Fallen

He wasn’t sorry. He’d do it again… But the shock he’d held at bay ’til now was deep and ugly, full of grisly images and chilling what-ifs. He would never be free of them. Never. …he heard muffled shrieks of a monster dying and the cries of a partner fighting nightmares alone… filling him with equal parts of guilt and grief.

Originally published in the zine, The Bay City Gazette, in 2014.

He’d been a good cop once.

The thought came out of nowhere. Surprised him. Once? Hutch stopped what he was doing and thought about it a moment, then nodded to himself. Yeah, once. A lifetime ago, when Protect and Serve hadn’t just been a motto. It was how he’d tried to live his life. Oh—he hadn’t been so naive to think that good would always triumph or that justice would always be served. But he’d done his best and tried hard to make a difference. And for a while, he honestly believed he had.

Not anymore.

He felt a sudden pang of loss. He hadn’t expected the years to take the toll they had so quickly, chipping away at his mind and body, and leaving him so—disillusioned.

That thought was another surprise. Sure, he’d figured someday he’d be old, too tired, too jaded, too out of shape to work the streets. Most cops did and eventually were. Someday.

He wasn’t going to make it to someday. Another failure in a string of failures. His fear took over. Disgusted and impatient, he remembered what he was doing and why. He stiffened his resolve and went back to work. He was running out of time.

He threw a last shovel full of dirt on the grave and bowed his head as the first spasms hit.

No! Not yet! He swallowed hard against the rising bile, but doubled over in agony, suddenly unable to breathe. Hold it together… C’mon, you can do it. Just a little while longer. There’re still things to do…

They’d have to wait. He fell to his hands and knees, vomiting onto the fresh-turned earth. There wasn’t much to lose—granola bars he’d scarfed this morning and too much coffee he’d had all day since—but the spasms went on and on, punishing him harshly for what he’d done.

He wasn’t sorry. He’d do it again. Justice served for angry ghosts. But the shock he’d held at bay ’til now was deep and ugly, full of grisly images and chilling what-ifs. He would never be free of them. Never.

His stomach spasmed one last time. He spat weakly, then wiped his mouth with a shaky hand and crawled two feet before collapsing once more, his cheek pressed hard against soft dirt.

It was dangerous to remain here. He should go now. But the shock was merciless. It left him helpless and his helplessness shamed him where his brutality had not. He clawed the dirt in two-fisted pain as his senses scrambled. As vision and touch and taste grayed out. As the stench of the gravesite faded away. Perversely, his hearing grew outrageously acute and the world around him exploded with noise. But he didn’t hear wind or tiny nocturnal things or the riotous thundering of his heart…

…he heard muffled shrieks of a monster dying and the cries of a partner fighting nightmares alone. The sounds weren’t real, couldn’t be real, but he heard them all the same, growing loud, louder, ’til they overpowered him, filling him with equal parts of guilt and grief.

It was too much. He curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his head and—unable to withstand anything more—passed out face down in the dirt.

***

“I dreamed Starsky’s death and he’s already dying. I dream my dreams awake so they always come true. Always true…”

He remembered being enraged and so very, very scared. Starsky was gone and there’d been no leads. And blood had been everywhere…. He’d resorted to confronting Simon Marcus for answers and barely managed to keep from beating the man to death.

“He lives until I’m sentenced. But you’d better hurry.”

It had been close, but he’d found Starsky. And in saving his partner, he’d learned something else. Starsky mattered to him. Mattered more than anyone else. The revelation had shaken him. What did it mean? Starsky was his best friend. His partner. And that was all, right? He wasn’t ready to go there yet.

He thought of Nancy, who became Vanessa, of Jeanie and Abigail, Sweet Alice and Gillian, of all the women he’d cared about, but couldn’t reconcile with his job. But Starsky was always by his side.

They’d gone back to work. The trial resumed, concluded, and Simon Marcus was found guilty. Two weeks later, chanting cultists stormed the sentencing, shooting and stabbing anyone in reach. It was a bloodbath, but they accomplished what they set out to do. In the melee, Simon Marcus disappeared.

A week later, a package arrived at the station, addressed to David Starsky. It contained a human hand. Others arrived at irregular intervals. All addressed to Starsky. All contained pieces of an unidentified female—an arm, a foot, a boxful of teeth.

The head was delivered to Starsky’s home. It was Gail Harcourt’s, the cultist who had helped save Starsky. Starsky moved in with Hutch. After a few more, the packages stopped, but Starsky fretted and the nightmares his abduction had triggered returned. Working the streets got rough.

“He lives until I’m sentenced.” The smug words bubbled out of Hutch’s memory. So did the certainty the man would try again. Hutch began to brood. And Protect and Serve skewed to mean Protect and Serve Starsky.

It took a while to track them down. There were only a few of the cultists left, but they were the rabid ones, hardcore followers of a dangerous man. But eventually, one of them was seen and tailed and led them to the others. Another shootout ended with the members in custody and the one called Luke dead. Simon wasn’t with them. When questioned, the others proclaimed only Luke had known where he was.

Hutch didn’t buy it. Simon Marcus was a sociopath. He needed followers, worshippers who would do as they were told. He wasn’t the kind to hide alone.

The abandoned motel where they found the cultists was ideal for Simon’s purpose. Isolated, uninhabited, full of places a person could hide. Hutch staked it out.

Three days later, he caught Simon Marcus slinking out of a bolt hole under a shed. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Marcus stopped, surprised, but didn’t try to run. “Detective Hutchinson. Or do you prefer Hutch?” He shrugged, then casually looked around. “Where’s your partner?”

At home. Far away from you. Hutch didn’t bother to answer.

Marcus didn’t seem to care. He held out his wrists, waited for cuffs. “I’m ready to go whenever you are, Hutch.”

“What makes you think I’m taking you in?”

“You won’t hurt me. You’re the White Knight.” The words were sneered, a dismissive taunt. “Tell me. Did Starsky like my gifts?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Hutch pulled his gun. “I’m not the White Knight. Not anymore.” And he fired.

***

Moonlight broke through the dense leafy canopy. It washed his handiwork with soft, deadly light and the screams in his head subsided. His stomach settled. He took a grateful breath and sat up slowly. No one else would ever be certain, but he knew the nightmare ended tonight.

Hutch stood and listened carefully, wondering how long it had taken Marcus to die. He’d shot to wound, not kill outright and the monster was bleeding out slowly as Hutch duct-taped him into a canvas shroud and buried him alive.

It was quiet now. He looked around in the silvery light at the ground beneath his feet. It seemed undisturbed. He picked up the shovel and tossed it up, then clambered out of the open grave. A few kicks from the mound of dirt at the edge concealed signs he’d been in the hole.

He rubbed his face tiredly against his sleeve. It was long past time to go. He needed to check on Starsky, get cleaned up, and call Dobey. There was a funeral set here later this morning—Luke’s burial in this pauper’s grave. He planned to attend.

The moonlight disappeared.

Goodbye, Simon. Rot in hell. Hutch spat into the waiting grave where Marcus was already buried, then turned and slipped into the dark.

~End~