himself, even at Hutch’s insistence to help him, deciding he’d have better luck at their new beginning in the mountains.

They bought on-sale Christmas ornaments and wrapping paper, a plastic wreath, strings of icicle lights, more candles and incense—and, of course, food and wine, pastries and left-over holiday candy, and new pens and a ream of paper for Starsky’s last chapter. They also stocked the truck with the usual items for a January cabin visit: propane, flashlights, blankets, batteries, winter clothes, and such. Topped off the fuel tank. Inflated the tires. And were ready to go by the time it was dinner—just as Davis joined them, primarily to see Hutch alive and in the flesh.

Afterward, all three boys watched a rerun of Hitchcock’s Psycho, Starsky clutching Hutch’s lap, Davis nearby in the armchair, with a fire in the fireplace and candles lit in the room, and drinking a bottle of wine between them. Davis said Megan would understand if he didn’t get home until late, and Hutch and Starsky were happy to share the mystery flick with him. Starsky loved that he could use Hutch’s lap for a pillow and none of the men cared that he did. One of them, in fact, enjoyed it, and Starsky knew that because Hutch kept rubbing Starsky’s shoulder to calm him down during the scariest parts in the movie.

In the morning, Starsky took pride in a new endeavor. “I’m going to make you pancakes,” he told Hutch when his partner finally got out of bed and joined him in the kitchen for breakfast. “I learned to do it while you were . . . away.”

Hutch stood behind Starsky and looked over his shoulder, studied the batter baking in the pan, then seemed to accept all was good as he turned to the steaming pot for a cup of coffee. “Careful,” was all he said, “or I won’t feel needed anymore.”

“I’m just going to do it for you the one time—to prove I can. After that, I don’t plan to make pancakes ever again.” His comment cost him a gentle poke in the belly, but he also got a good morning kiss on the cheek for his pain.

“Will you drive us there?” Hutch asked. “I don’t think I’m up to being behind the wheel.”

“Sure. But that mountain road is a romp in the park compared to what we’ve been on.”

“More like a runway,” Hutch observed.

“Paved and stuff.”

Hutch laughed. “And you don’t have to worry that parts of it are missing when you get there.”

“We take a lot for granted, don’t we, Hutch; Americans, I mean? Makes me feel guilty.”

“It’s not that we shouldn’t have what we have,” Hutch said. “It’s that they should also have what we have.”

“I see that now.”

“Uh-oh,” Hutch teased him. “I think you’re turning into a socialist.”

“I’m just saying everybody has the right to be safe, don’t they?”

“They do, Starsky.”

“Maybe we can find somebody down there to send something to.”

“Something like, what?”

Starsky thought for a moment, deciding what Bolivians probably needed more than anything. “Money?”

Hutch set his coffee mug on the counter to give Starsky a hug around his shoulders from behind him. “Let’s send somebody down there a piece of my life insurance payout. We’ll make it up ourselves some other way.” He buried his face in Starsky’s neck and deeply inhaled. “You smell good.”

“It’s the pancakes,” Starsky joked, flipping the flapjacks in the pan. “I just hope you like them.”

Hutch loved them. He also seemed to come more to life on his way to the cabin, watching the scenery outside the passenger window, doing something as routine for them as their drive to the cabin.

Starsky had hoped for snow on the ground when they got there, but most of it was gone. The daytime temperature was in the high 50s, a sort of early spring heatwave, but he accepted it without complaint. In Los Angeles, they rarely had a White Christmas—maybe half an inch of snow which melted by end of day—but that never stopped them from enjoying the holiday. His mother had told him it hadn’t even snowed in New York City over Christmas. Besides, Starsky had all he really wanted: that blond guy.

They unpacked the truck, set up the fire, lit candles, got themselves ready for dinner and nightfall. Made the bed. Hung the wreath over the fireplace. Prepared the table. Starsky waited to see whether Hutch would notice their new armchair, but Hutch didn’t seem to, even though he walked past it a million times.

Impatiently, Starsky had to ask, “Did you notice that chair, hm? I had it made. Chose your colors. And you haven’t said a word about it.”

“I saw it,” Hutch replied, busy with folding their clothes out of the suitcases and placing them on an open-shelf dresser they’d used in the past. “How could I miss it?”

“But you didn’t say anything. Sit in it.”

“No.”

“No . . . because? You’re going to have to elongate.”

“Elaborate?”

“Just do it.”

“No, because I don’t want to.”

“I meant just sit in the chair. See how comfy it is.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t like it?”

Pressured, Hutch straightened, dropped his arms to his sides, looked at the chair, studied it, drew a long breath. All subtle moves that Starsky was able to see as big ones.

“Oh,” he said under his breath when the realization washed over him. “Does it remind you of something you had to do at Ryker’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to throw it out?”

“No.”

“Is it going to be something you have to warm up to?”

“We’ll see.” He gave Starsky a weak smile and resumed his clothes task.

“Is it going to bother you if I sit in it?”

“We’ll see,” Hutch repeated, that time in a lower voice, his back to Starsky. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, that sounds like me,” Starsky scoffed. He tried to imagine what specifically Hutch would have had to do in an armchair, and thought he figured it out. Sometimes when he and Hutch would play, he’d make Hutch sit in a chair so he could get full access to him. “I’m sorry, Hutch,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“It’s all right, Starsk. We’ll figure it out. But it’s a beautiful chair. Don’t go throwing it away.”

“I never did like that guy,” Starsky replied. He stood closer to Hutch and watched him fold clothes and place them on the shelf. “Remember when we first saw him at the restaurant, and I said he looked like a slave owner with some Bolivian servants? I shoulda followed my gut on that.”

Hutch didn’t say anything.

“I shoulda seen more, you know?”

“I remember feeling as if we were being watched,” Hutch reminded him, “and I didn’t do anything to investigate, either. We were on vacation.”

“I’m not letting myself off the hook as easy as you’re letting me off.”

Hutch zipped the suitcase after he emptied it, and pushed it against the wall. He didn’t counter Starsky’s assessment.

“Am I talking about the wrong stuff?” Starsky asked, afraid he’d overstepped.

“No.”

“I mean, I want you to know I hated him from first sight. You hate him, too, don’t you, Hutch?”

“I murdered him, didn’t I?”

“Am I allowed to say I’m glad you did?”

Hutch had finished his clothes project and turned to face Starsky with a deep sigh. He then gave Starsky a smile when their gaze melted into each other’s. “Only if I’m allowed to say it with you.” He lovingly took Starsky in his arms. “He brought it on himself.”

“And you did what you had to do,” Starsky reiterated, hugging Hutch as he thoroughly enjoyed the embrace. He needed Hutch’s affection to remind himself that he was still loved, despite the nasty proverbial bump they’d hit on a Bolivian road. “But if you can’t handle the chair, I’m sure we can find it a home. The safe house can probably use it.”

Hutch silently approved the idea. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject, Hutch. I didn’t know—”

Hutch let him go. “Exactly. You didn’t know. So don’t worry about it.”

“I only want to make you cry good tears.”

Starsky knew when he made that comment that they would be taken back to the previous afternoon—when they met in the backyard after Starsky’s shower—and Starsky debuted the greenhouse for him. Hutch cried then. A lot. ‘Good tears.’

“I can’t tell you how special this is, Starsk,” Hutch had said, squeezing Starsky in his arms, “that you chose to honor me by building something from scratch and by yourself that would give so much life and sustenance to you and others. Do you have any idea how proud of you I am and how moved I feel?”

Starsky had some idea because Hutch held him so tightly and cried all the way through his speech. Good tears.

“I love you for it,” Hutch said even then, knowing they remembered the greenhouse moment. “It’s quite the honor.”

“I never thought I’d be lucky enough to show it to you, I mean, other than the way I did in spirit, you know?”

“I know.”

Starsky didn’t want to be emotional again that soon, so he was glad for Hutch’s question.

“Is there anything left in the truck to bring in?”

“Nothing perishable,” Starsky told him. “We can do the rest in the morning. Let’s, right now, make some hot chocolate or pour us a glass of wine or something, and relax, hm?”

Hutch was most agreeable to that; he even did the honors of popping the first cork—and only fetching one wine glass from their dish shelf. “To us,” he said as he took the first sip and then handed it to Starsky to follow suit. “Through thick and thin.”

“Through the good and the bad.”

“Through hell or high water,” Hutch sang.

“Hm. Those sound too close to each other, Hutch.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right.”

“You really do have to polish up on your language—especially now that I’m going to be a writer.”

“You’re right about that, too.”

They got busy making dinner—with Starsky building a salad from scratch, as he was known to do, and Hutch made a buckwheat with vegetable entrée that was to die for; it even looked appetizing in the pan when Starsky stole glances—and sips of wine, sometimes straight from the bottle.

“You think I don’t see you doing that,” Hutch eventually said, ignoring him while he also let Starsky know he was on to his shenanigans. “Don’t go getting drunker than me.”

They sat at the small table to eat, savoring the food, the candlelight, the fireplace, the wine, each other. They cleaned up after, made their hearth bed of blankets and pillows, and Starsky got to roasting marshmallows while Hutch hung Christmas decorations off of various nails, lanterns, and the mantle. He had a good laugh about the power plug he found at the end of the icicle lights and told Starsky they would take them back for home use. But they had enough candles to make up the difference.

“Our presents to each other tonight are—”

“Each other,” Starsky finished his partner’s sentence.

“We can go into town tomorrow, split up, and shop. Should be lots of deals out there.”

“That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Starsky said, as if the answer should have gone without saying. He was dressed as he usually was at the cabin: in Hutch’s sweats and his own socks, double-layered. He lay on his back beside the fire, against a pile of pillows, and roasted a couple of marshmallows.

Hutch joined him with a bowl of hard Christmas candy. “Then you’ll just have to keep your eyes shut when the clerk rings it up at the cash register. I know how you like to unwrap wrapped goodies.”

“I might just unwrap you later.”

“You can start now, if you want.”

Starsky’s last ejaculation had been Christmas Eve, right there on the floor in front of the fire, using his memories of Hutch to aid his maiden masturbation. “I made myself come when I was here last,” he said, not proudly, but letting Hutch know his every secret. “For the first time in my life, I gave myself a climax.”

“You came up here for Christmas?”

“I came up here first of November and stayed almost through New Year’s. And then I came Christmas Eve, too,” he snickered.

Hutch squeezed Starsky’s ankle to chastise him from losing sight of the bigger picture Hutch wanted to know. He sat beside Starsky, cross-legged, up against him, watched him roast marshmallows, and listened to him talk about how he’d gotten through the ordeal. “I pictured you up here. I thought it was a good place for you to be.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, I made myself come on Christmas Eve.”

“You don’t sound like you want to be congratulated,” Hutch sadly noted.

“Masturbation is overrated.”

“Maybe you weren’t doing it right.”

“What’s the wrong way? you don’t come?”

Hutch laughed. “Well, under the circumstances, maybe you were just scratching an itch.”

Hutch was right about that then as much as he’d been on Christmas Eve, but Starsky didn’t want to talk about how he spoke to Hutch when Hutch was dead.

“If it’s any consolation,” Hutch admitted, “I came on Christmas Eve, too.”

The disclosure unnerved Starsky. Why would Hutch be so blasé about masturbating in front of Ryker? In a snide voice, Starsky retaliated. “I hope you enjoyed it as much as your pal did.”

“I was alone at the time, Starsk.”

Starsky’s turn to say, “Oh,” and feel chagrined. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’ll find a way through this maze together no matter how many walls we hit, but it was the only way I had to make love with you on Christmas: enjoy myself while thinking of you.”

Starsky liked hearing that part—a lot. It made him feel warm beyond the fire. He was also interested in something else that night. “Do you think a man can give another man a better hand job than the man getting the hand job can give himself?”

Hutch laughed in disbelief of the question, and admonishingly replied, “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I gave you a hand job yesterday and I wonder how it compares to you giving yourself hand jobs. You obviously give me a better one than I give myself, so how is it for you?”

“I believe you had your cock in me at the same time you hand-jobbed me.”

Starsky about dropped his hot skewer in his lap when he heard Hutch’s jarring words, and asked incredulously, “What did you just say?”

“You were fucking me at the same time you were pumping me. I can’t think of a better way to get a hand job, so maybe—”

“Did you just use the word ‘cock’?”

Hutch closed his mouth, made concerned eye contact, appeared sheepish. Shrugged.

“Is that a word Ryker used?”

Hutch eventually nodded, but didn’t break from Starsky’s bewildered expression, despite his own embarrassment.

“We never use that word,” Starsky reminded him, as if he had to. “Not that we care one way or another, I mean, but it’s never been a word we use with each other. It breaks my heart to know where you got it.”

“I thought maybe we could own it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Make it ours so I don’t have to hear it in the future and be reminded of him.”

“But I never say it.”

“You don’t, which is why I never do, but other people say it. I still have to hear it.”

Starsky cussed when he realized he’d burned his marshmallows. He dropped the skewer on the tiled hearth so it would flame out and he wouldn’t have to think about it until he’d gotten past that particular conversation with Hutch. His man seemed so emotionally frail in that moment, dressed warmly, comfortably, wined and dined, and relaxing on the floor with his soulmate. But he also looked terrified of having said the wrong thing, at the wrong time, in the wrong way. Starsky took stock of himself.

“So, you want us to start using that word? I mean, like you want me to say things like, ‘suck my cock,’ or ‘show me your cock?’”

Hutch shrugged again, but was apparently determined to debate the matter in order to make a joint decision about its use. “Well, maybe you could say it more like, ‘show me your cock, cowboy.’” He went for a laugh, but it didn’t particularly land well.

“I don’t want to say things because he said them.”

“I wanted to take ownership of it, to disarm it for myself,” Hutch explained. “I guess I went about it the wrong way.”

“And would we do it with the armchair, too? take ownership of it, I mean, so it doesn’t haunt you?”

“Maybe.”

“Did he use ‘cock’ a lot?”

“Yeah.”

“While you were exposing yourself to him?”

“Yeah.”

Starsky didn’t want to picture Hutch disrobing and masturbating for another man, and knowing that man was talking about Hutch’s penis, calling it a ‘cock’ as he lusted after Hutch’s body and violated his sexuality. But there it was: in his mind. He shared the nightmare in that regard. And there would be no taking back what he heard Hutch say and why he said it. They would have to disarm that word themselves, together. “Okay,” he agreed, not reluctantly, “let’s try it out and see where it takes us. If it turns us off, we stop using it, right?”

“The last thing I want is to turn you off.”

“And if it turns us on . . . well, I guess we’ll know then that it’s our word and not his.”

Hutch winked at him, sighing with relief over Starsky’s decision.

“Are there any other words you’d like to own while we’re on this subject?” He braced himself for Hutch’s purge, but could only laugh when he heard Hutch’s answer.

“‘Magnificent.’”

“Was that a word he used to describe you?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he use it to describe your . . . cock?”

“He did.”

“‘Magnificent cock,’” Starsky mulled, repeating it several times to familiarize himself with it. “I’m ashamed to tell you that I actually agree with Ryker’s opinion on that. You do have a magnificent cock.”

Hutch smiled, shyly, almost blushing, more pleased to hear Starsky say it and to be playful when he did. “I think we’re going to get past this,” he concluded. He lay down on the blankets beside Starsky, and put his arm over Starsky’s belly. “Thank you for indulging me.”

“Now if we can just get me to stop feeling so shitty about leaving you down there. I don’t know that I can get past that, Hutch. I know you want me to.”

“I tell you what,” Hutch suggested, his voice low, his tone soft, “you can stop feeling shitty about leaving me in Bolivia and I’ll stop feeling shitty about leaving you adrift in the Pacific Ocean for two months. Seem like a fair trade?”

“I accept the second part of your deal.”

Hutch exhaled, sounding frustrated, and then explicably asked, “What’s my favorite color?” He nudged Starsky to answer sooner than he did. “Did you hear me?”

Starsky didn’t even have to think about it once he got past how the question had startled him. “Green.” He rolled over to face Hutch, looked into the fire-lit reflection in his blue eyes, and tried to understand why he’d been asked such a silly thing.

Hutch warmly squeezed Starsky’s hand with a loving firmness. “Because I’ve told you that’s my favorite color?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know?”

“Because you wear so much of it,” Starsky answered, blinking back his unexpected tears. He suddenly realized that Hutch was taking him somewhere, and he had to follow. “And because the only walls in our farmhouse that are painted are green. And because all your cups and dishes and kitchen shit is green. Even your phones are green. And because you were mad that you had to take a blue truck when you wanted a green one.”

“What’s my religion?”

Starsky paused only long enough to recall Hutch’s soul. “The nature of things,” he said, certain of his answer, but adding, “birds and stuff.”

“And stuff.”

“You know . . . the mountains and rivers and flowers . . . and blue Bolivian butterflies.”

Hutch lightly laughed to be reminded of their morpho sighting.

“Your safe word is ‘trees,’” Starsky continued, “and, for the record, most of those are green, too.”

Hutch wiped the tears from Starsky’s eyes as he asked his next question. “What would I move Heaven and Earth for?”

Starsky broke eye contact only long enough to see the answer in his mind, but he quickly looked back into Hutch’s eyes when it suddenly came to him in his heart. “Me,” he said under his breath. “You’d move Heaven and Earth for me.”

“Deep inside the man I know to be David Starsky . . . what do you think he’d tell Ken Hutchinson about what the two of them should do after what they’ve just survived?”

Starsky summoned his convictions and followed his instincts. “He’d tell Hutch that he’s going to be okay in the long run—because he’d seen him come through so much, and Hutch is stronger than he might know he is, and that he needs to forgive himself for whatever bad thing he thought he’d done. He did what he had to do.”

“Okay,” Hutch said. “I hear you. That’s what he’d tell Hutch. What would he tell Hutch for himself?”

“He’d tell Hutch how sorry he was that he didn’t see the trap that’d been set for them and, if he had it to do over again, he’d do it right that time, so no harm could come to the man he loves more than life itself. He’d ask Hutch for his forgiveness.”

“Would Hutch forgive Starsky?”

Starsky knew the answer, but didn’t feel he deserved it.

“Did you hear my question?”

“Yeah.”

“There isn’t anything about Ken Hutchinson that David Starsky doesn’t know, deep down in his heart, I mean, is there?” Hutch asked.

“No.”

“So, would Hutch forgive Starsky?”

Starsky tried a quiet laugh. “Yeah, of course, he would. He’s that kind of guy.”

“Is Starsky that kind of guy, too? Would he forgive Hutch for all of his mistakes and bad decisions?”

“In a heartbeat—if he needed it.”

“Would Starsky forgive Hutch for anything?”

“Anything.”

Hutch was so soft—in the way he looked lying on his side on the blankets bed, facing Starsky, in the voice he spoke, and in the palpable vulnerability that shined in his eyes. “So, what would the Ken Hutchinson that David Starsky knows say back to hearing about all that love and forgiveness?”

Tears emerged in Starsky’s eyes again because he knew then where he stood, where he had always stood, and he realized he could let go once again of his self-punishment, of all of his guilt and shame, and of the notion that he didn’t deserve Hutch’s love. “Ken Hutchinson would tell David Starsky . . . ditto.”

* * *

“What’s in the box?” Hutch asked.

It wasn’t as cold that next day, low-60s, a kind of Indian Summer; the sun was out and gave them a clear blue sky. Starsky had driven them to their meadow by the pond where they’d left a picnic table and benches over the summer. He brought food and drink, having first heated up minestrone soup and kept it warm in a large thermos.

Starsky had also brought a blanket to lay over the bench so their butts wouldn’t freeze. He arranged the table setting:bowls and cups and utensils. And he discovered that Hutch had brought along a few things, too: nuts and dried fruit, a new bottle of wine and an opener, and . . . “Is this almond oil?”

Hutch looked over at the small plastic container Starsky held up for him to see, and mocked innocence. “Does it look like almond oil?”

Starsky rolled the bottle around and studied its contents. “It does.”

“Does it smell like almond oil?”

Starsky removed the cap and took a whiff of the obvious. He played along, and he knew Hutch knew it, too. “Yeah. Smells kind of nutty.”

“Do you think it tastes like almond oil?”

Starsky turned the bottle over onto his tongue and gave it a quick lick before he recapped it. “Hm. I don’t know, Hutch. I mean, I think I can only know it tastes like almond oil if I suck it off of some skin.”

Hutch laughed at him, gave him a wink, and said, “Maybe we can do a taste test later . . . out here, I mean . . . after lunch . . . in the wildness. Let’s own our lives.” He broke a piece of bread and began eating without ever leaving eye speak with Starsky. “We can take turns deciding what it is.”

“And what it ain’t,” Starsky quipped. “For the record, buddy, I’m all for taking ownership of our lives.”

“But . . . back to my original question . . . what’s in the box?”

Starsky glanced over to the red tin box he’d set at the edge of the table. “That’s the guy I thought was you.”

Hutch stared at the box for a quarter minute before he realized what he’d been told. He looked back at Starsky. His expression had fallen. “Thomas,” he said solemnly. “I never knew his last name.”

“I figured he’d be happy in this meadow.”

“He was a young guy.”

“Oh. I guess blonds are Ryker’s type, regardless of age, hm?”

“Well, not anymore,” Hutch said with a laugh. It was obvious he wanted to change the subject after a nod to Thomas’ life—and not discuss Ryker.

Starsky accepted the new direction by ending the one he’d inadvertently broached. “We’ll spread his ashes and then we can close this door.”

“And open a new one.”

“What’s the first thing you’ll want to do when you walk through it, hm, Hutch?”

“Make love to—”

“My cock?”

Hutch laughed, already disarmed, purged, unburdened. “Yeah, buddy, the first thing I’m going to do when I walk through that door is make love to your cock.”

---

Next: Book Nine From Dandelion Series 1: Unconditional.