Candle on the Water

Hutch finds a measure of peace a week after Starsky is shot.

Originally published in the SHarecon 2012 zine.

Hutch was afraid to sit, because then he’d stop moving and start thinking, remembering. That couldn’t happen. He paced the hallway outside Starsky’s room, chancing a peek into the window every time he passed by. The doctors were still conferring, discussing this most auspicious case with nods while uttering mysterious results of incomprehensible tests, CBC, chem 8, d-dimer and PTT. It made Hutch’s head hurt.

He’d gotten through the last week by refusing to dwell. He’d had a job to do and he’d done it. Gunther was behind bars with a phalanx of lawyers clustered about him planning strategies. So now what? The man who’d ordered Starsky’s assassination was in custody. The gunmen who’d actually wielded the automatic weapons were in the wind, but Hutch wasn’t as concerned with them. For one, they were hired guns, and second, he suspected they’d been taken care of by Gunther’s people. Probably one of the ill-fated Bates’ chores.

Now the main part of the job was done, so what was he supposed to do? Hutch walked slowly back down the hallway toward the elevators, no longer able to deny how exhausted he was. He’d only slept in snatches for the last week–afraid of succumbing to the nightmares. Sounds of metal striking metal, gunshots, rapid fire ratatatat–he never heard the bullets hitting Starsky. Never heard him fall, never saw his eyes close in agony.

His breath catching in his chest, Hutch stopped, bracing himself against the wall. He wasn’t going there, couldn’t allow himself to see Starsky’s life slipping away before his eyes. He’d shouted at Starsky, “do not die, damn you! Don’t you leave me!”

Starsky had opened his eyes, the wail of sirens drowning out all sounds. Hutch had dropped to his knees, ignoring the pool of blood staining the blacktop. “Starsky?”

He still wasn’t sure if Starsky ever saw him. Starsky seemed to draw into himself, to diminish in some indefinable way, but his chin had jerked down to his chest. He’d given a single nod of assent and passed out.

“Sergeant Hutchinson?” The voice was intrusive, loud.

Hutch came back to himself with a jerk. He wasn’t in that blood splattered parking lot: he was in the hallway at Memorial, the doctors still huddled together next to Starsky’s bed.

Blinking, Hutch identified Officer Brancusi–brown, lank hair cut in a bowl and round, pudgy face–one of the many cops Dobey had drafted for guard duty around Starsky’s room.

“What?” Hutch knew he sounded short and angry but he no longer gave a shit. He just wanted to talk to the doctors about Starsky’s continued survival.

“There’s a girl down in the lobby,” Brancusi said stiffly. The guy was new on the force and looked about ready to salute.

Hutch wanted to tell him there was no saluting in the BCPD, but it was too much work. “A girl?” he repeated, feeling stupid. His head was stuffed with cotton.

“She’s come before, but you were never here,” Brancusi continued. “She wants to come up and see Starsky, but she’s too young. Just sits in the lobby. Finally, one of the hospital staff took pity on her–called me down a couple days ago, when you were in San Francisco.”

“What’s her name?” Hutch turned to watch the doctors troop out of Starsky’s room. He wanted to corner Silverman and get some answers. When was Starsky going to get better? An infection in one of the wounds had set recovery way back. Starsky slept ninety percent of the day in a drug induced haze, unable to muster the energy to speak in full sentences.

“Molly Edwards Ramos,” Brancusi said.

Half formulated questions for Silverman swirling in his brain, Hutch froze, about to run after the doctors. “Molly?” he repeated, his heart rate speeding up. Crap. He should have talked to the Ramos family at some point this week. But when? “Tell her…” Hutch started after the doctor, tossing his comments over his shoulder. “I’ll be right down.” He crossed the hallway in two strides, catching the chief physician before he made his escape. “Dr. Silverman?”

“Oh, Hutchinson.” Silverman dismissed the two other consulting doctors with a slight nod. “Mr. Starsky is progressing nicely. We’ve changed his antibiotics to anaerobic specific drugs which will target the organisms more directly. On the plus side, the more broad spectrum antibiotics did work effectively. He’s afebrile for the first time in 24 hours and the infected wound is beginning to granulate in, exactly as we’d hoped after the debridement.”

Too much medicalese for his brain to cope with. Hutch felt flat-footed and stupid. “So he’s recovering?” he asked hesitantly.

“He’s much more stable than yesterday.” Silverman looked pointedly at his watch. “I really have to get to a meeting.”

“W-when…?” Hutch took a step back, anger rising suddenly. The hell with the man–dismissing Starsky as if he was simply some interesting anomaly in medical science. A future paper, perhaps–bringing back a patient after a thirty-five percent blood loss.

“You friend was damned lucky,” Silverman said softly.

Hutch looked up to see the doctor wipe his forehead, exhaustion writ large on his face. He’d been a Starsky’s bedside every time Hutch had come in–which meant, he couldn’t have had much more sleep than Hutch.

“There’s a concept called the Golden Hour,” Silverman continued, almost as if he were talking to himself. “It’s been around a while, the idea of getting the patient to medical treatment as soon as possible–in an hour, but until recently, it wasn’t possible. Mr. Starsky was lucky–the police department is close to Memorial, the paramedics who responded…” He gestured vaguely at Starsky’s room, “And better emergency room treatment modalities…”

“You’re saying Starsky might have died if not–” Hutch didn’t want to go there. Not again. He’d been in that hell too many times this week. “This Golden Hour?”

“Saved his life.” Silverman nodded. “You being there–I think, added the extra incentive.”

Hutch opened his mouth to say more but nothing came out. His being there? He hadn’t done anything except beg Starsky to live.

Silverman walked resolutely out of the ICU, the doors swinging in his wake.

Hutch turned, reorienting himself to his true north–Starsky–and leaned against the window, watching a nurse change his IV tubing. Starsky moved slightly in his sleep, probably disturbed when the nurse checked the IV insertion site, but never opened his blue eyes.

Hutch missed those eyes with an ache directly in his heart. His being there had helped Starsky? Had given him…a reason for living?

Hutch could still feel the driving thrum of adrenaline after Dobey’s phone call. He had no recollection of getting from the Metro squadroom to the third floor of the hospital. Flight-desperation had given him wings. He’d heard the interrupted, staccato beat of Starsky’s heart straining to revive when he burst through those swinging doors and had known with some uncanny perception, that Starsky had come back for him.

Hadn’t quite believed it–as he still didn’t. He expected Starsky to stop breathing every time he left the floor.

He had been there for Starsky–and possibly, maybe probably had changed the outcome for the better? And then Starsky returned from that between place for Hutch.

Could that be? Could their psychic connection truly be that strong?

He gazed through the glass at his partner, sending healing vibes drawn up from the very bottom of his soul and breathed out. A sudden rush of–Hutch wasn’t even sure what to call it–lightness of being–filled him to the overflowing.

Starsky would live.

He moved his head to one side and then the other, testing out this new sensation, but the conviction persisted. Starsky wanted to be here, with his friends, loved ones. Hutch nodded. That he believed with his whole heart.

Starsky was, by nature, a social being. He charged through life gathering friends in his wake, all drawn to his effervescent joy, his courage, and boundless love of life. Yet, there was a more private side that he reserved for those closest to him; Hutch, his mother and brother, and the Ramos family. For those select few, he would literally give his life. He had done just that for Hutch, on the rooftop of an old tenement. So, the opposite had to be just as valid–he would live for those people, too.

Mrs. Starsky had called, luckily during one of the limited periods when Starsky was awake, to say that her cardiologist had prohibited her from flying, but she was going to the synagogue as often as she could to pray for him. Starsky had responded with a breathless “Ma, love…” and the ghost of a smile. He’d slept for hours afterward.

Molly.

Hutch remembered the girl with a jolt. Was she still waiting downstairs, scared and confused? The papers hadn’t reported much at all except that “the injured detective is in critical condition–” that vague language that didn’t explain anything. Not the monitoring of fluids, the constant flow of medications and tests that kept Starsky here and now.

Molly, not to mention Kiko and their mother, must be worried sick. He started down the hallway to the stairs. One visit–that would help prove to Molly that Starsky hadn’t died.

Hutch picked at the strip of gauze around his wrist, thinking about what Dr. Silverman had said. He’d given Starsky a reason to stick around. Curious thing for a doctor to admit. He would have expected a medical man to put all his stock into drugs, surgical procedures and skills learned in years of on the job training.

Could things like love, friendship and–that elusive connection that glued he and Starsky together actually help a man recover from bullet wounds?

He couldn’t give the doctors any assistance, and he couldn’t bring Mrs. Starsky across the continent from New York–or get a hold of Nicky on the phone, for that matter. But there was Molly; probably the closest thing to a daughter either of them had.

Trotting down the stairwell, Hutch warmed to the idea. He had a job to do. The hardest part of the task was getting Molly up to Starsky’s room. She was, after all, apparently underage. It occurred to him that he didn’t actually know what was the age limit for visitors. He, Dobey and Huggy had been the only people to visit Starsky, and they were all well past the legal limit for driving, voting, buying liquor and apparently paying sick calls.

This late in the evening, the waiting area in the front lobby of the hospital appeared deserted. Hutch scanned the chairs clustered in pseudo conversation groups–as if the people who might come here were visiting one another and not waiting anxiously for word of sick loved ones.

In the far corner, scrunched into a Naugahyde sofa, he saw a girl with unnaturally red hair sticking out at odd angles, her head down over something in her lap. Vaguely aware of the soft beat of a plaintive tune, Hutch looked past her, searching for a little girl with scruffy brownish hair carrying a baseball glove. One second after he’d dismissed the redhead, Hutch looked back at her, recognizing the shape of her nose, the lanky, slim body.

“Molly?” he called out, walking across the lobby.

The girl looked up, sudden hope flushing her cheeks, and jumped up, running toward him. “Oh, Hutch!” she cried, her voice choked with tears. She threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly for just a moment.

Hutch held her close, glad to feel another person’s beating heart against his. Indisputable proof of life–he cast his thoughts up to Starsky. You hear that, Starsk? You hear my heart beating, Molly’s? We are here for you.

“Molly, I’m sorry I didn’t have time to call. There’s no excuse, except that I was investigating…” Hutch started, taking half a step back to look at her. “What did you do to your hair?” Not to mention her clothes.

Molly’s hair wasn’t just unnaturally red, it was the color of the Torino–almost exactly. Candy Apple Red. She had on red and black plaid trousers with black suspenders and a black t-shirt emblazoned with Adam Ant in red letters. Earrings that looked a lot like safety pins hung in both ears and her feet were shod in thick soled boots that would have better suited a trucker than a girl who barely weighed one hundred ten pounds.

Despite the tears running her cheeks, Molly still managed a credible eye roll of teenaged distain. “Punk rock,” she identified. “Nevermind! How is Starsky? I’ve been waiting for like days…and–“

“He’s doing better,” Hutch said, abashed, reeling from the change in her. When was the last time he’d seen her? At her birthday in February, possibly? And it was late May already. Damn. “A lot better.” He should be straight with her, explain Starsky’s chances. She deserved to know the truth. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“I’ve been sort of camped out here.” Molly led him to the couch in front of a picture window looking out on a dark atrium planted with dwarf palms.

She wasn’t kidding. Besides what he now realized was the cassette player he’d given her for Christmas, there was a empty bag of chips, some Oreos, a half a burrito and an open novel. Hutch caught the word vampire in the title. He couldn’t quite bring himself to sit, but he crouched down to be at her level.

Molly sat, looking vulnerable and young regardless of her fierce clothing. “I kept coming, hoping I’d find out something about Starsky but…” She bit her bottom lip. “Hutch, I know you were busy. I read in the Chronicle how you went to San Francisco and arrested that awful man, but I couldn’t stay a-away…” The tears brimmed in her eyes but she dashed them aside with the heel of her left hand, refusing to cry again.

Hutch was transported back to the first night, when he’d brought a fatherless girl into his home and tucked her into bed. He’d listened to her crying alone in the night, mourning her father, but she’d rarely gave in to ‘girlish’ emotions since.

“You know we were caught by an ambush at the Metro parking lot?” he began. That much had been in the newspapers, although Dobey had kept a lot of information from the press.

Molly nodded mutely. Hutch was half distracted from his explanation when he noticed that she had a small gold ball in the side of her nose.

“Assassins driving a stolen police car,” he said quickly, trying to get past that part to escape the replay of gory images in his head. He almost managed; hearing the sound of screeching metal on metal and volley of automatic weapon fire before he began speaking again. “Starsky was directly in the line of fire, I was protected by the Torino.” Talk about irony–he’d always hated that car, and it had saved his life. “He caught three slugs in the back…”

Molly gasped as if shot herself, and for the first time, Hutch really listened to the music playing softly on the cassette machine. Helen Reddy–“don’t give up, you have somewhere to turn…” He didn’t recognize the song.

“How did he–?” Molly struggled to compose herself and sat up straighter. “How did he survive that?”

“He’s strong, babe.” Hutch stood, putting a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her trembling. “He’s had a couple surgeries, some bad spots where–” I thought he would die… couldn’t be voiced aloud. “The doctors and nurses were at his bedside day and night,” he said, putting the blame on the medical profession and not himself. “Today he’s…still hurt badly, but improving. He hasn’t got any stamina yet, but you know Starsky.”

That brought a watery smile to her face. “He’s tough,” she agreed, looking down at the cassette recorder. The song had ended, the next one was Reddy’s paean to female strength, “I am Woman.”

It occurred to Hutch that Helen Reddy’s songs contradicted Molly’s punk rock attire. He welcomed any thoughts in his brain besides worrying about Starsky. “You’re not listening to…” He had to cast back to half recalled mentions of more current bands. “The uh–Ramones or Sex Pistols?” Not that he’d know any of their songs.

“I like Helen Reddy,” Molly said archly. She glanced down at her bold fashion statement. “This is…camouflage, I guess.”

That had been the last thing he expected her to say. “Camouflage?”

“Trying to blend in.” Molly scratched her elbow pensively. “High School is…” She shrugged, “Isn’t my favorite place. I do okay in class, but other girls are–“

“Critical?” Hutch finished her sentence, remembering his own years in high school, feeling at odds with the world and alienated by the so called ‘in’ crowd.

“Mean, petty, self-righteous bitches,” Molly blurted out.

“Don’t stifle yourself, Molly,” Hutch teased gently.

“I-I don’t know if why…” She sighed, hitting the stop button on the player and rewinding. “I just can’t get a break. If they haven’t heard about my dad dying, then it’s cause I don’t have a boyfriend or…And Kiko’s no help. He’s always at baseball practice or going over baseball statistics…”

Kiko had shown a remarkable aptitude for the game in the last two years. Hutch was proud of him. Molly’s own love of the game seemed to have decreased in direct proportion ever since the school athletics coach had refused to allow her on the team–because she was a girl.

“I’m not pretty or popular.” She snorted derisively. “Not that I care about that, it’s just that–I don’t fit in.”

“I know my opinion doesn’t equal the girls at school,” Hutch said, giving her another hug. “But you’re the most beautiful, intelligent, interesting fourteen year old I know.”

“Fifteen,” she reminded in a scolding tone. Even that didn’t elevate her mood. “It just kept getting harder, and then–” She pursed her lips as if holding back something. “I picked up the phone to call you guys finally…” she said very softly. “Last week, on Tuesday.”

Tuesday, May fifteenth–the day. The before day, as far as Hutch was concerned. From now on, he would recount his life as either before May fifteenth or after.

“Mama Maria had the TV on,” Molly continued. “And she suddenly screamed when the five o’clock news reported that Starsky had been shot.”

Damn. Hutch had been in such a state of shock that day, he hadn’t given any thought to how others might have gotten the news. “It must have been horrible to hear it like that.”

“We couldn’t find anything out except what was on the news and in the paper,” Molly whispered, her face so pale that her artificially red hair seemed to glow like a distress beacon. “Finally–on Friday, I started coming here. ‘Cause I knew that I’d see you or Captain Dobey at some point.”

“I’m so sorry I didn’t know. I’ve been either at Starsky’s bedside or working the case,” he said, guilt welling up in his chest. “There are no words–“

“So, I want to see him,” Molly said, that tough girl who had fought her way through life rearing up. “Tonight. I’ve waited long enough.”

Exactly what he’d hoped she’d say. Even with the hospital visiting rules, Hutch was determined to bring Starsky something of his old life. To give him strength. “It’ll be hard to see him, all bandaged up.”

“I don’t care.” Molly stuck her chin out. “With all those stupid girls getting on my case, calling me…names, I just want–“

“Acceptance, family?” Hutch asked sympathetically.

Molly nodded, fiddling with her cassette player. Suddenly, as if everything had already been decided, she gathered up the refuse of her snacks and tossed them in a nearby trash can. “I want to be–there for him. Like you two were there for me, when my dad died.”

“Does Maria know where you are?” Hutch asked, feeling a momentum building himself. Not to mention that this was the longest he’d ever been inside the hospital without actually going into Starsky’s room to talk to him.

“Yes, yes,” Molly said dismissively, which Hutch took to mean ‘not really’, but he let that slide.

“C’mon.” He beckoned when she had cleaned up her area and stuffed Interview with the Vampire and the cassette recorder inside an enormous black vinyl purse. “Just go along with every thing I say, okay?”

“Do I ever argue with you?” Molly said with some of her old attitude.

That was Hutch’s turn to give an eye roll. She was worse than Starsky at countering just about everything he said. Cheered, he escorted her to the banks of elevators. As they got in, Hutch glanced over at her and realized that Molly had gone quiet and solemn.

“Hutch, he will be…” Molly shook her head as if dismissing her worst fears. “He’s going to live, right?”

“I firmly believe he will live,” Hutch said, that lightness renewing him once more. That was a promise. There would be time for… “And he’ll be so happy to see you.”

“Even like this?” Half of her mouth curled up into a bemused grin, pointing at her artfully ripped shirt.

“That hair alone will wake him right up,” Hutch laughed. What she looked like was not his battle, he didn’t have a right to criticize, especially after what was happening at school. “When did you–dye it?”

“Two weeks ago.” Molly flicked invisible dust off her plaid pants. “Decided I had to at least pretend to blend in.”

“And you picked the punk rockers?”

“They were only slightly higher on the food chain than I was,” Molly acknowledged with dark humor. “And we all have a similar reaction to authority–present company excepted.”

“Thank you.”

“But…” Molly screwed up her face. “I don’t really like punk rock music.”

“Helen Reddy is more your style?” Hutch guessed, stepping out of the elevator when the doors slid open. “John Denver maybe?”

“He’s passé, but Queen is fantastic.” Molly followed him through the doors to the ICU.

“No kids allowed.” Mrs. Murdock, the stately head nurse, barred their way, glancing daggers at Hutch.

“She’s sixteen,” Hutch said, praying that was the age limit for visitation. “Dave Starsky is her dad. She’s been waiting to visit until he was awake.”

Mrs. Murdock crossed her arms and glanced over her shoulder at Starsky’s room, her expression wavering between exasperation at Hutch’s hubris and compassion for Molly. Hutch hoped she didn’t find out he was outright lying to her.

Molly was standing as demurely as a girl with candy apple red hair and safety pins in her ears could.

“It’s way past eight o’clock,” Murdock said, peering over her cat glasses at Molly. “I didn’t hear anything about him having a daughter. Or a wife.”

“I haven’t seen him in a long time,” Molly said sweetly, widening her eyes. “We’ve been–separated. But when I saw it on the TV, I had to come!”

Hutch smiled indulgently, yet warily. Molly had been known to kick people in the shin when provoked.

“Just a short visit,” Murdock conceded with a curt nod. “Ten minutes, no more. You’ve already got this unit in an uproar, Sergeant Hutchinson.”

“You’re a good woman, Mrs. Murdock,” Hutch said over his shoulder, hustling Molly past the nurses’ desk. He gave a silent wave to Brancusi, and the guard smiled.

Peering in through the observation window, Hutch could see Starsky’s dark curls against the pale pillow case, but a nurse was bent over him so Starsky’s face wasn’t visible. Was something else wrong? Should he have come up sooner?

“Hutch?” At the door to Starsky’s room, Molly hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath as if gathering her courage before looking up at Hutch with wide, solemn eyes. Then she plastered on a huge grin and swept through the door.

Hutch followed, eyes on the nurse. He was relieved to see that she seemed to be finishing up a linen change. She dumped crumpled sheets into a laundry cart.

Molly came up behind the nurse so that when the woman in white moved, Starsky immediately saw the teen in red. She was smiling so big Hutch thought her cheeks must hurt, but there was the glisten of tears in her eyes.

“Hey!” Starsky rasped, sounding like he’d smoked an entire packet of cigarettes. The nasal cannula tubing hooked around his ears had slipped sideways and Starsky pushed it awkwardly back into place, taking a big whiff of high octane oxygen. “Lookit this. Molly-Pete.” That had always been his compromise to her choice of names when she was twelve.

The nurse pushed her laundry out the door.

“Starsky,” Molly whispered, obviously unsure of how to proceed.

“Give him a hug,” Hutch encouraged, knowing how much taking Starsky in his arms for the first time a few days earlier had helped. The feel of his partner, solid, if not completely healed, had shored up the worst of his terrors. It would not be the last time he held Starsky close, if he had anything at all to do about it.

“C’mere.” Starsky beckoned, waggling his fingers. The bed was angled so that he was propped up on pillows but not actually sitting up. “Your hair’s like fire in the night.”

Touching her fiery tresses, Molly knelt on the edge of the mattress and gingerly gave him a hug. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Glad you came, slugger,” Starsky whispered, clearly weakening even in such a short time. “Made my day.”

“Mine, too.” Molly dabbed a few tears with the ball of her thumb and sat more comfortably on the side of the bed. “Hutch let me lie about my age.”

“Wait a minute, it was…a necessary…” Hutch scrambled to think of a good cover, “minor alteration of the facts to get you past…”

“You lied, blintz,” Starsky said hoarsely, his chuckle like a wheezy bagpipe. He winked at Molly. “Knew we could…” He inhaled with a grimace, pressing on his chest. “Corrupt him event’lly.”

Molly giggled, relaxing. “I know we only have a couple minutes, but could I play you a song, Starsky?” She extracted the tape player from her purse, setting it on her knees. “Hutch, is that okay?”

“I’d like to hear it,” Hutch said, leaning on the wall beside the bed. He wasn’t going to sit, not yet. But this was good–this was real, something for both he and Starsky to hold on to in the days and nights ahead. Hutch had no illusions that Starsky was home free yet. There would be pain, hardship–maybe even a bout of pneumonia or another infection–but Starsky would recover, with love and support. Hutch needed that support too, and as long as Starsky was around, he had it.

“Go on,” Starsky urged Molly.

Molly pressed play and Helen Reddy’s voice poured out: “I’ll be your candle on the water, my love for you will always burn….Here’s my hand, so take it…”

Hutch realized it was the poignant song he’d heard playing when he went into the lobby to find Molly. The lyrics flowed through him, saying exactly what was in his heart. He wasn’t even sure who the words were for, he or Starsky, but he immediately clasped Starsky’s hand, getting a gentle squeeze. His throat tight with emotion, he saw that Molly was holding Starsky’s other hand.

“Beautiful,” Starsky managed, close to the end of his awake period. “Th’you.”

“This kept me going the last couple days,” Molly confessed, hitting stop when the song ended. “I wanted you to know that we’re all praying for you to get better.” She stood hastily as if embarrassed by the sentiment. “Mama Maria’s at mass every morning.”

“Tell ‘er I’m grateful,” Starsky whispered, his hand slipping free of hers.

“Thanks, Hutch,” Molly said with a sweet smile. “I’ll call Mama Maria, she’ll come get me.” She glanced between the two of them and nodded, walking out the door.

He couldn’t have spoken right at that minute if he tried. He could still hear that beautiful tune buoying up his heart.

Starsky watched her leave, then turned back to Hutch as if drawn by a magnet. “She know s’methin’? he asked with a spark in his eyes that warmed Hutch to the bottom of his toes. He waggled their joined hands, weakly pulling Hutch nearer.

“Haven’t told a soul.” Hutch leaned down to kiss him, resisting the urge to take Starsky into his arms and hold on tight. “You’re my candle, Starsky.”

“If I’m the candle, y’re the flame, blondie.” Starsky closed his eyes, near to sleep. He opened them immediately with a yawn. “Just wait, Hutch, I’ll light your fire.”

“Looking forward to it.” With Starsky asleep, Hutch sat down finally, images filling his head. Not of gunshots, blood and a dying Starsky but of their shared future. In each other’s arms, lying together, in love.

FIN