Eighteen Wheels and a Hitchhiker

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Hutch goes undercover as a truck driver to catch hijackers who not only take the driver’s load, but also get their kicks with them before taking their lives.

 

Story Notes:

Thank you to, Laura, the truck driver’s daughter, for helping me keep that big rig on course, and for teaching me to trust!

Special acknowledgement to my friend Pooh, for her valuable input and continued support!

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Sipping his morning coffee, Hutch walked across the bone-dry, graveled parking lot, leaving behind the noise of the clinking cups and saucers of the diner. It was early, but the heat of the day was already emanating in waves off the pavement. Hutch tiredly climbed back up into the cab of his idling Kenworth. He felt grubby with not having a decent shower; most of the truck stop showers barely gave enough water pressure to get his hair wet. His muscles ached and he was wordlessly tired. Adjusting his outside mirrors, he took another sip of coffee, the hot liquid making him feel a little better. Looking at the panel of gauges and lights, Hutch put the eighteen-wheeler into gear.

The 425-horse powered diesel engine chugged to life, and Hutch slowly guided the big rig across the lot, rolling away from the diner and back onto the open road. At first, he had liked the heavy feel of the steering wheel, the power beneath his butt, the freedom that came from sitting pretty in the high seat, able to see far into the distance. Unlike the city, the air was fresher here, reminding him of sunny meadows and clear rolling creeks. But like everything truck driving had its limits, and after twelve straight days on the road, Hutch had reached his.

The strong black brew was doing little to get Hutch trucking up to speed. He was tired and sore from spending almost every waking and non-waking moment in the small confines of the shiny light blue truck. Hutch mused about his own bed. He missed his home, he missed his plants, his guitar, his blender.

Hutch sighed. No question, he was sick of fueling his body on blueberry jelly-covered toast and coffee. Seemed that was all he could stomach lately. He briefly wondered if he was coming down with the flu or if he was just car-, or should he say, truck-sick? Speaking of being sick, he really was sick of the mosquitoes flying through his open window at night. He itched terribly from all the bug bites, but didn’t dare roll the window all the way up, leaving it open a crack, as it would be too stuffy in the cabin if he didn’t.

Slapping at mosquitoes and drinking coffee weren’t very exciting things, but, there was nothing much to do when you were a driver. You watched the morning slowly arrive like a blooming yellow flower, you heard the CB yak to life, you scrubbed the grit of sleep from your eyes, shifted gears, and concentrated on keeping the forty ton rig on the two-lane highway, until the day folded back into night. Occasionally you stopped, exiting the confines of the truck to fuel, wash-up, eat, or piss, maybe even wash the intestines of huge bugs that insisted on committing hara-kiri on your windshield, or catch up on some sleep in the sleeper cab. Hutch wasn’t used to this slow way of life. Spending so much time alone behind the wheel made him feel lethargic and restless at the same time.

He sighed, then breathed in the rush of fresh air that came through the open window. The wind ruffled his hair, but did little to cool him down. Looking out at the blue sky, he caught sight of a lone bird flying by, and thinking he knew how it felt. The first couple of days out on the road, Hutch had a sense of freedom, and he almost forgot what he’d been out here to do. But the assignment that had at first sounded exciting had now taken a nosedive.

Hutch’s neck hurt, and he tilted his head left, then right, trying to loosen the stiffness as he took a sharp curve before glancing at the CB. Had his partner forgotten to check in? Hutch fidgeted in his seat, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

He glanced at his watch. Starsky usually didn’t leave Hutch out of communication for long. His partner had probably overslept and was just now trying to quickly squeeze into his too-tight jeans. Hutch chuckled out loud at the thought.

Hutch knew Starsky was well aware of his route, and had set up several checkpoints along the highway. At least backup was always nearby.

The last place he’d seen his partner was at a weigh station ten hours prior. Hutch remembered feeling lonely as he had pulled away, waving an arm out the window, and watching the side mirror until he rode over a hill and couldn’t see Starsky in the distance any longer.

He knew Starsky would never turn his back on him. Never for an instant. But the day was hot and he’d already been undercover for over a week. Hutch could feel Starsky close by, always watching, whether through his own eyes or the eyes of their backup assigned to the various spots along the route.

He listened to the chatter on the CB, waiting to hear the familiar voice among the mixture of alien laughter and friendly name-calling. Maybe there had been a change in plans? Hutch thought, as the Kenworth rumbled down the highway, enjoying the warm breeze of the wind in his face. Maybe they had caught the killer that was roaming the long stretch of desert landscape? Maybe he could finally go back to sleeping on his own mattress in his cozy cottage near the quiet canal, instead of folded in half like a piece of white bread in the stuffy bunk of the truck’s cabin sleeper.

Hutch fingered his hair out of his face, thinking about the two-lane highway known to the local truckers as ‘Death’s Toll.’ It was a remote ribbon of asphalt, a long stretch of road traveled mainly by big trucks transporting their loads back and forth across state lines. Sparsely populated, there were more jackrabbits, dry brush, and splattering bugs than there were points of interest. Mostly there were only rocky shoulders, miles and miles of bumpy curving road, and the constant blur of white-line fever. There were only a few weigh stations, fueling stations, and even fewer coffee diners and rest stops. The days were dusty, hot, and the nights seemed even hotter fueled by the star-speckled sky above.

Once again, the hot harsh glare of the desert sun blazed through his windshield. Hutch squinted, the bright light making his head hurt. He pulled a pair of mirrored sunglasses from the sun visor, fitting them to his face. Sighing with relief, his thoughts went back to the case at hand.

It seemed a hijacking syndicate had taken over this quiet stretch of road. At first it was small-time stuff, picking their spot in advance and sitting and waiting for the right opportunity to come along. The thieves were smart – targeting only trucks with a single occupant. They used several tactics. Sometimes one of the men would fake being a stranded hitchhiker, getting the driver to pull his big rig to the side of the road, offering a ride. For the unlucky driver with the big heart, that meant a whack over the head and as much of his load as they could carry off, probably in some sort of four-wheel-drive vehicle, a pickup or jeep with a trailer hitch that had been hiding in the brush. Other times, a rock through the windshield did the trick. One way or the other, they got the trucks and their cargo.

Recently, however, the activity had intensified to include a more menacing act, with the thieves now turning to murder, probably for kicks. Three drivers in three months had been attacked, most of their loads taken, and their bodily remains found dumped in a field or in heavy brush. All three of the bodies showed signs of resistance; all three drivers had fought against their attackers in an attempt to escape with their lives. The victims were all tormented, stabbed in areas that would cause pain, but not immediate death. The scenes were bloody and looked like some sort of playground for a ritual sacrifice, the kidnappers toying with their captives before the wound that killed them, a bullet dead-center to the head, had been inflicted.

Fed up and troubled at their lack of manpower, the local sheriff had collaborated with the BCPD, and an investigative task force had been formed. It was decided an officer would go undercover as a truck driver, as a lure, fish bait. He would drive up and down the highway, stop at checkpoints every few hours, and have access to police and the local law by Citizen Band Radio, his backup never more than fifteen minutes away.

“We’re going for the gut on this one. Bait them and catch them at the right moment,” Dobey said. “Which one of you knows how to drive a semi?”

With no hesitation, Hutch had stepped forward, putting himself in the heart of the situation. Besides, how much different could it be from driving the bulldozer or tractor his grandfather had owned? “I’m in.”

“Why you?” Starsky had protested, his voice rock-steady.

“You always drive.” Hutch gave Starsky’s shoulder a playful punch. “Besides, you know you have a short temper. You have to be friendly when you’re a trucker, good buddy,” Hutch quipped.

“Hutchinson, are you sure?” Dobey questioned.

“I’m in, Captain.”

Hutch turned to Starsky for confirmation.

“I’m with him,” Starsky grumbled.

“Then the two of you get out of my office.”

The disagreement settled, they exited Dobey’s office; Starsky hot on Hutch’s heels mumbling something classy, like, “fuck,” under his breath.

Now it had been ten days, and not one murder, not one hijacked truck. Maybe the killers had flown the coop?

If nothing else he got to see some of the countryside.

Again, Hutch glanced at the CB radio. Starsky was supposed to have contacted him, giving him the time they were to meet up at a nearby burger joint for a mid-morning meal. It was the kind of place his other half lived to eat at — not so for Hutch. Especially not as of late.

The drone of the engine was steady as a heartbeat. Combined with the warm sunshine beaming through the glass, the rocking cab and row after row of growing corn passing by all made Hutch feel even more fatigued. He took another sip of coffee, and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head.

Suddenly, Hutch got the strange sensation that he wasn’t alone, and he sat up straighter in the seat. He didn’t have to see anything to sense someone was there in the cab with him, probably hiding behind the curtain of the sleeper compartment. Mentally he kicked himself for not locking the truck. Slowly and silently, Hutch sat to the edge of his seat, and reached up underneath. His fingers fumbled and for a moment a sour rush of panic hit his throat. It was short-lived as his fingers found the cool metal of his Magnum, right where he had hidden it.

He slid his finger over the trigger, his hand wrapped around the handle, all the while keeping the truck at a steady speed.

A blue tennis shoe unexpectedly kicked the curtain aside and a voice called out, “Got anymore coffee?”

“Starsky!” Hutch yelled, letting his hand drop away from the Magnum. He leaned back against his seat, sucking in a calming breath.

After a few grunts, hisses, and moans, a curly head popped out over Hutch’s shoulder.

“Starsky! Damn it! You scared the shit out of me!” Hutch grimaced, locking eyes with Starsky. “What the hell are you doing back there?”

“Sorry, Dobey dropped me off to check on you, saw you head in to get your daily java fix, and decided to wait for you in the truck, guess I fell asleep.”

“Damn you! I could have shot you.” Hutch winced at the thought, suddenly not feeling well. His hands gripped the wheel as he took a loop in the road with care.

“What’s wrong, Hutch? Can’t a guy pop in on his best friend?” Starsky teased. “You seem cranky.”

“Hell, yeah, I’m cranky, Starsky,” Hutch said, trying to ignore the hurt he saw in his partner’s eyes. “I haven’t gotten much sleep the past few nights. The damn air conditioner is broken–” Hutch waved at the dashboard. “And you know I’ve told you about me being an all-night blood bank, a human sacrifice for the entire mosquito population of California.”

“Not happy to see me, buddy boy?” Starsky smiled wide.

Hutch gave a quick glance at his friend. The sunlight splashing through the windshield wasn’t the only thing warming his chilled body. Too many days and nights spent mostly alone were really getting to him.

“I’m not complaining,” he answered with a smile, going back to focus on the road ahead.

Just as Hutch rounded a corner, he hit a pothole that jerked the steering wheel in his hands. With obvious effort, Hutch maneuvered the rig back between the lines, taking in a nervous gulp of air and then releasing it just as quickly.

“Take the corners slower,” Starsky said, which reminded Hutch of the fact that these heavy vehicles were not known for staying upright — once they were taken off the regular road. “This aluminum box isn’t a Rolls Royce, Blondie!”

Hutch downshifted and the truck jerked, groaning as it slowed as if rebelling against Starsky’s comment.

“Least it’s not an over-sized garden-grown vegetable.” Hutch glanced at his partner to gauge his reaction.

He watched Starsky’s brow crinkle as he sucked in his bottom lip. “Just be careful.”

“Starsky, don’t tell me how to drive,” Hutch said, loosening his grip on the steering wheel. “I know this thing can’t stop on a dime –” Hutch kept his face expressionless, staring out the window at the road ahead. “Or outrun the devil, like that rotten tomato of yours.”

“Very funny, Hutch.”

“Who’s laughing,” Hutch stated dryly, never looking Starsky’s way. “Besides,” he uttered his afterthought out loud, “how am I going to explain you being with me? I’m supposed to be undercover as a lone trucker.”

“Hitchhiker,” Starsky stated plainly. “Hey.”

“What?” Hutch glanced sideways at Starsky.

“You all right, partner?” Starsky asked, reaching over to dab at the droplets of sweat forming above Hutch’s brow.

“Sure,” Hutch replied weakly. “Why?”

“You don’t look so good.”

Hutch shrugged, wiping the cold, clammy sweat off his forehead. “Just tired, Starsk,” Hutch said softly.

“You have to learn to pace yourself, pal.” Starsky reached over to grip Hutch’s shoulder.

For the next few miles both men fell silent, just happy to be in one another’s company as the truck hummed past long white fences, abandoned storefronts, several windmills, a water tower, and a herd of black and white cows. Only once they stopped to fill up for gas, then were on their way again as Hutch grumbled about the price of diesel these days.

A half an hour later, Hutch carefully piloted the large truck into the parking lot of Fat Billy’s diner.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

While Starsky double-timed it to the front door, Hutch moved slowly, miserable, rubbing his forefingers against his temples. He could feel a pressure front gathering its storm clouds inside his head.

Stepping into the diner, Hutch stood right behind his partner, the sudden mixture of smells made his stomach flip and flop. He took in the sights of the nostalgic diner. Everything was bright and clean. Shiny silver chrome, retro red booths and well-waxed black and white checked flooring. If he didn’t feel so rotten he might have been able to enjoy the rich flavorful smell of coffee, home baked pies, and bacon filling the air, but not today.

“This is going to be great! Come on!” Starsky said.

“If you say so,” Hutch said, rolling his eyes.

In tandem they took a seat at a booth near the window.

Hutch watched as Starsky grabbed two menus positioned between the salt and pepper shakers and a chrome-plated napkin holder and slid one menu over toward him.

“Here, buddy. You’ll feel better after you eat something.”

Hutch hooked his sunglasses to the front of his shirt collar, and fanned open the menu.

A dark-skinned woman with a nicely curved figure, mane of long dark hair, and a beaming white smile came over and set two empty mugs on the table and began to fill them with coffee.

“You look like you could use this,” she said, her smile going wider, looking straight at Starsky.

“‘You better believe it, schweetheart,'” Starsky drawled.

Hutch winced. Casablanca was not one of his favorite movies. Starsky’s Bogart impersonations usually scared the ladies off.

The waitress giggled softly. “I love Bogart.”

“‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,'” Starsky said, still using his Bogogart voice.

The waitress giggled louder, flipping her hair back with one hand, completely charmed, never taking her eyes off the object of her desire.

“Excuse me,” Hutch asked. “Can I get a glass of water when you get a moment?” He read the waitresses name tag. “Frances.”

“You know, my brother used to do Bogart. You sound just like him,” the waitress said, ignoring Hutch. “I could help you practice that.”

“‘Sorry, kid,'” Starsky said in character. “‘I’ve got a job to do. Where I’m going you can’t follow.'”

“‘But what about us?'” The waitress played along, trying to sound like Ingrid Bergman.

“Uh, what about that water?” Hutch felt his voice was probably little more than background noise to her.

“‘We’ll always have Paris,'” Starsky drawled.

The waitress wiggled with delight. “Can I get you a glass of water while you look over the menu?” she asked Starsky, her pretty eyelashes batting a thousand miles per second.

Hutch noted his partner’s quick glance, the delighted look in Starsky’s eyes, and Frances seemingly mesmerized by his partner’s charms. It all irritated him.

“Two please–” Starsky looked back at the woman’s nametag, “Frances.”

Frances spun on her heel, giggling as she moved off, having never acknowledged Hutch beyond pouring him a cup of coffee.

Starsky smiled smugly at Hutch, who stared heatedly back. Starsky shrugged.

“Buddy, you look terrible, so she had eyes for me,” Starsky said, explaining the waitress’s fixation.

Hutch was too tired to think of a comeback deciding to search the menu instead. Few things looked inviting.

In between Starsky’s flirting with the waitress, Hutch had managed to tear her away from Prince Charming long enough to order plain toast, while his partner had ordered a large chocolate shake and a gray slab of beef that looked like cement, the smell of which made Hutch’s stomach roll.

“Hey.” Starsky took a moment to look up from his plate, chewing around a mouthful. “What kind of diet are you on now?”

Hutch dropped his toast and grabbed his cup of coffee, hoping its familiar scent would block out that of the meat moving inside his partner’s mouth.

“What do you mean?” Hutch asked, speaking around the lip of his coffee cup.

“Toast has been sitting there for ten minutes and all you’ve done is play with it.”

Hutch shrugged, setting down his coffee mug. He gingerly picked up a piece of toast and took a bite. “Happy now?” he asked, his mouth full.

They worked their way through the meal, speaking just enough to fill each other in on where they were going, where they had been, and the fact that it’d been too long since the last hijacking and Dobey was considering pulling the plug on this whole sad caper.

Starsky sat back, swiping a napkin across his mouth and motioning to the waitress for the check.

Frances quickly came over with the bill. “You’re leaving?” she mock-pouted.

Starsky sat up, taking her hand that clutched the check, and cleared his throat, once again preparing to put on his best Bogart voice for her.

Starsky stood, taking the check from France’s hand. “Now, now,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “‘Here’s looking at you, kid.'”

Hutch watched morosely as Starsky and Frances moved off toward the cash register, still teasing and flirting, and then he took the opportunity to use the restroom. He splashed some cool water on his face, tearing off a paper towel to dry the cool drops, and combed his fingers through his hair. He glared at his reflection, as haunted dull eyes glared back. He was no Robert Redford. His clothes were rumpled, his hair dark and greasy looking, and his cheeks held a tint of red.

Hutch searched for a small nugget of his usual captivating self, as if he were panning for gold. With no luck, he left to go meet his partner, who was leaning against the diner’s wall just outside the front door.

“Here –” Starsky handed Hutch a Styrofoam cup of industrial-strengthen coffee. “You look like you could use some more of this.”

Hutch guardedly looked at the cup. He was running on sheer exhaustion, and coffee wasn’t curing the problem. Not one cup had tasted good since he took on this case, and he was beginning to wonder if the beans used had been slow-roasted in hell.

“What? You don’t like coffee anymore?” Starsky asked, his worried gaze steady on his partner.

“I like it fine,” he grumbled.

“You looked wiped out, Hutch,” Starsky said worriedly.

“Yeah? Well, you’d look wiped out, too, if you had a million little suckers siphoning your blood every night,” Hutch protested.

Starsky loudly snapped his fingers. “Hey, I almost forgot.” He fished out a small can from his jacket pocket. “Got you a present.”

He tossed the can to Hutch, and he caught the item, rolling it over to look at the label.

“Bug spray?”

“Picked it up at the gas station we stopped at. Guaranteed to keep those little suckers away.”

“Thanks,” Hutch drawled, dropping the can into his jacket pocket.

Opening the driver’s door with a sigh, he flopped his butt down behind the wheel of the big truck.

Starsky climbed onto the running board and curiously stuck his hand up under the seat. “Did you put it where I told you to?”

“Hey!” Hutch lightly pushed Starsky’s hand away with a playful kick from the toe of his boot. “‘That there is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the worlda33;'” Hutch paused for effect. “‘It can blow your head clean off’,” he said, in a low and gravelly voice. “‘Don’t touch it.'”

Starsky winced. “You gotta work on that, Harry,” he said, jumping down to the pavement.

Hutch huffed in response. Retrieving the keys from his pocket, he brought the diesel engine rocking back to life.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s voice was serious.

Hutch turned his attention to look down at his partner, and noted the worry in his eyes, certain a protest was coming.

“Starsky, I’m fine.”

“You look bad, Hutch.” Starsky shook his head. “Don’t need you passing out and running this rig off the road.”

“Never happen.”

“Come on, let me drive now. You’ve been out there on your own long enough.” Starsky’s eyes shined like the sun bouncing off a rippling lake.

“Can’t, I’m too deep undercover,” Hutch said, watching Starsky fidget nervously.”Here.” Hutch reached for the can of bug spray and tossed it down at his friend. Starsky fumbled to catch the can, but it fell to the ground, causing the cap to pop off. “These sprays never work, Starsky. Probably just attract more mosquitoes.”

Starsky bent over, picked up the can, and nimbly climbed back up onto the running board. “Just remember not to go too deep undercover, pal,” he said, handing the spray can back to Hutch. “You’ll get eaten alive.”

Hutch reluctantly took the offering, and shoved the can back into his pocket. “I’ll remember,” Hutch exclaimed softly.

Starsky gave a nod, then hopped down to the pavement.

With one last look at his worried friend, Hutch patted his pocket. Dragging the cab door shut, he slowly pulled the seventy-foot trailer back out onto the open road.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It may as well have been a moonless night with all the fog. Hutch could see the tendrils of thick, dense, mist swirling in the beam of his headlights as the truck bounced down the road. The creepy vapor seemed to transfigure everything into ghostly apparitions as he navigated his way through the cloud. He knew the rain outside to be cool, but the inside of the cab was like a furnace. Hutch leaned as far forward over the wheel as he could, stretching his sore back muscles and straining to see the road. He could only see a few feet of white line. He’d been driving for hours like this; the pressure front from earlier now a full blown storm tossing around in his head. Hutch ached to close his eyes, blinking and fighting hard to keep them open and keep the pounding in his head at bay. It was only a few more miles to the checkpoint where he’d meet up with his partner again, but the tempest in his head was relentless.

This past week had been a rough one. With nothing to do but eat and drive and stop to piss, he was definitely off his normal routine. He had a hard time sleeping and could barely eat the diner food. For Hutch, that was the diet from hell. Hell had diets, right?

To distract himself, a song flitted about in his head and he wished he could stop to write the lyrics down before he forgot them. It was something about a walk along a moonlit pier and a dancing angel, whose skin was as soft and delicate as butterfly wings.

As the image played out in his head, Hutch’s eyes grew heavier, and they won the battle of wills as they fell shut for a split second, his head bobbing forward. The truck cut across the white line left of center, the off-kilter motion wrenching Hutch awake immediately.

“Shit!” He cried out in panic, holding fast to the steering wheel, quickly getting the massive vehicle back under control and on its proper side of the road.

Hutch ran a shaky hand over his face, rubbing the streams of salty sweat and grit from his eyes. Thank God there wasn’t much traffic this time of night. It wasn’t like him to be so out of it. He’d been running for days like this, mostly alone on the open road, and the adrenaline crash that was upon him now was just as dangerous. He had to stop and rest soon, but he continued to push himself along knowing the truck driver’s association would frown on too many hours on the rode with no shutey.

“Breaker, breaker,” a thunderous voice rumbled over the CB, slicing the silence of the cab. Hutch’s heart lurched, causing his hands to momentarily slip from the wheel. He felt the truck bounce once across the gravel shoulder before he could pull the mighty truck back onto the road. “Papa Bear to Golden Goose. Come in, Golden Goose, over.”

Hutch blinked at the radio before slowly reaching for the handset. “Come back, Sugar Bear, this is Golden Goose, over.”

Hutch’s eyes flicked back to the road, more alert now. “That’s Papa Bear,” Captain Dobey said, sounding annoyed.

Hutch smiled knowingly. “Sorry, over.”

“There is nothing more we can do here. Get to your checkpoint and drop the load. I repeat, Golden Goose. Drop the load.”

Hutch nodded to the coded message. They had made no progress in baiting the hijackers. It was time to pull the plug on this case. There hadn’t been a hijacking in ten days. The theory – the men had moved on to another state route. He hated giving up, but this wasn’t the movies and the good guys didn’t always win. He was quiet a moment, thinking he should argue the point with his superior and ask for a couple more days to be certain, but he was feeling worse than he’d felt a couple of days ago, and he figured his captain was right. It was time to give it up.

“Ten-four, Sugar Pop.”

“Papa Bear!”

Hutch leaned forward once again over the steering wheel, trying to see through the thick-as-pea-soup fog. Each swipe of the wiper blades did little to clear his vision as blasts of rain kept coming down in buckets. It was highly unusual weather for this area, making driving conditions treacherous, and creating lake sized puddles in the roadway. Even with his low beams on, the casting glow of his headlights did little to improve his vision. At each turn the highway only became more and more difficult to see. Once he felt the rear of the truck’s trailer fishtail and he nearly slid off the edge of road. Hutch cursed under his breath. If he didn’t pull over soon he’d end up jackknifed or flipped over on to his side.

“Papa Bear,” Hutch said, being sure to use his captain’s proper code handle this time. “Going to have to pull off the road, mile marker 58, until this weather clears. Let Hot Tamale know I’ll be a few hours late.”

There was a moment of silence as he waited for permission.

Hutch hated the idea of having to stop, but there was no choice; he had to pull off the road. Starsky wouldn’t be happy he wasn’t going to make it the lousy five miles to the rendezvous point. A big hiss of air came from underneath the truck as Hutch put on the brakes and guided the big rig off to the shoulder. Maybe he could try and get a little shuteye.

“Logging you out, Golden Goose.” A pause. “Get some rest, over.”

“Thanks, Cuddle Bear, Golden Goose out.”

Hutch laughed to himself. He could just see the frustration on his captain’s face. He and Starsky had been playing the name game with him since this whole thing got started. The worst was when Starsky had called their Captain ‘Blubber Bear.’ The man had probably nearly popped veins and their eardrums, correcting the persistent slip-ups. There was no doubt the game was wearing their captain’s patience thin. But the entertainment it provided kept the two detectives laughing, and gave them something to talk about in between checkpoints. Hutch was missing the lighthearted game with his partner right about now.

Not hearing the angered comeback he was waiting for, Hutch shut off the eighteen-wheeler’s headlights. A wave of fatigue washed over him as he settled back and stared out the window at the shadows of falling raindrops. Hutch left the engine on. The constant rumbling was like a soothing lullaby and as he listened he tried to recall those beautiful song lyrics from a few miles back, but they were long gone.

It was balmy hot inside the cab and he unbuttoned his shirt, rubbing his hand over his bare chest to swipe away some of the wetness that had formed. Closing his eyes, Hutch imagined himself on a towel upon a white sand beach, with a cool breeze, a bronzed body in a seductive yet skimpy bikini, and a bucket of ice cold beer by his side, having no recollection of the moment sleep took him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“Hot Tamale to Blue Bird. Come in Blue Bird, over,” the CB squawked.

Hutch hadn’t known how long he’d been asleep when the booming voice jerked him awake. Blinking for several seconds, and squinting, he reluctantly reached for the mike.

“Golden Goose,” Hutch corrected coolly. “What now?” Irritation was evident in his tone as Hutch was beginning to wish he really were the goose that laid the golden eggs. Instead, he felt more like the goose that had been plucked clean. He was tired and it seemed like he had just closed his eyes, having just been talking to his Captain ten minutes ago. In reality it had been two hours. He had a headache that wouldn’t quit and the aspirin he’d taken just a short while ago wasn’t helping relieve the pain.

“How you doing, good buddy?” Starsky sounded wide awake and chipper, probably hyped up on the caffeine that had been brewed at the center of the earth. “You doing okay? Over.”

“Sure. Yeah. I’m fine,” Hutch answered in a melancholy tone. “At least it stopped raining,” he grumbled, looking out the window.

“Got a headache that won’t quit, don’t you?” came the quick reply. “Probably coming down with the flu or something.”

Hutch rolled his eyes skyward. “Yes, Mommy, I have a headache that won’t quit.”

“It’s a big drag, your Mommy callin’ to check on you all the time, huh, Blondie? Over.”

“Yeah, big.” Hutch let his thumb off the mike key. He just wanted to get some more shuteye.

“Bet you don’t even miss your ol’ friend, over?”

“What’s to miss, over?” Hutch frowned. Did Starsky sound uneasy or was he just imagining it?

“I’ll let you get some rest, Mother Goose, over.”

Hutch swallowed. He knew he was being cranky with his friend. His head really did hurt, as if an iron wedge had been shoved between his ears, his vision was blurry, and Hutch was glad he had decided to pull over when he did. He raised his hand to swipe away the sweat from his brow, thinking he couldn’t count his own fingers, let alone try to drive at the moment. He felt vulnerable out here alone in the dark, but even with the bone-crushing headache he needed to hear his partner’s voice again.

“Hot Tamale,” he called into the mike.

Silence.

“Hey, I take it back, talk to me.”

More silence.

“I didn’t mean it, talk to me.”

Silence.

“I’m glad you called to check on me.”

Nothing. “Hot Tamale?”

Still not a word.

God, he needed to hear his friend’s voice! He really didn’t mean to be cranky, he was just sick and tired.

“Come in!”

“You didn’t say ‘over’.” Starsky’s chuckling came through loud and clear.

Hutch leaned back in his seat and smiled. “Over,” he said, relief evident in his tone.

The friendly teasing came to them more out of habit than design.

“I just bet you and that big truck of yours got a love affair going on, over,” Starsky continued to tease.

Hutch looked at the mike strangely. “What?” He asked. When he got no answer he added, “Oh, uh, over.”

“Bet you even gave the damn thing a name.” Starsky came back. “Probably call it, Jezebel.

Hutch didn’t respond.

You did, didn’t you?”

Hutch bit his lip. Two could play Starsky’s game.

“Hey, Blue Bird.”

Silence.

“Golden Goose?”

Nothing.

“Blondie!” The radio squawked and crackled, protesting the loud, worried voice on the other end.

Still not a word.

“Hey!” Starsky sounded more than anxious and Hutch had to laugh a little.

“Hey, yourself,” Hutch finally uttered, massaging the back of his neck with his left hand. “Gordo, you forgot to say ‘over’.”

“Oh, yeah, over.” Starsky cleared his throat. “And that’s Hot Tamale to you, over.”

“Elizabeth.” Hutch came back quickly this time. “I named the truck Elizabeth, over.”

“That’s ridiculous, over.”

“It’s romantic, over.”

“That what you call romantic?” Starsky sighed. “Over.”

Hutch held the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. His head was pounding harder now.

“Partner, just have a lot of hot coffee ready for me when I — what the?” Hutch looked up, his thumb slipping off the mike, startled by the two dark figures that seemed to slither out of the shadows and now stood in front of his truck.

“Blue — Golden Goose! What’s going on?” Starsky called, edginess in his voice.

Turning his headlights on, Hutch could see both figures were male. They glared at him, through the cut out holes of their ski masks. Hutch glared back. He knew from good old-fashioned experience, they weren’t here to offer him a welcome basket.

“Uh, Hot Tamale,” Hutch said, thumbing the mike key and reaching up under the seat at the same time, fingering for his gun. “I got a big problem here, over.”

“How big of a problem?” Starsky asked.

“Depends on how fast you can get here and help me with my two new friends!” Hutch dryly called out over the airwaves, letting up on the mike key. “Shit,” he muttered, as the two men moved toward the truck. It was then he noticed their weapons. One man headed for the passenger door, while the other for the driver’s side. Hutch thumbed the key again. “Ambush!” he frantically yelled into the mike.

Hutch was able to reach up and lock the driver’s side door, but it was either get a better hold of his gun or lock the passenger’s side; he couldn’t do both. He opted for the gun. But it all was happening so fast. One of the men discharged his weapon, and Hutch had to raise his hands up to guard himself against the bits of the passenger windshield shattering all over the interior of the rig.

“I’m under fire!” Hutch yelled, wincing at the bits of glass now embedded in his face, neck, and hands, he abandon the radio, trying once again to get his gun.

“Easy, partner.” Starsky’s voice boomed from the radio speaker. “I’m on my way. Hold ’em off! I’m coming! Hutch? Hutch? Talk me! Hutch! Come in! Over! Damn it!”

Hutch had his hands full, unable to respond to his partner’s frantic cries, but he knew Starsky would waste no time in doing whatever it took, right down to his last breath, to get to him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch had just pulled his gun out from under the seat. He didn’t even have time to unlock the safety when the passenger side door was wrenched open, and the man standing on the running board pointed his gun at him. Hutch noted both men were bigger than he, and looked like a couple of unhinged full-blown loons. He knew discretion was the better part of valor, but in thinking through his options, he tossed that knowledge to the wayside.

“Turn off the engine, drop the gun, and get out of the truck,” one of the masked men ordered, pointing his gun directly at Hutch’s chest.

Hutch held tight to his gun, feeling like a man who was about to stick his hand into the piranha tank.

“‘This here is a .44 Magnum,'” Hutch said, trying not to fidget. “‘The most powerful handgun in the world, and it can blow your head clean off. So I suggest you back off before I decide to find out if that holds true.'”

Hutch waited to see if the man would take him up on his threat, but before another word could be spoken by either of them, the heavy boom of a gunshot rang in his ears. The bullet came from the other man’s gun, who was still standing outside the truck. The deadly projectile whizzed past him and struck the passenger’s side mirror, shattering the glass.

“If you think that Dirty Harry act is going to work on me, lady, you’re mistaken. Drop the cannon!” the towering, densely muscled man ordered. “Do it now. Or–”

“Or next time you won’t miss.” Hutch cut him off in a smart-alecky tone, lifting his hands in supplication and dropping his revolver to the glass riddled floorboards.

“You got that right, Mary Poppins,” he said using a cocky tone. “Now shut it down!”

Hutch slowly reached for the keys and killed the rumbling engine. “Now what?”

“Now you climb on out of there.”

Hutch shifted slightly, seeing the second masked man with his gun pointed readily at him. Hutch grudgingly unlocked the driver side door, and kept his hands in sight, careful of the glass on his seat, he climbed slowly out of the cab. When his feet hit the muddy ground Hutch felt something jostle in his jacket pocket. He remembered the small can of bug spray Starsky had given him at the diner. It wasn’t his Magnum- but it was something.

“Toss me the keys, nice and slow, and keep those hands where I can see them.” A gun was waved at him threateningly.

Hutch moved slowly, and one handedly tossed the man the keys. He tried to bottle the fear inside him. Hutch knew he wasn’t going to last long if these guys stuck to their previous pattern. They’d drag him off, beat on him for kicks, and then kill him. He took heart in knowing when the hijackers returned to his trailer the only treasure they would find in it would be worthless twine-strung bales of hay, and hopefully a slew of police. He hoped Starsky would get there before that could happen, but Hutch knew his partner was probably a good ten to fifteen minutes away. A lot could happen in those minutes. Hutch reasoned that his only chance would be to try and make a run for it. He just needed a little diversion.

He looked at both men standing before him and tried to smile. “If you fellows wanted a ride–all you had to do was ask,” Hutch chuckled nervously. “Let’s deal.”

“What you got in mind?” One of the men spoke up, and even through the mask Hutch could see his evil grin.

“You take the load. I walk away.” Hutch shifted on his feet. He just needed time for Starsky to show up, and then they could take these jokers out.

Both men laughed in amusement. “We’re taking the load, but not until we have a good time first.”

Hutch glanced around. To his left was an open hillside, to his right, a cornfield. He had to act quickly, make his move duck into the shadows, and keep low. He knew how bad this was. He could catch a bullet in the back before he ever got past the first stalk of corn, but hell if he was going to just stand there and become an easy target. He’d take the chance, acting on his own impulse.

“Feel…” Hutch choked and heaved, bending at the waist. “Sick,” he gagged, thinking he should be in Hollywood. “Hurts,” he gurgled deep in his throat and spit a large wad of saliva to the ground, getting ready to do somethig most would consider suicidal..

“Nobody’s done nothing to you yet, driver!” The larger of the two men laughed.

“Straighten up!” The other ordered.

With the expertise of years on the streets and hours on the firing range, Hutch slipped his right hand into his coat pocket and drew his weapon.

“You bet,” he yelled, quickly straightening and holding the can of bug spray chest high, he squirted both men in the eyes, taking them off guard.

“Stupid, bastard!” One man cursed at what Hutch hoped was a sudden stinging blindness.

Hutch rushed them like a football player, hitting the tallest of the two. The men blindly shot off their weapons, but Hutch didn’t stop. He was able to pull off one of the hijackers’ ski masks, getting a good look at his face before the other’s wild unfocused swings landed a punch to Hutch’s chin. Hutch went down to his knees, dropped to his side and barrel-rolled into the shadows. Once under the cover of darkness, he quickly scrambled to his feet, and stumbled his way toward the cornfield. The unlikely gift his partner had bestowed upon him had given him that split second edge he needed as he darted in and out of shadows.

Hutch slogged through the muddy cornfield. His little act had won him a good head start, but it wasn’t long until the sound of gunfire split the air. He wanted to run faster but couldn’t. He was still so tired, and his head pounded. He could hear the splashing of feet behind him, and briefly wondered if the bug spray’s effects on the hijackers was as short-lived as it seemed to have been on the insects. If he didn’t do something quick they’d soon catch up to him.

Hutch weaved in and out of the stalks, staying off the rowed paths. It began to drizzle; the mist in his face and the dark night made the going slow. He just needed to put enough distance between him and those guns. Just long enough for Starsky and his backup to get to him. Knowing that helped Hutch to run faster, but the mud sucked at his feet and they slipped out from under him, bringing him down flat to the ground, mud filling his right ear. Bullets whizzed above his head, and he belly crawled a few feet. When it got quiet for a moment he glanced back, and could see the high powered beams of flashlights filtering in and out of the cornstalks.

“Shit.” Hutch bit his lip and shook his head.

Light, another advantage his stalkers had that he did not. Hutch figured he had a few minutes, as the men had probably stopped to reload. Not wasting anymore time, he got back up to his feet, and continued running farther and farther through the maze of corn. Another streak of lightning lit the field and his fists clenched as his heart leapt. He felt like an animal being hunted, about to meet its end. Hutch sucked in a breath, preparing for the worst.

Suddenly, another flash revealed the stiff outstretched arms of what appeared to be an assailant. Hutch nearly purged his heart out of his throat as he slid to a halt in front of a straw-stuffed body. It glared at him, silently bouncing to and fro upon its post. The lifeless figure sporting a burlap sack for a face seemed to smile wickedly.

“Son of a–” Hutch cursed, glaring back at the black sightless button eyes. “Lousy scarecrow,” he uttered.

With no more time to spare, Hutch swung his gaze back to the shadowed path, listening intently for anything moving in the dark. He was tough and smart, but outnumbered. With no flashlight and no weapon, he may as well be that scarecrow trussed up on a pole — either way he’d be lucky not to get zapped by lightning.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

No one could miss that big truck parked on the side of the road if they tried. Starsky pulled up next to Hutch’s eighteen-wheeler just as Dobey and their backup arrived. He drew his gun as he jumped out of his car and ran toward the open driver’s door. The truck appeared to be empty. Starsky felt his pulse quicken as he climbed up into the cab. Was he too late? The shot up windows, shattered glass, and brief search of the sleeper let him know he very well might be.

Starsky could feel Dobey hovering behind him. “What have we got?

Starsky bent down, his fingers deftly searching up under the seat when he saw what he was searching for lying on the floorboard near the clutch.

“Fuck!”

His fingertips brushed the cold steel of the Magnum, noting the safety was still on. The fact that Hutch didn’t have any protection made Starsky worry, and worrying just made him angry.

“I’ll tell you what we’ve got!” Starsky breathed through clenched teeth. He jumped down from the cab, tucking Hutch’s gun into the back of his waistband. “We’ve got my partner’s gun — but no partner!” Starsky growled. He nearly cursed again, but one look from Dobey quelled him.

“Easy, Dave.” Dobey cleared his throat. “We’ll find him,” he said, putting a hand to his brow and wiping the drops of sweat away. “How long since he called you?”

“‘Bout twelve minutes.” Starsky swallowed some of his fear.

“You men.” Dobey pointed a finger at several uniformed officers “Get to it. We have a missing undercover officer. I want you to search this entire area.”

Starsky stalked quietly yet quickly around the shadows of the truck “Where are you?” he muttered.

Coming back around, in frustration and fear, Starsky raised a balled fist and violently punched the side of the metal trailer. He cursed in pain, dropping to a squat to cradle his fist, and came face to face with the can of bug spray he’d given Hutch back at the diner.

“What the…?”

Picking it up, he remembered what he’d told his partner.

“Just remember not to go too deep undercover, pal. You’ll get eaten alive.”

“Hutch.” The word rippled through his soul.

Starsky dropped the can and paused to gather his wits, only hearing the splashing sounds of feet and the murmur of dull voices, but the moment was short-lived when one of the uniformed men hollered.

“Over here! I’ve got footprints, leading into the cornfield!”

Starsky ran toward the group huddling around the evidence on the muddy ground. “Three sets, leading that way.” One officer pointed with a flashlight beam.

Suddenly, they heard what sounded like the popping of balloons in the distance. Starsky’s heart lurched, knowing full well the sound of gunplay. He looked left, cocking his head at a slight angle.

“Starsky, take it slow and easy,” Dobey ordered, knowing what the detective had in his mind.

Turning to one of the officers, Starsky took charge, reaching out a hand. “I need that,” he snapped. Holstering his weapon, he nabbed the flashlight. “And that.” He pointed at the walkie-talkie on the officer’s utility belt. Quickly it was handed to him. “Follow me,” he growled taking a step toward the stalks of corn. “And keep in communication.” “Starsky!” The loud authoritative roar held him in his spot, only for a second. Unflinchingly, Starsky turned toward his captain. “You hearing me, detective? You take it slow. We don’t know what’s going down out there.”

Starsky respectfully nodded once at his superior, then took off in the direction of the shots fired. Even with his flashlight’s high beam everything looked like a dark black blob. He weaved in and out amongst the tall stalks that swayed in the windy rain. Starsky could hear his backup not far behind him as they continued to twist and turn through the labyrinth of mud, tall stems, and leaves.

Hearing more gunplay made Starsky feel sick, as if the black blob around him had crept inside and landed in his stomach. He followed the echoing boom, hoping he was on the right path.

“Where are you heading, Starsky?” Dobey huffed over the two-way.

Starsky lifted the handset to his mouth, depressing the key. “Not sure. Following the shots fired. You see me?”

“Ten-four, but slow down,” Dobey came back.

“Sorry, Tootsie-Pop, no can do.”

“That’s Papa Bear, and I want you to slow down, over.”

“Get us an ambulance, just in case, and try to stay close.” Starsky shoved the walkie-talkie into his jacket in exchange for his gun, deciding he was getting close.

He could feel Hutch nearby, and knew how bad this was, how much trouble his friend was in. With no gun, no flashlight, no partner to back him up, and as tired as Hutch had sounded earlier — Starsky stopped his train of thought, concentrating on the gunplay. Oddly, the shots being fired gave him comfort. It meant Hutch was still up on his feet. Still running. Still alive.

“I’m coming, partner. Just hold on.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch kept moving. He knew there was nowhere to hide. Anyone with half a brain would know where he was headed as he was unwillingly leaving obvious tracks in the mud for the shooters to follow. The good news was that Starsky would also be able to follow. That thought gave him comfort as he continued to zigzag through the tall stalks, trying to let the pattering sound of the rain hitting the leaves calm his nerves, and drown out the gunfire.

Suddenly he felt a stitch stabbing him in the upper left side, just below his armpit. He took in a deep breath and ran a few more paces, swiping his damp hair out of his eyes. The stitch in his side wouldn’t fade away; it grew until soon it turned into a rush of blazing fire. He screwed his eyes shut, knowing it was a bullet, clenched his teeth and tried to keep going. A second later his legs wouldn’t hold his body weight, and Hutch flopped belly down into the mud. He sucked in huge gasps of air, his heart pounding as his fingers fumbled to find the source of his pain.

“Starsk,” Hutch gasped when his hand found the bleeding wound, and pressed down hard. “Ahhh.” Fear skittered up his spine, a tiny seed of doubt germinating in his brain. — he wasn’t going to make it.

Trying hard to suppress his pain, Hutch struggled to his feet but couldn’t stay standing as he plopped back down. He trembled with cold, and could feel the steady beat of his heart pumping his blood into his palm. His eyelids fluttered, and he concentrated on keeping them from closing all together. He had seen one of the hijackers’ faces, and neither one would stop until they found him. That much he knew. Hutch thought he could hear sirens, he knew he heard gunfire and words being yelled, but it all just whistled around his head like the wind and rain.

The primitive impulse to survive struck through his gut, and Hutch forced himself back up to his feet, staggering along. He was soaking wet and the dim nightlight of the moon peeking out from behind a cloud was little encouragement. Cocking his head, he could still hear the rush of footsteps and the breaking of the large cornstalks behind him.

“Just hold out a little longer, Hutchinson, you can keep going.” He breathed heavily, feeling near his breaking point.

Thinking was starting to become impossible.

Still pressing his palm to the bullet wound, he could feel the blood leaking through his fingers. He wouldn’t be able to make it much further. Barely comprehending what he was doing, Hutch caught his breath and picked up his pace, stumbling more than he ran, trying to concentrate, trying to circle around to head back toward the road where he knew backup would be.

He knew Starsky would find his truck, and follow his tracks, but could he elude the hunters long enough to give his partner time to get to him? Hutch continued to run up and down, in and out of the rows of corn as the giant straight stalks quivered and swayed in the wind, blocking his way. He had to keep pushing aside the heavy green leaves while concentrating ever harder on not slipping in the mud.

Trying to keep calm, he let a fond memory take the place of his fears. He remembered his granddad’s farm, the taste of the tender, sweet corn he grew. How the young Hutchinson had loved to pick the leaf wrapped vegetable, unwrap the leaves, peel away the silk and eat the kernels straight away. The ears were crisp and creamy, sweet even without butter, and best of all: uncooked, the kernels didn’t stick to his teeth.

Without warning the memory faded and reality burned as an intruding piece of metal in his side. Hutch took a deep breath but stopped moving, instead lingering in one spot in the hopes of gathering strength. Suddenly, he had no energy left. He dropped to the ground, consumed by convulsive shivers.

“Starsk, h-hurry.” His mouth twitched. “Pl-please.”

His heart was racing in his chest as he tried to cocoon himself within the cornstalks, trying to stay quiet. His only plan was to keep himself hidden in the shadows, and hope his partner could find him before the hijackers did.

Hutch breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, his body tightening. He could still feel the flow of blood, and instinctively closed his fingers tighter over the wound, trying not to whimper as a hot wave of pain made him feel nauseated.

“Ohhhhhhh,” a moan slipped out, and he bit down on his lower lip to shut himself up.

Glancing all around him, he hoped no one had heard. At least the rain had stopped, but he still couldn’t see much. Hutch knew he was passing out, and he fought to stay conscious.

“There you are, driver!”

Hutch jolted into a half-sitting position.

“Miss your exit ramp?” The man joked.

“Uhhhh!” Hutch shuddered.

“Man, you got further than we thought you would.” Both men sniggered, seeming to enjoy the hunt. “Looks like your road trip ends here, though.”

Trying to remain calm with guns pointed at his head wasn’t easy. “I–I–” Hutch stuttered. “I’m a cop,” he managed, hoping that information would deter the bullets that were about to come flying his way.

“That right?” Both men laughed, expressing their disbelief.

Hutch clenched his back teeth, raising up on one elbow. “You don’t want to do a cop! You’ll fry for it.”

There was a small silence as both men hesitated, then started laughing again. “Guess we’ll just have to make sure no one ever finds your body.” One of the men walked toward him, gun still aimed at his head.

Hutch could see in this man’s eyes it wouldn’t matter what he said, and he was too weak to defend himself. He was screwed, wasn’t going to get out of this alive. He bit his lip in fear, gathering a mental picture of Starsky’s smile. He didn’t want the last face he saw to be a stranger’s.

“If you’re a cop, where’s your shiny tin badge?” The man took two steps forward. “Your fancy police car? Your partner?”

“Police! Drop it!” A stone cold voice came from behind.

“M-meet my partner,” Hutch whispered in relief, dropping flat to his back upon the ground.

The pain ripped and tore and seared through his side, threatening to devour him. Hutch kept breathing, trying to keep his eyes open, but they soon closed as black dots took over his vision, disorienting him.

He could still hear, however. It sounded like an army of foot soldiers stomping through the mud, then he heard a voice, felt a cool hand to his brow. He violently tossed his head from side to side, fearing whomever it was that was touching him.

“Hutch! Hutch!” The voice called to him. “Hey, hey, come on.”

“Stars,” Hutch barely muttered, fingers worriedly flexing in the mud.

“It’s me. Take it easy, now.”

Realization sunk in and Hutch calmed, his eyes barely flicking open to catch a glimpse of a dark form hovering over him. He opened his mouth to speak. Wanted to ask if they had gotten the bad guys, but those words didn’t come.

“It’s you,” Hutch croaked out instead.

“‘Course it’s me, dummy.” Starsky’s voice was shaky, yet he smiled.

Hutch studied the blurry shadowy figure, and a face soon came into focus. If he had any doubts before, they were gone now. It was Starsky. His partner was still talking to him, but he couldn’t hear the words anymore above the buzzing in his head.

“Breathe, Hutch,” he managed to hear, as Starsky bent over him, and he felt his shirt being lifted upward.

Hutch stared at the swirling image of his partner, feeling Starsky’s trembling fingers searching his bared flesh. “Ah,” Hutch hissed softly, pain flickering all over his body like a flame to the slight touch. He fought to keep the firey agony at bay, feeling blood oozing out the opening like a steadily leaking faucet. “Aw, God,” Hutch shifted in the mud, the crippling pain making it hard to breathe.

“Where’d you get hit?” Starsky asked.

“L-left si — my–my,” Hutch rasped.

“Your side?”

Hutch tensed, and jerked away when Starsky came into contact with the small hole in his left side, just below his armpit.

“Listen, buddy, going to get you to a hospital, and –”

“Uh–gggggg,” Hutch groaned and gulped, keeping his gaze on Starsky and fighting hard to breathe steadily.

“Easy. I got you, partner.” Starsky’s face blurred and faded as Hutch felt himself dropping into a black hole.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hutch could feel his heart beating fast and an unsettling rocking motion made him feel like throwing up, causing him to remain motionless. Dazed and confused, his head swam with what had happened and he couldn’t quite piece the night together. He forced his eyes open for a moment, not comprehending anything. It didn’t take long, however, for him to recognize the interior of what he knew to be a moving vehicle. He was lying on his back upon something soft and warm, and it felt good until a bump in the road jostled him, causing him to arch his back.

“Awwww.”

A hand came to his shoulder and rested there gently. “Try not to move, Hutch, it’s important.”

Hutch looked up into his partner’s face. Starsky sat sideways on the seat, his back pressed against the door, supporting him safely between his legs. His partner was the only thing Hutch was aware of as he asked, “W-where are we?”

“Backseat of Dobey’s car. Faster than any ol’ ambulance. Hold on.” Hutch watched as Starsky huddled protectively over him. “We’re almost at the hospital. How you feel?”

“Bad.Uh—–kkkkk,” he groaned when the car hit another bump, and his body jerked a little bit.

Starsky’s hand on his shoulder tightened, and the other pressed harder on the wound.

With difficulty, Hutch lifted a trembling hand and closed a fist around Starsky’s shirt collar. It hurt to breathe; the pain came in waves. He felt uncomfortably hot, yet he shivered, and a retching cough made his body buck involuntarily.

“Easy.” Starsky’s dark blue eyes were piercing as a hawk’s. Another bump in the road brought a cry from Hutch’s mouth. “Will you take it easy!” Starsky yelled, his voice tight with tension.

“Trying,” Hutch barely could whisper.

“I didn’t mean you, partner,” Starsky soothed.

“Trying!” Dobey’s voice was a deep puff of annoyance.

“S-sorry, Cap,” Starsky apologized. “It’s not your fault.”

Dobey cleared his throat. “Sit tight, we’re almost there.”

Hutch blinked at the face above him, and raised an eyebrow, as if he had to think really hard. “Don’t think you should talk to Sugar Plum, that way, S-Starsk.”

“Sugar Bear,” Starsky corrected.

“Papa Bear.” Dobey waggled a finger in the air.

Suddenly the car took a quick right.

“Starsk?” Hutch gulped.

He was certain this was how his goldfish had felt, that time he accidentally had knocked the fishbowl off his bureau, and Pluto had flopped around on his bedroom carpet. The poor pet had ended up under the bed in a corner, and by the time the young Hutchinson had found the fish — sadly — it was too late.

A hot sickening pain flared through his side, once again stealing a memory from him. Hutch looked away from his partner’s worried face, and swallowed hard on the bile that threatened to be expelled from his stomach.

“Hutch — Just–”

“What happened?” Hutch questioned, turning back to Starsky, studying him carefully, trying to get his mind off the pain.

“Same as always–”

“I got shot?”

“Kidnapped by aliens,” Starsky lamely joked, but didn’t smile.

“Really h-h-hate when that hap-happens.” Hutch shivered. “Did–did we get the bad guys?” He silently mouthed the words.

He watched Starsky swallow hard, and recognized the look in his best friend’s eyes — the one that said, “I almost lost you, partner.”

“Chalk up another job well done,” Starsky chuckled, as he used a finger to mark an imaginary point in the air.

Hutch’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Okay?” he asked, seeing the concern on his friend’s face.

He heard no reply, only felt Starsky’s steady hand against his wounded side, and his shirt sticking to his back. The material itched, and he wanted to pull the shirt away, but was too weak to move.

Hutch tried to voice his need. “This-this shirt. I-I can’t–”

Even to him, the words sounded like that of a delirious man, and he was shocked to find Starsky knew exactly what he was getting at.

“Sure, buddy. Let me get that for you.”

Starsky gathered some of the material, gently pulling the shirt away from Hutch’s skin.

“Lift up,” Starsky grunted, “just a little for me.”

Hutch shifted a fraction of an inch, and breathed a small sigh of relief as gentle fingers pried the sweaty shirt away from his itchy skin.

“How’s that?”

“What?”

“Better?” Starsky asked.

“No,” Hutch said in a small voice. What was he saying? Of course it felt better. His brain just wasn’t working quite right; felt like one big glob of pancake syrup. “Yes,” Hutch exhaled, finally getting out the correct response.

“No bullshit?” Starsky frowned at him.

“N-no bullshit,” Hutch said, managing a small smile, then lay quiet.

Hutch’s skin felt cold, and he started to feel like he was being sucked away from his friend’s touch. For a moment Hutch forgot he was in a car. Something dark was chasing him, howling in his ears, and the unseen monster scared him.

“Starsk?” he cried out.

“Easy. Just take it easy.” Hutch heard the soft voice in his ear. “I’m with you.”

Pain sliced through his side again and he dug his fingernails into Starsky’s hand, taking in short shallow breaths. “Don’t feel so hot.”

“You’re going to make it, buddy.”

“Not going to check out on you, Starsk.”

“See that you don’t.”

“Won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Hutch paused for a breath. “Over.” His eyes falling shut, and his head sagging to one side.

“You better not, partner — over.” Hutch heard Starsky’s low voice in his ear, and gave a tiny smile.

 

TAG

It was dark, and he felt so sleepy, but something was calling to him, trying to wrestle him awake. He tried to dodge the issue, but the voice called and called, begging him to make the dark go away. For a second, Hutch opened his eyes, seeing only dappling gray shadows which caused him to shut his eyes once more. He only wanted to drift away, back into the quiet comfort he’d come from, like a leaf floating down a lazy river.

Sometime later, he flitted near the surface of wakefulness again sleepily wondering who the person was that kept calling his name. Again he opened his eyes, and looked around. For a moment he watched as a shadow drifted from one end of the room to the other. The strange silhouette finally stood still, then moved toward him and came to rest in what appeared to be a chair. Hutch wanted to call out to the shadow. Not because he knew who or what it was, but because it felt like the right thing to do. He licked his lips, opened his mouth, and then blacked out, unable to bring himself to reconnect with the world around him.

Again he woke, this time to find himself alone, behind the wheel of the noisy truck, threatening to bring back his headache. Where had the room gone? The shadow? The chair? That quiet, lazy, floating feeling?

There was a voice above the thunder of the idling truck’s engine, but Hutch didn’t know where the sound was coming from. He could feel the stickiness of the wheel beneath the grip of his hands, could feel the heat of the wind. The CB squawked. He saw a diner. A parking lot. A fuel station. A scarecrow. He was having a tough time of it, trying to grasp where he was. Cold sweat dripped down from the nape of his neck and beneath his shirt collar. He was hot, and then cold, and then hot again. His timeline was completely off-kilter; a gun now pointed at his head. Where’d that come from? He shivered, readied himself to feel the pain of the world’s most powerful handgun.

“Hutch.”

He startled awake, opening his eyes. A sudden numbness seized him, and he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Everything was a brown haze, slowly going in and out of focus, like a broken camera lens. Hutch blinked rapidly, and for a brief second he found himself staring up at a low-hung ceiling. He studied the swirling plaster, lying there under the warm covers, until the ceiling blurred into a brown haze again.

“Good morning, buddy.”

Hutch heard the voice, but still his stare remained fixed on the fuzzy ceiling. He was confused, only remembering grainy images of him running through the rain, tripping and stumbling. He quivered, recalling the wind and stalks of corn hitting his face, mud squishing beneath his shoes. The images all played out like a bad movie. Everything suddenly disappeared and turned black, until he felt something hot and painful slip into his side — much like a knife burying itself into bone.

“Ahhhh,” he gasped for air.

“Take a breath.” His head thrashed back and forth on the pillow feeling like he was suffocating. “Hutch,” the voice spoke calm and slow. “Take–a–breath.”

He inhaled, and held the oxygen inside his lungs — replenished by the cool breeze. Breathing, it was the most basic of things, how could he have forgotten, but the sudden rush caused him to sputter and choke.

“You gotta let the air back out, buddy.” The voice chuckled, but Hutch could sense the tightness in the tone. “Let the air out,” he was instructed once again more sternly. “In and out.”

Hutch let out a slow breath, taking in another and another, letting the air flow back out each time. The tube he now knew was in his nostrils made his nose itch. He concentrated on his lessons in breathing.

The voice was quiet again, seeming to wait patiently for him to get the pain under control. Hutch could feel the softness of fingers tenderly running up and down his bare arm.

“You know, you handle yourself real well, Hutch.”

Opening his eyes, Hutch turned his head toward the man’s voice and stared stupidly at the shadowy mass hovering really close to his face. For a few beats of his heart, Hutch didn’t know who ‘he’ was. He automatically reached for something, although he wasn’t sure what, and his fingers blindly found a pleasing warmth.

“Hey, buddy,” a voice quietly spoke near his ear.

Hutch’s eyes narrowed, finally able to identify his partner. His lips tried to form a word, but couldn’t.

“Don’t try to talk, partner, just stay nice and still.”

Using his eyes only, Hutch looked around the room, then down to the white bandage taped against the burning in his side.

“You’re in the hospital. Going to be okay. They removed the bullet.”

Hutch frowned, raising his head up slightly off the pillow. “F-feel sick.”

“You didn’t just catch a bullet, buddy boy, you caught the flu, too. You have a temperature. You’ll be slugging down chicken broth and Jell-O for a few days, but you’re going to be fine.”

“O–o–o?” Hutch muttered weakly, his mouth and his mind not working as one. Realizing he was wasting his breath, he let his head sink back into the pillow.

“Yeah, pal, it’s over,” Starsky helped out. “Thanks to you, we nailed the Kings of the Road, and all you have to do now is take things real slow, and rest.” Starsky paused. “You with me?”

“With me,” Hutch echoed the last two words, scowling at his own jumbled thoughts that seemed to have been kicked to the curb. “With you,” he corrected.

Starsky gave a light laugh. “You’re not trucking up to full speed there yet, Golden Goose.”

Hutch nodded, blinking at his friend, already starting to feel the effects of sleep again.

Starsky settled back in his chair still holding Hutch’s hand.

“Starsk,” Hutch said, closing his eyes.

“Yeah, buddy, right here.”

“Next time–” Hutch forced one eye open. “Next time you drive.” He sighed, and his eye fell shut.

“You got it, pal,” Starsky whispered, squeezing Hutch’s hand. “Now rest.”

“I–I can do that,” Hutch said, squeezing Starsky’s hand in return, slipping beyond the sound of his partner’s voice.

The end.