Fractures

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July 1981: Starsky goes undercover and things go wrong in unexpected ways. Can Hutch learn to love a different kind of Starsky?

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Dusk had come early that day. Darkness hugged the corners of the room, and the lights were dim.

Hutch sat hunched over his desk and stared at the page in front of him. Something about it seemed familiar. Closer inspection revealed it to be the identical page on which he had opened the file some time ago. With a sense of futility, he closed the report and pushed it away. His gaze strayed to the back of the room again.

There beside the filing cabinet, trading easy banter with Bertie and Maxine, stood a man—a man who looked like Starsky. He moved like him, talked like him, laughed like him. He even flirted just like the Starsky he knew.

He was Starsky, right down to the faded jeans and wacky grin. 

For a precious moment, Hutch hugged the fantasy that maybe he had it all wrong. That it was all a mistake. That there was still hope somewhere in a pocket of this living nightmare. Hutch wanted to believe in that hope so bad, it hurt.

Then the man turned and looked at him with dark, uncertain eyes—and the brief fantasy shattered into a thousand pieces. They were the eyes of a stranger. A concerned, well-meaning stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

“Hey, Hutch,” the stranger said with an overly bright smile and walked up. “I’m done over here. Whadda ya say we hit the road for some food, huh? I’m starvin’. There’s this new place over on Fifth I been meaning to try. Collins says they make the best chili burgers this side of the Mojave.”

Hutch’s stomach heaved. Without warning, the small nest of hope he’d tended with such care went up in smoke and shriveled. He lurched to his feet, pushed blindly past a surprised Babcock and out into the hallway. Made it to the bathroom and was sick in one of the cubicles.

When he was done and empty of everything but the leaden lump of fear in his gut, he leaned his forehead against the cool metal door and closed his eyes, unable to keep up the pretense any longer.

He’d lost him. The Starsky he knew was gone.

Terror tightened around his chest like a vice, stealing his breath. The dark day grew a little darker as the last tendrils of hope withered away.

Hutch stayed in the cubicle for just another minute. Then he walked to the sink and splashed some water on his face, dug his fingers into his eyes as if that could erase the memories still burning on the inside of his lids.

Finally he dried his face with a paper towel, clamped a lock over his heart, and walked out. The life they’d had together was over. Now all he could do was hold onto what was left of it.

Starsky was waiting for him outside, hovering helplessly. Hutch took a deep breath and forced himself to meet the tentative smile on his partner’s face. Somehow, he even managed to dredge up a shaky smile of his own.

“Ready?” he said. “All right, let’s go and get that burger.”

 

July 1981

I

Hutch had a bad feeling about the whole thing right from the start.

It wasn’t just getting hauled back to work only two hours after logging out. It wasn’t the tense edge to Dobey’s voice on the phone or even the fact that he sounded unusually polite. It wasn’t anything Hutch could put his finger on. It was just a bad feeling.

“This had better be good,” Starsky grumbled beside him as the elevator juddered to a halt and the doors inched open. “What could be so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow? It’s not as if we’re short of cases. And he’s already bawled us out twice today. My ears are still ringing.”

The hallway was full of the usual traffic. Starsky launched himself into the flow with the ease of a man who belonged there and strode ahead. Hutch sidestepped a couple of officers marching a struggling suspect along, and followed.

“Well, maybe he’s finally come across our expense sheet from the Miami job last month,” he said when he’d caught up.

Starsky’s step faltered. “Shit. The one with the four-hundred-bucks-a-night hotel room, you mean?”

“The one that came with room service, champagne, and jacuzzi. Uh huh.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. We had orders to stick close to whatshisname Pugliano. Wasn’t my fault they only had the honeymoon suite left.”

“I don’t think Lieutenant Reynolds meant quite that close,” Hutch said, rolling his eyes. “There was a perfectly serviceable motel right opposite.”

“All the way down the road, you mean. We would’ve missed half the action. Besides, it worked, didn’t it? We got a first-rate psychopath off the streets. That’s gotta be worth a few bucks of the taxpayer’s money.”

“Save the puppy dog look for Dobey. And remember, if he asks who made that booking, it wasn’t me!”

Starsky eyed the finger Hutch pointed at him with one of his extra wide grins. “Aw, Hutch, don’t be such a grouch. You loved that room and especially the jacuzzi.” His voice dropped to a suggestive purr. “You have no idea how hot you look in nothing but bubble bath!”

“Starsky!” Hutch felt his ears go hot. Damn the man. After all this time, he could still make him blush like a school boy. And what was worse, he knew it.

Hutch gave the door to his captain’s office a perfunctory rap. “Get in there,” he growled before he pushed it open, “and don’t you dare mention any Jacuzzis in front of Dobey or I swear I’ll skin your ass.”

Starsky’s laughter entered Dobey’s office with him, filling the air with a rich, vibrant sound. Then it wavered and broke apart, and a second later, Hutch saw why.

Dobey wasn’t alone. Two visitors dominated the space, and although the words FBI weren’t tattooed on their foreheads, they might as well have been. Sharp-eyed, sharp-suited, and with a presence larger than the room, they couldn’t have been anything else.

“Hutch, Starsky,” Dobey said, barely glancing up from his desk. “Come in and close the door. These are Special Agents Kurzweil and Montgomery.” His hand swept the air. “Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson.”

Dobey’s visitors stood. “Gentlemen.”

Curt nods. No offers of handshakes. Instead, keen eyes raked over them with undisguised interest. No, Hutch amended, not over them. Over Starsky. The Feds were practically eating him up. He himself merited only a fleeting glance.

The short, muscle-packed blond by the name of Montgomery closed the folder he was holding and shifted his attention to Hutch with obvious reluctance.

“That’ll be all, Sergeant,” he said in a clipped drawl. “Our business is with Detective Starsky here. There’s no need to waste any more of your time.”

A meaningful glance at the door completed the dismissal.

Hutch wiped a hand over his chin, unsure for a moment whether to bristle or to laugh in the man’s face. Before he could make up his mind, Starsky had taken a step forward and leveled a pleasant smile at the agent.

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” he said. “Me ‘n’ Hutch, we come as a team. Partners, ya know? Two for the price of one.” The smile dropped away and was replaced with a look that could have cut a steel beam in half. “Now was there anything in particular you wanted to talk to us about or are you just slumming it?”

“Starsky!” Dobey barked, rising half from his chair. “Sit down and listen to the man! Both of you! And you, Montgomery, I thought I’d made it clear to you that any deal you make with Starsky had better include Hutchinson, too.”

A look passed between the two agents before Kurzweil, a taller, slimmer version of his partner, neatly took over.

“Gentlemen, please,” he said. “Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. I realize relations between the police and the FBI aren’t always as smooth as they might be, and I regret that. We’re here because we need your help.” He looked at Hutch. “Both your help.”

Hutch didn’t buy that for a minute. A polite federal agent? The Feds had to be desperate. A glance at Starsky’s wary face told him his partner wasn’t taken in, either.

Might as well hear what they have to say, the return glance said.

Hutch nodded, and the small tension deflated. Kurzweil settled back into his chair, Hutch took the other, while Starsky brought a third one over and straddled it back to front. Only Montgomery stayed on his feet, a shoulder propped against the wall beside the window. An expectant pause ensued.

Kurzweil reached to take the folder from his partner’s hands, extracted a photograph and held it out. A fresh-faced youngster in a US Army uniform and a crew cut grinned at them. “Do you know this man?”

Hutch shook his head, but Starsky looked up sharply.

“Come off it, Kurzweil,” he said. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know that I served with this guy in Vietnam. That’s Benny Beauchamp. We were in base camp together.”

Vietnam. The first hint of some niggling unease invaded the pit of Hutch’s stomach.

“All right,” Kurzweil said. “How about these?”

This time, the folder yielded a single sheet of paper. Starsky took it and leaned closer to Hutch. Together they scanned the list of names and army ranks. Finally, Starsky looked up and shook his head.

“All right,” Hutch said. “You care to enlighten us what this is all about?”

Montgomery pushed himself away from the wall and took the sheet from Starsky’s hand.

“Eighteen men,” he said, waving the paper in front of Hutch’s face. “Gone missing over the past couple of years from locations right across the state. All of them former soldiers who served in Vietnam. All of them screwed up in the head from their experiences at the front.”

Hutch brushed the sheet aside. “Eighteen missing men in the past two years? Why haven’t we heard about this? Missing persons should’ve had a report out on that long ago.”

Starsky stirred beside him. “I guess the military sat on the information.”

“Or the Feds.”

Both turned to Kurzweil, who spread his hands with a shrug.

“Most of these men are unattached. Only three of them were reported missing by a family member. It was the Veterans Administration that first realized that some of their members had dropped out of view. They referred the matter to the Army, and after they did some digging, we took over.”

“That’s not the only thing they have in common,” Montgomery added. “They all went through some bad shit, and all had trouble settling back into civilian life. The usual problems—trouble holding down a job, homelessness, substance abuse. What’s unusual is that none of them received any serious injuries in the war. In fact, from what we gather, they were all reasonably fit and healthy when they disappeared.”

“Physically fit, but mentally unstable?” Hutch said.

“Haunted is the word one of them used, according to a doctor we spoke to. You can guess what that means: nightmares, flashbacks, that sort of thing.”

Hutch wasn’t sure he liked the way this was going. He’d never set foot in Vietnam, but he knew all about nightmares. “Any leads?” he said.

“More than that,” Montgomery said as Kurzweil leaned over and presented another photograph. It showed an aerial view of a sprawling complex of buildings amid lush, sprinkler-fed greenery.

“That’s the Leibovich Center for Research and Mental Rehabilitation near Santa Monica. It’s a private facility run by Rayburn Leibovich.”

“Rayburn Leibovich?” Hutch said. “Wait a minute. Isn’t he someone big in medical science? There was an article in the paper about him not long ago. It said he might be in the running for a Nobel Prize in medicine.”

“That’s him. He’s a specialist on mental disorders, a brilliant mind in his field and highly respected among his peers.”

“What’s he got to do with this?” Starsky said. “Are you saying he’s behind the disappearances?”

“We don’t know if he’s personally involved, but we’re pretty sure that the Leibovich Center is at the heart of it.” Kurzweil hesitated. “We suspect they’re using former Vietnam soldiers as guinea pigs in some sort of illicit medical research—drugs, probably.”

Hutch was beginning to see where this was heading, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“We’ve checked the place over, of course,” Montgomery continued. “We even got the visitors tour. On the surface everything checks out—accounts, permits, employee records, you name it. The man pays his taxes on time, donates to charity. We can’t even stick an unpaid parking ticket on him. He’s so squeaky clean, it stinks.”

“We know something is wrong,” Kurzweil added, “but we don’t have the evidence to bring him in. Leibovich is a high-profile member of the medical community. His rehab section caters for the rich and famous. He’s dried out more Hollywood stars than most other clinics combined. His patients pay good money for complete privacy and confidentiality. We can’t just charge in there with a warrant. We’ve got to handle this with kid gloves.”

Kurzweil speared his listeners with a penetrating look. “Before we go in with a warrant, we need some solid evidence. Or an eye witness. We need someone to infiltrate the place and check it out.”

There it was, the thing Hutch had feared would come and stalk them one day. He was on his feet, surprised by the strength of his reaction.

“Don’t look at us to help you out,” he said much too sharply. “We can’t go undercover anymore. We’re far too well known for that. Our mugs were in all the papers.”

Starsky didn’t move. He didn’t even look at Hutch.

“We’re not talking undercover,” Montgomery said. “Not exactly. We want Detective Starsky to go in as himself, as a cop and Vietnam veteran. We can provide him with a convincing story, background, medical records, paperwork, everything.”

He turned to Starsky. “You’d go in as a cop suffering from burnout and post-traumatic stress relating to the time you were held captive by the Viet Cong.  You’ve kept this a secret from your superiors and the police psychologist, but recently the symptoms have been getting worse and begun to affect your ability to do your job.”

The agent permitted himself a mirthless smile. “The fact that you were injured in a shootout not long ago works in your favor. You can claim that the shooting brought back memories you’d managed to suppress for years.”

Great. Almost getting killed by Gunther as a new career move. Hutch could hardly believe they were serious. He started pacing.

“Why Starsky?” he said. “Why not put one of your own guys under, as a medical researcher or a nurse or whatever?”

“Believe me, that would’ve been much our preferred option,” Montgomery said with a hint of acid. “Unfortunately we don’t have the time. Putting an agent under as a staff member would take months of groundwork. And there would be no guarantee that he or she would get access to the research program.”

“That’s why we need to place a patient.” Kurzweil picked up the thread. “As a Vietnam vet, Detective Starsky could be inside within a few weeks, and he would be at the heart of the action.”

Hutch frowned at him. “You’re telling me you guys don’t know how to go undercover as Vietnam vets?”

“We prefer the real deal,” Kurzweil said. “Some things are hard to fake. Vietnam vets know one of their own when they see one, and they can spot a phony just as quickly. Leibovich runs a special rehab section for war veterans. Detective Starsky is likely to run into several. We need someone who was in-country, who knows the land, the people, the jargon.”

“Obviously we also need someone with undercover skills and cop training,” Montgomery added.

Hutch stopped pacing and stabbed a forefinger at the agent. “I’m asking you again, why Starsky? Surely the FBI can source a special agent with a background in Vietnam?”

“Not at short notice. Not without jeopardizing other missions.” Impatience tinged Montgomery’s voice. “Look, Sergeant, we’ve done our homework. We’ve looked at every option. Believe it or not, no one fits the bill as well as Detective Starsky.”

Everyone turned to look at him. Starsky was still staring at Benny Beauchamp’s youthful grin. Hutch recalled that he had been very quiet for the past few minutes.

Another moment passed before Starsky stirred. “How would I get in?” he said. “I can’t just ring the bell and ask to take part in their illegal research program.”

Christ, he was actually thinking of doing it! Hutch stared at him, and Starsky looked away.

Kurzweil produced yet another photo. It showed a weathered face surrounded by an array of straggly dark hair.

“That’s Lonzo DiMario, a former squadron leader. He came back in ’73 minus a leg. We think he does the recruiting for Leibovich. He hangs out in veterans bars and picks up potential candidates in return for a fee. He always goes for the same type—guys without a job or attachments who won’t be missed for a while. Down-and-outs with nothing much to lose.”

“Looks like you have it all figured out,” Hutch said with a sharp edge to his voice. “You seem pretty certain that we’ll go along with your plan.”

“I don’t like it, either,” Dobey spoke up for the first time and slapped his hand on the desk. “Too much can go wrong. What if they try this experimental treatment out on Starsky?”

“We wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else,” Kurzweil said smoothly. “From a long list of potentials, Detective Starsky is by far our best chance of pulling it off.”

“It’s up to you,” Dobey said to Starsky, ignoring the Feds. “Think it over. If you say no, it’s a no.”

Starsky finally looked up, but not at Dobey or the Feds. He looked directly at Hutch. Us, the look said. It’s up to us.

He got to his feet. Hutch said, “Captain, will you excuse us for a minute?” Starsky already had the door. “We’ll be right back.”

ooOOOoo

“Dobey is right. This case stinks.”

Interrogation Room 5 hadn’t improved since the last time they’d had to pull the good cop/bad cop routine on a suspect in there. It was the same gray windowless space with padded soundproofing, a cheap table, and a couple of chairs on unsteady legs.

Hutch shut the door and faced his partner. “They just want you to do the dirty work for them. They want to use you for bait, that’s all. They don’t give a fuck about you, or your safety, or what’s going to happen to you in there.”

Starsky rested one half of his butt on the edge of the table. He was still holding the photo. He didn’t reply.

“We said we wouldn’t go undercover anymore,” Hutch said with growing helplessness. The situation was slipping from his grasp. He knew that look on Starsky’s face far too well. A flood of words wouldn’t make a difference.

“It’s not undercover,” Starsky finally said. “I’d be going in as myself.”

“It’s damn well undercover, and you know it.”

“All right, so there’s a risk involved. There are risks involved in everything we do. We’re cops. No one ever said being a cop was an easy ride.”

“Why don’t you just admit it?” Hutch rounded on him. “You want to do this. In fact, you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

Starsky bristled. “Aw, c’mon, Hutch, that ain’t fair. You know I wouldn’t make a decision like that without you.”

A long sigh deflated Hutch’s chest. “Yeah, I know. It’s just…I have a bad feeling about this. It’s a big job. You could be under for weeks, and we have no idea what’s going on in that place. It’s not like the Cabrillo job. At least we were in that together. What if things go wrong? What if they make you? Or experiment on you? They could do anything to you before we even realize you’re in trouble. They could—”

“Hey, hey, Hutch. Stop it.” Starsky reached out, caught the edge of Hutch’s sleeve and held on. “Stop it, all right? It’s an undercover job, not a suicide mission. I’ll carry a transmitter or something. I’ll keep in touch. And you know perfectly well that I wouldn’t let them try out any half-baked experiments on me.”

“They may not take no for an answer! Has it occurred to you that you could be walking into a death trap? What the hell do you suppose happened to your eighteen army buddies in there?”

“They volunteered. They wanted the treatment. I don’t. I’ll bail as soon as I know what we’re dealing with.”

“Maybe you can’t bail. Maybe they’ll lock you up. Christ, Starsky, there’s no end of things that can go wrong.”

“But that doesn’t mean they will.” Starsky leveled a firm look at Hutch. “We’ve had plenty of tough jobs lately, and nothing has gone wrong for a long time.”

“Exactly.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? That we’re overdue for another crisis?” A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not going superstitious on me in your old age, are you?”

The gentle jibe failed to lighten Hutch’s mood. He frowned.

“Look,” he said, “this wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that another high profile case would get you that degree exemption, would it?”

“Degree exemption?”

“Don’t give me that innocent look. I read the bulletin same as you, the one that said that the degree requirement for a promotion to lieutenant grade may be waived in exceptional circumstances. I saw the look on your face when you read that. You looked like you’d had a revelation.” Hutch shook his finger at his partner. “We both know that if you pull this off, you can ask Ryan for the sky. Even a lieu’s position.”

Starsky was silent.

“Well? That’s it, isn’t it?” Hutch persisted.

“Hutch….”

“I knew it! Dammit, Starsky, is this still about what my dad said to you in Duluth? About you holding me back and all that bullshit? I told you I’m perfectly happy with the way things are. I don’t want to be a lieutenant—”

“You don’t,” Starsky said tersely, “because you can’t. It’s as simple as that. Not while I’m stuck being a sergeant. You’d never take a promotion over my head.”

“You’re working on it, aren’t you? You’re starting that degree course in the fall, and you’re really enjoying the prep class, and—”

“And you know as well as I do that it’s gonna take me at least eight years of evening classes to get anywhere near a degree. We’ll be old and decrepit by the time we make lieutenant.” Starsky sighed. “Look at this job as some kind of an insurance policy. Just in case we ever do want to get off the streets.”

“You don’t have to do this. Not for me.”

“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for us. Anyway, I want to.” Starsky reached out and put his hands on either side of Hutch’s hips—a light, warm touch, innocent enough to fool a casual observer on the other side of the one-way glass. “Tell me honestly you don’t miss it sometimes, the whole undercover thing.”

Hutch looked away. God, he hated it when Starsky did that. Pulled his most secret thoughts right out from the murkiest depths of his soul. He stepped away, breaking Starsky’s touch.

“Yeah, all right, I miss it sometimes,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean we have to do it. Dobey isn’t hot on the idea, either.”

“What Dobey isn’t hot on is something I don’t even wanna think about. Anyway, when has that ever stopped us?”

“It’s not our case. It’s their case. We’ll deliver the goods, and they’ll walk away with the credit!”

“We won’t let them.” Starsky slid off the table and recaptured his lost hold on Hutch. “Hutch, listen. This case has our names written all over it. We’re perfect for the job. Me on the inside, you on the outside. They need us. Besides, you can’t fool me. You’re just as keen to find out what happened to those guys as I am.”

Hutch glanced away from those perceptive eyes, knowing at once that he’d betrayed himself.

“It’s been over a year,” Starsky said quietly. “A year and a half since we put the Shark behind bars. Since then it’s all been nuts-and-bolts jobs. Aren’t you itching to get your teeth into a really big case again?”

Bad idea. Bad.

“Come on, Hutch,” Starsky pleaded. “Just this one last time. They need us. Who else are they gonna ask who has the skills and the knowledge and the right background?”

“There must be other cops in this country who served in Vietnam.”

“You heard Shorty. The Feds have done their homework. I’m their best shot.”

Tell him no. Tell him you don’t want him to do it. Say “Do it for me” and you know he will.

The eager look at Starsky’s face demolished the thought before it could find expression in words.

“I want this case, Hutch,” Starsky said. “Benny was a buddy. I gotta find out what happened to him.”

“All right.” Hutch held up a hand to stall the beginnings of a grin he saw materializing on his partner’s face. “Under one condition.”

An expressive eyebrow went up. Yeah?

“I’ll be in charge of surveillance. I’ll be your only contact on the outside, and you will talk only to me. And if I see a reason to pull you in, any reason at all, you’ll come in when I say so, no discussion. And I want no heroics, no solo missions, and no unauthorized stunts. Is that clear?”

“You sound like Dobey.”

Hutch wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “That’s the condition. Take it or leave it. And if the Feds don’t like it, they can stuff it.”

Starsky eyed him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “All right. Let’s go in and tell them.”

 

II

The first part was easy.

Letting himself get picked up by Lonzo was child’s play for Starsky. It involved hanging out in bars popular with vets, consuming unhealthy amounts of beer, planting his cover story, and waiting for the fish to bite.

Hutch hung around outside, hunkered down in his car or loitering in the shadows, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of Babcock or Simmons who had agreed to be a part of Hutch’s surveillance team.

He wasn’t surprised that the Feds had caved in to his demands. They wanted Starsky, even if that meant taking his pain-in-the-butt partner along for the ride. They’d baulked at the surveillance condition, but come around with speed when Starsky had stood and threatened to walk out on them.

So here he was, in charge of keeping Starsky safe. What else was new?

Lonzo made contact less than a week into the job.

“He’s circling the bait,” Starsky reported that night when they were gathered in the small third floor meeting room for the daily debriefing session. “I saw greedy little dollar signs in his eyes. I betcha he gets megabucks for every guy he brings in.”

“What happened?” Kurzweil said.

“He bought me a drink. We talked. I spun him just enough of my story to get him interested—the Viet Cong, flashbacks, too much booze getting in the way of my job. The whole “cop on the edge” spiel. I told him I was that close to gettin’ kicked off the force.” Starsky shrugged. “Give it a coupla days. He’ll be looking into it. If it all checks out, he’ll be back.”

And he was.

A few days later Starsky swaggered into the room in the early hours of the morning, smelling of booze and cigarette smoke and something too sweet to be altogether legal, and looking profoundly pleased with himself.

“I think he bought it,” he said as he fell into a chair. “He’s warming to me. We spent half the night talking. He wanted to know all about me, my family, how I’m set up.” He accepted the mug of coffee Hutch placed at his elbow with a nod and a look that lingered just a fraction too long, causing a small warmth to ignite in Hutch’s groin.

“You told him you’re broke and crashing at your partner’s place?” Montgomery said.

“Sure did. I also told him the selfish bastard was gonna kick me out soon and move his girlfriend in.” Starsky winked at Hutch, before turning serious again. “I think he swallowed it. He’s already got me down as a loser with one foot in the gutter—no money, no friends, no place to stay.”

“What’s he like?” Hutch said quietly.

“He has a bellyful of anger inside him,” Starsky said, his hands curled around the mug. “Against the army, mostly, and how it dumps its soldiers once they’ve served their purpose. Kids get drafted into the war, he says, and when they come home screwed up, they’re left by the wayside. He’s bitter, ’cause that’s what happened to him.”

Starsky tossed back the near scalding brew with the ease of long practice and set the empty mug down. “He said the only reason he got his head back together is ’cause a friend of a friend of his got him a place on this private rehab program. For a select few. He said to keep quiet about it. If word got out, everyone would want to get on it.”

Kurzweil and Montgomery exchanged a triumphant look.

Even Hutch was intrigued.

“Did he say what kind of treatment?” he said. “Drugs? Psychotherapy?”

“Nothing. He’s pretty tight-lipped about the details, and I didn’t want to push him. He made me swear not to tell anyone.” Starsky let a hint of a smug grin appear on his face. “And then he said he could try and get me a place in the program if I was interested. As a special favor.”

They all leaned forward.

“What did you tell him?” Montgomery said.

“I played reluctant. I said I didn’t have the money for that kinda thing, especially since it looked like I was gonna be on welfare soon.”

“And?” Hutch said.

“He said not to worry about the money. He said they were always looking for volunteers to take part in clinical trials. He said if I was interested, he could get one of the specialists to check me out, see if I’m suitable.”

A sigh of quiet satisfaction went around the table.

Kurzweil nodded slowly. “All right,” he said. “I think it’s time to step things up a bit.”

Things moved quickly from there. A couple of days later, Starsky and Dobey staged a well-rehearsed scene right at the entrance of the station that started with a yelling match and culminated in Starsky tossing his badge at Dobey’s feet and marching away in a fury.

Two days later, Lonzo renewed his offer. This time, Starsky accepted. Watching from behind the wheel of his car, Hutch saw them shake hands on the deal in the semi-darkness of a deserted parking garage.

It was settled. Starsky was going in.

The unease Hutch had kept on a carefully guarded back burner flared up again, and he slapped it down and told himself to get a grip. Starsky was a pro. There was nothing in this case he hadn’t done a hundred times before.

His fingers felt for Starsky’s badge he’d started carrying around like a lucky charm, tucked away in an inside pocket of his summer jacket. And he hoped it wouldn’t be long before he could restore it to its rightful owner.

ooOOOoo

“Promise me….”

“Yeah?”

Hutch pressed his face against the firm warmth of his partner’s stomach and inhaled deeply of the unique, exciting scent that was all and always Starsky. His hold around the trim body tightened, an instinctive, almost compulsive move.

“Just…promise me.”

It was their last night together. The interview with Leibovich’s shrink had gone to plan. Starsky was now a de facto head case. The next day, Lonzo would drive him down to the center, and the case would start in earnest.

So far, it hadn’t been too bad. They’d been together, living and working together as always. Tomorrow, Starsky would disappear behind the security gates and walls of Leibovich’s sprawling complex—and for the first time in almost two years, they’d be apart. No one knew how and if Starsky would manage to stick to his contact schedule.

The mere thought of Starsky in there on his own—for days, weeks maybe—was enough to make Hutch’s skin crawl. Not even the glorious high from which he was still descending could make him forget about that.

“Promise me!” he said again, hating himself for how needy that sounded.

Beside him, Starsky stirred with the smugness of a man who knew he had just pulled out all the stops to bring his partner to the boil, and succeeded. His left hand found its way into Hutch’s hair and stroked a few damp strands from his forehead. Then it curled around the nape of his neck and tugged a little, tugged again, until Hutch obeyed the gentle summons and inched upward into the welcome haven of Starsky’s arms.

Starsky’s mouth found his and pulled him into a long, leisurely, deeply satisfying kiss. The world fell away again. By the time Hutch got his bearings back, the lips had moved on, to the side of his nose, his eyelid, his cheek. Hutch shivered when Starsky’s warm breath reached his ear, the whisper almost too low to make out.

“I promise.”

Everything Hutch needed to know was contained in those two words. I’ll be careful. I won’t take any unnecessary risks. I’ll do everything to stay safe.

He swallowed, marveling at the changes in him. What had happened to the young dare-devil cop who, only a few short years ago, had thrown himself head first into danger with barely a second thought? Who hadn’t blinked all those many times when his partner had cheerfully done the same?

And here he was falling apart over a routine undercover job. He still had a bad feeling about it—and hated himself for that, too. For giving breathing space to that niggling unease, and a sense of foreboding that wouldn’t go away.

“That bad, huh?” the voice said into his ear.

Hutch shook his head, struggling for control. How could he possibly explain?

“Hey.”

Hutch found himself on his back and staring up into the unsettling eyes of a man who knew every twisted corner of his complicated soul, who’d seen the best and the worst of him. Who knew the darkest, bleakest parts of him as well as their owner did. Better. There was no need to explain. Starsky already knew.

Starsky’s hands went around his face and steadied him. Those unsettling eyes pinned him to the mattress.

“I’ll be fine. I promise.” Starsky put his hands around Hutch’s face and pressed a deep kiss on his lips. “I promise I’ll come back to you.”

You can’t promise that! the fear inside Hutch yelled. How can you promise a thing like that? Anything can happen. And it will. One day, Starsk. One day….

It had been haunting him, that thought. Ever since they’d grown so close, long before Gunther’s bullets. No one had the right to be so close to another human being. But they were. And needed each other so much. God, so much.

But such was the power of Starsky’s conviction that Hutch didn’t give voice to his doubts. Instead he rolled over and ground his mouth so hard against Starsky’s, it made their teeth clash.

And then he made love to Starsky until his partner moaned under his hands and cried out his name and begged him never to stop. Which was something Hutch wanted to promise him more than anything else in the world.

When Starsky walked away from him the following day, Hutch felt the separation like a machete severing a vital body part. Starsky cast a final glance back to where he knew Hutch to be watching. The smallest smile curved the corners of his lips. Then he was gone.

And the watching and waiting started all over again.

ooOOOoo

The Feds, blessed with resources the LAPD could only dream of, had dug up the road on a rise overlooking the center, exposing a chaos of water and waste water pipes, and set up a construction site around it that looked so real that it fooled even the inspector sent around by the Department of Public Works.

Part of the scene were a couple of utility vans, only one of which contained the tools of the plumbing trade. The other was crammed to the roof with special issue monitoring equipment, including the receiver that recorded the movements of Starsky’s tiny tracker unit embedded in the sole of one of his sneakers.

Hutch had the security details down to a fine art. If Dobey had allowed it, he would have spent twenty-four hours a day glued to his binoculars, trying to catch a glimpse of Starsky in the center’s garden or the outdoor pool, or trailing him in the car when Starsky left the compound on rare trips to the mall or a bar in the company of a carload of men.

Instead, he’d brought in a number of fellow detectives—Babcock, Simmons, Linda, Wallace. Trusted cops, good at surveillance. They held the fort when Hutch went home to shower and snatch a few hours’ sleep.

Every so often, Starsky checked in by means of a phone call carefully disguised as a call to a local betting shop, an arrangement that allowed for little more than coded messages to be conveyed. It was useless, basically. Not for the first time Hutch wished they could have allowed Starsky to pack a two-way radio. But that was out of the question. As far as security was concerned, the place might as well have been the Kremlin.

Finally, on day eight, Starsky called for real. Somehow, on a trip to a bar, he’d managed to shake off his companions and accessed a public telephone. Simmons, who took the call, lost no time passing Hutch the extension set.

Hearing the beloved voice through the headphones almost brought tears to Hutch’s eyes. Oh, Starsk. Do you have any idea what you’re putting me through here?

“Where are you?” he asked instead. “We lost your signal in the Bayswater area.”

“In the Tivoli on Mason and Geraldson,” Starsky said to a background of thumping music and a babble of raucous voices. “It’s Jo’s favorite haunt. It’s a pretty rough place. We already had a run-in with one of the local gangs.”

“Who’s Jo?”

“Jo Witts, the guy in the navy shirt. He’s one of the therapists and our chaperone for the night. They like to keep an eye on us. The other two are patients. The black guy is on a detox course and the other is trying to kick a coke habit.”

“What about you?” You okay?

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. They’re still doing tests on me to see if I’m a suitable candidate for their trial. I hope they hurry up. Ain’t gonna be easy to fool these shrinks for long. They’re sharp.”

Starsky’s voice faded into the noise, then regained in strength. “There’re all sorts of patients there. The private ones are in a wing of their own, they don’t mix with the rest of us. Where I am, most are funded by their health insurance, and a few got in for free, like me. There were a couple of other vets there, but they got moved to another part of the building. The place is enormous. They could be hiding a whole battalion in there, and no one would ever know.”

“So nothing yet?”

“Nothing more incriminating than a nurse calling his girlfriend on company time. But listen, the Feds are right: something doesn’t add up. There are areas in that building that I betcha don’t show up on any construction plans. I think there’s a whole extra floor hidden away under the basement. Could be some kind of an underground lab. I figured a way to get down there. If the coast is clear tonight, I’ll go and take a look.”

“Be careful,” Hutch said, his throat tight.

“I’m always careful.” Hutch could almost see the grin on his partner’s face. “And you go and catch up on some sleep now, you hear me?”

“It’s only nine o’clock, Starsk.”

“Yeah, and you’ve been up most of last night, and the nights before that, haunting the van. Don’t say it ain’t so. I know what you sound like when you’ve missed out on your beauty sleep. Listen, I’m fine. Go get some sleep. Let John or Sims take over for a while. They’re good cops. They won’t miss anything.”

Hutch couldn’t help smiling. “Okay, I will.”

And he did. All of four hours, crashing in the small apartment down the road where the Feds had set up their operations center, while Simmons manned the van. At three o’clock in the morning, he was back again, restless and unable to even think about sleep.

The sun came up. Simmons went home and Babcock took over, but Hutch never moved from his post inside the cramped, stifling van.

The day stretched endlessly. There were no further sightings of Starsky, and no word from him. Hours went by. Hutch’s unease began to stir again. Over and over, he let the binoculars roam the extent of the facility, the outdoor areas, the pool, the garden.

Nothing.

Night fell. There was no sign of Starsky, and the radio receiver stayed mute.

Two days went by. Three. Three days since Starsky’s call, since Simmons had seen the four men return to the building sometime after midnight. Since then, no sign of him.

Hutch wasn’t sure when the knowledge grew in him that something was badly, desperately wrong. Maybe he was over-reacting. Maybe he needed to get himself some decent sleep. Maybe….

Maybe his gut feeling was right. Maybe something really was wrong.

Linda followed Babcock, Wallace followed Linda, and so through the duty roster until it was Simmons’ turn again to keep Hutch company inside the van. Time passed. No one suggested anymore that he take time off to sleep. By now, his fellow cops were as tense as he was himself.

When the setting sun of the fourth day briefly lit up the inside of the small space, Hutch knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He stood.

“I’m going over to the base to see the Feds,” he said. “Call Dobey and ask him to meet us there. And call in the others. We may need them.”

“You got it,” Simmons said. “But what are you going to do?”

“Get him out. We can’t wait any longer.” Hutch grabbed his holster, clutched his keys. “Call me the second anything happens, anything at all. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

ooOOOoo

“You’re doing what?” Montgomery roared.

“You heard me. I’m pulling the plug on this half-baked operation. Something is wrong. We haven’t seen him or heard from him in almost four days. He should’ve been in touch long ago.”

“He’s undercover. There are plenty of perfectly good reasons why he hasn’t been in touch. We have to give him more time. You know as well as I do that the minute we set foot in that building with a warrant, we can kiss our operation goodbye. We’ll never get another chance like this.”

“This is not a request.” Hutch told him coldly. “It’s an order, and not open to discussion.”

“Now look here, Sergeant—”

Hutch overrode him. “That was the agreement. I’m in charge of this show, and we pull him out when I say so. That moment is now. You better get your men together, because we’re going in.”

“Fuck.” Montgomery slammed a fist into his hand. Dobey stepped forward.

“Hutch, relax. He’s probably perfectly all right. You know Starsky. He can look after himself.”

“Captain, Starsky is alone in there! It doesn’t take much to bring one man down. All they need to do is pump him full of drugs. If he’s been accepted into their special program, he’ll be separated from the others, probably locked away somewhere. You don’t think they’d give him the run of the place once he’s on some illicit clinical trial, do you?”

“He’s not supposed to go on any trial,” Montgomery said. “He’s supposed to come out before they put him on the trial. He—”

“Maybe he didn’t get a choice in the matter,” Hutch said with heat. “We’re investigating a crime here, dammit. Eighteen men are missing, presumed dead. What if Starsky ends up as number nineteen on the list?”

Dobey shot him a sharp glance. “What are you saying, Hutch? You don’t think he’s—?”

“Dead?” Hutch closed his eyes for a second, willing himself to be strong. “No, he’s not dead. I would know if he was.”

He ignored Montgomery’s exaggerated eye-roll and Kurzweil’s skeptical frown. They didn’t understand. No one did, not even Dobey. How could he explain what made him so sure? About the connection that hummed between them like a living thing, and that sounded so muted now, and fractured?

“Something is wrong,” he said. “I can feel it. Starsky is in danger. Captain, you’ve gotta believe me. We have to get him out.”

The certainty of that was growing by the second. Hutch had no doubts, none at all.

Dobey eyed him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “All right. Gentlemen, I suggest you trust Detective Hutchinson on this. He has a sixth sense where his partner is concerned. If he says it’s time to bring Starsky in, then that’s what we gotta do.”

“I don’t believe it!” Montgomery exploded. “I don’t fucking believe it. Weeks of work down the drain ’cause the man has a goddamn feeling! First he drives us insane with his demands and conditions, and now that we’re this close to getting some results, he turns around and fucks up the whole operation. He—”

The phone rang. Hutch snatched it up after a single ring.

“Hutch, we have movement.” John Babcock’s usually calm, unhurried bass vibrated with urgency. “Starsky and two others have just left the center in a green Chevy. He’s all right, Hutch! He’s okay.”

“Starsky?” Hutch croaked, unable to believe his ears. “You saw him? He’s all right?”

“Alive and well and in a pretty good mood by the looks of it. Lonzo is there, and that other guy, Witts. Everything seems perfectly normal. Looks like they’re headed for the Tivoli again. Sims is tailing them in the pickup truck.”

Hutch went weak and had to put out a hand to steady himself against the table.

Starsky. Alive and well. Starsky was all right.

The intensity of the relief rolling through his veins almost took his breath away. He’d got it wrong. His gut feeling had played a trick on him. Starsky was all right.

Hutch put the phone down, avoiding Montgomery’s icy stare. He’d screwed up. The Feds wouldn’t let him forget that in a hurry.

“See, I told you he was fine,” Dobey said in the gruff voice behind which he liked to conceal his finer feelings. “Go. I know you want to see him. If you get a chance to talk to him, find out why he hasn’t been in touch.”

ooOOOoo

Starsky was alive and well. Starsky was all right.

The refrain roared through Hutch’s mind as he floored the gas pedal all the way to Bayswater, ignoring Montgomery’s baleful presence in the passenger seat beside him. Having a shorter distance to go, he might even reach the Tivoli before Starsky and his party did. Hutch wanted that more than anything. He needed to see him. Only his own eyes would convince him that Starsky was fine.

A couple of blocks from their destination, Hutch switched off the siren and Montgomery hauled the mars light inside. The gathering darkness and sparse lighting did nothing to conceal the trash-strewn doorways and rundown façades. Even the heat that clung to the night felt heavier here. The inside of the car was a furnace, every breath an effort. Sweat trickled down Hutch’s temples, and he wiped a sleeve across his face.

The Tivoli, too, had seen better days. Outlined in the unflattering glare of a single street light, it looked like the last refuge of the area’s down-and-outs. A couple of aging hookers hung around the door, hoping to snare a customer too inebriated to detect their sagging assets. A gang of four or five muscle-bound toughs, all leather and rowdy attitude, loitered not far away, harassing passer-bys and trading insults with the hookers.

Hutch pulled up on the other side of the road and switched the engine off. Ten seconds later, a lime-green Chevy cruised into view. Hutch’s heart jumped into his throat when he spotted Lonzo DiMario’s craggy features behind the wheel, and then Starsky’s shadowy outline in the seat beside him.

Starsky. Alive and well, just as Babcock had said.

The Chevy claimed an empty space outside the bar and three men climbed out. Hutch had eyes only for his partner. Senses attuned the every nuance of Starsky’s body kicked in as he checked him over for signs of tension or stress—a stiffness between the shoulder blades, a guarded look on his face, small wary movements invisible to anyone but Hutch.

There was nothing. Starsky looked relaxed and perfectly at ease. In a familiar outfit of blue jeans and t-shirt and affecting an easy swagger, he looked for all the world like a guy about to enjoy a good time in the company of some pals. Lonzo said something, and the flash of a genuine Starsky grin lit up his partner’s face.

Hutch swallowed as he soaked up the wonderful sight. He’d been wrong. For the first time in years, his Starsky radar had let him down. He’d been so sure….

Light-headed with relief, he followed his partner with longing eyes. Maybe Starsky would manage to sneak away again. Maybe they’d get a chance to meet. Hutch smiled to himself as he allowed that happy vision to take hold of his weary mind. To see Starsky, to hear his voice, was all he wanted. To touch him and feel his warmth, for a minute only, a few seconds even….

“Fucking bitch!”

Hutch jerked back to the present. Under the street light outside the bar, two worlds had collided. Born of heat, drink or frustration, a gang member’s temper had shattered at a hooker’s scornful taunts. Her scream pierced the night as he yanked her close.

“I’ll fuckin’ teach you to make fun of me!”

She screamed again as he knotted a fist in her long hair. Next to his massive bulk she looked tiny, like a kitten locked in the jaws of a bulldog. Her legs buckled, forcing her to her knees. His right hand went high to strike.

Hutch cursed and swung the car door open, knowing he wouldn’t make it.

But the blow never fell.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Starsky said in a pleasant voice as he intercepted the arm and deflected the blow. “That ain’t no way to treat a lady.” He stepped between the bulldog and his prey. “Let go of her. I said, let go.”

Bulldog turned in dangerous slow motion and with a look of almost comic surprise on the fleshy face. Hutch could almost see his eyes narrow as he looked Starsky up and down. Starsky didn’t budge. He countered the look with the cool stare he used to good effect on reluctant snitches and hostile perps.

Muscles worked on the other man’s face, heavy veins bulged on his forehead. Christ, the guy was enormous. He was also spoiling for a fight.

He tossed the woman aside as if she were a discarded shirt, not taking his eyes off Starsky. A fist came up with startling speed, aimed straight at Starsky’s unprotected face.

Hutch tensed, unable to help himself. But Starsky parried the blow and followed it up with one of his own. Bulldog staggered, recovered, and renewed his attack. Starsky’s next punch sent him sprawling to the ground.

It might have been a secret signal, as Bulldog’s companions rose as one to jump to their comrade’s aid. Two tackled Starsky, another took a swing at Lonzo. Witts stepped between them, got sent sprawling with a bloody lip. Excited patrons poured out of the bar, some to watch and yell encouragement, others to throw themselves roaring into the fray.

Within seconds, a classic street brawl was in full swing, with Starsky in the thick of it, dealing out blows like only Hutch knew he could. An eerie pool of light surrounded by darkness illuminated the scene.

Hutch watched the developments with a sense of utter disbelief. For days he’d been consumed with fear; harrowing visions of Starsky bound and bleeding, hurt and dying, had taken years off his life. And here was the man doing his Sylvester-Stallone-on-steroids impression as he jumped to the rescue of a damsel in distress, merrily blowing his cover in the process. The whole thing was a farce that left no cliché unturned, like a scene from a cheesy cowboy movie.

Montgomery stirred beside him. “Your partner packs a mean punch,” he said in a voice of deep approval.

Hutch cast him a surprised look. He’d almost forgotten the man was there. The federal agent sat at his ease, an elbow propped in the open window, looking for all the world as if he were enjoying a visit to a goddamn movie theater.

An entirely inappropriate warmth swept through Hutch. “He’s out of shape,” he said, failing dismally to stifle the note of proprietary pride in his voice. “You should see him when he’s in top form.”

Montgomery grinned, a lapse that turned the agent into something almost human. Some of the frostiness inside the car melted away. Together they sat back and watched the show.

What happened next took a heartbeat and an eon as everything changed and the cowboy flick turned horror movie in the blink of an eye. Hutch saw it all as a series of flashes, each image as if unconnected to the one before.

He saw Starsky deliver a blow to a stubbly chin.

He saw the man go down. Saw another move in and take his place.

Saw a third man creep up from behind, raising what looked like a crowbar.

Trapped in a state of sudden terrible paralysis, Hutch saw the heavy bar as it swung around in a perfect arc. A yell of horror forced itself from his throat when the metal connected with the side of Starsky’s head.

Starsky went down like a rag doll. His head hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Hutch was out of the car and running before he knew it, before Montgomery’s warning yell could stop him, running toward that pool of light.

“Hold it! Police!” To hell with Starsky’s cover. To hell with everything. He glimpsed Simmons somewhere on his left, running too. Too late, too late….

“Police! You’re under arrest!”

The mob turned on them. What the hell? The street was suddenly full of people. Where had they all come from? He was beset on all sides. He couldn’t even get at his gun.

Hutch delivered punches to a jaw, to a stomach, to a blurry face. Laid into anyone who offered resistance. Fought off new attackers. Anything to get to Starsky. Who lay so still under the glare of the street light.

But Hutch couldn’t make it. There were too many. The hookers had melted away, but the gang seemed to have multiplied. The place was utter chaos. And the distance to Starsky might as well have been a mile.

It was Simmons who got to him first. Simmons who checked a limp Starsky over for signs of life, who pushed his arm under Starsky’s shoulders and helped him sit up.

Hutch glimpsed it with amazement. Starsky was okay?

And still he couldn’t get away. There were thugs to be arrested, trouble-makers to be secured. He finally got his opponent face down on the pavement with a knee jammed between his shoulder blades. He was just snapping on the handcuffs when he caught sight of a figure on his right.

Bulldog. The ring leader, the bully who had started it all. Creeping away into the shadows. Hutch couldn’t let him get away.

A quick look at Starsky, whose head was lolling groggily against Simmons’ shoulder. Simmons caught Hutch’s eye.

“Go!” he yelled in a voice hoarse with relief. “He’s all right. He’s coming around. It’s only a bump on the head.”

Hutch hesitated, torn between the longing of his heart and the duty of a cop. He stopped long enough to see a glint of darkest blue emerge from underneath the long lashes as Starsky’s eyes struggled to open.

It was a fatal hesitation.

A movement behind him told him that he’d waited too long. He whirled around, saw a shadow bearing down on him. He blocked his attacker’s arm with his left, an awkward move. Not enough.

There was a click in the dark. A flash of metal gleaming in the light.

Knife!

It moved—a short, sharp, underhand thrust. Then impact. Soundless. Razor-sharp edges sliced effortlessly through his flesh. A practiced move, performed with cool precision. In. Out. Drawing a flood of blood in its wake.

Hutch was already on the ground before he felt the pain. It surged like the blood that welled from the gash in his stomach and flowed over his hands, dark and warm. Rough asphalt dug into his cheek. He hadn’t even seen the face of his attacker.

A ring of fire tightened around him. Starsky. Starsky.

He twisted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of him, a need suddenly more urgent than anything else. Somewhere on the edge of his perception, he felt the weight of someone’s hands on his body. Cool, competent hands. They eased him down, stemmed the flow. Montgomery.

Hutch was hardly aware of him. Every part of his mind strained toward only one place—the spot under the street light where Starsky, supported by Simmons, was struggling to rise. Starsky’s eyes were dark and wide and fixed on Hutch. As Hutch watched, he came upright, unsteady and looking dazed, but on his feet and undeniably alive.

Relief swept Hutch’s torn body. Starsky was all right. That was all that mattered.

He wanted to wait. Starsky would be there any second now, with terror in his eyes and a complete disregard for his own needs. He would fall on his knees beside him and his hands and voice would be all over him. Hutch wanted to wait for that so bad.

But he couldn’t. A deadly weight was hauling him under. Darkness pressed in all around him. In the distance, a siren wailed. Then that, too, faded out, and there was a silence so deep, it might have been made of velvet.

Hutch let go, knowing it would be okay. Starsky would be there when he woke up. Everything would be all right.

 

III

Confusion. That’s all he knows at first. A dense haze, punctured by bright lights and cool voices and flashes of pain behind the eyes. It presses down on him like cotton packed tight all around him. He can’t breathe.

Then come the questions. A trickle at first, firm and insistent, building to a fast, relentless flow. They have no meaning, and he has no answers.

He lashes out at them. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you want from me? Leave me alone!”

Pain pierces his head like skewers stabbed through his eyeballs. He cries out. But the weight of cotton remains. And the questions keep coming.

“I’m tellin’ you, I don’t know. I don’t know! Stay the hell away from me!”

ooOOOoo

Hutch emerged from the woolly wilderness of post-op anesthetics with a sense of instant recognition. No need to view the fluid-filled bags dangling from a hook beside the bed, or the monitors that lined the wall. The smell alone gave the place away.

Oh great. The hospital. What had he done this time to deserve a stint in his favorite institution? Hutch searched his memory banks. Recollection trickled back. Of course. Some punk had stabbed him.

His heart sank at the thought of the weeks that lay ahead—the therapy and pain pills and desk duty and the whole arduous process of clawing his way back to some semblance of fitness and health. He sighed. Looked like it was his turn again to be waited on hand and foot by an anxious partner.

Still in a haze, he gazed around for the partner in question. The chair beside the bed was empty. He’d missed him. How long had he been out anyway? One day, two?

Before he had the chance to figure that one out, the drug-infused fuddle reclaimed his mind and he drifted away again.

When he surfaced some time later, the molded plastic chair was occupied by a creased-looking Huggy. Ah, the support team had moved in. Even anxious partners needed to eat and sleep.

The next time he came around, the chair was empty again.

A fuzzy day went by. Hutch learned to open his eyes facing left. Once he found the rotund shape of his captain parked in the chair, but more often than not, the plastic fixture distinguished itself by a persistent state of vacancy.

After the third or fourth time, it was no longer funny.

On his next trip to the surface, Hutch forced himself to scan the room for a sign, any sign, of recent occupancy—a forgotten jacket, a magazine, a half-eaten candy bar.

There was nothing. The place looked as bare as only a room in the ICU could look.

Work, he thought. Dobey is slave-driving him.

That brought up a disturbing thought. What if the Feds had put him under again? Then he relaxed. No way. Dobey would never have allowed it.

Doctors and nurses came and did their thing. They talked about damaged tissue, a ruptured spleen. Stitches. Blood loss. Chances of recovery.

Hutch wasn’t interested. He wanted to know about the empty chair by the bed. They smiled, and told him not to worry. The needle pierced his vein before he could argue the point. The numbing ecstasy of morphine flooded his system.

He gave up and closed his eyes. But through the layers of his drowsiness, a single question grew.

Where was Starsky?

ooOOOoo

He paces the room. Door to window, window to door. It feels good to be on his feet again. The pain has eased at last, the weight of cotton has fallen away. All that’s left is a sense of fuzziness, like cobwebs in his head.

So what is he still doing in a hospital? There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s fine. In fact, he feels great, considering only a couple of days ago some lowlife damn near succeeded in smashing a hole in his skull.

All right, so he’s still having a little trouble thinking straight, but that’s gotta be normal after a whack on the head. He’ll be fine in a day or two. In the meantime there are more important things to think about.

Like when are they going to feed him?

He checks the funky watch on his wrist. Two hours until lunch time is precisely two hours too long. Will they notice if he sneaks out in search of a bite to eat?

He buttons his shirt, pushes his feet into the pair of blue sneakers he’s found beside the bed, and sticks his head out the door. Maybe that cute nurse is on duty again. If his food hunting mission is unsuccessful, he can always try and see if she’s receptive to one of his chat-up lines.

It’s not as if he has anything better to do with his time.

ooOOOoo

By the time they settled him in a recuperation ward in a room shared with three other men, Hutch was awake, annoyed, and demanding answers.

Where was Starsky?

The nurses countered his queries with blank looks. A junior doctor managed a distracted promise to “look into it”. She never returned.

Visiting hour brought an influx of familiar faces—Minnie, Menendez, Simmons. They brought flowers, said little, smiled brightly. Everyone was in a rush.

“Where’s Starsky?” he said. The evasive answers he got back didn’t reassure.

When an awkward-looking Kiko and a fast-talking Linda had come and gone with exceptional speed, Hutch’s still foggy brain could no longer ignore the obvious. Something was wrong and no one had the guts to tell him.

But I saw him alive. He was all right.

Bashed and bruised maybe, concussed even, but alive and on his feet. Besides, he’d know if something was wrong with Starsky. Wouldn’t he?

Hutch recalled his recent near disastrous misjudgment in that regard, and reconsidered. Could his Starsky radar still be trusted?

“Where’s Starsky?” he said as soon as his next two visitors stuck their faces around the door.

“Hutch!” A beam of genuine delight stretched Dobey’s chubby cheeks. “You look great. How’re you feeling? Dr. Hu says you’re making excellent progress. She thinks you could be out of here by the end of the week.” He held out a bunch of pink chrysanthemums wrapped in a sheet of crinkly paper.

Hutch accepted the flowery offering with a nod. “Where’s Starsky?” he repeated.

Dobey’s hearty beam wavered as he looked around him as if trying to decide which of the three identical chairs might offer the greatest degree of comfort, before laboriously settling into the one on Hutch’s left.

“She also said you were damn lucky that knife missed all your vital organs,” Huggy added as he pulled up the one on the right. “Can you believe they’re still lookin’ for the punk who did it?”

“The guy you arrested wasn’t much help,” Dobey said. “Turns out he has no connections to that gang. We had to let him go with a caution.”

The pain pills were wearing off. The dull ache in his gut intensified. Hutch closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and speared his captain with his most penetrating look.

“Where,” he said, “is Starsky?”

His visitors’ forced cheerfulness deflated like underbaked dough, causing a spike of blind fear to jump into Hutch’s throat.

“He’s fine,” Dobey hastened to assure him. “He’s gonna be fine. They took him to St. John’s for some tests, that’s all. We thought he’d be out by now, that’s why we didn’t tell you before.”

“St. John’s in Hacienda Heights?” Hutch said with a frown. “But that’s a psychiatric hospital. What’s he doing in there?”

Dobey hesitated, and Hutch fought the sudden keen urge to wrap his hands around his captain’s throat and tighten them.

“You remember the knock on the head he got in that fight?” Dobey finally said.

Hutch remembered a sickening crunch when the metal bar connected with the side of Starsky’s skull. He remembered the dull thud when his head hit the ground, and the endless moment of sheer undiluted terror in those eternal seconds when Starsky lay still, so still, on the pavement outside the bar.

Clenching his hands out of sight under the sheet, he said. “I remember.”

“He was admitted with a concussion, right after they took you to surgery,” Dobey said. “When they checked him out, they noticed he was…confused. He was pretty incoherent. It took them a couple of days to realize he wasn’t responding….”

The world faded out as Hutch’s mind leapt to the inevitable conclusion. A moan escaped him. Brain damage? Oh God, oh Christ, not brain damage….

“Hey, Hutch, no! Wait. Ain’t what you’re thinking.” Huggy had Hutch’s arm in a grip. “He’s gonna be okay. He took a nasty knock on the head, and it’s taking a while to clear up. The doctors are saying there’s nothing to worry about.”

Hutch just looked at him.

Huggy’s mobile features contorted. “The thing is…. They’re saying he can’t remember.”

Hutch blinked. “Can’t remember?” he said, surprised. “What do you mean? Can’t remember what? The fight? The case? What he saw in Leibovich’s basement?”

A look passed between his two visitors. A soul-deep breath lifted Dobey’s chest. “No, Hutch,” he said. “It’s something to do with his memory. Some kind of temporary amnesia. At the moment he can’t remember anything at all.”

ooOOOoo

He paces the room, door to window, window to door, a restless journey. Each time he passes the polished glass, he stops and stares at the city that lies outside, five floors below. A city he recognizes as LA.

He knows LA, knows it inside out—streets, buildings, freeways. The beach and the harbor. Every downtown alley shown on the map, and a few that aren’t. He must’ve been there once, must’ve moved through those familiar streets.

He has no recollection of it. The knowledge is there, the context isn’t.

People come and go—doctors, nurses, cops. Officials with clipboards, shrinks with questions, civilians with worried faces. People who call him Dave, or Starsky, or Sergeant. The place is like Grand Central Station.

Retrograde amnesia, they call it. Loss of past personal memory. The facts, knowledge, skills he’s acquired in a lifetime—all intact. Only his self, his past, the store of his personal remembrances are gone. A temporary loss, they say. Nothing to worry about. It will all come back to him.

He doesn’t feel any loss. But everyone else sure seems to think that he should.

Take this woman with her photo albums who seems hell-bent on jogging his memory with stories. She said her name was Minnie. A cop, she said, like him. He’s a detective, apparently. That in itself is pretty weird.

He casts her a sidelong look. Dark hair, nice figure, a wealth of bubbly energy. Who is she? She doesn’t act like a present or former girlfriend, so in the absence of other clues, he rules that possibility out for the time being.

He walks back to the window, listening with half an ear. He’s worried. Seeing a stranger’s face in the mirror that morning has rattled him. And that’s nothing compared to the shock he got when he discovered the scars on his chest.

What other surprises are lying in wait for him? Does he want to know?

He starts pacing again, door to window, window to door. Presumably he has family somewhere. A girlfriend maybe. They’ve only just started filling him in on the details of his life. Implicit in their looks and words is the assumption that he has to be missing all that.

But that makes no sense at all. How can you be missing something you can’t recall you had?

ooOOOoo

“Hutch, for Chrissakes, what do you think you’re doing?” John Babcock’s powerful roar pushed a small shockwave through the room. “The doctors said you could get out of bed. They didn’t say anything about checking out of the hospital. Good God, man, look at you. You can’t even tie your own laces.”

Amnesia from a knock on the head! Hutch thought scornfully for about the hundredth time in the past two days. Can’t remember. Ridiculous!

Things like that happened in the movies. They didn’t happen in real life. They certainly couldn’t happen to Starsky who was tethered to life and sanity by ties stronger than the effects of some goddamn knock on the head.

For two days, he’d endured the life-sustaining drips and lines that held him prisoner. He’d listened to Dobey’s updates with a growing sense of incredulity. For two endless days, he’d waited in vain for Starsky’s wide-angled beam to appear in the doorway.

No more.

He gave up on the elusive fastenings and pushed himself to unsteady feet. “Hand me that crutch, will you?” he said.

Whatever funk Starsky had worked himself into, he’d snap out of it as soon as he laid eyes on his partner. Hutch had no doubts about that.

“Come on, Hutch, be sensible,” Simmons pleaded even as he went down on a knee to tackle the trailing cords. “It’s only been five days. John’s right, this is crazy. What if you burst your stitches?”

Hutch thought he looked terrible. They both did. Brother cops in the hospital, the case fallen apart…. He should really be telling them that none of it had been their fault.

All he said was, “So are you driving me or do I have to call a cab?”

They didn’t speak much on the ride to St. John’s.

The place had hardly changed since Hutch and his then partner Luke had responded to a disturbance call there several years ago. It was still the angular monstrosity that had passed for modern architecture in the late ’50s. Even the interior was just as Hutch remembered it—dark and hushed and more subdued than an ordinary hospital, deserted almost, and saturated with a quality that could only be described as gloomy.

Babcock and Simmons wouldn’t let him out of their sight until they’d safely delivered him to the nurses’ desk in the fifth floor reception area, Babcock’s hand never hovering far from Hutch’s elbow, just in case.

A series of preliminaries followed. One nurse wanted to know if he was on the approved visitors list. Another advised him of the “one visitor at a time” rule. A doctor looking like the male lead in a Hollywood medical drama appeared and effortlessly diverted the nurses’ attention to his needs.

Hutch tapped his fingers on the desk, wondering if he would have to flash his badge in order to gain access to his partner’s room.

“Sergeant Hutchinson?”

He turned. A very tall, very thin woman with cropped ice-gray hair and the leathery look of a sun addict had appeared at his shoulder.

“Sergeant Hutchinson, isn’t it? Dr. Jolimont. I’m the neuropsychologist of the trauma ward here.” A sinewy hand shot out and shook his reluctant one with unnecessary vigor. “I wonder if I could have a word with you.”

Hutch thought of refusing. The last thing he needed right now was the obligatory pep talk from the local shrink. He wasn’t sure if he was up to it.

Before he could think of a polite way of putting that, she’d taken him by the arm and steered him away. “Come. Let’s go to my office. You look like you should be sitting down.”

“I’m fine,” Hutch said mechanically. “I just want to see him.” His small store of physical strength was beginning to ebb. He didn’t have much time.

“This won’t take long. There are a few things you should know before you go in and see him.” She ushered him into a tiny room made tinier by an army of looming shelves piled high with books and papers. “Take a seat. We weren’t expecting you quite so soon. I understand you have power of attorney?”

Hutch nodded, a little taken aback by her clipped approach.

“Good. I have a couple of consent forms here I need you to sign. Where did I put—? Ah.” Her hand swooped down on the wanted items half buried under a tottering stack of files. She pushed the papers across the desk. “Please read and sign here, here, and here.” Her pen tapped the relevant spaces.

Hutch read and signed.

“How is—” he started.

“David? Physically very well,” she said and pulled up her chair. “His general health is excellent. He’s still suffering from headaches, of course, but that is hardly surprising. No, it’s his mental health we’re worried about. Your captain has kept you up to date? Good. Then you’ll know that the recent brain scans haven’t told us anything new. Of course, we’re still doing tests on him.”

Hutch felt exhausted. And wondered how much longer he could endure this fast-talking, highly-strung woman driven by some inexplicable sense of urgency. Perched on the edge of her chair, she reminded him of nothing so much as a large scrawny bird clinging to a rocky ledge. A crow, maybe. Or a vulture.

Hutch pushed the image away with an effort. “How long before he’ll be all right again?” he said.

Was that an evasive look she cast him?

“David’s case is unusual on many levels,” she said. “Given the type of concussion he sustained, we would have expected to see the return of some memories by now, older ones, childhood memories, that sort of thing. That hasn’t happened, which may mean that we’re not dealing with a simple concussion here.”

She leaned forward. “Contrary to popular belief, profound long-term amnesia due to blunt-force trauma is an exceedingly rare event. The brain doesn’t usually work that way. Here, let me explain.”

She launched into a rapid-fire description of the brain, its structure and functions. She talked about temporal lobes and the hippocampus. Synapses and neural pathways. Alienation and disorientation.

Hutch, fuzzy and in growing pain, let the whole spiel wash over him. But when the lecture homed in on behavioral models, diagnostic testing, and psychosomatic treatment options, he held up a hand.

“Hold it,” he said.

The flow stopped in mid-word. A small silence bloomed while Hutch hunted for the right words and she eyed him expectantly across the narrow desk.

“Doctor, look,” he said. “There’s some kind of a misunderstanding here. We’re talking about Starsky, right? My partner, David Starsky. Are you seriously suggesting that he’s lost his memory?”

“His past personal memory, yes—”

“His entire personal memory?”

“As far as we’ve been able to establish—”

“With all due respect, but that’s impossible. He couldn’t have. He’s probably taking his time coming around from the concussion. As soon as I can take him home for some rest, he’ll be fine. This may sound strange to you, but believe me, there are some things he simply wouldn’t forget. He just wouldn’t.”

He reached for his crutch. “Now if you’ll just let me see him, we can clear all this up and be out of your way.”

If the show of assertiveness had pierced the doctor’s cool exterior, she showed no sign of it.

“Mr. Hutchinson, please sit down,” she said. “I wish it were that simple. As I was trying to explain, we are expecting David to recover some or most of his memories over time, but at the moment we can’t rule out the possibility that some of the loss will turn out to be permanent.”

Permanent? Hutch sank back in his chair. What the hell was she talking about?

“You told Captain Dobey this was a temporary side-effect of the concussion,” he said. “You said he would recover with time. You said—”

“And we still believe he will,” she said quickly, holding up a hand. “But we need to face the facts. David’s medical record shows that he has sustained a number of head injuries over the years. I have it right here. Two previous concussions, three direct hits to the head, and a hairline fracture from a bullet that grazed his skull.”

Dr. Jolimont gave Hutch a stern look. “As far as head injuries go, that’s got to be some kind of a record. The brain is not the most forgiving organ. Damage from head traumas can remain undetected for years. This recent incident may well have triggered an underlying problem that’s simply been waiting to happen.”

Hutch stared at her. A dull pain started up in his chest that had nothing to do with the still-raw stitches on his abdomen.

“I have to see him,” he said. It was as simple as that.

She nodded. “When you do, go easy on him. Try not to upset him with too many questions. We wouldn’t want to put him back on tranquilizers.”

“Tranquilizers!”

“It was necessary, I’m afraid. For his own protection. He was quite uncontrollable at times. Hostile even, especially when faced with questions about his past.”

“Starsky? Hostile? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t your captain tell you? Your friend has been quite, uh, uncooperative. After the first set of tests, he refused point blank to participate in any more. He stopped answering questions. He walked out of the treatment room. He threw his medication out the window. Only this morning, he assaulted an orderly and had to be restrained and escorted back to his room.”

Hutch listened as if through the haze of a dream. She was talking about Starsky?

Only one thing could explain the aberrant behavior. The case. Maybe in his confusion, on some subconscious level, Starsky thought he was still undercover, trapped in Leibovich’s center somewhere, and desperate to protect his identity.

“Much of that is understandable, of course,” the doctor broke into his thoughts. “He finds himself in an alien world. Everything around him is new; everyone he meets is a stranger. Worse, these strangers are placing demands on him. They have expectations in terms of recognition, behavior, attitude. He’s confused and angry and scared. He’s under tremendous emotional stress.”

Hutch didn’t know what to say.

“David’s way of coping with that stress is a withdrawal from the treatment process and a refusal to cooperate,” she said. “A form of studied indifference, if you will. He has shown very little interest in his past, and no interest at all in wanting to regain it.”

Hutch blinked. “What do you mean? Of course he’s wanting to regain it. You don’t know him. He’s tough. He’s going to fight this. He’s come through a lot worse than this.”

“Mr. Hutchinson, you don’t understand. What I’m saying is that this may be something your friend isn’t willing to fight.”

“You mean he’s in denial?”

“He’s not so much in denial as in a phase of “so what?”. To use a common cliché, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“But how can he not know?” How can he live, breathe, exist, and not be aware of the Hutch-shaped hole in his life?

“Mr. Hutchinson, what is your earliest memory?”

“My earliest…? Uh, let’s see. I think it was when my grandfather took me horseback riding for the first time. I remember sitting in the saddle in front of him. He was holding me with one arm. I must’ve been about three or four.”

“So you retain no memories of the three or four years before that event?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And have you ever felt that you were missing something as a result of not being able to remember the first few years of your life?”

“Uh, not really.”

“Has that loss made any difference to your life?”

“No. No, it hasn’t.”

“Well, that’s what it’s like for David right now, but on a larger scale. He knows he’s missing personal information, but on an emotional level, the loss means nothing to him.”

This was creepy. Hutch shifted in his chair. “I want to see him,” he said again. Christ, he was beginning to sound like a wind-up toy.

“None of this means that he won’t recover,” she said as if she hadn’t heard. “There’s still every chance that he will. But in order for that to happen, he needs to want to recover. The very fact that he’s lost his memory may preclude that possibility.”

Hutch had enough.

“He’s not ‘lost his memory’,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. “He’s had a knock on the head, that’s all. As you’ve pointed out, it’s not the first time that’s happened. Okay, so he’s taking his own sweet time to come out of it. But he will. You can bet your last buck on it.”

What did these doctors know, anyway? They didn’t know Starsky. No one in the whole world knew Starsky as well as he did. She was sitting there telling him that Starsky—his Starsky—wouldn’t know him? Ridiculous.

He reached for the crutch again, pushed himself to his feet. Forget the psychobabble. Starsky needed him. They’d wasted too much time already.

She rose, too, mirroring his movement. A complex expression, part pity, part curiosity, darted across her angular face and vanished so quickly that Hutch wondered if he’d been mistaken.

“Room 511,” she said. “You can go right in.”

ooOOOoo

Minnie has finally left for the day, leaving behind her photo albums and the echo of her stories. He scowls, gathers up the whole lot and dumps it in the bottom of the wardrobe with the pile of abandoned assessment forms.

Why can’t they just leave him alone? He slams the door and stalks to the window. Tests, assessments, scans, pills—he’s had it with the whole farce. Who are these people, anyway? What do they want from him?

Maybe it’s time to walk away from it all. He’s not a prisoner, after all.

He starts pacing again. Yes, that’s what he should do. Get the hell away from here, find a place where he can get his head together. Not here where the burden of everyone’s expectations already feels like a damn millstone around his neck.

It’s not just Minnie. There’s this big black guy with his collection of godawful suits, who shows up every day. His boss apparently. He seems like a decent enough guy for a boss, clearly worried and trying to hide it behind some fine bluster that doesn’t seem to fool anyone. And that other guy, the skinny one with limbs and features so flexible they seem to defy the laws of anatomy and who goes by the impossible name of Huggy Bear.

They mean well, even if they can’t seem to wrap their minds around the fact that he doesn’t know them all from Adam. On the contrary, they seem to operate under the assumption that it’s just a matter of time before he’ll somehow snap out of it.

He doesn’t think so. When he casts his mind back to before, what he sees is a void, a black nothing too dense to pierce. The doctors want him to confront that void, but he’s knows he’s not ready to face its eerie emptiness. Besides, why would he want to? Seems like a crummy kind of life to him, running after thugs only to get shot down and knocked out on a regular basis. Surely he can do better than that.

What else is there in his life? An estranged mother in New York. A brother who, reading between the lines, isn’t entirely on the straight and narrow. And in LA? Just work and colleagues and maybe a couple of friends. No wife, no kids. Not even a girlfriend.

Not much to shout about. Not much to stick around for either.

No, the sooner he gets away, the better. Tomorrow. He could go east. Chicago, maybe, or Boston. It’s not as if the shrinks can do much for him anyway.

He picks up a car magazine a well-meaning visitor has left behind and settles in the room’s only chair. He’s just checking out the technical details of the new Corvette when a shadow darkens the open door. He looks up.

There’s a guy standing in the doorway, staring at him. Someone else he’s supposed to know? A doctor? Yet another shrink intent on probing his mind?

He discards that idea when he notices the crutch, the crumpled clothes, the face drained of blood. And then he recognizes him. Tall and athletic-looking, with hair so bright it seems bleached, and a pair of eyes the most amazing shade of blue.

I betcha the girls are falling all over themselves to lay their hands on you.

He stands, not quite sure how to handle this.

“You must be Hutch,” he says.

Weird. He hadn’t thought a face that pale could possibly get any paler.

ooOOOoo

Hutch wasn’t sure what he expected when he first stuck his head around the open door of room 511. Starsky unconscious in a hospital bed, connected to tubes and machines. Starsky drowsy and confused. Starsky awake and griping about the hospital food. Those were familiar, too familiar images.

Reality was nothing like it. Starsky was in a hospital room, but that’s where the similarities ended. He wasn’t in bed, he wasn’t even wearing a gown. Instead he was lounging in a chair, sneakered feet propped up on the bed, engrossed in a magazine with a racy car on the cover.

There was no evidence of injury or trauma. No bandages, bruises, or signs of medication. Starsky was looking great. He looked just like always.

Relief tinged with smugness rolled through Hutch’s veins. Starsky was all right. Of course he was. Hutch stood there and savored the view. He hadn’t been seen yet, but any moment now Starsky would look up and see, and his face would split into a wide grin of joy and welcome….

And then he did look up—and Hutch’s heart gave a pounding thump, and stopped.

It wasn’t Starsky who looked at him. It was someone Hutch had never seen before. Someone with alien eyes as dark and cool as tarnished steel. The eyes of a stranger. The stranger’s gaze brushed over him as it would over some guy in the street—casual, indifferent, and without the smallest trace of recognition.

The name that was already on Hutch’s lips died a strangled death. The blood chilled in his heart.

Starsky had never looked at him like that before. Not once in all those years. Not even when they’d set eyes on each other for the very first time, on the training grounds of the Police Academy, a lifetime ago.

Hutch wanted to shout. He wanted to rush in there and grab his partner and shake him until the blank look dropped away from his face. But before he could move or speak or do anything at all, something else happened.

Starsky did a perfect double-take. He frowned. The blank expression faded and a spark of recognition lit up his eyes. The air caught in Hutch’s lungs. Breathless, he watched as Starsky tossed the magazine aside and got to his feet.

“You must be Hutch,” he said.

And Hutch’s world fractured into a thousand pieces.

ooOOOoo

He never knew afterward how long he stood there in the door while the blood roared in his ears and the walls tilted at odd angles all around him. That chunk of time, a second or an eon, would forever be missing from his life. Then instinct took over. Three long strides took him into the room and face to face with Starsky.

“It’s all right, Starsky,” he said. “You can stop it now. You’re not undercover anymore. This isn’t Leibovich’s place, it’s just an ordinary hospital. You’re safe here.”

Starsky eyed him with astonishment and the wariness of someone facing a novel and unpredictable species of wildlife. “Hold it, man, hold it. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

He spoke just like Starsky. It was the same voice, right down to the trace of an East coast accent his partner hadn’t managed to lose in over twenty years of living in California.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Hutch said, struggling to keep a riot of emotions at bay. “You may be able to fool the doctors, but you can’t fool me. Listen, the job is over. The case is dead.”

The total absence of comprehension in the dark blue eyes was the most unnerving thing Hutch had ever seen. Every rational thought went out the window. His hands reached out without the input of his brain and took hold of the broad shoulders.

“Starsky, for Chrissakes, stop it. I don’t know why you’re doing this, but please, stop it. I really can’t take it right now.” A terrible thought rose in his mind like a demon, dark and alien and totally absurd. The words were out of his mouth before he could haul them back in.

“Oh, Christ, don’t tell me you’re doing this to get back at me for…for that stunt I pulled on you once. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

Starsky frowned. “Stunt? What stunt?”

The old Starsky would have known, would have read the meaning in Hutch’s face. Already, Hutch’s momentum was slipping, but he couldn’t let go of it completely, because to do so would mean to acknowledge defeat, and open the door to a different kind of demon.

“That trick I played on you all those years ago,” he said. “After the accident. I was so angry. Don’t you remember? I faked amnesia to get back at you.” His voice faltered. “For almost getting us killed.”

The look on Starsky’s face was one of undiluted amazement. “You faked amnesia? To get back at me? Why would you do that?”

There was no doubt that the astonishment was real. And so was the anger that followed.

“That was a damn mean thing to do. I don’t understand. Minnie told me we were friends.” Starsky’s upper lip curled with a hint of distaste. “What kind of a friend pulls a lousy trick like that?”

He pushed Hutch away and took a couple of long steps back. A safety zone between him and the weirdo who had invaded his room.

A slug to the jaw would have been less painful than that look of undisguised aversion. Hutch drew back. His arms fell by his side. Only his gaze never left his partner’s face as he searched the uncomprehending eyes for a trace, any trace of the Starsky he knew and loved.

There was nothing. They were alien eyes, and they sheltered a man Hutch didn’t recognize. For a moment Hutch’s mind was empty and totally unable to cope.

Starsky didn’t have that problem. “All right, buster,” he said, “what’s going on here? Level with me. What am I missing?”

“Wh…what do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb, man. The Captain tells me we’re partners. Minnie says we’re best friends. Huggy calls you my ‘other half’. And now you’re telling me you played some mean spiteful trick on me and I didn’t kick you in the teeth for it? What’s going on? Who are you?”

“I-I’m your partner. We’re—” Hutch struggled for control. “We’re partners.”

“Colleagues, right? We work together. I don’t think that gives you the right to barge in here and go hysterical on me.”

Hutch stared at him. His head was swimming as all his assumptions were turned upside down. Amnesia. He’d taken that to mean, well, the small loss of recent memories, a few missing details. But this….

“Starsky, please,” he said. “Are you saying you really don’t remember? That’s impossible.” He reached out and recaptured his hold on Starsky’s shoulders. His voice rose in a desperate plea. “Look at me, Starsk. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know me. You can’t do it, I know you can’t. I’m Hutch! There’s no way you could’ve forgotten about me. Look at me, goddammit! Don’t turn away from me. For Chrissakes, will you just look at m—”

“All right, what’s all this yelling in here?” A new voice, sharp as a whip, sliced the room’s brittle tension. “This is a hospital. I really must ask you to keep your voices down.”

A nurse. Standing in the doorway, looking anything but pleased. Her gaze roamed over Hutch like a search light, taking in his face and his grip on her patient, before settling on Starsky. The stern crease on her forehead deepened. “David, is this man bothering you? Do you want me to call security?”

Starsky disengaged himself with ease. Two steps and he was a mile away. “Everything’s fine, Lissy,” he said. “Don’t worry, he’s on the approved list. His name’s Hutch. Hutch, Felicity.” His hand swept the room by way of introduction.

A subtle change had come over him. Gone was the confusion and the look of incomprehension in his eyes. Instead a new warmth shone in their depths as he sashayed over to the newcomer and put a soothing hand on her arm.

“Aw, don’t be mad at us, Lissy baby,” he said in a voice as low as a purr. “I’m sorry ’bout the noise, I really am. And so’s Hutch here. Ain’t gonna happen again, I promise. Would I lie to you? I’d do anything for you, you know that, doncha? C’mon now, give us one of your gorgeous smiles and say you’re not mad at us.”

That voice! Hutch felt his mouth drop open. He knew that voice, every beguiling nuance of it. It was Starsky’s flirting voice, his love-making voice, the voice he used to charm and wheedle. Hutch knew that voice like he knew the inside of his greenhouse. For three years, the only recipient of that voice had been himself.

But Starsky wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to a nurse called Felicity. Big-busted, slender-waisted Felicity. His eyes were on her, only on her, and he looked…God, he looked…like the Starsky of old, with that admiring gaze that hugged her figure, and the light of seduction dancing in his eyes.

Starsky was a master of that subtle skill. He had long ago perfected the art of getting right under a woman’s skin with a mixture of old-fashioned charm, lopsided smile, and that undisguised gleam of appreciation that Hutch knew made women go weak in the knees.

Nor was Felicity immune to the approach. “We-ell,” she said, melting visibly. “No, I’m not mad at you. But you’ve gotta make sure it doesn’t happen again. You know what Olivia said this morning. No more riots in her ward!”

Starsky winked at her. “We won’t tell if you won’t.”

His attention, all of his attention, was on her—the room, his plight, his partner forgotten as his eyes caressed her trim figure and the pair of shapely legs not even the drab uniform was able to conceal.

Hutch saw it with a stab of profound disbelief. There could be no doubt about it. Starsky was flirting. Not teasing or bantering or trying it on for the sake of pure fun, but flirting in earnest, with a view to score. Coldness invaded his stomach. Starsky hadn’t looked at a woman like that in almost three years. Kira had been the last.

Starsky was contemplating the doorway through which a mollified Felicity had just departed.

“I think she likes me,” he announced with a grin and suggestive eyebrow wiggle Hutch recognized from a decade of joint efforts at luring the fairer sex into their orbit. “You figure I got a chance with her?”

It was more than Hutch could bear. All of a sudden the whole situation, the case, the fight, the long weeks of fear and uncertainty, the throbbing ache in his gut—it all overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t take any more of it.

Hutch turned and fled. Away. He had to get away from that room and the alien Starsky and the whole surreal setup. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe he could outrun it.

He’d only gone three or four doors down the hall when a flash of pain reminded him that outrunning anything wasn’t on his list of approved activities yet. He stumbled to a halt, a hand pressed against his abdomen. The other reached blindly for the wall. For a second, the world went dark around him.

“What the fuck?” a familiar voice said. Through the unsettling mist, Hutch felt himself gripped by the shoulders and steadied against the wall. A concerned face appeared in his line of vision.

“Shit, I forgot,” Starsky said, wide-eyed. “You got stabbed, didn’t ya? By the same thugs that knocked me out. They said you were in the hospital.”

“I’m okay,” Hutch gasped. “I’m fine.”

Starsky ignored that. “Lemme go grab a nurse,” he said. He leaned back, not letting go, and peered down the empty hall. “Felicity!”

“No!” Hutch locked his hands around Starsky’s arms, holding him back, holding him. The last thing he wanted was a nurse, and certainly not Felicity.

“I don’t…” His breath came in a short, sharp burst, “…need a nurse. I just gotta…sit down for a minute.” He tightened his grip on Starsky’s arm. “I’ll be okay. Trust me.”

A couple of doors opened beside them and curious inmates peered out. At the end of the hall, a visitor stopped and stared. Any moment now, some medic would come marching up and take charge.

Starsky hesitated. “All right,” he said. “But at least let’s get you back to the room.”

Hutch felt himself being steadied and maneuvered toward the door through which he had escaped in such haste only a minute earlier. Starsky held him in a firm, familiar grip and eased him into the chair much like the Starsky he knew would have done.

Hutch gazed at his partner’s face with longing. Starsky didn’t seem to notice. He’d gone down in a crouch and lifted the hem of Hutch’s shirt, paling a little when he took in the extent of the dressing concealed beneath.

“Shit, man, you got no business walkin’ around,” he said, astonished. “You should be in bed. What the hell are you doing out here?”

“I…had to see you.”

“Why?”

Why? Hutch closed his eyes for a moment. All of a sudden, he was overwhelmed with exhaustion.

“‘Cause that’s what we do,” he whispered. “We look after each other. That’s what we’ve always done. We’re…partners.”

The foundation of their partnership. The rock on which their love was built. Always there. Taken for granted almost. And he had to explain it to Starsky?

Starsky’s blank face told him the words meant nothing. The chasm between them suddenly seemed to measure light-years. Yet Starsky was so near, only a foot away. Crouching beside the chair, his head was almost level with Hutch’s. Heat radiated through the fabric of Hutch’s pants where Starsky’s arm touched his leg.

The familiar touch robbed Hutch of the last of his self-control. His hand came up like something with a will of its own. Starsky looked surprised, but didn’t draw back. Slowly, as if trying to coax a wild animal, Hutch reached out and let the palm of his hand rest against Starsky’s cheek. The skin felt warm under his touch, and a little rough from a hint of an afternoon stubble.

Starsky’s face was a picture of pure astonishment, and for a second, Hutch thought he’d gone too far. But he couldn’t stop now. The connection. The bond that tied them through life and death. It couldn’t have gone.

The need to know was a sudden irresistible force. Holding Starsky with a feather-light touch, Hutch drew his partner’s gaze. Their eyes locked. Starsky’s were pools of the darkest hue—deep, blue, and disturbingly guarded. Hutch probed their defenses, acutely aware of Starsky’s warm breath on his face that made him think of coffee and apples and chocolate chip cookies.

Reality melted away as Hutch held his partner with his eyes. He put everything he had into that look—his love, his need, every memory of what they were. Together.

Starsky’s guard wavered, and for a second, a heartbeat only, a pathway seemed to open between them, filled with shadows of light and warmth—there and gone like a dream.

It was enough. There was something behind those unreadable eyes. A spark, a stirring of recognition. The ghost of a connection. Hutch was sure of it. His fingers tightened their hold as he caressed Starsky’s cheek with his thumb—a lover’s caress. Starsky was here. He was safe. Everything was going to be all right.

Starsky blinked, a slow dip of the long lashes. His eyes were full of bewilderment. “What happened?” he said. “I don’t understand. What are we to each other?”

Starsky looked so confused. But Hutch’s heart was singing. “Everything,” he whispered, unable to hide his yearning. “Best friends. Partners. Everything.”

“Everything?” A wrinkle appeared on Starsky’s forehead. “What do you mean? I don’t—”

The words faded. Slowly his eyes went wide and the breath stopped as he suddenly read the answer somewhere on Hutch’s face, in the lingering touch of Hutch’s fingers on his cheek.

He jerked back. Was on his feet and half a room away in the space of a second. The fragile link Hutch had forged fractured and broke, and an abyss the size of the Grand Canyon opened up between them.

Hutch could have wept. He didn’t need to look to know that the spark he’d sensed between them was gone.

“Everything?” Starsky repeated, advancing again slowly and with his eyes all over Hutch. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”

Hutch nodded miserably.

“Say it!” Starsky roared, making Hutch jump. “Tell me the truth. What are we?”

“We’re…t-together,” Hutch said. “You know, as…as in a couple. We’re partners.”

Emotion worked on Starsky’s face. “You mean we’re queer?” Stunned disbelief distorted his voice. “I’m queer?”

Something inside Hutch started to hurt very badly. He took in a deep breath. “I don’t know what we are,” he said. “Gay or straight or something in between. It’s hard to explain. We’re different. There’s no label for what we are.”

The fresh wave of confusion on Starsky’s face told him he was making a complete hash of it. This wasn’t what this new Starsky wanted to hear. His needs lay deeper, a man’s need to have his masculinity reaffirmed. The ache in Hutch’s heart dug in a little deeper.

The truth. Starsky wanted the truth. And he deserved to know, even if that meant risking everything they were, everything they had become.

“You aren’t,” he said with a heavy tongue. “Weren’t. Until a few years ago, I would’ve sworn we were both as straight as they come. But now….”

“Why? What happened a few years ago?”

“We…fell in love with each other.”

“In love!”

“You don’t remember?” Hutch whispered. “You really don’t remember?”

Starsky shook his head. Hutch couldn’t bear to look at his shocked face. He looked at the floor, instead.

Very softly, he said, “We’ve known each other since the Academy. We’ve been best friends for twelve years, partners for almost ten. For years, we only had eyes for women. And then one day, I realized that none of those women were important. Only a single person in the world was important.”

He looked up and into his partner’s startled eyes. “And that’s when I fell in love with you.”

Starsky stood motionless. A long moment went by. “And I?” he finally said. “Did I…?”

God, he looked so lost. Like someone who had just had the last remaining certainty in his life whipped out from underneath his feet. Hutch’s heart ached for him.

He nodded, unable to speak. How to explain this thing that had grown up between them? Not love or need or desire. Not just love and need and desire, but more. So much more. It couldn’t be explained.

Weariness swept over him, sucking away the last of his strength, and he sagged. There was little consolation in the fact that Starsky, in an unconscious move, reached out at once to steady him.

He almost missed the heavy footsteps outside the room, the sound of the door swinging open. But the bellow that followed couldn’t be missed.

“Starsky! Hutchinson!”

They jerked apart like guilty children as Dobey, radiating displeasure, marched into the room.

“So that’s where you are,” he barked when he set eyes on Hutch. “I should’ve known. What possessed you to check out of the hospital, huh? I thought you had more sense than that. You have any idea how long it takes to get here from the Belmont? You think I got nothing better to do than to chase after my detectives all day?”

This wasn’t supportive, good-natured Dobey. This was a seriously irate Captain.

“And you.” He rounded on Starsky. “I can’t believe you let him get away with it. He belongs in bed, and you know it! Just look at him, he’s dead on his feet. What’s the matter with you, huh?”

Starsky gaped at him, but Dobey ignored it.

“You two will be the death of me,” he growled and stabbed a finger at his errant officers. “You’re more trouble than the rest of the department put together. I have no idea why I put up with you.”

Hutch felt a twinge of guilt. “Captain,” he started as he levered himself from the chair. “I’m sorry. I—”

But Dobey was having none of it. He reached for the forgotten crutch and shoved it in Hutch’s direction. “Save your breath. Come on, I’m taking you home. That’s an order. I called Dr. Cowan. He’s going to drop by your place to check you over. All right, move it. I haven’t got all day.”

Hutch allowed himself to be shepherded from the room. The last thing he saw before the door fell shut behind him was Starsky standing in the middle of the room, white-faced, slack-armed, and looking stunned to the core.

ooOOOoo

He’s still staring at the door long minutes after the odd pair has walked through and disappeared from view. He feels paralyzed, yet every part of him is in uproar. For a moment he wonders if it’s all been a hallucination.

“Hutch?” he’d said, incredulous, when Minnie had first pointed to the blond in the picture. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, what kinda name is Hutch?”

His gaze goes to the wardrobe with its undisclosed secrets of a forgotten past. He hesitates. Indecision stands like a wall before him.

Setting his jaw, he grasps the handle and swings the door open to reveal the albums he’s deposited there not an hour earlier. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he picks out the green one and turns the heavy pages, each bearing a burden of three or four glossy prints, until he finds the one he’s hunting for.

The guy looks different in the picture, although the date scribbled beside it puts the moment of its capture only months into the past. He looks relaxed and happy. A wide grin transforms the tanned face under a head of hair so bright, it brings up an image of wheat fields under the sun.

He frowns, and quickly turns the page. There he is again, this time with an arm slung around the shoulders of a curly-haired man he recognizes as himself. Both men wear identical smiles. Their eyes are on each other, and there’s something in that shared look—a warmth, a closeness—that, given the public setting, strikes him as almost indecently intimate.

Best friends. Partners. Everything.

The look of searching intensity on Minnie’s face that morning suddenly makes a whole lot more sense. She knows. Huggy, too, probably. It must be true.

He recalls the man’s face as he first saw it in the doorway, the look of wide-eyed hope and uncertainty, and later the glimpse of devastation in those wide blue eyes. The whole incredible scene that followed is already branded on his mind.

Drawn and repelled in equal measures, he returns his gaze to the picture, lets it roam over every angle of the smiling face.

Who the hell are you?

The album slides to the floor as he comes heavily to his feet. The strange-familiar city sprawls under his gaze as he stares out the window. His hand goes to his cheek where the touch of desperate fingers seems to linger.

He stands there for a long moment. Then he takes a deep breath, turns and reaches for the phone.

“Minnie? This is, uh…. this is David Starsky. Look, you said if I needed anything, I should call. Can you come over? I gotta ask you a few things. About this guy, this Hutch.”

 

IV

A deceptively cheerful day dawned when Hutch opened his eyes in his own bedroom the next morning. He’d crawled into bed expecting a rotten night’s sleep haunted by visions of Starsky’s alien eyes and the throbbing ache of his healing stitches. Instead, he’d dropped into a dreamless cavern so deep, he barely managed to claw his way back out.

Still groggy, he untangled himself from the sheets, pushed his legs out of bed and climbed stiffly to his feet. He didn’t look at the empty side of the bed.

A shower was out of the question, but when he had wielded a wash cloth loaded with liberal amounts of soap and brushed the taste of a whole cocktail of drugs from his mouth, Hutch found to his surprise that he felt almost human. Wrapped in his threadbare dressing gown, he shuffled downstairs and put the kettle on.

The fridge, on inspection, revealed an assortment of wrinkled vegetables, furry cheeses, and a carton of lumpy milk—a situation Hutch confronted by rapidly closing the door again. Then he discovered the bag of groceries a thoughtful Menendez had left on the counter the night before.

Temperatures were soaring, and the house felt hot and stuffy. Clutching a mug of coffee, Hutch opened the door to the back porch and wandered into the garden. A wilting wasteland greeted him there. The Chilean lilies were drooping, the runner beans hung limp from their supports, and the lawn resembled a yellowing stretch of badlands. Looked like the sprinklers had failed again in their absence.

Hutch turned his back on the sight. Curling his hands around his mug, he lowered his aching body onto the sagging couch on the porch and let his head fall back. Very carefully, he opened his mind to the events of the previous day.

Starsky was in the hospital. Again. Not shot or stabbed or drugged. No, this time he’d lost his fucking memory.

I knew something would go wrong. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing right from the start.

But that was absurd. He wasn’t thinking straight. It was the job he’d feared, the myriad of undercover dangers. Instead the real danger had come from a totally random knock on the head. It was unbelievable.

Temporary. It had to be temporary. That’s what everyone said.

But the lofty certainty with which he’d waltzed into the clinic yesterday had been shattered long ago. What if it wasn’t? What if Starsky would never know him again?

Hutch dropped his head into his hands. Something inside him went cold and hard when he recalled the empty look on his partner’s face, the total lack of recognition there.

But he responded to me, a small voice inside him cried. When I needed him, out there in the hall, he was right there, like always.

His other, more cynical voice disagreed. He helped you get back to the room, it sneered. Any bystander would have done as much.

Hutch pushed the voice aside. The real Starsky was in there, dammit. He’d sensed him, felt him. When he’d held his partner with his eyes and looked deep into his soul, there had been something. The shadow of something. He was sure of it.

And then it had vanished and a look of profound shock had taken its place.

Hutch groaned. For the hundredth time he wanted to kick himself for letting slip the one small pregnant word. Everything. Why? Why had he said it? Why had he revealed so much, so soon?

Because it was the truth, and if Hutch had learned anything from the past, it was that honesty was the best policy where Starsky was concerned. Starsky was a straight-forward kind of guy. He could handle the truth. He was lousy at handling deception. Nothing proved that better than the terrifying events of three years ago.

Hutch had long ago realized what his mistake had been. Stumbling into bed with Kira in a disastrous moment of mental blackout hadn’t been the worst of it. Nor had falling in love with Starsky in the first place. Oh no. The real mistake had been to hide that love from him.

When Starsky had finally figured it all out, Hutch’s act of desperation hadn’t stunned him nearly as much as his partner’s lack of belief in the strength of their friendship. Because that’s what it had been—a lack of faith, a failure of trust.

Hutch wasn’t going to make that mistake a second time. He had to trust Starsky, even an amnesiac Starsky, to be able to handle the truth.

None of that changed the fact that his timing had been rotten. Starsky was trapped in a void. Now, thanks to him, he’d lost one of his few remaining certainties.

Hutch felt sick. He’d done everything wrong. Instead of charging in there like a man with a grievance, expecting instant recognition and rapport, he should have kept his cool, kept his distance, and tried to steer Starsky gently out of the abyss. Instead he had only succeeded in turning his partner’s mind against him.

With an aching heart, Hutch realized that a change of plan was in order. A visit to St. John’s had been the first and only item on his list of activities that day, but maybe that wasn’t the brightest idea right now. Starsky needed time, not another encounter with a demanding and excitable partner. Maybe it was better if he didn’t show his face over there for a while.

It was one of the hardest decisions in Hutch’s life. The need to see Starsky, to be with him, tore at him like a physical craving. Setting his jaw, he heaved himself up from the couch, picked up his mug and shuffled into the kitchen.

Time to tackle the challenge of the furry fridge.

ooOOOoo

Elsewhere, optimism was high.

“See,” Dobey said when he dropped in on a flying visit, “I knew he’d be all right. He remembers you. Don’t give me that look. I saw you two together in that hospital room. You were all over each other, like always.”

“He’s definitely coming around,” Babcock said later. “He looked great when we saw him today, didn’t he, Sims? Don’t worry, Hutch, he’s gonna be fine. It’s just a matter of time.”

“You can’t rush these things,” Wallace agreed. “A concussion can really fuck you up. I know. I’ve been there. What he needs is time and plenty of rest and he’ll be as good as new.”

“And if that doesn’t do the trick, we’ll try shock therapy,” Linda said deadpan. “It’ll all come back to him as soon as he sets eyes on that coke can on wheels.”

The others laughed. Even Hutch rolled his eyes.

“Of course it’ll all come back to him,” Minnie said as if the alternative were simply unacceptable. “He’s making pretty good progress. You wouldn’t believe the change in him today. John is right, you’ve gotta give him time.”

Hutch really wished they’d all stop saying that. No one seemed to be treating this crisis with the respect it deserved. But he didn’t say anything. He wanted to believe in the recovery theory as much as everyone else.

Over the course of the next few days, nearly half the department found an excuse to cruise past the neighborhood and drop in with news and bags of groceries. Even Chief Ryan made an appearance on the doorstep.

But his most unexpected visitor was Montgomery. When Hutch opened the door to the burly blond, his first instinct was to slam it right back into his face. Just in time he recalled that the federal agent had probably saved his life. Reluctantly he stood aside and let him in.

Montgomery refused the offer of a seat or a drink. “How are you doing?” he said.

“All right,” said Hutch, straightening his spine. “The doctors are happy enough.”

“And your partner?”

Hutch clenched his teeth. “He’s fine. He’ll be just fine.” He added with a hint of acid, “All he needs is time.”

If Montgomery caught the cynicism, he didn’t show it. “Good,” he said, “that’s good.” He stared at the car keys in his hand. “Look, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about the way this case turned out. About what happened to you. And to your partner. I hope he’s going to be okay.”

Hutch’s anger abated. “What happened had nothing to do with the case. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

A pause lengthened between them. Finally Hutch said, “What’s going to happen with the operation? Are you planning to put another agent under?”

“We might,” Montgomery said, vague as only a Fed could be. “Won’t be easy. Leibovich is onto us now. Everyone knows the cops and the FBI were outside the bar that night. He’ll have put two and two together.”

It was Hutch turn to say, “Sorry.”

“Wasn’t your fault. You did what you had to.” Montgomery hesitated. “You know, that night…the way you threw yourself into the fight to get to your partner? Reminded me of a buddy of mine, Manolo. We used to do that when we were partnered.”

“He’s no longer with the firm?”

“He’s dead. He was killed in a shootout four years ago.” A small muscle moved on the agent’s cheek. “I wasn’t even there. I was undercover. They told me a week after he’d died.”

Sorry seemed nowhere near the appropriate word now.

“Look, I better go,” Montgomery said. “Tell your partner…tell him he did good.”

“I will.”

Hutch closed the door thoughtfully. He didn’t mention the visit when John Babcock made an appearance after work that night. Babcock and Montgomery hadn’t hit it off during the operation, and while Hutch might be coming around to seeing the agent’s softer side, Babcock might not.

“Sims couldn’t make it,” his fellow detective told him as he hung his holster over the back of the couch and took the can of Coors Hutch held out to him. “It’s Julie’s birthday. He’s taking her to one of those ritzy dance halls in Beverley Hills.” He shook his head. “He’s always taking her out to some swanky place. I have no idea how he does it. It’s not like we had a pay rise lately.”

“He’s in love,” Hutch said with a smile. “Money doesn’t matter when you’re in love.”

Babcock made a face. “Tell me about it. He’s probably surviving on dry bread for the rest of the week. Remind me to treat him to a decent lunch tomorrow.”

Hutch grinned. Sims and Babcock had nothing remotely resembling the bond he shared with Starsky, but they formed a solid, dependable partnership, based on liking, mutual trust, and much banter.

He and Starsky had started out in much the same way. Buddies, partners, friends. But right from the start, he’d known that Starsky was different from all the others he’d called friend over the years. It was the strength of their connection, the intensity of their love, powerful long before it had blossomed into this crazy, wonderful thing they didn’t even have a name for.

He’s under my skin, bone-deep. He lives in every cell of my body. He’s in my heart, my soul. I couldn’t live without him.

Was there such a thing as being too close to someone?

Hutch felt the grin run away from his face. They didn’t sense it often, this thing between them, but it was always there, in the background somewhere, hovering on the air like the lingering hum of a chord plucked on a guitar. It stirred at times of need. Nothing, not even death, had managed to sever it. They had no idea what it was.

And now? He hadn’t felt its power since…since that damn undercover job. Where was it, that precious connection, now that Starsky’s end of it had been cast off into the ether?

Hutch backpedaled with haste. No, not cast off. That could never be. Dormant. Curled up asleep. He’d sensed it, hadn’t he? A shadowy remnant of it anyway. As soon as Starsky recovered—

The porch door slammed, propelled by a gust of hot Santa Ana wind. Hutch jerked back to the presence to find Babcock’s level gaze on his face.

“When are you going to see him?” Babcock said as if he knew precisely where Hutch’s mind had wandered off to. “He keeps asking about you. He wants to know when you’re coming back.”

“He does?”

“Of course he does. What did you expect? He’s worried about you. You haven’t shown your face over there in three whole days. I’m not the only one who thinks that’s weird.”

Hutch looked away. How to explain that for once, Starsky might be better off without him?

“I promised Cowan I’d stay put,” he said. “You know him. He’s capable of putting a guard at the door to make sure I do.”

Babcock knew a lame excuse when he heard one. An expressive eyebrow went up, but all he said was, “Well, if you need a lift, just give us a call.”

ooOOOoo

Hutch didn’t need a lift. His own car was god-knew-where, probably still parked outside the Tivoli, but the Torino sat in solitary splendor locked up inside the garage.

As he put it in reverse and backed out of the driveway, he could hardly believe that he’d left it so long. What had he been thinking? This wasn’t a stranger. This was Starsky, his Starsky. And Starsky needed him.

The first person he ran into on the fifth floor of St. John’s was the neurotic doctor. She was walking into the elevator as Hutch was walking out.

“Sergeant Hutchinson,” she said with the lightning smile of the perpetually rushed and stepped back out, allowing the conveyance to depart without her.

“Dr. Jolimont.”

“I’m really glad to see you,” she said. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I don’t know what you said to David the other day, but whatever it was, it’s had a remarkable effect on him.”

A defibrillator couldn’t have done a better job at jump-starting Hutch’s heart. “You mean he remembers?” he said, hoarse with hope.

“Oh no, there’s been no change in his condition,” she said briskly. “What I mean is that he’s decided to cooperate with us again. Well, at least to a certain extent. You’ll see what I mean when you go in.”

The letdown was almost unbearable. “So there’s been no change at all?”

“Not yet, but the way he’s thrown himself at his therapy is very encouraging, especially when you consider his earlier hostility. It’s the strongest sign yet that David is on the path to recovery.”

Another elevator opened with a pling and she moved to claim the cubicle, holding the door with one hand. “Be patient, Sergeant. Remember, the brain needs time to heal. There’s no miracle cure for amnesia.”

Her hand withdrew. The doors closed. With a heavy heart, Hutch turned and entered the inner sanctum.

There was no sign of Felicity, a fact for which Hutch was profoundly grateful. Instead he was greeted by the sight of Officer Jackson striding down the hall with a heavy cardboard box in his arms.

“Jackson,” he said, astonished. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I’m just taking these back to the station,” Jackson said without missing a step. “Starsky says he’s finished with them.”

He strode away, leaving a mystified Hutch in his wake. Hutch approached the open door with caution. Minnie was there, installed in the only chair. Starsky, decked out in a large-patterned Hawaiian shirt in a riot of primary colors, perched on the bed beside her.

But that wasn’t what drew Hutch’s eye. Gone was the Spartan hospital room. Instead the place was jam-packed with files upon files in familiar yellow jackets. They were everywhere. They occupied boxes sitting on the floor. They formed leaning towers on the shelves. They sprawled over the table and the bed. Some had the homicide department’s crest on the cover. Others bore the unadorned lettering of R-and-I computer printouts.

Starsky had one of the folders open on his knees. Minnie was just leaning over to point at what looked like a felon’s mug shot.

“…no, that was a couple of years earlier,” Hutch heard her say, “when he got out of prison in ’74 and hooked up with the lawyer.”

“Who did the dirty work for him and hired the killer,” Starsky said and turned back a couple of pages. “A guy called, uh, Slater. He got killed when I tried to arrest him.”

“That’s it.”

“And the other guy, the Colonel, wasn’t much help, either.”

“Nope.”

“So the only reason we found him in time was ’cause this kid was into radios.”

“Yep.”

What the hell was going on? Intrigued, Hutch edged closer. Then he had to jump clear when Bernie walked in behind him with another stack of files piled high under his chin.

“Starsky,” Bernie called out. “Dobey says this is the last of the lot. He says he’s gotta have these back by tomorrow. Where do you want them?” He peered around his load. “Oh, hi, Hutch. How’re you doin’? I almost didn’t see you there.”

Starsky’s head came around as if pulled by a string. His eyes widened. “Hutch!” The file slipped to the floor as he jumped to his feet, a blinding smile on his face.

For the second time in five minutes, Hutch’s heart missed a beat. Of all the welcomes he’d imagined, this was the least expected. Starsky was pleased to see him. After everything Hutch had thrown at him, he was actually pleased to see him.

The relief in Hutch’s chest was a thing of almost obscene proportions. The room and all it contained faded into the background and for an endless moment all he saw was Starsky. Who stood there with a part goofy, part uncertain grin on his face, caught on one foot as if the forward surge had come as much as a surprise to him as it had to Hutch.

Behind him, Minnie leaned forward and cast a single sharp glance into Hutch’s face, and something she saw there made her come to her feet real fast.

“I gotta go,” she said, grabbing her keys. “Uh, dentist appointment. I almost forgot.”

She squeezed past Bernie, who still stood patiently awaiting instructions, scooped the files from his arms, dumped them on the floor and hustled the surprised cop from the room. “See you guys tomorrow. Byeee.” The door fell shut behind them.

Hutch hardly noticed. He had eyes only for Starsky. Any hopes of a major breakthrough were dashed when he took a closer look at him. Something was different, but it wasn’t the extent of Starsky’s memory.

He adjusted the look that had precipitated Minnie’s hasty departure. “Hey,” he said, a little uncertainly.

“Hey,” Starsky said, no less tentatively.

A small, alien silence ensued. “You’re looking good,” Starsky finally said. “How’s the uh…?”

“I’m all right. A bit sore, that’s all.”

Another awkward moment trickled by, a new thing between them. Awkwardness had never been an issue before, not even right at the start. Hutch often thought that they hadn’t so much entered their friendship as plunged into it head over heel. From the start, there had been few boundaries and fewer taboos.

But this was different. This was an obstacle course on egg shells. With trapdoors.

Hutch gave himself a mental push. “I brought you some more clothes,” he said and deposited the bag he’d brought on top of the files on the bed, adding with a meaningful stare, “Looks like you need them.”

Starsky caught his drift at once. He spread his arms. “Hey, what’s wrong with this? Felici— One of the nurses gave me this. I was running low on shirts.”

“What’s wrong with it? It’s cheap. It’s tacky. It’s just not you.”

“It’s not?” Frowning, Starsky looked down at himself.

A small stack of photos sat on the table and he reached for it. A quick search yielded the one he was looking for. Hutch recognized it at once. It showed Starsky in his most misshapen blazer, a baggy pair of pants, polka-dotted tie at half-mast, striking a pose against a backdrop of Metro Station.

Starsky eyed the image dubiously. “This more my style then?”

“God, no,” Hutch said horrified. “That was a joke, a windup. You wanted to piss off Lieutenant O’Rourke, because the day before he’d told you off for going on the witness stand in jeans and sneakers.”

“So I dressed up for him?”

“Yeah, ’cause we had go back to court that day for another grilling.”

Starsky looked ridiculously relieved. He put down the picture, unzipped the bag, and ransacked its contents. A moment later, he’d pulled the eye-popping monstrosity off his back and wriggled into a well-worn red t-shirt Hutch knew was one of his favorites.

“There,” he said as he tugged it down. “That better?”

Hutch blinked away the afterimage the glimpse of firm abs and a furry chest had left on his retinas.

“Much better,” he said. Christ, this was terrible. Not an obstacle course at all. More like a torture trail.

“So, uh, what’s all this about then?” he said with a look around the room. The dropped file still lay upside down on the floor and he reached to retrieve it.

George Bernard Humphries, the cover proclaimed.

Hutch felt his eyebrows creep into his hairline. He cast an eye over the files spread out on the table. Operation Snowstorm, one of them said, a sting job they’d been working on well over five years ago. Benjamin J. Forest, the next one read, the personal file of a convicted felon. He looked up, puzzled.

Starsky shrugged. “Props. The doc wants me to explore what she calls defining events of my life. She thinks it might jog the old memory. She’s hoping for a big aha moment.”

He waved a hand at the row of photo albums that lined the window sill. “Minnie and the guys have been filling me in on some of those, but I thought I needed more. So I asked Dobey if I could take a look at some of the back files, see what we’ve been up to in the last few years.”

“And he agreed to let you move all these files in here?” Hutch said, astonished. “But they’re confidential. They should never leave the precinct.”

“Relax. It’s not like I haven’t read them all before. Heck, I wrote half of ’em! Just ’cause I got knocked out doesn’t mean I don’t still have clearance.”

“That’s not the point,” Hutch said, wondering what the point was. “If word gets out that Dobey is letting these files out of the building, he’s going to be in deep shit. I can’t believe he agreed to this.”

Starsky looked unfazed. “Yeah, that’s why Jackson is cooling his heels outside, to keep an eye on them. Besides, it’s all old stuff. No recent or unsolved cases. Dobey is okay with it. You know what he’s like—always ready to go out on a limb for us.”

Hutch shot him a sharp look. Starsky remembered that?

To hide his confusion, he turned to peer at some of the pictures that were scattered all over the room. There was John Blaine smiling into the camera next to a shot of a ridiculously young Starsky in army fatigues hamming it up in front of a Viet Cong army tank. The Police Academy graduation photo, class of ’69, jostled for space with an interior view of Starsky’s old apartment. There were snapshots of the Dobeys, the precinct, Huggy with an arm draped around Dianne.

And of Hutch. Lots of them. In uniform and out. In jeans and in undercover gear. Playing the guitar and cleaning his gun. The pictures were everywhere, crowding every surface. The place looked like an incidence room after a whirlwind.

Hutch recalled that Minnie had spent the better part of a week inside this room, talking. He remembered Babcock’s laughing account of being grilled like a suspect in there and not allowed to leave for a whole afternoon. Huggy had a similar story to tell. Dobey too.

And he suddenly understood. Starsky was on the hunt for the aha moment and he did it the way only Starsky could—by trawling wholesale through his past, tapping into every resource.

Recovery by total immersion.

It was such a quintessential Starskyesque approach to the problem, it produced a small swell of warmth inside Hutch that washed away his confusion and took the tenseness right out of his shoulders.

Starsky noticed it at once. He, too, relaxed, and the tentative beginnings of a smile made an appearance.

“Uh, listen, Hutch,” he said, “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot the other day. You kinda took me by surprise. Look, I know this ain’t easy for you. But I’m trying, I really am. I’m sure it’ll all come back to me. The doctors say it’s just a matter of time.”

Hutch couldn’t believe his ears. Starsky was comforting him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? The sharp sting behind his lids was an entirely unwelcome sensation, and Hutch blinked it away as fast as he could.

“I know,” he said. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”

“You really think so?”

The note of uncertainty in Starsky’s voice revealed the earlier bravado for the false front it had been. For the first time since the start of the crisis, Hutch forced himself to look at him, really look at him, not with the eyes of a friend and partner, but with the eyes of a cop.

He took in the shadows under his eyes, the tense lines around his mouth, the stiff set of his shoulders. He noted the restless movement of his eyes and the way his gaze kept straying to the window like…like a caged panther Hutch remembered seeing in a zoo once when he was a kid.

The memory was a sudden vivid image in his mind. A proud creature, born wild and free, the animal had paced the cage with lithe, graceful movements, back and forth on an endless path to nowhere, its powerful muscles rippling under the dark sleek fur, and its gaze fixed on the bars and the distant view of freedom.

Starsky had that look. Like that panther, he was trapped. Not in a cage—he could after all walk out of the hospital at any time—but in a life that numbered not years and decades, but days. A few days. That was all he had. And before that, darkness.

For the first time Hutch tried to imagine what it was like for Starsky to be locked up in the mist of a forgotten past. He doesn’t know what he’s missing, Jolimont had said. But what if she was wrong? What if Starsky knew precisely what it was he had lost?

It was that look that did it. Hutch squared his shoulders and set his jaw. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I really think so.”

The beam that spread over Starsky’s rugged features was all the reward he needed. For a moment he looked just like the real thing. And just like the real thing, he was suddenly full of boundless sparkling energy.

“Hey, wanna help?” he said. “I got a bucket-load of questions, and since Minnie’s had to go to the, uh, dentist, how about you fill me in?”

Hutch almost smiled. “Sure,” he said and reached for the Humphries file.

“Not about that,” Starsky said. “About you. Us. How we met, that kinda thing.”

Oh boy, Hutch thought.

He shrugged off his light summer jacket and tossed it on the bed. Pulled up the chair and watched Starsky regain his perch on the bed. And then he started talking.

He told Starsky about his childhood and rebellious youth in Duluth. He talked about college and Vanessa, about the Academy and a certain curly-haired nuisance he’d been obliged to room with. He told him about their rookie years and their first years of being partnered.

He talked until his mouth was dry and the sun climbed out of sight behind the building. But as he talked, the first tendrils of doubt began to stir inside him. They grew, tumorlike, until they reached into every part of his mind and he saw what he should have seen right away.

Starsky’s quest was doomed from the start. The biggest aha moment had already come and gone: the day of their first encounter, when he had raised their connection from the dead and touched his partner somewhere deep within his soul. If the shock of that revelation hadn’t done the trick, what hope was there in the files and the photos and all the goddamn talk in the world?

The realization caused a knot of lead to form in Hutch’s chest that made the words crumble on his lips. And although he rallied at once, the moment of weakness wasn’t lost on Starsky.

“Jeez, look at the time,” he said. “You’ve been here for hours. Go home, man. Get some rest. I’m sorry I kept you so long.”

“I think I will.” Hutch rose.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“You comin’ again tomorrow? I mean, if you want to?”

The lump in Hutch’s chest eased a little. He even managed a smile. “Course I will,” he said. “Someone’s got to keep you on your toes around here.”

ooOOOoo

But Hutch didn’t go home. Minerva Kaplan’s place lay a convenient fifteen-minute drive away. Hutch made it in twelve.

“I gotta talk to you,” Hutch said as soon as she opened the door, still knotting the belt of her lemon-yellow kimono.

He liked Minnie. She had a refreshing, no-nonsense attitude to life. She was also sharp as a pin and in an emergency didn’t waste time on chitchat. This was an emergency.

“Come in,” she said with a jerk of the chin. “Siddown.”

Hutch went in and sat down. The last time he’d seen the place, it had been decked out with Indian wall hangings and brightly colored rugs. This time large prints of an abstract post-modernist design adorned the walls and the haphazard arrangement of beanbags had given way to a plush suite in black leather. Minnie had embraced the ’80s.

And something else. The large man’s shirt draped over the back of the chair was hard to miss, as was the pair of oversized shoes under the coffee table, no socks. Two wine glasses stood on the floor, next to an almost empty bottle. The bedroom door across the hall was firmly closed.

Bad timing.

Hutch eyed his colleague sidelong. Minnie returned the look with a cool and steady one of her own. She ignored the incriminating evidence, so Hutch did the same.

“What did you tell him?” he said.

Instead of replying, Minnie disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a tumbler half full of ice. She set the glass in front him, removed a bottle of Scotch from a cupboard and poured a healthy measure of amber liquid.

Hutch, whose last stiff drink lay several weeks in the past, seized the glass and tossed the contents down. The action earned him an approving nod. Minnie shook a cigarette from a pack on the table, lit up and came to sit beside him.

“As much as I could,” she said in reply. “As much as I know. Everything. Anything. His past, his youth, his family. New York, Vietnam, LA.”

She dragged on the cigarette. “It’s funny. When I first went to see him, he couldn’t have cared less. It was like talking to a brick wall. He barely tolerated me in the room. Now he can’t get the information out of me fast enough. He has a million questions, and he’s soaking up the answers like blotting paper.”

“Questions about what?”

“You, of course” she said. “And pretty much everything the two of you have been up to in the past ten years.”

“And?”

Smoke floated around her head. “And nothing. I’m trying to fill him in, but I’m reaching my limits. There’s just too much I don’t know.”

Hutch picked up the tumbler and swirled the melting cubes around and around.

“I’m not sure it’s going to work,” he said. “This whole ‘jogging his memory’ project. What’s the point of telling him about some case we worked five years ago, when he can’t even recognize a picture of his own mother?”

“It’s not the case that’s important,” Minnie said. “It’s the stories behind it. They’re the building blocks he needs in order to figure out where he came from and what made him what he is. They’ll help him find his place in the world.”

“You sound like Dr. Jolimont,” Hutch said with a forced smile. “How come you know so much?”

“I majored in psychology,” she reminded him. “It may have been a while, but I haven’t forgotten everything.”

She leaned forward and put a hand on Hutch’s leg, a gesture prone to misunderstanding under any other circumstances. Not now. She might have been the younger sister Hutch had never had.

“He needs you,” she said. “I can’t help him anymore. It was all right when we covered the basics, but now I just don’t have the answers anymore. You do. You know everything about him. He responds to you like to no one else. Just look at the changes you caused with just a single visit. If anyone holds the secret to his past, it’s you.”

Hutch stared at her. The secret to Starsky’s past. He’d been entrusted with so much over the years—Starsky’s life, his health, his wellbeing, and his happiness. To be in charge of his memory, too, felt like a tall order.

“He’s trying so hard,” Minnie said, her cigarette smoldering forgotten on the rim of the ashtray, “and he’s doing it all for you. Something you said must’ve really got under his skin.” She hesitated. “You told him, didn’t you?”

No need to elaborate. Hutch knew she knew, and she knew that he did. They’d never talked about it, and Hutch had never asked her how she’d figured it out.

He sighed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. Maybe that’s just what he needed. He needed to know that he’s important to someone. You shook him up, but you also got him hooked.”

And just like that, Hutch’s path was clear. If Starsky was hunting for his past, however futile, then he, Hutch, would have to do everything in his power to try and help. He would have to put his own heartache aside and help Starsky get through this, like always.

ooOOOoo

It was with that resolution in mind that Hutch walked into the quiet ward the following day with the entire collection of Starsky’s and his own haphazardly maintained photo albums under his arm.

He’d spent the night before sorting through them, surprised by the treasure trove he’d found concealed between the leather-bound covers. A whole lifetime was laid out in pictures—from an infant Starsky in the arms of the grandmother who used to live over an Italian restaurant right up to the fully grown version grinning into the camera outside the house they’d bought just over a year ago.

Starsky wanted props. Well, there were no better props than these.

Rounding the corner, he was just in time to see a white-coated figure with a clipboard under the arm emerge from Starsky’s room and walk away past a bored-looking Jackson. Hutch followed the retreating figure with thoughtful eyes.

“Who was that?” he asked without preamble as soon as he’d walked in.

Starsky was lounging on the bed, dressed in a pair of cutoffs and one of the t-shirts Hutch had packed for him the day before, a pillow stuffed behind his back, and an open file in front of him.

“One of the consultants,” he said, looking up. “His name’s Achmati.”

Hutch frowned. “What did he want?”

“To torture me with one of their godawful tedious memory tests. You know, the kind where they show you a picture of the president and say, do you recognize this man?” The eye-roll left no doubt about Starsky’s opinion on those. “I ran through them just to get rid of him.”

“You seen him before?”

“Not before today.” The look on Starsky’s face narrowed. “Why? You know the guy? He a perp or something?”

Well, no one had said that Starsky had lost any of his sharpness.

Hutch shook his head. “I don’t know. I thought I’d seen him before. I must’ve been wrong.” He told himself to get a grip. This wasn’t Memorial’s ICU and Starsky was in no kind of danger. Really, he was getting paranoid.

He put the matter aside and looked around the room instead. The chaos of files had been reined in. Neat boxes lined the walls. Not a Hawaiian shirt in sight.

Starsky had lowered the file and levered himself into a vertical position. Hutch thought he looked pale. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

Starsky waved a dismissive hand. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all. It’s all these files I been reading. I couldn’t put them down. Stephen King has nothing on them.”

“But they’re just case files and incidence reports. That’s pretty dry stuff.”

“Dry stuff? Are you kidding? Some of these read like a script for some B-rated action flick. All life and death stuff and last minute rescues. They make my toes curl. I’m on the edge of the seat the whole time.”

He tapped the file in front of him. “I mean, look at this one. This is my report. I wrote this. It says here it was a minor miracle I pulled through. It says the only reason I made it was because of you.”

Hutch took a peek at the folder still open on Starsky’s lap. Aloisius T.  Bellamy. Oh great.

“You really did that?” Starsky said, wide-eyed. “Refused to shoot, ’cause you might’ve killed him? He had you straight, but you didn’t shoot back?”

“That’s not what it says in there!”

“I can read between the lines.”

Hutch fielded a challenging stare. “Well, that’s nothing compared to what you did a moment later.”

“I shot the creep,” Starsky said with great satisfaction.

“And killed your only chance of finding the antidote,” Hutch said.

“Not the only chance. You came through with the goods in the nick of time. And that’s not the only time that’s happened. What about that other nut case, the one who set the bear on me? I could hardly believe it. Those guys were going to sacrifice me! The report says you showed up with only seconds to spare.”

Excitement gleamed in his eyes, and Hutch frowned. Starsky was missing the point. He seemed to think it had all just been some kind of an adventure.

“And then there’s this one,” Starsky said, oblivious. “The Callendar case. It’s my turn to save the bacon while you’re living it up in the hospital. That was another touch and go, same as with this undercover job on the Amatola.” He reached for another file. “It says here we almost went down with that bomb. It says we came this close to buying it.”

He tossed the files aside with a shake of the head. “Looks like we went through a hell of a lot of crap together.”

You have no idea, Hutch thought. After all, what could this new Starsky possibly know about it? He had no recollection of the fears and pains and sheer undiluted horrors concealed behind the paperwork’s dusty facts.

“And I haven’t even scratched the surface,” Starsky chatted on. “There must be another hundred files to go through. I gotta say, we sure didn’t let the moss grow under our feet.”

“Grass,” Hutch said automatically. “We didn’t let the grass grow under our feet.”

“Exactly. I mean, look at it. We got kidnapped, shot at, stabbed, and poisoned, and a few other things besides. It’s like we’re going out of our way lookin’ for trouble. Simmons says we see more action than any other team in the department. And you know what else is weird?”

Hutch rubbed a hand over his chin. “No, what?”

“He says we have an arrest record as long as his arm. So, if I get this right, we work all the toughest cases, go through all sorts of shit in the process, and still come up with the goods.” He cocked an eyebrow at Hutch. “I’m beginning to think we’re some kind of a super-team.”

Hutch looked away. Should he explain what happened to them out there on the streets? How they seemed to merge into one, thinking and acting in perfect sync as if with a single mind? How that helped them survive and gave them the edge?

No. That was advanced stuff. Starsky was nowhere near ready to be confronted with that particular truth. He produced a determined smile.

“Well, Dobey has been known to call us his best men. Huggy calls us the Dynamic Duo. Fact is, yeah, we’re pretty good cops. That’s the reason we’re still doing it.”

Forestalling further exploration of the danger-prone subject, he pushed the files aside and got to his feet. “Let’s go outside for a walk,” he said. “Get some fresh air. I brought you some pictures you haven’t seen.”

“Sure. If you want.” Starsky swung his legs off the bed. “But what I really need is not fresh air, but to get outta this joint. You know this is a nut house, doncha? So what the hell am I still doing here? I’m not crazy.”

“You’re as crazy as they come,” Hutch said, “and always have been.”

“Ha ha. You are a regular shaft of sunlight, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told. And you’re crabby because you—”

“Hate hospitals?”

“—haven’t been working out in ages. Take it from an expert. Those are classic exercise withdrawal symptoms.”

Starsky was brought up short. “I work out?” he said.

Hutch almost laughed. Starsky looked so amazed. “You do now. You’ve been keeping pretty fit these last coupla years.”

“Since I recovered from the shooting, you mean.”

Hutch stared at him. He’d forgotten how quickly Starsky was getting up to speed on his own history. “Let’s go,” he said and picked up his albums. “Dr. Jolimont said you have until your next therapy session and could you please try and be on time for a change.”

ooOOOoo

Three hours and five albums later, exhaustion lapped at Hutch’s mind like the rising tide at a storm shore. As far as surreal experiences went, this one occupied a place all of its own. When he had signed up for friendship, partnership, and more, the last thing he thought he’d be doing was to teach Starsky, his Starsky, the details of his own past.

It was hard work, made harder by Starsky’s proximity. The ache of being so close, and yet so far away, tore at Hutch. He longed to wrap his arms around him and hold him. To touch and connect. It had been so long since he’d felt the strength, the rippling energy, the raw masculine power of Starsky in his arms.

Just in case he slipped up, Hutch made sure the distance between them never measured less than an arm’s length.

By the time they were heading back, he was hanging on by his fingertips, aching to get away before he did something really, really stupid. Like slipping an arm around Starsky or running his fingers through the dark head of hair that looked more like an afro every day or—

Damn, he was doing it again.

“Isn’t she starting you on a new program today?” he said in desperation. If Starsky intercepted his thoughts, his new role of chief adviser wouldn’t be worth a cent.

Luck was on his side, and Starsky only cast him a curious glance. “Hypnosis, Hutch!” he said with wide-eyed indignation. “She wants to hypnotize me. She wants to prise open my mind and poke around in there!”

“Hypnosis? That’s a great idea. I read recently that they had some real breakthroughs with that. It’s worth a try.”

“But Hu-utch. What if something goes wrong? What if she digs up all sorts of stuff from the past I’d be better off without? I mean we all got shit hidden away we don’t wanna know about.”

Now that was so much vintage Starsky, the whine, the jittery unease in the face of this fresh challenge, that Hutch couldn’t help smiling.

“You’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”

“Yeah, right. What’ve I got to lose?” Starsky looked resigned. “Besides, whatever she digs up can’t be any worse than those dreams I been havin’.”

“Dreams?” Hutch perked up. “You mean nightmares?”

“You reading my mind or something? Yeah, nightmares. Weird stuff, anyway.”

“So that’s why you didn’t get any sleep last night. Wanna tell me about them?”

Starsky closed up like an oyster. “Nah, forget it. It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Hutch cast his eyes to heaven. They’d never get anywhere if Starsky insisted on pulling the old macho routine on him at every stage.

“It’s okay, you can tell me,” he said before playing his trump card. “We always tell each other everything.”

“We do?”

“We sure do. Saves no end on therapists’ fees.”

Starsky eyed him as if trying to decide if that was a well-disguised joke. He sighed.

“All right, but really, it’s no big deal. It’s just a stupid nightmare. I’m in this room, right? I can’t move, and there’s a bright light in my eyes. There’s a whole bunch of people around, but I can’t see their faces. They’re firing off all these questions at me. Sometimes I know the answer, and sometimes I don’t.”

He hesitated.

“That’s it?” Hutch said.

“Well…”

“Go on. You might as well tell me the rest.”

“Well, it gets kinda surreal after that. The room changes. It starts gettin’ smaller and smaller until it’s this really tiny space, like a box or something. It’s pitch black, and I can’t breathe in there, and I can’t get out.” He shrugged. “Told you, it’s nothing.”

“And how long have you had these?”

“I don’t know. A few days.”

“There could be something in it. You mention this to Dr. Jolimont?”

“So she can commit me to Cabrillo on charges of paranoid delusions? You outta your mind?”

“They’re not delusions, Starsky. They’re just dreams. But they might mean something. They could be the key to the whole problem. You’ve gotta tell her.”

“Over my dead body. I know what she’d do. She’d order up more stupid tests and give me another round of pills to eat.”

The stubborn look on his partner’s face made Hutch blow caution to the wind.

“Tell her!” he said. “She’s trying to help you, for Chrissakes. We all are. I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this to yourself all this time. Dammit, Starsky, when are you going to take this whole thing seriously? It’s been a week and there’s been no change. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to get better?”

Hutch broke off when he found Starsky staring at him. Hutch stared back. For a precious moment, he’d forgotten that this wasn’t Starsky he was talking to. It had felt like one of their many exchanges, him ranting, and Starsky quietly winding him up.

To Hutch’s surprise, Starsky looked away first. “All right,” he said, “I’ll talk to her. Now don’t look so surprised. It’s no big deal. I’ll do it at the next session. Which is in—oh damn—in two minutes.”

“You’d better get going then,” Hutch said, relieved.

“You coming back in the morning?”

“I can’t. I’m due at the hospital for a checkup. I’ll come and see you in the afternoon.”

And then he got the hell out of there.

In the car, he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to blow up. He’d forgotten. The whole thing had felt just like old times, him and Starsky, together, bickering over a point of contention.

Amnesia or not, Starsky knew just how to get under his skin. Hutch sighed. And realized with a heavy heart that there was nothing about this new old Starsky that he could take for granted.

ooOOOoo

He’s standing by the window, looking out at the night. He’s pleased with himself and the decision he’s made. He’s doing the right thing, he’s sure of that now.

Minnie is right. This guy Hutch—he’s special. He may be grumpy and intense and pretty damn annoying at times, but he’s also desperately scared and not doing a very good job at hiding it. Hutch is hurting, and that more than anything else has decided him to give his own past a chance.

There’s only one hitch. Best friends. Partners. Everything.

He shifts from one foot to the other. They won’t be able to ignore the elephant in the room for much longer. Better to face the thing straight on. What’s going to happen? Will Hutch want to kiss him? Touch him? Do…other stuff? How does he feel about that?

He frowns. It’s true, he’s drawn to the man. There’s an attraction that’s hard to deny. But is it sexual?

He tries to picture himself in an amorous situation with the man. The idea is laughable, and he rapidly closes his mind to it. Relax, he tells himself. The guy hasn’t put the moves on him yet. They haven’t even touched. Touchers, that’s what Minnie said. They were real touchers, always had been.

Well, not as far as he can see. Since that first encounter, Hutch has been keeping his distance.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about that. Hutch has the advantage on him there, all the knowledge of the past to guide his actions. He, Starsky, has nothing. He knows nothing, understands nothing. It’s like he’s groping his way in the dark.

He’s longing for the light. And his only hope of that is Hutch. He’s going to have to let Hutch take the lead. He’s going to have to trust him.

He’s not the trusting type, he knows that much, but the decision is easier than he feared. He’ll let Hutch set the pace. In everything. And in the meantime, he has a few more files to work through. He yawns and reaches for the next one, a fat one.

James M. Gunther.

He makes himself comfortable on the bed, opens the folder, and starts to read.

 

V

The hospital checkup told Hutch everything he already knew. The wound was healing, he was improving. He was also overdoing it, and if he didn’t take it easy, he would be courting complications in the long term.

Hutch nodded to everything, signed the paperwork, left. He had no intentions of taking it easy.

On the way back he popped into the station, catching Dobey just as he was about to descend to the canteen for lunch. Over plates of lumpy pasta smothered in something resembling regurgitated lumps of lard, he filled his captain in on the latest developments before departing the station with a copy of the incident report on the Tivoli fight under his arm.

Dobey had been unable to refuse, knowing Hutch had him by the balls. If Starsky had been allowed to remove half the contents of the filing cabinets, Hutch could hardly be refused a solitary file.

St. John’s car park lay in heavy heat, making the blast of air-conditioned chill inside the building an almost painful experience. Room 511 felt like an ice box. The room was empty, Starsky nowhere to be seen.

Hutch gazed around the bare shelves. Jackson had gone back to the precinct, and so had the files. The room looked as bare as if the chaos of the last few days had been no more than a figment of his imagination.

Only a single file remained. Hutch recognized it even before he read the name on the cover. A coldness unrelated to the room’s artificial chill traveled down his spine as he flipped the cover and leafed through the pages.

There was Menendez’ elaborate statement and Chrissie’s breathless account. They had been the first on the scene. Nguyen’s graphic description of the bullet-torn car and blood-spattered scene contrasted with Dobey’s bald version of the events.

His own witness report was a cool, detached statement that might have been written by a stranger. Strictly factual, it contained the bare minimum of words to satisfy the investigating officer. Hutch had no recollection of typing these words. They belonged to a life in a different dimension.

He’d thought he would never again have to lay eyes on that file. Yet here it was, as he should have known it would be.

Starsky was studying the reports of his shooting. What had he heard? What had the others told him? Did he know there was more to the story than the unemotional prose of the statements suggested?

It wasn’t a topic Hutch was raring to discuss. He put the file back where he’d found it. When the door opened, Hutch was at the window, looking out.

“Hey,” Starsky said.

Hutch turned. He caught himself doing what had already become an evil habit, giving Starsky The Look, the quick once-over designed to detect that all-important spark of memory that might be lurking in the corners of his eyes, the light of his smile. The spark that signaled the return of the Starsky he loved.

The scrutiny yielded familiar results. No change. No hint of progress. On the contrary, Starsky looked subdued, dejected almost.

“Hey,” Hutch said and walked forward. It was an instinctive move, a Pavlovian response to an unhappy Starsky that dated back to the time when the power of touch had cured many ills, and the strength of their togetherness could be relied upon to overcome any obstacle.

He caught himself just in time. Touching was not allowed. Not yet.

“So, uh, how did it go yesterday?” he said.

A shrug. “Okay.”

“Any results?”

“Don’t think so. She didn’t say.”

“Had any more bad dreams last night?”

The vague hand wave could mean anything, but most likely meant yes.

“You told Dr. Jolimont about them, didn’t you?” Hutch persisted.

“Uh huh.”

“And what did she say?”

A hint of annoyance crept into Starsky’s voice. “She said nightmares are a normal occurrence under the circumstances. She said they’re the brain’s way of coping with conflicting information. She said they should disappear when my memory returns and not to worry about them. Does that answer your question?”

“Hey, what’s the matter with you? You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just peachy.”

Hutch regarded him thoughtfully. Since Starsky had lost his memory, he found the man impossible to read.

Maybe this would be a good time to spring the good news on him.

“Guess what,” he said. “I ran into the specialist on my way up. He says there’s no point in you being here. In fact he thinks the hospital setting could be counterproductive. He says your best chance of recovery is in a familiar environment, and Dr. Jolimont agrees. So she’s going to let you go home tomorrow!”

The announcement failed to create the desired splash.

“Yeah, I know,” Starsky said with his eyes on his hands. “She told me earlier. They want me outta here. There’s a waiting list for rooms like this.”

“You knew? So what’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased. I thought you couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

“I did. I do. It’s just…. Where’m I gonna go? I mean, I’d understand if you didn’t want me in your house right now. This whole thing ain’t exactly a picnic for you. The last thing you need is some stranger hanging out at your place.”

“What are you talking about?” Hutch said, horrified. “It’s your place, too. It’s your home. It’s where you live.”

“I know. But let’s face it, I ain’t gonna know the difference, am I?” Starsky shrugged. “Look, it’s all right. I can get a room somewhere.”

The exclamation of protest that was already on Hutch’s lips died away as it occurred to him that maybe he was being presumptuous. The thought that Starsky might not want to go home with him had never entered his head. Now he saw what he’d overlooked in his impatience to have his partner back.

Why would Starsky want to return to a house he didn’t remember? More to the point, why would he want to move in with some guy he hardly knew? A guy who, all things being equal, might want him to share more than just the living room and the kitchen?

The thought of Starsky moving into a place of his own made Hutch go weak in the knees.

“Is that what you want?” he said. “You want to stay somewhere else for a while?”

Starsky looked away. “It would be a lot easier on you, not having this stranger hanging around your place.”

“It’s not my place. It’s our place.”

“You know what I mean.”

A giant vacuum cleaner seemed to have sucked all the air from Hutch’s lungs. “But is that what you really want?” he said.

Starsky finally looked at him. “It doesn’t matter what I want. You’re the guy with all his faculties intact, not me. I move in with you, and you’ll be the one to pay the price. So you wanna think carefully about this before you let me move back in with you.”

A bubble of glorious relief expanded inside Hutch. So that’s what it was—Starsky was trying to spare him. Good grief, he wasn’t used to all this cross-purpose talk. Had they ever been so much at odds with each other?

“I don’t have to think about this,” he said firmly. “I already know.”

“Yeah, but what if you find that—”

Hutch had enough. “Now listen to me, moron. I want you home, you understand? I want you back where you belong, in our house, and I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about you taking a room somewhere.” He advanced on Starsky. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. You better be packed and ready to go when I get here. You got that?”

Starsky stared at the forefinger pointing him in the face. “Are you always this bossy?”

“Only when you’re being a damn pain in the ass.”

Starsky’s lips twitched with a first hint of a smile. “If you put it that way. All right, you’re on. Check-out time is nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

ooOOOoo

Contrary to Linda’s prediction, the Torino failed to produce the hoped-for epiphany when they walked across the hospital car park the following morning.

“That’s it?” Starsky said, surprised, when the car came into view. “That’s my car?”

“Uh, yeah. Why, what’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I didn’t think it’d be so, uh, bright. It looks a hell of a lot flashier than it does in the pictures.” Starsky gave the vehicle a dubious look. “We really use this thing for stakeouts? The perps around here must be short of a few brain cells.”

Hutch goggled at him. “I can’t believe you just said that. This car is your baby. It’s the apple of your eye. You spend hours polishing the damn thing. For all I know you have wet dreams about it. It’s because of you we’re having to take it everywhere. And now you’re saying you don’t like it anymore?”

“Oh, sure I like it. I’m just trying to think what it reminds me of.” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. It’s a tomato!” He turned to Hutch. “Doncha think it looks just like a tomato? With stripes?”

Hutch sighed. “Just get in the car, will you? I’m taking you home.” It was going to be a long, long day.

He put the car in gear and nosed it into the traffic. He drove slowly, with one eye on the road and the other on his partner. Starsky lounged beside him, an arm in the open window and a look of detached interest on his face.

“Do you…?” Hutch started after a while.

“Recognize the place?” Starsky said. “Sure I do. That’s the turnoff for the Capitol. The District Court is over that way, and coming up ahead is Pereira Park where they trialed the regional skateboard championships in ’64.”

“Pereira Park is also where they found Helen’s body,” Hutch pointed out and immediately wished he hadn’t. They rarely talked about it, rarely talked about any of their past cases. It wasn’t necessary. The memories were always there, and sometimes when they passed a place heavy with history, they’d share a look. And remember.

Not now.

“Helen….” Starsky’s gaze turned inward for a moment, then cleared. “Oh yeah, Helen Davidson. She was killed by Captain, no, Commander Jim. He fell off an antenna mast when we tried to arrest him.” He gazed at the park with renewed interest.

She was also your girlfriend, Hutch thought with a swell of sudden sadness. Starsky wouldn’t know that. The police files didn’t mention it, and apparently no one else had either.

Hutch concentrated on keeping his eyes on the road. So many memories. The city was full of them. Every corner, every alley, every road and building had a story to tell, rich with the light and the shadows of the past. Some places were so crowded with them, they filled Hutch’s mind like ghosts haunting an ancient mansion.

Starsky had none of that. He’d lost it all, every memory, every milestone in his life, good or bad. He knew LA on a purely factual basis. All associations of a personal nature had been wiped out along with the rest of his memories.

Beside him, Starsky leaned back and stretched his legs into the Torino’s capacious legroom, as relaxed as a cat in a sunny spot.

“I like this car,” he announced to the world at large. “Maybe I should take it for a spin later on, get re-acquainted. Whadda ya think?”

“Sure. If you want. But first, let’s get you home.”

ooOOOoo

Homecoming turned out to be a thing both of joy and of sorrow. Joy because in the end, having Starsky home topped any other option hands down. Sorrow because it didn’t spark the all-important glimmer of recognition.

Starsky wandered through the rooms like a child exploring the place of an eccentric aunt with a taste for the bizarre and peculiar, inspecting everything, touching little, recognizing nothing.

He took in the porch with its assortment of potted plants, and the airy living room with its ornate fireplace, comfortable couch, and view of the spacious garden. He peered at the books and records on the shelves, eyed the model ship and the menorah on the mantle.

Hutch hung back and watched. The memory of another homecoming surfaced in his mind. Then, too, Starsky had eyed the contents of his apartment with quiet fascination, but unlike now, every object had held a place in his heart. This time was different. This time everything was new.

Starsky ran his fingers along the top of the piano. “Yours?” he said.

Hutch nodded.

“You play?”

“Not as much as I’d like to. It’s hard to find the time to practice. I stick to playing the guitar these days.”

Starsky nodded. His gaze moved on to the side table and the small stack of books vying for space with the potted aspidistra. He picked one up.

“Introduction to Investigative Science?” he said and turned to Hutch. “You’re taking a science class?”

“Forensics,” Hutch corrected. “And they’re not mine. They’re yours.”

For once he had the satisfaction of seeing Starsky’s eyes widen with complete surprise. “Mine? You’re kidding. I‘m doing a course in science?”

“Forensics. And the course hasn’t started yet. These are just the prep materials. It’s a part-time course specially designed for members of the police force. The science component is just one part of it.”

“But we’re street cops. Why…?”

“You need a degree to take the lieu’s exam. For some reason you’ve got it into your head that I’m hankering after a promotion.” Hutch shrugged. “Something my dad said to you in Duluth earlier this year.”

“Your dad? You took me to meet the parents?” A flash of amusement lit up Starsky’s face, before it died and a frown took its place. “You mean I couldn’t stand the idea of you being promoted ahead of me? Jeez, I didn’t think I was such a prick.”

“It’s not that.” Hutch hesitated, not sure how to put the complex, finely tuned equilibrium that lay at the heart of their partnership into a nut shell. “If anything, I’m the one who can’t stand the idea. We’re partners, equals. We always have been. Something would change if one of us got promoted. We would be…out of kilter. So either we both go down that route, or neither of us does.”

Starsky digested that. His eyes went to the textbook he was holding. “And was he right, your dad? Are you hankering after a promotion? Is that the reason I’m doing this course?”

“He was wrong. But doing the course was still a great idea. Too bad you had to drop out of the prep class. You were really enjoying it.”

“Why did I—”

“You went under,” Hutch said, seeing where the conversation was headed and not liking it one bit. “Going to evening classes didn’t fit in with your undercover persona.”

Starsky perked up. “You mean the job I was doing when I got knocked out? I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. What kind of a job was it? Dobey was pretty tight-lipped when I asked him about it. He wouldn’t even let me see the file.”

“That’s probably because it’s an on-going operation.”

“No, he said the Feds were hogging the paperwork. What have the Feds got to do with it?”

“It was their operation,” Hutch said. “They came to us. They thought you were perfect for the job.”

“What job?” Starsky insisted. “Come on, Hutch, what job? Why is everyone tiptoeing around the issue? Is there any reason why I shouldn’t know?”

“No. Of course not. It’s just not important right now. As far as we are concerned, the case is closed.”

“All right, so why can’t I read the reports?”

“I don’t know. Did Dobey say you couldn’t?”

“He said the Feds had taken the files. Do you know anything about that? You must’ve read the reports before they took them.”

“I haven’t, actually. I had other things to think about. Simmons took my statement when I was still in the hospital. I never saw the other reports. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. The case is closed. Your cover was blown. That’s the end of it.”

“Why? I mean why was my cover blown?”

Hutch sighed. At least one thing about Starsky hadn’t changed. He was still the same insistent pest who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“You were under as an ex-cop and Vietnam vet,” he said, “at a clinic the Feds think was involved in the disappearance of some twenty vets. You were supposed to be on the edge, emotionally unstable and vulnerable.”

“So?”

“So you jumped to the defense of a hooker and picked a fight with a bully twice your size. You were acting out of character. You had cop written all over you, and Lonzo would’ve had to be blind and deaf not to realize it.”

“Lonzo?”

“A guy attached to the clinic.”

“So I blew the case? ‘Cause I didn’t stay in character?” Dismay flooded the rugged features. “Damn. No wonder Dobey won’t let me read what the Feds had to say about that. They must’ve been furious.”

Hutch looked at him. “They were,” he said, “but not with you. You didn’t blow the case. I did.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. But having divulged this much, he couldn’t back out now. In for a penny….

He took a deep breath. “You might’ve been able to wing it,” he said. “You could’ve told Lonzo that your old cop instincts had taken over, that you acted on impulse, something like that. He might’ve bought it.”

“All right,” Starsky said quietly. “What did you do?”

Hutch looked away. “I went in after you. I couldn’t help myself. Montgomery and I were watching from the car. When I saw that thug take you down with a crowbar….”

The memory was bright and vivid. Too vivid. He could almost feel the sultry heat against his skin again, taste the metallic tang of fear on his lips.

He suddenly felt very tired. “It wasn’t your fault. I went in, and Simmons and Montgomery went in after me, and everyone knew we were the fuzz. If anyone blew your cover, it was me.”

“You were backing me up,” Starsky said. “They can’t blame you for that. Look, I’ll talk to them. I’ll tell them that—”

Hutch couldn’t stand it anymore. He cut in, his voice rough with finality. “Leave it. Just leave it. It doesn’t matter now. You were injured and that put an end to the case anyway. It was an accident. It had nothing to do with the job. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”

They looked at each other. A hundred questions crowded on Starsky’s face, ready to spill. Hutch stared him down.

“Come on,” he said with determination. “I’ll show you the rest of the place.”

ooOOOoo

The rest of the place consisted of garden, greenhouse, and upper story. With an unexpected flair for the dramatic, Hutch had decided to leave the top floor until the end of the tour.

He had often thought that the decision to put a deposit down on the house could be traced back to only two deciding factors. For him, it had been the garden. For Starsky, the master bedroom.

It had been love at first sight. Something about the large sunny room with its high beams, solid wooden floor, and view of the distant hills had gripped his partner’s imagination. Now Hutch watched as his eyes lit up with appreciation. Hutch held his breath. If any room of the house had the power to produce the aha moment, this was it.

Starsky crossed the threshold with care. His gaze took in the room, the view, the brass bed pushed against the wall. It lingered on the bed. A complex mix of emotions climbed over his features. His gaze flicked to Hutch.

“Is this…?” he said.

“Uh huh.”

Starsky looked away. “Okay,” he said, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

It didn’t take much to trace the sudden vibes of unease to their source. Hutch sighed. Not an aha moment, then, just a case of jitters by someone stranded outside his comfort zone. He bottled his disappointment and moved to put Starsky out of his misery.

“This is your room,” he said with the smallest stress on the pronoun. “I’m in the one across the hall.”

Relief lurked in the corners of Starsky’s eyes, quickly suppressed. “Hey, I don’t wanna turn you out of your room,” he said. “I’ll take the spare room. I can sleep anywhere.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hutch said. “Dr. Jolimont said you should stick to your normal routine as much as you can.”

The obvious flaw in that plan made a mockery of the statement. Hutch added hastily, “It’s only until you’re better. Trust me, it’s better this way. Besides, I’ve already moved my things into the other room.”

He didn’t mention that after the first night’s drug-induced oblivion he had been unable to get much sleep in there anyway. The room held far too many memories.

Starsky hesitated, then relented. “Okay.” He took another, more relaxed look around the room. When his gaze returned to Hutch, it was full of the light of a new idea.

“How about we take that ride now? You can show me around all our favorite haunts.”

“Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“Great, let’s go. I’m driving!”

ooOOOoo

Dusk fell by the time Starsky pulled the Torino back into the driveway several hours later—and not a moment too soon for Hutch.

At first the familiar routine had been almost comforting, cruising through LA with Starsky behind the wheel of the Torino, and himself like an accessory in the seat beside him. Starsky had wanted to see everything—his old apartment, Hutch’s old place in Venice, Huggy’s bar, the precinct, and half a dozen other landmarks.

Eager to do what he could to help the cause, Hutch had soon found the need to field a constant stream of questions a major drain on his energy. He’d forgotten his painkillers, an omission he’d started to regret within an hour of leaving the house. By the time they’d cruised the harbor and were headed for home, Hutch was longing to call it a day.

Once home, Hutch lost no time to hit the bathroom and pop his pills. Then he leaned against the sink and stared at the drawn face that presented itself in the mirror.

Give him time. You’ve gotta give him time. He’ll be fine. He’ll be just fine.

Setting his jaw, Hutch went back downstairs to find his partner prowling through the rooms for another, more thorough inspection of the territory. His earlier detachment seemed forgotten as he peered into corners and closets like a treasure hunter hot on the trail of the goods. As Hutch watched, he bounced back into the living room.

“Hey, Hutch, don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t you ever do any eating around here? Those tacos we had in town were all right, but that was a pretty long time ago.”

With a guilty start Hutch realized that he hadn’t offered Starsky so much as a glass of water.

“You hungry?” he said.

“I’m always hungry.”

Thank God, at least that hadn’t changed. “Okay, what would you like to eat?”

“Well, what’ve you got?”

Hutch couldn’t resist. “How about I make us a lentil and spinach pie? We can have green beans or brussel sprouts with that or maybe a cucumber and tomato salad.”

Starsky gave an approving nod. “Sounds good to me.”

Hutch felt as if kicked. He turned away, disgusted with himself. Serves you right. What kind of a sick bastard tries to trip up an amnesiac?

Then Starsky added, deadpan, “Of course, if I was in charge around here, I’d be grilling those juicy steaks I saw thawing on the counter this morning.”

Hutch looked at him in surprise. It was a measure of the gulf between them that he needed two takes before he realized that he’d been had.

“Gotcha!” Starsky’s mouth twitched. “Hey, I lost my memory, not my taste buds.” Which was Starsky’s mild way of getting back at him for having tried to con him.

Hutch wanted to be annoyed, but found he couldn’t pull it off. Bemused, he watched as Starsky walked past him into the kitchen and made straight for the fridge. He stuck his head inside, extracted two cans of beer and held one out like a peace offering. Hutch took it. Two tops popped in unison. They drank.

“And now let the master handle those steaks,” Starsky said and moved with purpose toward the grill. “Why don’t you take a break, huh? You’ve been doing the tour guide thing all day. Dr. Cowan said to make sure you take it easy.”

“You spoke to Cowan?”

“Uh huh. He said he might clear you for desk duty, but only if you rest up over the weekend.”

“But why…?”

“Why did I call him?” Starsky said over his shoulder, busy opening cupboards and drawers on the hunt for some implement. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. You didn’t tell me I was down as your next of kin. When Dobey told me yesterday, I thought it was time I started pulling my weight. So I tackled the doctor for an update.”

He grinned at Hutch, a plate in one hand and a fork in the other. “Worked like a treat. He didn’t hesitate. Told me everything I wanted to know.”

Hutch leaned against the counter, feeling dizzy. Who was this guy who didn’t remember where the plates were kept in his own kitchen, but who remembered to check up on a partner he’d known for less than a week?

“You don’t look so hot,” the guy said, pointing the fork at him. “Go on, take a break. Read the paper, or something. I got things under control.”

Dazed, Hutch went and sat on the back porch.

A small breeze ruffled the leaves of the potted palms. The last rays of a dying sun struggled to pierce the clouds, and the smoky colors of an LA sunset filled the sky. Temperatures were dropping, spelling the end of another sweltering day.

Muffled sounds of clattering china and the radio’s low murmur drifted from the interior of the house, interspersed with snatches of the latest disco hits and Starsky’s carefree whistle.

The steak, when it arrived, was accompanied by thick slices of bread smothered in fried mushrooms, and a crisp salad of a kind Hutch had no idea Starsky knew how to make.

He stared at the offering. They hadn’t shared a meal since the day Starsky went under, a lifetime ago. Beside him, Starsky pulled up the wicker chair and attacked his food like a man who had survived on hospital rations for far too long.

Hutch watched the familiar sight for a moment. Something inside him stilled. Starsky was home. Maybe it wouldn’t be long now. Maybe everything would be all right soon. He reached for the cutlery and sunk his knife into the meat.

It was one of the best steaks he’d ever eaten.

ooOOOoo

Later, when Hutch cast his mind back over the day, it was that moment on the porch that stood out, when they sat in easy silence, tucking into their food to a backdrop of gathering darkness and a swelling symphony of crickets.

When only bare plates remained and even the salad bowl had been picked clean, Starsky got up and removed the dishes, waving away Hutch’s attempt to help.

While he was gone, Hutch reached for the matches and lit the candle in its protective glass case, a little nervous in case Starsky mistook the move as an attempt to inject a romantic element into the situation. But when Starsky reappeared with two fresh cans of beer in his hands, all he did was give the soft illumination an appreciate nod. Hutch relaxed.

Starsky handed over one of the cans, walked to the railing and looked out over the dusky garden. Several minutes went by before he broke the silence.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“Look, I know this ain’t easy for you, having me here and all. I just want you to know, I ‘ppreciate what you’re doing. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Starsky turned. “You know? That’s a weird thing to say. How can you know a thing like that?”

Hutch shrugged. “‘Cause that’s the way it’s always been with us. We rely on each other, always have done, long before we got—” He bit his tongue. Damn the mellow mood for making him lower his guard.

But Starsky could still take him by surprise. “Before we got hitched, you mean. It’s okay. I can handle it. I don’t know what kind of a homophobe I used to be, but it’s not so bad that I can’t talk about it. So let’s quit pussyfooting around the subject, okay?”

“You were never a homophobe,” Hutch said. “What gives you that idea? You were just…a guy, you know? We both were. We had women on our minds. Being gay never figured on the menu.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

He dropped back down in his chair and set the beer can on the table. More silence spread between them, but for the first time in a week of silences, it didn’t feel awkward. It was just a silence.

“I don’t get it,” Starsky finally said. “We’ve been together for three years, right? And in all that time no one has figured out what’s goin’ on? What sort of a crummy bunch of detectives are they in the department?”

“A few have. Figured it out, I mean. Huggy has always known. Minnie figured it out. Dobey too.”

An eyebrow rose in surprise. “Dobey knows?”

“Dobey is one of the smartest cops in the department,” Hutch said. “Don’t let that blustery exterior fool you.”

“So why isn’t IA onto us, if it’s that obvious?”

“It’s not. We’re careful. Besides, they all remember how it used to be with us. We were women-only guys. We had a string of girlfriends each.”

“But we hung out together even when we had girls along, right?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Okay, most of the time.”

“Foursomes?”

“Sure.”

“Threesomes?”

“A couple of times.”

“Lemme guess. Kathy Marshall? Kira Delaney?”

“Hey, what’s this? The holy inquisition?”

“Just tell me.”

“Kathy, yes. Kira, no. Kira was…. Look, I’ll tell you about Kira some other time, okay?”

“Okay, okay. Keep your hair on.” Starsky aimed an easy grin at him. “What I’m saying is, all that was a long time ago. Look at us now. We’re not doing women anymore. We’re living in this house together. There’s a single master bedroom, as anyone who pops upstairs can see plain as daylight. So why hasn’t anyone cottoned on? How much more obvious can it be?”

Hutch thought of Mike Stanton, a former colleague in the department. He had cottoned on. Not that it had been too difficult to do, given that Hutch, overcome with euphoria at Gunther’s guilty verdict, had planted a kiss on Starsky’s mouth, unaware that he’d had an audience.

Stanton’s reaction had been a lot less understanding than Dobey’s. Three weeks later, he had transferred to Orange County.

He said, “Well, sometimes people just don’t want to see what’s right in front of their noses.”

“You mean the entire department has a collective blind spot where we’re concerned? Oh, come on, there’s gotta be more to it than that.”

Hutch shifted in his seat. Trust Starsky to put his finger on it. He looked past him into the darkness.

“It was the shooting,” he finally said. “James Gunther’s hit on us. I…went a little crazy after you were shot. They said you…and I thought…. But you lived, and when you did….”

God, when Starsky lived, the moment he knew, when he knew Starsky was still with him, had come back to him…God, that glorious moment….

“Hey, hey.” A hand reached out, hovered an inch over his arm, and withdrew. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Hutch took a deep breath. “Really, it’s okay. It’s been over two years, and you’re alive and well, and…and…. It’s just that sometimes….”

“It feels like it happened yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other. There was a new softness in Starsky’s eyes. And something else. Regret? Wistfulness? Sorrow?

Hutch tore his eyes away before he could do something he might regret.

“Anyway,” he said, “they all cut us a lot of slack after that. When you got out of the hospital and I moved in with you, no one blinked an eye. They even helped me pack up and move. And after that we were kept so busy with your therapy and hospital appointments and all that, no one thought it was weird we didn’t have time for women.”

Starsky stared at the empty can of beer in his hand, and Hutch braced himself for further questions. But when Starsky spoke, it wasn’t about the house, or women, or even the glaring fact that the shooting and all the exemption rules it had created lay well over two years in the past.

“Something doesn’t add up about the shooting,” he said, looking up. “I’ve been goin’ through the entire file, but some of it just doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Oh no, Hutch thought. Not the shooting. Not here. Not now. Not ever, if I have anything to say about it.

“Maybe we can talk about it sometime?” Starsky said, adding hastily, “I mean not now. Some other time. Maybe tomorrow?”

Hutch nodded, relieved. “Okay. Tomorrow.” He suddenly felt weary to the bone. “I think I’ll call it a day. I still have a lot of sleep to catch up on.” He got to his feet. “You gonna be all right? Got everything you need?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I think I’ll stay out here for a while longer if that’s all right.”

“Of course that’s all right.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They looked at each other. An infinite moment of time slipped away. Finally Hutch gave himself a mental push. “Well, good night then.”

“G’night.”

ooOOOoo

Sleep proved elusive. No big surprise there. Hutch lay on his back and stared at the gray rectangle that outlined the window.

Downstairs, his partner was sitting on the porch, alone in the darkness. Maybe he was thinking about the events of the day, places he’d seen, people he’d met. Things Hutch had and hadn’t said about the shooting.

Hutch sighed. He shouldn’t have left. He should’ve stayed and toughed it out. It wasn’t too late. He could still go back down, give Starsky the answers he needed.

He was already sitting up, reaching for his robe, when it occurred to him that Starsky might be thinking about something else entirely. Felicity, maybe?

Hutch lay back down and turned over. An hour’s restless tossing went by. Two. Sometime after midnight, the stairs creaked and soft footsteps padded down the hall. The bathroom door opened and closed. The boiler fired and water started gurgling through the ancient pipes.

After a while, the water stopped. There were more footsteps, then a click, and the narrow strip of light under the door went out. A door clicked shut. Then everything was silent and only the sound of swaying branches filled the room. Hutch dropped into a restless sleep.

And jerked upright in the dead of night, in darkness, breathless, and instantly wide awake.

He listened. The house was very still. Too still. It wasn’t a sound that had woken him. A dream then? A nightmare? Yes, but not his. Starsky’s.

What to do? Get up and go to him? Hutch crunched his hands into the sheets. He couldn’t. Starsky was next door, a light-year away. He couldn’t.

He lay back down and stared into the darkness, wondering if he would ever be able to sleep again.

ooOOOoo

He’s in that room again. The light is in his eyes, blinding him, and the questions are coming hard and fast. Flashes of pain lance through his head.

He has no idea who they are, the men behind the voices, or what they want from him. And he can’t ask. Only they are allowed to ask the questions.

A fluid moment goes by, and everything changes. The lights go out. Blackness surrounds him. He’s on his back and there are walls all around. They enclose him on every side. The ceiling is just an inch above his face. It’s a coffin. And the lid won’t budge.

Panic rises in his throat. Stay calm, stay calm. There’s gotta be a way outta here.

Then he hears the first thunk of earth hitting the wood above him.

Terror seizes his soul. All rational thought flees his mind. Frantic, he pounds his fists against the ceiling, tries to rip the solid wood apart with his fingers. His heart is hammering in his chest as if it is trying to burst from its cradle. No. Please, no. Not buried alive. Anything but this.

There’s no answer to his yells. He’s in darkness, he’s in a tomb. No one can hear him. And no one will ever find him. The air is growing thin, and he can’t scream anymore. He can’t move, he can’t breathe. No. No. NOOOO!

He jerks upright. Air rushes into his lungs and he gulps it up. Darkness still presses down on him. Terror-filled, he flings his arms to the sides. His hands encounter sheets, a pillow. They knock into a lamp and topple it.

There are no walls. There’s space all around him.

Awareness trickles back. He’s at Hutch’s, of course, in the room with the view. With shaking hands he reaches for the light. Slowly, much too slowly, his racing heart beat calms, and his breathing returns to something resembling normal.

Did he scream out loud or was that a part of the dream? He listens, but the house seems quiet. Thank heavens for small mercies. Yelling down the house on his first night there would be too embarrassing to live down.

The dreams are getting worse. They’re moving in on him. He’s starting to dread nightfall, the need to close his eyes, knowing he’ll be back in that place where voices of cold steel cut through his head with questions that make no sense.

He wants to go and get a drink of water, but he doesn’t. He might wake the man in the room across the hall. He goes to the open window instead, moves aside the blinds. Cool moonlight floods the room, a crescent moon, waning. A breeze soothes his naked body.

His thoughts stray to the occupant of the other room again. Hutch. He rolls the sound around in his mouth as if it were one of those fancy chocolates. He smiles. The name fits. Just imagine the tall blond going by the name of Ken, or Kenny!

Then the smile drops from his face. Hutch. Best friend. Partner. Complete stranger.

Or is he? He’s not so sure. True, there’s much he hasn’t pieced together yet. That business with Hutch’s father, the woman called Kira, the shooting. But that’s the surface, swell on the sea. Deep down where it counts, where strong currents follow ancient paths, he feels at ease with the man, in tune. As if he’s known him for years. Which, strictly speaking, he has.

Take that look Hutch aims at him every so often, the one designed to check him over for signs of a returning memory. Hutch thinks he hasn’t noticed, but he would have to be comatose not to feel its laser beam drilling holes into his skull. There’s so much hope in that look, so much longing, until invariably it falters and dims, and something dull and unhappy takes its place.

It’s killing him, that look. He’d do anything to take the unhappiness away. But he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know anything. The more he finds out, the more confusing things become. He’s missing something, and he has no idea what it is.

Maybe the shooting is the key. Something happened that day, something Hutch isn’t hot to talk about. All right, he won’t push it. There must be other ways to get at the truth.

His breathing is level, his heartbeat low and steady. The dream is just another memory now. He closes the blinds and crawls between the sheets.

 

VI

They didn’t talk about the shooting the next day, or the following day, or the day after that. Whether it was Starsky’s ability to read between the lines, or a reluctance to tackle what had to be a trauma-heavy subject for both of them, the matter didn’t raise its head for many days.

Instead Starsky got down to the business of finding his feet. A day or two, and he moved around the house as if he had never lived anywhere else. Another day and he was on familiar footing with the neighbors again. When Kathy phoned, he took the call and bluffed his way through an entire conversation of trivialities without slipping up once.

Hutch watched and waited, feeling as if he were teetering on a tilting plane. It was the little things that tripped him up the most. When Starsky helped himself to one of his herbal teas in the morning. When he sat through an entire wildlife documentary with interest. When he left the Torino in the driveway at night without a thought to vandals, thieves, or the corrosive mercies of the salty air sweeping in from the sea.

Of course, as soon as someone pointed out the aberrant behavior, it stopped. Hutch soon figured out that a simple “You never used to do that before” ensured the immediate and permanent cessation of the action in question.

In other ways, he was just the same old Starsky. He laughed like him, moved like him. He still hogged the couch when he stretched out on it in the evening, still drove Hutch to distraction with his bright-eyed chatter and love of trivia.

And every day the extent of his knowledge grew.

Hutch had always known that his partner was a fast learner, faster in fact than he was himself. Complex ideas and abstract concepts were the oil on Hutch’s brain, but when it came to absorbing facts and joining the dots, Starsky had always been a step ahead of him.

But even Hutch was amazed at how quickly Starsky was picking up the pieces of his shattered life. Sometimes he did it so well, Hutch forgot for entire seconds at a time that this wasn’t the real deal, just someone who looked an awful lot like him.

Because inside, where it mattered, there was no change. A week went by, and there was no change. Hutch felt the slope tilt further into the vertical. Beyond it yawned the abyss. And only Starsky could keep him from falling.

ooOOOoo

Life settled into a routine. Of sorts. On Monday Hutch had his stitches pulled. On Tuesday he went back to work—restricted duty. Starsky, meanwhile, was going exploring. Alone.

“Be careful,” Hutch told him before he left the house. “We made a lot of enemies in this city. Don’t go poking around the wrong neighborhoods. You don’t even have your gun.”

“Don’t worry,” Starsky said. “I know all about the no-go areas. We went over everything three times. I’ll be fine.”

“And don’t tell anyone you can’t remember.”

“What do you take me for? An idiot?”

“And call me. You’ve got my number.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Hutch sighed. Starsky was going out there on his own, and Hutch hadn’t been able to talk him out of it. Luckily not many people dared mess with Starsky these days. There was something to be said for a tough reputation.

The station, when he got there, presented the appearance of a stirred-up hornet’s nest, with riot gear and tear gas containers in prominent view.

“What’s going on?” Hutch said when he had negotiated the packed corridors and pushed his way into Dobey’s office. His captain sat wedged behind his desk, a phone stuck between ear and shoulder, and a look on his face that spoke of a night spent far from the comforts of his bed.

“Riot down in Westmont,” Dobey said over the mouthpiece, barely sparing him a glance. “Been brewing all night. We’re fielding reinforcements. Yes!” he barked into the phone. “And I need them now! You have ten minutes!” He slammed the phone down.

“Captain,” Hutch said. “About the fight outside the Tivoli. I want to bring in the suspect I arrested that night, Cockburn Avery. I have a few questions for him.”

“You’re off the case, Hutch,” Dobey said with his attention on the district map spread out on his desk. “Besides, Simmons and Babcock have already questioned him. He says he was inside the bar when the fight started and only got involved when he went outside and someone took a swing at him. There’s nothing to suggest he’s connected to the gang that started the fight.”

“Captain, I’m not so sure about that. I’ve been thinking about that night. I could swear I saw him outside the bar before the fight started. He was in the thick of the action right from the start. I just want a word with him, that’s all.”

“We let him go with a caution. He’ll be far away by now. You’ll never find him.” The phone started ringing again. Dobey picked it up and barked a string of orders.

“Look, Hutch,” he said when he’d replaced the receiver. “I got a riot to take care of. This isn’t the time to talk about a bar brawl.”

Hutch was silent. How to explain the feeling that the facts in the Tivoli report didn’t add up to the truth?

“What about the case files on the Leibovich operation?” he said. “Starsky said the Feds took them. I haven’t had a chance to look at them.”

“You won’t have to. The case is out of our hands. It was never our case in the first place. And if the FBI decide to launch another operation, we are certainly not going to be involved.” Dobey stood. “I have to go. Forget about the case, Hutch. It’s water under the bridge.”

The phone rang again, and he ignored it. “You two picked a fine time to be out of commission,” he said as Hutch held the door for him. “When is Starsky coming back to work? I need every man I can get.”

“I’ll go with you,” Hutch said. “Let me get my riot gear.”

“You,” Dobey growled with a pointed stare, “are grounded. The statements on the Marston burglaries are on your desk. I want you to go through them with a fine-toothed comb and see if you can spot anything.”

He marched into the squad room to face his assembled officers. “All right, boys, time to go.” Everyone trooped out.

Hutch saw it with a twinge of envy. That’s what he was, a cop. That’s all he wanted to be, him and Starsky together, part of the action. He looked around the deserted room, then at the stack of Marston files on his desk, and sighed. Pushing the paperwork aside, he picked up the phone and dialed the number from memory.

“Kurzweil? Detective Hutchinson here.”

“Hutchinson.” The voice on the other end of the line was carefully neutral. “You’re back at work? I’m glad to hear it. What can I do for you?”

“You can send over a copy of the Leibovich reports. I haven’t read them yet.”

“That won’t be necessary. Your involvement in this operation is over. There’s no need for you to waste your time on the paperwork.”

“Don’t worry about my time. I was in charge of security. I need to know what happened.”

“I’m sorry. The files are FBI property and can’t be released to outsiders. You must understand. You were kept informed on a need-to-know basis, and as far as you are concerned, there’s no longer a need to know.”

Hutch put the phone down thoughtfully. Two options. Either he was being stonewalled or he was getting paranoid.

ooOOOoo

Babcock and Simmons saw it differently.

“What did you expect?” Babcock said when Hutch caught up with them in the locker room that afternoon. “They’re Feds. They do what Feds always do—fuck us over any time they feel like it. We do the dirty work for them, and at the end of the day we can count ourselves lucky if we get a slap on the back.”

He pulled off his sweaty shirt, toed off his shoes, and stretched with a groan. The riot, it seemed, had turned into a storm in a tea cup. They hadn’t even left the riot car.

“And when something goes wrong,” Simmons added, “you can bet your ass you’ll never hear from them again.”

“Unless we’re to blame!” Babcock, down to his boxer shorts, stuck his head in his locker and re-emerged with a grubby-looking towel.

“How’s Starsky?” Simmons said, turning to Hutch. He asked that at least once a day. Guilt, probably. Although Hutch kept telling him there was nothing he could have done.

“He’s all right. He’s due for his therapy today.”

“Any change?”

Hutch looked away. “He’s getting there,” he lied. “He’s made a lot of progress.”

Simmons nodded. He hadn’t even started undressing. Hutch eyed the blond. Dark circles hugged his eyes and his deep summer tan had given way to a wintry pallor. He had also lost more weight than his slender frame could afford.

“You don’t look so good,” Hutch said. “You all right?”

Simmons waved the concern away. “It’s that damn bug going around. I must’ve picked it up from Julie. She was down with it last week.”

“What, now you’re telling me?” Babcock said with a show of mock outrage. “After I’ve just spent a whole day squashed up against you inside that damn riot car? Thanks a million, partner!”

He took an exaggerated step away, a move that caused Simmons to roll his eyes to the ceiling. “Hey, I’m not toxic, you know.”

“Just lethal.”

“Watch it, buddy, or I’ll come over there and give you all my germs.” But the banter sounded strained, as if Simmons was just going through the motions.

“Why don’t you knock off?” Hutch suggested when Babcock had ambled off to the shower. “Double shifts are a killer. Go on, it’s okay. I’ll give John a hand with the paperwork.”

“Maybe you’re right. I could do with a good night’s sleep.” Simmons hesitated as if to add something else, then changed his mind, nodded, and lumbered away.

“It’s not just a bug,” Babcock said a little later over the typewriter and a cup of evil brew masquerading as coffee. “I don’t know what’s the matter with him lately. He’s so jumpy all of the time. I think he needs a vacation.”

“Maybe Dobey will let him have the cabin,” Hutch said. “I mean if he’s strapped for cash.”

“Sims and Julie in Dobey’s cabin?” The bark of Babcock’s laughter turned heads around the squad room. “That’s a good one. Oh no, you wouldn’t catch them in that glorified shed. They like their creature comforts, those two.”

That brought up a memory of luxury-loving Van, but Babcock added, “I don’t think it’s Julie. She’d be quite happy roughing it. It’s Sims who’s always on about doing things in style. He’s developing a real taste for the finer things in life.”

“Not on a cop’s salary, he won’t.”

“Yeah. That’s why he’s taking the lieu’s exam next month.”

Hutch looked up in surprise. “He is?”

“Didn’t he tell you? He’s been ready to get off the streets for a while. Makes sense when you think about it. They want kids, and Julie is not the kind of girl who’ll stand by and wait for her man to come home in a coffin.”

“Yeah, but what about you?”

Babcock shrugged. “I don’t make the grade. No, don’t say it, Hutch. It’s true. I got lousy grades in school. I barely scraped through the detective’s exam. This is as far as I’ll go.”

He stood, ripped the form from the typewriter and tossed it in Dobey’s inbox.

“That’s it, I’m outta here. Time to hit the hay.” He delivered a playful punch to Hutch’s arm. “Tell that lazy partner of yours to get his ass in here, or I’ll come around and haul him off the couch. Tell him we all know he’s playing hooky.”

Rubbing his arm, Hutch dredged up a suitable smile. “I’ll tell him.” But he was already talking to an empty doorway.

ooOOOoo

Far from playing hooky, Starsky was keeping busy by the sound of it.

“Detective Starsky checking in as ordered,” his voice came through the line with mock military crispness when Hutch picked up the ringing phone not five minutes later.

“Hey,” Hutch said, lowering his voice and glancing around. “Where are you? Where did you go?”

“I’m outside the clinic, and I went all over the place. Downtown, Venice, the docks, the warehouse district—”

“You went to the warehouse district? I told you not to go nosing around down there. That’s a really tough neighborhood.”

“Relax. I was just checking out a coupla places. I didn’t even get out of the car.”

“Any problems?”

“Nope. A guy built like King Kong waved me down near the underpass and at first I thought he was lookin’ for trouble, but as it turns out, he’s one of our snitches.”

Great, a snitch. Now the news of Starsky’s amnesia would be all over town. Snitches had a way of picking up bad news. “Who was it?”

“Charles Ryder. The wonky left eye gave him away.”

“Oh, Mad-Eye Charlie,” Hutch said with relief. Charlie wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. “I didn’t know he was back in town. What did he want?”

“To find out if we’re still in the market for information on Vic Monte. I told him yes. He wanted fifty bucks as a retainer. I gave him thirty.”

Damn, he sounded so pleased with himself. Hutch could almost see the Cheshire cat grin on his face.

“You sure he didn’t make you?” he said.

“Dead sure. He just wanted to lay his hands on some green. I betcha the thirty bucks found their way straight into the nearest bar. Oh, and talking about bars—I have a message for Handsome Hutch.” Now that was definitely a smirk.

“Sweet Alice?”

“The lady in person. She cornered me outside Rick’s bar. Good thing she’s the spitting image of her picture. I recognized her right away. She said to tell you that you never did come around like you promised.”

“Did she—?”

“No, she didn’t. Will you relax? Besides, she wasn’t interested in me. All she wanted to talk about was you.” His voice took on a teasing quality. “I think the lady has her eyes on you. Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“Well, Nosy, if there was, you would definitely be the last to know.”

“Really. In that case, Handsome, I’ll just have to put my detective skills to work and figure it out all by myself.”

Hutch grinned. It felt good to slide into some easy banter.

“Hey, listen, I better go,” Starsky said. “I don’t want to keep the shrinks waiting. You take it easy now, you hear me? And don’t even think about doing overtime just ’cause everyone else is pulling double shifts these days. Remember you’re s’pposed to be on restricted duty.”

Hutch almost smiled. He sounded so very much like Starsky. A yearning bloomed in his chest like an ache, and he was suddenly desperate to see him. Maybe today was the day? Maybe something had clicked? Maybe…?

ooOOOoo

Hutch’s upbeat mood lasted right through his shift and all the way back home. At the bottom of the hill, he stopped at Mario’s Pizza Place and ordered a medium Vegetarian and a large Meat Lovers with extra everything and double cheese to go, plus a chilled six-pack for good measure.

Then he floored the gas pedal and pulled up outside the house before the pizzas had a chance to cool.

An unfamiliar white Chevy occupied the driveway, the Torino was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, Hutch gathered his dinner offerings and pushed through the open door into the kitchen. The beer went in the fridge, the boxes on the counter. Home.

It had been a year since they’d bought it, but Hutch still got a kick out of walking into a house that was all theirs. Ramshackle, sprawling, and surrounded by untamed greenery, it radiated warmth, comfort and a quirkiness all of its own. Hutch adored the place.

If the upgrade to a larger pad had a single drawback, it was the fact that he could never be quite sure of the exact whereabouts of his partner who, at any given moment, could be found in locations as diverse as the couch, the bath tub, the garage, the roof, or the garden. Only the other day, Hutch had found him wedged in a recess in the attic, fixing a leaking manifold.

Wondering where he might be holed up this time, Hutch was about to call out when he heard the low rumble of his voice. The rumble was followed by a woman’s voice, high and animated, saying something inaudible, and a burst of female laughter.

Hutch moved aside the beaded curtain that divided the kitchen from the living room. They were on the porch, right over on the side where the flowering clematis obscured them from view. And although she stood with her back to the window, Hutch recognized her at once.

Blond hair freed from her nurse’s cap fell down her back like a shining cascade. A tight-fitting sweater outlined her waist and hips. Even from a distance Hutch had no trouble identifying her pose as anything other than provocative.

Hutch stood and stared. Felicity. And Starsky. Together on the porch. Inches apart.

As he watched, she lifted her hand and put it on Starsky’s arm. Starsky half turned, revealing a warm smile. He said something, and she laughed again, bright as a bird. His eyes were on her, only on her, as he gave her his undivided attention.

They moved. Starsky took the glass she was holding and opened the porch door for her. Hutch shrank back against the fridge. Dazed, he observed the two figures as they walked through the arch and gained the stairs. Small details leapt out like beacons in the night—Starsky’s hand on the small of her back, her smile, his lingering look at her breasts. Their closeness as he steered her up the stairs.

Hutch saw it all with the detachment of the utterly stunned. The sound of voices drifted downstairs. There was more high-pitched giggling. The last thing he heard was the distinct creak of the bedroom door.

Hutch turned and walked out.

“Hutch!”

He’d been seen. Starsky was at the upstairs window, knocking on the glass. Hutch didn’t reply, didn’t acknowledge the call. He kept right on walking.

“Hey, Hutch, wait.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. Moving as if in a dream, he reached the car, got inside, put it in reverse, and backed away from the house. He was already halfway down the hill when he dared check the rearview mirror.

The road behind him was empty. Hutch gripped the wheel and squealed away.

ooOOOoo

It took the better part of a bottle of Scotch to identify the emotion that was shredding Hutch’s heart. Not hurt exactly, or grief, or jealousy.

It was doubt. He was doubting Starsky. For the first time in his life.

He’d never known a feeling quite like it before. Not where Starsky was concerned. Vanessa, Jeannie, Abby and all the others—he’d never really trusted them, not the way he’d trusted Starsky, blindly, no questions asked. Was it all over now, that sweet knowledge of trust?

The doubt was a beast of terror. Because he wasn’t sure of this Starsky anymore. The old one, Hutch had known him to the core. Would’ve trusted him to the end of the world. The old Starsky would’ve walked through the darkest hell to avoid hurting him. This Starsky was different. He was a stranger. How could he trust a stranger?

The glass before him was empty. He picked it up and drained the melting dregs, set the glass down more forcefully than he had intended.

“Ready for another one, mate?”

A bottle moved into Hutch’s line of vision, held in a large hairy hand. Hutch didn’t reply, but the glass filled up anyway.

“Rough day?” The owner of the hairy hand leaned across the counter in a confiding manner. “Wanna talk about it?”

Hutch shook his head, didn’t look up. With detachment he watched the hand as it propelled a grimy-looking rag in a circular motion over the counter, leaving a trail of sticky moisture that did nothing to improve the cleanliness of the cracked vinyl.

By inches, hand and rag moved away to the livelier end of the counter where a handful of regulars were propping up the bar. Hutch was alone again.

He reached for the glass. Emptied half the contents with a single gulp.

He’d been a fool. He’d forgotten about Felicity. He’d let down his guard. Because Starsky seemed eager to get his life back. So he’d assumed….

Assumed what? That the man who shared the house with him had lost the needs and desires of a man? Ridiculous. Starsky was sex on legs. No one knew that better than Hutch.

For three years, he’d been the only recipient of Starsky’s attention. Because of love, and trust, and loyalty. Mostly because of love. The new Starsky didn’t know that. He was a man, with a man’s needs. And like the old Starsky before him, he couldn’t resist the allure of a pretty girl.

Hutch clenched his hand around the glass. He had no proof, no evidence. Only what his eyes told him, and what his heart knew. That this Starsky didn’t love him. Couldn’t. Not the way the old one had, the real one, the one he loved so much.

So here he was, in a seedy bar, clutching his drink, the image of a jilted man. How pathetic can you get, Hutchinson?

Hutch pushed the glass away. Loyalty. What right did he have to expect it from a man who hardly knew him? After all, Starsky wasn’t doing it to hurt him. He was just being Starsky—the one he’d been before he’d fallen in love with his partner.

In the whole sorry mess, that was the worst thing of all—that Starsky didn’t remember their love.

ooOOOoo

Midnight. Time to go back. He would always be going back to Starsky, no matter what.

The house looked dark and hostile when he pulled into the driveway. Christ, she wasn’t still there, was she? But no. The white Chevy had gone. No sign of the Torino, either. They’d left.

Feeling hollow and entirely too sober, Hutch inserted his key in the door. The door was unlocked. Nor was the house as dark as it had seemed. A small pool of light spilled through the arch of the living room, and when Hutch walked up, he saw Starsky sitting on the couch surrounded by a selection of his ever-present props. The coffee table was littered with his notes and files. He was alone.

When Hutch walked by, he looked up. “Hey,” he said.

Hutch acknowledged that with a cool nod, unable to trust his voice. He didn’t slow down, made straight for the stairs.

Behind him he heard Starsky scramble to his feet. “Hey, wait.”

Hutch ignored that, but Starsky overtook him anyway just as Hutch was about to put his foot on the bottom step, and proceeded to block the way like a cork in the bottle.

Hutch stopped. “All right, what is it?”

“We have to talk.”

“Yeah, sure. Tomorrow.” Was that really his voice, that harsh and cold sound?

“Not tomorrow. Now. Something’s wrong here, and we’ve gotta talk about it.”

“It’s late. I have to go to work tomorrow. Step aside.”

Starsky was a solid obstacle in his path. “Why did you run away?” he said.

Hutch bristled. “I didn’t run away.”

“You came home bearing beer and pizza. A minute later you were rushing off like the house was on fire. That looked pretty much like you were running away. And don’t tell me there was an emergency call. I know the phone didn’t ring.”

“I wasn’t running away,” Hutch said. “I thought you might need some elbow room.” He added in an acid voice. “I didn’t want to cramp your style.”

The sarcasm seemed lost on Starsky. “You mean because of Felicity?”

“If you must know, yes. Because of Felicity.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Hutch looked at him for the first time. “You’re kidding, right? You expect me to sit here and eat pizza while you and that…that woman are upstairs and….”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

“So that’s what it was,” Starsky said. “I thought it might’ve been. You really thought that Felicity and I…?” Something hardened in Starsky’s face. “Nothing happened, you know.”

Hutch was silent.

“I said, nothing happened. You want to know why she was here? ‘Cause when I left the clinic this afternoon, the car wouldn’t start. It happened to be the end of her shift, so she offered me a lift home. She drove miles out of her way. The least I could do was to ask her in for a drink.”

“I saw you,” Hutch said with difficulty. Christ, he didn’t want to be doing this. He wanted to go upstairs, have the longest shower of his life, and enter oblivion on a cloud of sleeping pills.

“Oh yeah? And what was it that you saw?”

The memory was sharp and clear. “I saw you and a sexy nurse standing on the porch, looking like you were having the time of your life. Her hands were all over you. She practically gobbled you up with her eyes. And when you’d finished groping each other, you went upstairs. Don’t tell me that was in order to show her your etchings.”

God, he had no idea he knew how to sound so scathing. It was as if all the hurt and pain and fear inside him was trying to burst out all at once in a stream of verbal ugliness.

“No,” Starsky said evenly. “That was in order to show her the bathroom.”

“The bathroom.”

“That’s right. The bathroom. She was about to leave and asked to use the bathroom. So I took her upstairs.”

“With your hand on her ass.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t. My hand was on her waist. It meant nothing. I touch women like that all the time and it hasn’t bothered you before. She’s no different.”

Oh yes, she is. She turns you on. Big difference.

But his momentum was flagging, its force punctured by a sudden stab of doubt, a different kind of doubt, and Starsky wasn’t slow to pick up on it.

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” he said. “You saw us together on the porch. We had a drink and a few laughs. She put her hand on my arm, and I put my arm around her waist. And on the strength of that you assume that I lost no time to get her between the sheets. In our bedroom, presumably.”

Hutch’s certainty wavered. They stood and stared at each other. “Nothing happened,” Starsky repeated.

Hutch wanted to believe it, he really did. But he’d gone too far to backtrack now. He said, “Of course nothing happened. I came home and you saw me. I wonder how things would have turned out if I hadn’t come back just then.”

Even as he said it, he knew there was something very wrong with that picture. In fact, the idea was ludicrous.

Starsky’s anger proved as much. It blew as suddenly as a sand storm whipped up by a desert wind.

“Now listen to me, you bastard,” he said. “Instead of jumping to conclusions like some jealous husband, you might’ve given me the benefit of the doubt. Nothing happened, you understand? And nothing would’ve happened, even if you hadn’t shown up just then.”

The mood shifted like the tide as Hutch turned from accuser to accused in the space of a moment.

“All we did was talk,” Starsky said with a ferocious glare. “Talk, you understand? She was here for maybe twenty minutes. When she was ready to leave, she asked to use the bathroom. I took her upstairs and showed her. Then she left and that was it.”

Starsky eyed him with a coldness that put goosebumps all the way down Hutch’s spine. “You really thought Felicity and I went upstairs for a roll in the hay? You really thought I’d do that? In plain daylight, in this house, with her car parked out front, knowing you were due home any minute?”

He advanced on Hutch with a look that was hard and cold, not with anger or indignation, but with something far, far worse. Disappointment.

He said, “I thought you trusted me. I thought that was what this was all about. Everyone tells me how close we are, how we have this special thing between us. But all that talk about partners, and trust, and watching each other’s backs—it’s just a load of bullshit, isn’t it?”

“Starsky, no—”

“You really thought I would’ve done that to you? To us? Fucked a woman in your own bed, knowing how you feel about me? How I felt about you before my brain got scrambled? You thought I’d risk all that for the sake of a quick fuck?”

Hutch had never felt more ashamed in his life. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

But Starsky wasn’t done.

“Is that what it was like between us?” he said. “Jealousy and suspicion and accusations and all the other marital crap? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, that kinda thing ain’t for me. If that’s what it was like for us, you better count me out right now.”

He turned to go.

Oh God, oh Christ. This was terrible. This was a disaster.

“No,” Hutch said, strangled from too tight a throat. “Wait. Please. It wasn’t like that before. It was never like that. What we had was extraordinary. And it was all built on trust. Everything we had was built on trust.”

“Well, pardon me for saying it, but I didn’t exactly see much evidence of that today.”

But at least he’d stopped, and he’d half turned around, and he was listening. Hutch started to breathe again. He noticed to his surprise that they were still standing in the hall at the foot of the stairs. Starsky had relinquished his spot, and the way upstairs was clear. But Hutch didn’t want to take it anymore.

There was only one way out. “I want to tell you something,” he said, “something that happened last year.”

Starsky hesitated. “Okay.” But he still stood half averted, a moment away from retreat.

Hutch swallowed. “A year ago,” he said with a heavy tongue, “I found you in bed with a woman you were once desperately in love with.”

The words had an electrifying effect on Starsky. “What?”

“It was Rosey, Frank Malone’s daughter. You were crazy about her, but she left to go abroad with her father. I told you about all that. What I didn’t tell you is that he died last year and that she came back here looking for you.”

He certainly had Starsky’s full attention now.

“I meant to be out of town that night, but I came back early. You weren’t at home, so I went looking for you.” His voice sounded odd in his ears, distant as if filtered through static. “I tracked you down to her place. The door was unlocked. I went in and there you were, asleep in her bed. You were both naked. She was draped all over you.”

“Christ,” Starsky said in a shaky voice. He looked sick.

Hutch felt his voice strengthening. “I was there. I stood right beside the bed. I saw you. Nothing could’ve been more obvious.” He looked at Starsky’s miserable face and smiled. “But I didn’t believe it.”

Starsky blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t believe you’d done it. I knew you hadn’t done it. I remember standing there and thinking, How the hell did he get himself into this pickle? I knew there had to be another explanation.”

“You saw me in her bed, naked, and you didn’t believe I’d slept with her?”

Hutch nodded, shook his head.

“And…had I?”

“No, you hadn’t. She’d conned you. You weren’t asleep, you were drugged. You were completely out of it. She’d set you up.”

“Why?”

Hutch shrugged. “To break us up? To get you back? She wanted me to see you there. She had it all worked out, the whole setup. She figured I would ditch you, and then she would have you all to herself again.”

Starsky had embarked on an agitated march up and down the hall. Now he stopped. “You didn’t believe it?” he said.

“Not for a second.”

“You saw me there and you didn’t believe it? C’mon, that ain’t possible.”

Hutch shook his head again. “Not with us. Nothing was impossible.”

Was.

The past tense hung over them like smog over LA. He added hastily, “I knew nothing had happened with Rosey. I felt it in my bones. I just knew you couldn’t have done it.”

“And nothing would’ve happened with Felicity, either.” Starsky’s gaze wandered all over Hutch’s face. “You’ve gotta believe me.”

“I do. I believe you.” Hutch looked at him. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Starsky shrugged. “Yeah, well, why wouldn’t you? You hardly know me. I’m this stranger who’s fucking up your life, right?”

Hutch drew himself bolt upright. “That’s not true. You’re not a stranger. You are Starsky. You’re just…an earlier model.”

He was a Starsky from before the formative experiences of ‘Nam and the streets of LA. Before the events that had welded them together. He was a pre-Hutch Starsky.

“Yeah. They don’t make ’em like this anymore,” Starsky said with a first trace of a lopsided smile. He caught Hutch’s eye. “I guess it’s time to upgrade, doncha think?”

Hutch was so relieved. He’d averted a crisis by a hair. And then he said the one thing that made the whole sorry fiasco even worse.

He said, “I’m sorry about tonight. I shouldn’t have overreacted like that. I had no right. You’re not tied to me or anything. You’re free to do what you want. And if you want to…I mean if you really want, you can—”

Starsky’s smile fell away like a lead weight. “Hold it,” he said. “Hold it right there! You saying what I think you’re saying? Then forget it!”

The voice was a whiplash and it tore open a whole new chasm between them.

“For your information, buddy, I’m aiming on gettin’ my memory back one of these days, and then I don’t want to have to face the fact that in a moment of madness I went and did something I’m gonna regret for the rest of my life, just ’cause I let my cock rule my head. You got that?”

If Hutch had felt a heel before, now he felt lower than a louse. He looked away, unable to meet Starsky’s eyes. Starsky stood just inside the kitchen door, and Hutch felt his glare like knife tips on his face. He stood there for a few more seconds before pushing past Hutch to reach the stairs. The timber boards protested as he stomped upstairs. Then he was gone, and only the beaded curtain still swung back and forth in the empty doorway.

Hutch lowered his head into his hands and groaned.

ooOOOoo

Annoyance pumps through his veins as he gains his room. He can hardly believe what the man has been trying to suggest just now. What kind of an asshole does he take him for?

Oh yes, he’s annoyed, but the emotion is flavored with a pinch of guilt. Because when everything’s said and done, he can’t deny that Felicity is one hot piece of property. The legs. The breasts. The come-get-me sideways glances.

If hadn’t been for Hutch….

It’s true what he said. Nothing would have happened—because of Hutch. Without Hutch in the picture, the evening might have panned out differently. She’d been willing, and under different circumstances, so would he.

Nothing surprising there, given his history as a ladies’ man. He’s heard all about it. The trawls through the discos, the pick-ups, the one night stands. Girlfriends, too. Helen, Terri, Rosey, and all the others. None of them stuck around for long. They left, or died. Hutch has similar stories to tell, from a harpy called Vanessa through to the mysterious Kira.

Is that why they got it together, him and Hutch? ‘Cause when the girls didn’t work out, they only had each other to turn to? Christ, what a depressing thought.

Better to think about Felicity. The last trace of his anger ebbs away as he calls up her image—the legs, the hair, the rosy lips begging to be kissed. Her kisses would taste of honey, and her breasts would be round and firm and perk up under his touch.

His cock stirs in a way it hasn’t done since…well, for as long as he can remember.

In the safety of the room’s darkness, he unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, and reaches inside. Aah, Felicity. Excitement licks at the base of his groin as he pictures running his hand along the smooth inside of her leg. His cock swells in his hand. He holds himself with a sure grip, moves his fingers just so. He knows what he’s doing. No problem remembering this.

Then he stops.

He wants it to be Felicity, every man’s wet dream, but he can’t. Nothing happened, he said to Hutch, but it’s happening now. A betrayal by any other name. He can’t do it. Because of Hutch, damn the man.

But the need is pulling at him. His cock is moving in his hand, wanting more. He changes his hold, coaxes it to life again. Forget about Felicity. He can do this without her.

He closes his eyes. A new image forms in his mind, different this time. He sees bright blue eyes and a pair of soft, beautifully curved lips. In his mind he smoothes blond hair back from a high forehead as he leans into a kiss. His hand caresses a warm cheek rough with just a hint of a sandpapery stubble—

His eyes snap open. His hand freezes on his cock as his brain catches up to his subconscious and everything around him goes very, very still.

Hutch. Pursuing him even into his fantasies.

What to do? He can’t stop now. He needs it, wants it. One more holdup and he’s going to scream. Besides, why shouldn’t it be Hutch? After all, for the last three years…. Maybe it’s time to get used to the idea.

Changing his hold, he closes his eyes again and tries to regain momentum.

Hutch. Handsome Hutch. Taller than himself by an inch or so, he’s slim, but muscular, and when in shape, probably a match for himself in strength and endurance. What would it be like to make love to someone as strong as himself?

The spark of excitement re-ignites when he imagines those strong hands holding him, wrestling with him, both of them naked under the sheets.

Hutch’s long legs would probably wrap right around him.

His breath is running short, his throat is tight with anticipation. He’s almost there, almost there. That’s when he remembers the smile. The one in the picture, the warm, happy smile from a time before Hutch’s world had fractured.

It’s the smile that does it. The release, when it comes, is sweet and sharp and fills him with an almost unbearable sense of lightness. A whole chunk of time slips by. When he comes around, he finds himself sprawled on the bed with his jeans still bunched in a heap around his ankles. A wet patch is cooling under his belly.

And all he can think of is how the hell he is going to face Hutch in the morning.

 

VII

Things had been uneasy before, but that was nothing compared to the awkwardness that permeated the house the next morning.

When Hutch crawled from tangled sheets and made his fuzzy way to the bathroom, he found that he wasn’t the only one who’d had that idea. Starsky, looking as bleary-eyed as he probably did himself, had emerged from his bedroom at just the same moment.

Both drew back, both instantly wide awake. Both spoke at the same time.

“You first—”

“After you—”

They broke off. Hutch noted with a terrible stab of sadness that Starsky refused to meet his eye. Feeling hollow, he said, “It’s okay. You go first.”

“No, really,” Starsky said, already on the retreat. “You’re the one who has to be at work on time.”

Hutch yielded with a nod of thanks and claimed the room. As he closed the door behind him, a memory of other, happier mornings leapt at him, of crowding into the bathroom together, jostling each other for the sink, of laughing and touching and maybe sharing a kiss or two.

Hutch shattered the memory with a burst of icy water from the shower.

When he came out a few minutes later with a towel wrapped around him, Starsky’s door was closed. Hutch eyed it with hesitation. To knock or not to knock? His knuckles were already hovering an inch from the grainy wood when his nerve failed him and he retreated to his room to get dressed.

He didn’t see Starsky again that morning. Everything was silent when Hutch descended to the kitchen. Halfway through his cereal, he heard footsteps upstairs, and a door closing, but by the time he left for work, all was quiet again.

Feeling empty, Hutch got in his car and drove away. He didn’t go far. At the bottom of the hill, he pulled over, killed the engine and let his head rest on the wheel.

Time for a few home truths. He’d fucked up. Worse, he’d underestimated Starsky, and that hadn’t happened since the Academy. All this time, he’d thought the onus was on Starsky. To get his memory back, to come back to him, to demonstrate his love, his faith, his commitment. To prove he hadn’t changed.

Bullshit.

He was the one who had changed, who had failed to keep up his end of the bargain. He’d let his partner down. Because in the end, everything boiled down to just one thing. Trust. And he had broken it.

ooOOOoo

Work stretched endlessly that day. There were no phone calls from a buoyant Starsky, and as much as Hutch willed it to ring, the phone on his desk stayed silent.

Nor did he quite muster the courage to do the deed himself. Each time he picked up the phone, the memory of Starsky’s cold eyes made him return the implement to its cradle before he had even finished dialing.

It was with trepidation therefore that he started the thirty-minute drive back to the place he called home.

A sparkling house greeting him when he walked in. Gone were the accumulated stains on the floors and windows, and the layers of dust that had decorated the surfaces had been given their marching orders. Bulging shopping bags crowded the kitchen counters. In the garden the sprinklers rotated energetically over a freshly mowed lawn, and on the hob sat yesterday’s pizzas, ready to go in the oven.

Hutch eyed the tidy house with the uncertainty of someone who could no longer afford to take anything for granted. A domestic Starsky used to mean one of either two things—an exuberant Starsky with too much energy on his hands, or a pissed-off Starsky taking an evil mood out on the furnishings.

Which one was it going to be?

Hutch set off in search of him and found him outside, about to manhandle the lawnmower back into the shed. He wore his tightest pair of cutoffs, and not much else besides. The muscles on his bare back rippled under a thin sheen of sweat, and when he turned, Hutch got an eyeful of his broad chest and trim stomach.

The sight did something alarming to Hutch’s already shaky nervous system, and he tore his gaze away with what felt like a superhuman effort. He looked at the tidy garden instead.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” he said, and immediately cringed at the inanity of the remark.

“Yeah. I thought the place could do with a cleanup.”

Starsky closed the shed door. As he walked up, he reached for the t-shirt that hung over the back of the garden bench and pulled it on—a casual move. Too casual. Hutch got that hollow feeling again. Even his brain seemed to have run dry. He couldn’t even think of something inane to say.

“So, uh, any progress on the Marston case?” Starsky finally ventured. He still wouldn’t look at Hutch.

“Some. I got a couple of leads where the goods might be fenced. Linda and Wallace were supposed to check them out, but they got landed with a double homicide.”

“Dobey not letting you out on the streets yet, huh?”

“He would if he could. He’s so short of manpower, he’s taken on a whole bunch of rookies fresh from the Academy. They’re all over the place. I’m supposed to show them the ropes. They need a lot of handholding.”

Jesus, will you stop babbling? This was excruciating.

“Give ’em a week or so,” Starsky said. “They’ll get the hang of it soon enough. Before you know it, they’ll be swaggering around like John Wayne.”

Not a word about last night. Not even a darkly meaningful sideways glance. Looked like Starsky was determined to play it cool. Taking his cue from his partner, Hutch resolved to do the same.

He said, “How did you get down to the store? I thought your car was busted.”

“I got it back. It’s in the garage. The Ford dealer down the road from St. John’s fixed it this morning. Faulty ignition cable.”

“You didn’t take it to Merle’s?”

“Merls? Where’s that?”

“Merle, not Merls. Merle, the Earl. A guy your Uncle Al used to work with. He does all your car repairs. He’s a real character.”

“Merle, the Earl,” Starsky repeated, committing the name to memory. “Tell me about him. How long have I known him? What’s he look like? You got a picture?”

Here we go again, Hutch thought. He sat down on the bench and proceeded to fill Starsky in on another chunk of his life, another piece in the jigsaw of a million pieces. One of those pieces held the aha moment. Hutch believed that like he believed that the sun would rise the following day. It was just a matter of finding it.

Then Starsky did something that knocked that grim certainty clean off its pedestal.

“Hey, I almost forgot,” he said when the Merle story had run its course. “I got you that gadget you were looking for. Hold on.” He disappeared into the shed and emerged with an item still wrapped in a paper bag.

“What gadget?” Hutch said, perplexed, and took it.

“That soil thing you said you wanted for making your tomatoes happy. I saw this at Graylands and thought I’d snap it up.”

It was a pH meter. Hutch stared at the small device. Two months ago. In July. He’d said it in July sometime, long before….

“You mean you remembered that?” he said, breathless, not daring to hope.

Starsky looked away. “No, I’m sorry. Huggy tipped me off.”

ooOOOoo

Hutch went and sat in the greenhouse. He had to hold it together. He had to. His hand went to his chest. He was having trouble breathing again. It was an old foe, familiar from long ago—a dense ache that felt as if a band had been pulled tight around his chest.

He rubbed at the ache. Breathe in, breathe out. Steady on. Things can only get better.

A few minutes later, he had company. The glass door creaked open and Starsky stuck his curly head inside. “Um, I put the pizza in the oven. You want some?”

Hutch set his face. “Sure. Let me just finish this. It won’t take a minute.”

That seemed to be invitation enough, because the rest of Starsky followed the head inside. “Whatcha doin’?”

“The ficus tree isn’t doing so well. It’s losing all its leaves. I’ve been meaning to repot it.”

Starsky nodded. He picked up a small stack of plastic pots sitting on the bench, examined it, put it back. “This guy came around earlier and wanted to speak to us,” he finally said.

Hutch cast him a sideways glance. “Oh yeah? Who was it?”

A pained expression climbed over Starsky’s features. “I don’t know. I didn’t recognize him. He knew us, so maybe he was a snitch. I couldn’t figure out what he wanted.”

“Well, what did he look like?”

“White, late thirties, dark hair, ’bout six foot tall.” He shrugged. “A description that fits about a million people.”

“Could’ve been Ricky,” Hutch said. “Or maybe Dan Daniels. Don’t worry about it. People drop in on us all the time. Sometimes all they want is a chat.”

“Yeah, but….” The pained expression deepened. “I think I blew it. He expected something from me, a reaction, a question, something. I could see it in his face. I played along best as I could, but I think he knew something was off.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. Everyone knows you’re recovering from a concussion. It’s normal to be a bit confused.”

“Anyone mention the ‘A’ word yet?”

“Amnesia?” Hutch shook his head. “No. Remember, we decided to keep that under wraps. Only the doctors know. Everyone else thinks it’s temporary memory loss due to a concussion.”

“Good,” Starsky said. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He turned to go, hesitated. Turned back and looked Hutch in the eye for the first time that day. “Look, you’ve gotta help me here,” he said. “I’m tryin’, I really am, but I can’t do this on my own.”

“I’m here,” Hutch said, startled into instant responsiveness. “I’m right here.”

He got to his feet and walked forward. Under different circumstances, he would have wrapped his arms around Starsky and pulled him close, but as matters stood, a two foot distance was all he could reasonably get away with.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Everything’s gonna be all right. We’ve just gotta keep working on that aha moment.”

The spark in Starsky’s eyes dimmed. “Oh yeah. The aha moment. Sure. We’ve gotta keep working on that.” He turned away. “I better go and check on those pizzas.”

Hutch watched him go. He’d said the wrong thing—again—but this time he’d be damned if he knew what it was.

ooOOOoo

It all came to a head three days later, like a storm clearing the air and muddying the waters.

Hutch was late getting home that day. Fridays were busy days at the station, and staffing problems at Metro were such that Dobey would happily have accepted Hutch’s offer of an overnighter if Dr. Cowan hadn’t put his veto on the idea. He managed to stretch his stint until eight when Lt. Reynolds told him in no uncertain terms to go the hell home.

Hutch obeyed reluctantly, going home not being something he was particularly looking forward to these days.

The house was dark when he got there, and the front door locked. Late as he was, Starsky was even later.

Where could he be? A vision of Starsky wandering down the wrong kind of street and falling foul of the wrong kind of people flashed up and died. No, Starsky had more sense than that. He was probably at Minnie’s or Huggy’s, extracting information on an obscure event from his past.

Hutch toed off his shoes and was about to throw his jacket on the couch when another, altogether more chilling possibility froze him in his tracks. What if he wasn’t at Huggy’s? What if he’d decided he’d had enough? What if he’d cleared out, taken the Torino and—?

Hutch unfroze with a jerk. He dropped his jacket, dropped his keys. He sprinted upstairs and tore open Starsky’s bedroom door. Darkness greeted him before his hand found the switch and light washed over the familiar room.

Starsky’s possession were everywhere. A t-shirt lay discarded on the bed, a pair of jeans hung over the back of the chair. A stack of files and witness reports and army records crowded the night stand next to the alarm clock and Starsky’s electric razor. There was even the old black-and-white cardigan Starsky still wore around the house when the evenings turned cool.

Hutch sagged with relief. He leaned against the door frame and filled his lungs with oxygen. Starsky was still there.

The next moment he wanted to slap himself. Of course Starsky was still there. How could he doubt it? Hadn’t he learned his lesson yet? Starsky was there to stay; he’d made that plain enough. It was time to start trusting him on that.

Annoyed with himself, Hutch was about to turn off the light and withdraw when a new force stopped his hand. He hadn’t been inside the room since the day Starsky had come home, hadn’t even caught a glimpse of it. The door had always been firmly closed.

The need to see extinguished all caution. He stepped inside and looked around. Photos of all sizes and descriptions filled the room. On the bedpost hung Starsky’s holster, empty. A notebook crammed with names and dates scribbled in Starsky’s familiar scrawl lay open on the counterpane.

Hutch studied the crisply made bed with interest. Starsky still tucked in the sheets with the military precision drummed into him at boot camp. Why would he do that? Was there some residual memory at play or were the sharp creases the natural manifestation of a tidy mind?

He had no idea. Amnesia was terra incognita. Maybe he should mention it to Dr. Jolimont.

His gaze fell on the shapeless old cardigan again. Unable to stop himself, he gathered it up and buried his face in its soft folds. Starsky had worn it only a day ago and a faint scent of his aftershave still lingered.

The scent stirred a flood of memories, and he was suddenly overcome with emotion. Starsky, Starsky. Come back to me. Come back. I miss you so much.

The longing was a hungry ache in his stomach. He missed Starsky, every part of him. His smile, his laughing eyes, his touch. Especially his touch. Not being able to touch was torture.

But more than that, much more than that, he missed their connection, the mental touch—the closeness, the wordless knowledge of each other, the lingering looks of complicity that never failed to move him somewhere in the deepest part of his being.

Hutch swallowed back the memory. He held on to the cardigan for another precious minute, savoring its warmth and the memories of the past, before replacing it carefully on the chair.

It was time to get out. The last thing he needed was for Starsky to come home and find him prowling through his things.

He was already at the door when he saw the file. Half hidden under a small stack of dog-eared incident reports, it stood out from the rest by virtue of its lime green cover. Hutch stopped dead still. Only one place he knew used that particular shade of green to contain its paperwork.

His heart in his mouth, he tugged the folder free. Memorial Hospital it said in large print on the cover. Hutch stared at the words. Starsky’s medical file. How the hell had Starsky managed to lay his hands on it?

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to open the file. The words “massive coronary”, “internal bleeding”, and “critical condition” jumped out at him like muggers in the dark.

Hutch stood very still. He didn’t even move when the Torino’s unmistakable growl sounded in the driveway. He was still standing there with the file in his hands when Starsky walked in.

Starsky assessed the situation with a single glance.

“I meant to talk to you about that,” he said and gestured at the file, “but the right moment never came up.” He reached to take the file from Hutch’s hands.

Hutch held on. “Where did you get this?” he said.

“From Memorial, of course,” Starsky said as if nothing was easier than extracting confidential records from closely guarded hospital archives. “Dr. Patel had a copy made for me.”

Memorial? Patel? When had Starsky become so familiar with his own past?

“I went to see him,” Starsky said before Hutch could even ask. “Seemed like the obvious thing to do. He had a few interesting things to say about us.”

“Why?”

“Why did I go and see him?” Starsky shrugged. He was still tugging at the file, while Hutch held onto his end of it. “You wanted me to work on the aha moment, so that’s what I’ve been doing. Besides, I needed to know. I still do. There’s so much I don’t understand. I really wish you’d talk to me about it. The shooting, I mean.”

“No,” Hutch said, pure reflex. “Not the shooting.”

He released the file so suddenly, several sheets of papers slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

Starsky ignored them. “Why not?” he said. “Why can’t we talk about the shooting?”

“You died,” Hutch said. He would have thought that was obvious.

“I almost died,” Starsky corrected. “I almost died lots of times. You had no trouble telling me about Joey and Marcos and Bellamy and all the other times I almost bought it. But when it comes to the shooting, you close up like an oyster.”

Starsky tossed the file on the bed and advanced on Hutch. Hutch backed away, one step after another, until the edge of the wardrobe dug into his back, and he knew he couldn’t back away any further.

“What happened?” Starsky said. “I gotta know. It’s important.”

Hutch gritted his teeth. “You know what happened. It’s all there in the files. You’ve read them.”

“Yeah, I’ve read them. And as far as I’m concerned, they don’t make a shred of sense. So I talked to the guys who were at the scene at the time. I talked to five different people and got five different stories. And not one of them can tell me what I really want to know—why did I live?”

Hutch blinked. “What?”

“Why did I live? Why didn’t I die?”

Wondering if he had strayed into some surreal parallel universe, Hutch said, “You did die. In the hospital. You died.”

“I almost died,” Starsky said. “I know all about that—cardiac arrest, Code Blue, and all the rest of it. That’s not what I’m talking about. I want to know what happened before. At the scene, before the ambulance arrived.”

“What do you mean, what happened? You know what happened. You were shot.”

“I was shot,” Starsky repeated as if talking about someone else. “Machine gun fire at close range. Three direct hits in the back. I should’ve died.”

“I know,” Hutch said. “I know!”

“No, you don’t. Patel says I should’ve died right there. I shouldn’t have survived the shooting. He said he can’t explain how I made it to the hospital alive. He said, once I was on life support, it was touch and go, but there was a chance. But out there, in the parking lot, I shouldn’t have had a chance. I should’ve died, right there where I got shot.”

No, no, no, no.

Starsky had him by the arms. “Why? Why did I live? What did you do?”

The longed-for touch now felt like a vice. “D-do?” Hutch stammered. “I didn’t do anything. I….”

“Yes, you did. You did something. I talked to Dobey. He said he’d never seen anything like it before. He said you were holding me, and that there was something weird going on, almost as if…” Starsky’s voice dropped very low, “…as if you were keeping me alive.”

Hutch closed his eyes. That moment, that terror-filled moment with its glimpse of an eternity of hell, the connection stretching and fraying between them…. He hadn’t thought about that moment in over two whole years, had buried the memory deep. Yet here it was, all of a sudden, as sharp and as clear as if that moment had been yesterday.

Starsky’s fingers dug into his arm. “What did you do? Tell me.”

There was no way out. An eerie calm dropped over Hutch like a glass jar. He looked up and his eyes found Starsky’s.

“I held you,” he said. “Your head was on my arm, and your blood was everywhere. I thought you were dead. But then your eyes opened, and you looked at me, and I looked back at you, and… and I held you.”

His voice seemed strange, mechanical, the voice of a robot. “You were dying, but I didn’t do anything to stop the bleeding. I just looked at you, and you looked back at me. I don’t know what happened around us or how much time went by. I only saw you, and… I knew you were dying and… all I could do was hold you. I could have held you forever. I didn’t want to let go.”

Starsky swallowed. He whispered, “Did you… say anything?”

There was a long pause. Finally Hutch said, “I told you to hold on. I told you I loved you. Not in words, but…. We looked at each other, and it was as if we were inside each other’s minds. I knew it was the end. Of everything. I had no hope, none at all. But somehow you held on. I still don’t know how you did it.”

“It wasn’t me. It was you. I would’ve died if it hadn’t been for you.” There was no doubt in Starsky’s voice, none at all. “Because you wouldn’t let me go.”

“That’s crazy. It’s impossible. Besides, what difference would it have made? You died anyway. In the hospital. And I wasn’t even with you.”

“I didn’t die. I had a cardiac arrest. That’s different. Patel said it was almost inevitable given the extent of my injuries. He said I was lucky it happened in the hospital.” Starsky’s voice dropped to a shaky whisper. “‘Cause there’s no way I would’ve made it if it had happened at the scene.”

They looked at each other. Starsky’s eyes were as deep and as dark as the sea on a stormy day and full of the strangest light. On a level far removed from the conscious plane, Hutch took in the shape of the familiar features, the small lines around his eyes, the mole riding high on his left cheek. He knew them all so well, every angle, every facet of that beloved face.

Longing flooded Hutch’s heart. He wanted to throw caution to the wind, wrap his hands around Starsky’s face , haul him close and cover his face with kisses.

Too late Hutch reined in the treacherous thoughts. Starsky had already seen. A complex expression of something indefinable darted across his face. Compassion? Regret? Uncertainty? Hutch didn’t wait to find out. He sidestepped Starsky and made for the door. Time to get out before he made a complete fool of himself.

“Hutch.”

Hutch stopped. He didn’t turn.

“Why didn’t I get down?” Starsky said behind him.

Hutch stiffened. “What?”

“In the parking lot. After you yelled the warning. I read that part over and over. You saw the cruiser. You yelled a warning and then you got down. I had plenty of time to do the same. But I didn’t. Why not? Why didn’t I get down?”

Christ, Starsky, stop it. Stop it! Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?

“You had nowhere to go,” Hutch said to the door. “They would’ve got you no matter what. They were too close.”

“But why didn’t I at least try? It might’ve given me a chance.”

“I dropped,” Hutch said. “The car was no protection. It was a machine gun, close range. The bullets went right through it. If they’d aimed low, I…you….”

He balled his hands to fists. This nightmare, this horror that still lurked in a dark corner of his soul. More powerful than all the others. It would never leave him. And now here it was, creeping out into the open again.

He didn’t want it. He wanted it to stay in his memory’s murky underworld. But Starsky had no memory. He was Starsky’s memory. He turned and faced his partner.

“You did it,” he whispered, “for me. You did it because….” The words stuck in his throat.

And Starsky’s eyes opened wide with the spark of understanding. “I drew their fire,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it? Christ Almighty. I stayed on my feet and went for my gun, to force them to aim high.” His voice wavered. “Because if I’d dropped, they might’ve got you, too.”

ooOOOoo

Hutch didn’t remember, afterward, when and how he finally got away. Maybe Starsky had been too stunned to stop him. Maybe he’d forced his way out. He wasn’t sure. Only the fact that he found himself in his own bedroom, with no recollection of how he’d got there, was evidence that he’d somehow made good his escape.

The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes, but he felt as if he’d been stretched on a torture rack for the better part of the day. He walked to the window and gazed out at the darkness. Smog masked the stars, and the sky looked the way his heart felt. Dark and empty.

Talking about the shooting hadn’t brought the memories back. Nor had it resurrected the connection, that precious bond, honed to a fine art in many years of partnership and brought to glory on a day three years ago in a cabin beside a mountain lake.

Had it really saved Starsky’s life, out there on the tarmac of the parking garage? Hutch hadn’t thought about it that way before. That was eerie stuff and not a little scary.

So why was it failing now, that bond with the power to keep even death at bay? He’d thought he’d felt it, that day in the clinic. Now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he had imagined it in his moment of need.

He wrapped his arms around himself, imagining they were his partner’s. They’d have to take it slowly. One day at a time. God, he couldn’t wait for Starsky to be all right again. How much longer was it going to take?

Then he went cold all over, rigid with the demon of a brand new thought.

What if Starsky would never be all right again? What if this was all they’d ever have?

ooOOOoo

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands and his heart in turmoil. He’d known, of course, that they’d shared something pretty damn special, but this….

A part of him is stunned by what he’s heard, by the power of their bond, the extent of what they’ll do for each other. That’s the part that’s sending out warning signals, whispering sweet caution in his ear. That it’s not normal for two people to be that close.

Another part of him is yearning for the return of that closeness.

But will it? Truth is, things aren’t going to plan. The aha moment is pie in the sky, and all the file reading and all the talk in the world aren’t going to make a blind bit of difference.

Time to face the facts. It’s not working, and maybe it never will. The thought is disturbing, but not nearly as disturbing as the thought of what that will do to Hutch.

Because Hutch is still so full of hope. It’s killing him. Hutch doesn’t know about the dark space in his head where his memories used to be. It’s a lonely void, a black hole that’s sucking up all light and warmth. Hutch has no idea of that bleak space inside him. He’s clinging to his hope as if it’s a lifeline, or a rock in the ocean or something.

He groans, knowing he can never reveal the existence of that void, least of all to Hutch. He’ll have to guard that secret with everything he has. But where does that leave him? He can’t go on living in limbo. There’s gotta be something he can do.

A thought, half-formed, condenses to a nebulous idea. Maybe he could…?

He frowns. It’s the scheme of a desperate man, but what else can he do?

Luckily he already has a fairly good idea what this guy Starsky is all about. He’s into fast cars, fast food, and fast living. He’s easy-going, but tough. He’s bright, but likes to pretend otherwise. He has an acute sense of justice and a rather less acute sense of obedience to authority. He’s also gay, but he’ll ignore that inconvenient fact for the moment.

He’s on his feet, pacing, as he turns the idea over. He might just pull it off. He’s an undercover cop, isn’t he? Besides, expectation will work in his favor. Most of his colleagues already think he’s well on his way back to normal. And as Hutch said to him once, sometimes people just don’t want to see what’s right in front of their noses.

He’s running out of options. He’s going to have to give it a shot, for his sake and for Hutch’s. After all, this is the only life he’s got, and he’ll be damned if he can’t make a go of it.

 

VIII

Hutch noticed the change the way he noticed everything about Starsky, intuitively, with senses more acute than sight and hearing, like a sailor tasting an approaching storm on the breeze.

There was nothing he could put his finger on at first. Gradually, a pattern emerged.

For starters, there were no more questions. Over the space of a few days, the relentless flow slowed to a trickle and dried up.

Then there were the vanishing props. Bit by bit, the notes, files, photos, newspaper cuttings, personnel records and other paraphernalia Starsky had amassed to help him piece his life together began to disappear. First the coffee table emerged from underneath the clutter, then the stacks of folders set out in chronological order all along the wall vanished one by one.

One morning Hutch came downstairs to discover that the last of the albums had vanished from the couch. For the first time since his release from the clinic, Starsky could be seen walking around without his nose stuck in a file or a note book or a back copy of the LA Times.

But that wasn’t all. Something else was changing, something about the way he moved and listened and interacted. A sense of growing confidence buoyed his actions. When he spoke, it was with a new sense of authority.

“You’ve gotta watch it with that guy,” Hutch heard him say to Menendez in a knowledgeable tone of voice. “You can trust Fat Rolly as far as you can throw him, and that’s only about a foot or so.”

Menendez nodded agreement, unaware that Starsky—the new Starsky—had yet to meet Rolly in the flesh.

Starsky was changing. Gone was the cautious look, and the previous uncertainty was giving way to a new cockiness. Strangers no longer fazed him. In tricky situations his eyes no longer slid over to Hutch for guidance and confirmation. He no longer looked puzzled. He no longer admitted ignorance.

Instead he gleaned the answers he needed from context and subtext, reading between the lines, constantly alert, watching and listening with eyes and ears that seemed to pick out the smallest nuance, relying on his wits to filter the mundane from the important.

Hutch watched the transformation with puzzlement and growing unease. What was going on? What was Starsky playing at? Who the hell did he think he was fooling?

Everyone, apparently.

“Hey, I see your partner’s back to normal,” Charles Wiggan from Vice said to him in passing one day. “I ran into him in the gym this morning. He was going at the punching ball like it was Gunther. Not that I’m surprised. I always said it takes more than a knock on the head to stop a man like Starsky.”

Minnie thought so, too. “See,” she said over a cup of coffee later that day, “I told you he’d be all right, didn’t I? Oh, I know, he still has a few gaps to fill, but it’s all coming back to him pretty quickly, don’t you think?”

Not even Huggy was immune.

“Man, it’s good to see him back to his old self,” he said to Hutch as he slid two fresh bottles of Bud across the bar. His eyes went to the far corner of the room where Starsky was in the process of thrashing Pete O’Leary at the pool table in a series of short, sharp matches. “He was beginning to freak me out with those blank looks.”

Hutch wondered what was wrong with them all. Starsky had lost his memory. It hadn’t returned. Wasn’t that obvious? Or was it possible that they simply didn’t see it?

Putting his vested interest aside, Hutch tried to observe Starsky not through the eyes of a partner and lover, but through those of a friend and colleague. Simmons, perhaps, or Linda. What he saw made him shiver. He saw his curly-haired partner—jeans, sneakers and all—at ease in a circle of their friends, teasing Dianne and mock-fighting Babcock and discussing Pirelli’s latest case with a look and an attitude that could only be described as pure Starsky.

He looked like the real thing. He sounded like the real thing. And if he seemed a little vague at times, the lapse could easily be blamed on the lingering after-effects of what everyone knew had been a debilitating head injury.

For the first time Hutch wondered if it had been such a hot idea to keep the extent of Starsky’s amnesia under wraps. Only a handful of people knew that there was more to it than temporary memory loss, and only the doctors at St. John’s and himself were aware of the wider repercussions of that.

But even those in the know seemed keen to disown any notion that Starsky might be anything other than fine.

“Looks to me like he’s over the worst,” a distracted Dobey said to him a few days later when Hutch went in with the ballistics report on the dockyard shooting. “He was here this morning when you were in forensics. We discussed the case and all. If we’re lucky he may even remember what happened in Leibovich’s center.”

Hutch bit back the cautionary comment that was already hovering on his lips. Instead he said, “What was he doing here? I didn’t know he’d been planning to come in.”

“I called him. I wanted him to pick up his gun so he can put in a few hours at the range. He’s gotta get some practice in before he comes back to work.”

Hutch stared at him. Back to work? Had the whole world gone mad? How could Starsky possibly come back to work?

“He can’t,” he said, appalled. “He’s not ready.”

“Not for active duty maybe, but he certainly seems well enough to handle a desk job.” Dobey took the report from Hutch’s hands and started leafing through its contents. “I asked Cowan to give him a preliminary checkup. We’ll take it from there.”

His mind reeling, Hutch returned to his desk. His first impulse was to reach for the phone to call Starsky. He put it back down before it could start ringing. What was the point?

Instead he hooked his jacket from the chair and made for the door. He needed answers, and this time, he was going straight to the source.

ooOOOoo

The shoe box Dr. Jolimont called her office looked even more chaotic in the light of another day. The piles of papers and medical journals on her shelves seemed to have grown by several inches. A computer screen flickered hectically in the corner, and on the desk a full scale model of the human brain took center stage, surrounded by a small herd of half-empty coffee mugs.

The doctor, by contrast, looked cool and immaculate and more angular than Hutch remembered. She was also her usual hurried self.

“Mr. Hutchinson, I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told you,” she said in a brisk voice. “We speak on the phone every day. You are as up to date on David’s treatment plan as I am.”

“I’m not here about Starsky’s treatment plan. I need to know what’s happening. Has there been any change at all? It’s been over a month. How much longer is it going to take?”

She sighed. “You know that’s a question I can’t possibly answer. David’s case is…complex. It would be premature to make predictions. We’re still running tests on him. That’s really all I can say at this stage.”

She glanced at her watch. Hutch ignored it.

“A month, doctor!” he said. “And there’s been no change. When we first met, you told me the most important thing was Starsky’s cooperation and a willingness to get better. Well, he’s cooperating now and he sure is willing. He hasn’t missed a single test or therapy session. I can’t stress enough how unusual that is for him.”

He speared the doctor with the look he used to advantage in the interrogation room. “He wants to get better. So why isn’t he?”

“Cooperation isn’t the only factor in David’s recovery,” she said, ignoring the look. “Surely you must realize that. We are dealing with physical damage here, and while the brain is capable of repairing damaged synapses, the process may often take some time.”

“How much time?”

“It depends. Many factors are involved. It’s difficult to—”

“Give it a stab. Days? Weeks?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes longer. I really can’t tell y—”

“You don’t know, do you?” Hutch said. “You haven’t got a clue. You’re as much in the dark as I am!”

“We know that the damage is concentrated in the hippocampus, and that the scarring in the frontal lobes is probably due to earlier trauma—”

“Yes, but what are you going to do about it? There’s gotta be something you can do. What about medication? Or surgery? Or more hypnosis?” Hutch’s voice rose against his will. “We can’t just sit here and wait for something to happen!”

“Mr. Hutchinson, please don’t shout. Let me assure you that we’re doing everything we can to help David. Unfortunately invasive surgery is not an option. Neurosurgery is in its infancy and in David’s case might make matters worse. We are still experimenting with different types of drugs including hallucinogenics, but these have had little effect to date. And as regards hypnosis, you already know that we ran into a brick wall with that.”

“Well, try it again! He’ll cooperate, I know he will. Throw everything you have at the problem. Is it his insurance cover you’re worried about? We can pay. We’ll sell the house if we have to. We—”

Hutch closed his eyes and collected himself with an effort. Don’t antagonize the people I need, Starsky’s gently chiding voice reached out to him across the years. He’d been fading by then, succumbing to Bellamy’s poison, but still holding on, fighting to the last.

The memory still packed a punch and Hutch rapidly pushed it aside.

“It’s just that he seems so normal at times,” he said. “A lot of people think his memory is just fine, that he’s almost back to normal. Is he…I mean, have you noticed any changes? Maybe he’s starting to remember, on a subconscious level somehow.”

The look of regret on the doctor’s face said it all, really. “No, Mr. Hutchinson, he’s not starting to remember. He’s developing coping techniques, that’s all. It’s a perfectly normal strategy for someone in his situation, and one that we encourage in our patients.”

Well, at least one person wasn’t taken in. Hutch couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or upset by that.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “They think it was just a concussion. They think he’s all right now. They’re talking about him going back to work soon.”

“Well, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“Not at all. Think about it. David has experienced a loss of personal memory. His factual knowledge and the benefits of his experiences in the army and the police force remain intact. He scores high on IQ and cognitive ability. He has no trouble retaining new information. He has normal, even above normal recall of the events of the past few weeks. He excels at abstract reasoning. What’s more, he’s up to date on everything from police procedures to current affairs. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be able to carry out the duties of a police officer.”

She leaned back in her chair. “I’m going to forward our findings to your police physician as soon as we have completed our tests. It’s up to him to assess David’s fitness for duty. I understand David would be required to pass a psychiatric profile test, but that should be a mere formality.”

Hutch looked away. Jolimont might be a brilliant neuroscientist, but she had no idea how the real world worked. Did she really believe a cop with amnesia stood any chance of reinstatement?

Reality didn’t work that way. Temporary memory loss due to a concussion was one thing, full-blown amnesia quite another. No matter Starsky’s fitness for duty, the mere mention of the word would put an end to his career faster than a speeding bullet.

He’d gone back to work after poison attacks, abductions, injuries of all sorts and Gunther’s shooting, but even the most lenient police board would draw the line at reinstating an officer with the mark of amnesia against his name.

So far the ‘A’ word hadn’t reared its ugly head outside the hospital. Doctor-patient confidentiality had seen to that. But that would change as soon as Jolimont’s report hit Cowan’s desk. Unless Starsky got better soon….

They were tiptoeing around the issue. He had to spell it out.

“When I first spoke to you you said….” Hutch took a long breath. “You said some of the damage might be permanent. I gotta know. Is there…I mean, do you still think…?”

There was a noticeable hesitation. “I don’t know,” she said. “I honestly don’t know. David’s progress has been, well, unpromising. The depth and persistence of the loss  are remarkable. Given the lack of improvement to date, I think you should prepare yourself for the possibility that the damage may be too extensive to be repaired.”

The implications of that were so disturbing, Hutch sat quite still and just looked at her.

“I’m not saying that’s going to be the case,” she said quickly. “Partial recovery is still a possibility. The brain is a complex organ, but in many ways it’s also surprisingly resilient. It has great powers of restoration. Please don’t give up hope. Anything is possible at this stage.”

“I won’t. I gave up on him before, and he proved me wrong.”

But even as he said it, the evil worm of doubt wriggled its way into his heart. What if they’d pushed their luck too far? What if this time really was the end?

Dr. Jolimont’s bright bird-like eyes were on him, clear and perceptive. Her voice softened. “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

Hutch closed his eyes, horrified to find tears pricking the insides of his lids. Good God, what was happening to him? Was he going to lose it and blub like a kid right here in front of the doctor? He couldn’t. He had to be strong. This was no time to fall apart.

With a superhuman effort, he recalled the tears. When he looked up, he found her eyes still trained on his face.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine.” The standard response, false as always, and she didn’t buy it for a moment.

“Stand up for me a minute,” she said. Hutch rose reluctantly as she came around the desk. Her hands went to his chest. “Now breathe in for me, a deep breath. And breathe out. Again. In. Out. Do you feel pain here when you breathe in?”

Hell, yes. Tell me something I don’t know.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Hutch moved out of her reach. And to get her off his case, he added, “I’ll mention it to my doctor when I go for my next checkup.”

“I could put you in touch with a colleague of mine,” she said more kindly than at any time before. “He’s a specialist in trauma therapy and bereavement counseling. He’s very good. It might help you to talk to someone about this.”

Hutch went cold all over. Strength rushed back into his veins like an injection of amphetamines.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said in his coolest voice. “I don’t need a shrink, and I certainly don’t need counseling.” He moved to the door. “I need Starsky to get his memory back, that’s all. And he will. He will!”

He’d squash the worm of doubt. Starsky was going to be all right, dammit.

He had already left the building and was going south on Salford Avenue when it occurred to him to wonder who the hell he was trying to kid.

ooOOOoo

Another day went by, and another. A cloud of unease began to gather around Hutch as he continued to observe his partner’s every move. Maybe it was the city’s claustrophobic pull. Maybe what they needed was time away from LA and its pressures, a break from it all.

They weren’t about to get it.

“Hutch. My office.” Dobey looked grim as he waved Hutch inside.

“What is it, Captain?”

“Look, Hutch, I need Starsky back in here. I know he’s not one hundred percent yet, but I don’t have a choice. I need every man I can get. Here, take a look at this.” Dobey slapped the morning’s activity report on the desk. “Three homicides, two reported rapes, and a whole spate of burglaries in a single night, and I’m expected to solve them all with a handful of detectives and a bunch of rookies.”

He shook his head. “The bottom line is, I can’t afford to have anyone off duty right now. Starsky is well enough to ride a desk. I’ll square it with Cowan.”

“Captain, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” Hutch said. “Starsky still has a long way to go. He gets these headaches, and I know he has trouble sleeping.”

“Cowan thinks he’s doing all right.”

“Cowan saw him for all of ten minutes. With all due respect, the man hasn’t got a clue. He hasn’t even discussed the case with St. John’s yet.”

“That’s because St. John’s are sitting on their findings. It could be weeks before they have a final report for us. I can’t wait that long.”

“Captain, I know, but—”

Dobey silenced him with a single glance. “Look,” he said, “I know you’re protective of your partner, and heaven knows you have reason to be, but this is taking the mother hen routine a step too far. Starsky is fine. He’s had a concussion, for crying out loud, not a lobotomy. Cowan thinks he’s well enough to man the phones. What’s more, Starsky says he’s ready. He wants to come back.”

“Starsky said that? How do you know?”

“Because I asked him,” Dobey thundered. “How else do you think I know?”

Starsky hadn’t mentioned it.

“He’s almost back to normal,” Dobey said. “Anything he can’t handle, you’re going to have to help him out. It’s desk duty, he can do it in his sleep. It’s not as if I’m sending him out on the streets.”

He lowered his bulk into his chair, adding, “I don’t want to do this without your agreement, but I will, if I have to.”

Hutch bit the inside of his cheek as he looked at the floor. Tell him, you stupid bastard. Tell him the truth about Starsky. Tell him what no one around here wants to see.

Hutch was silent. If he voiced his concern and told Dobey the truth, the release form would never get signed. And he would have turned traitor yet again.

Because whatever he said to Dobey would find its way to Cowan and into Starsky’s personal file. Hutch would be damned if he was the one to fuck up Starsky’s medical record any more than it already was. Any question mark hanging over Starsky’s mental stability would spell the end of his career as a cop.

No. Let Dobey believe that Starsky was doing all right. Besides, what harm could it do? It was paper pushing, answering phones. A rookie could do it. And Starsky had lost none of the abilities that made him a good cop.

So Hutch kept quiet.

Dobey misinterpreted the silence. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad we’ve settled that. Tell your partner he’s on as soon as I get Cowan to sign his release for restricted duty.”

Again Hutch left his captain’s office reeling from the speed of the developments. A carousel spinning out of control.

It was time to talk to Starsky.

ooOOOoo

“Of course I want to go back to work,” Starsky said with astonishment over a plate of cashew nut chicken in Wang Ho’s diner that night. The chopsticks that had already traveled halfway to his mouth with their load stopped in mid-air. “I thought you knew that.”

“Of course I know,” Hutch said with impatience. “I also know it’s not possible. You can’t go back to work.”

“Why not?”

The look of puzzlement was genuine. Hutch blinked. Was he missing something? Or was he the only sane person left in the city?

Starsky leaned forward and put a hand on Hutch’s arm, a gesture of warmth and friendship. He was doing that more and more lately.

“I gotta go back to work,” he said. “You need a partner. In a couple weeks’ time, you’ll get cleared for active duty. Who’s gonna go with you on the streets then, huh? A rookie? A loser like Dan Vanderhoff? The man almost got you killed. We can’t go through all that again.”

Hutch pulled from his touch under pretext of reaching for the glass of water Mandy Wang had just delivered to the table.

“Besides, what else do you want me to do?” Starsky said and withdrew the hand. “What else can I do? Hang around at home while Dobey is desperate for men? They’ll have me down as a slacker. A couple of guys have already made some pretty pointed comments.”

“Yes, but….” You don’t remember. You lost your goddamn memory. How can you even think about going back to work?

What about the million small things no file or photo or description could ever hope to convey? What about the sights and smells and sounds of the past? The moods and emotions, the ingrained knowledge of people and places and situations that came from years of living the past?

What about the complex human interactions that lay at the heart of every relationship? No amount of rote learning would ever bring those back.

Again Hutch was silent. He didn’t mention the obvious. No one mentioned it these days. The ‘A’ word had become the new elephant in the room.

He looked down at his plate, knowing he had no choice. Wherever Starsky lead, he’d follow. He’d follow him into the deepest hell, to be there for him and watch his back. Partners, right?

The decision was made harder by the knowledge that Starsky was doing it all for him. The irony of that was numbing. Starsky did what he did, for him. He did what he did, for Starsky. And so on in an endless feedback loop.

“You haven’t eaten very much,” Starsky admonished with a frown at Hutch’s plate. “You should’ve taken the chicken. It’s out of this world. Here, try some.” He pushed his plate across the table.

Obediently Hutch leaned forward and picked a piece from Starsky’s plate. The morsel stuck in his throat and he washed it down with a swig of iced water before a coughing fit could give him away.

Opposite him, his partner was making short work of his portion before helping himself to the leftovers on Hutch’s unfinished plate. He handled the chopsticks expertly, a legacy of his tour of duty in Vietnam and a skill, like all of his skills, neither tarnished nor forgotten.

“Keep the change,” Starsky said to Mandy with a wink as he handed over a couple of bills. “And tell your dad his food’s as good as ever.”

They walked out. The Torino, waxed and gleaming, was waiting for them at the kerb. Before getting in, Starsky bent down and wiped a small smudge off the fender before polishing the spot with his sleeve.

The weight pressing down on Hutch’s chest increased a notch. Starsky was turning into Starsky before his very eyes. Then why did he seem more like a stranger with every passing day?

He found the form on his desk the following morning. Dobey’s approval of Starsky’s reinstatement to desk duty, countersigned by Cowan. Effective as of Tuesday.

Hutch looked at the signatures for a long moment before he folded the form and stuck it in his inside pocket. Things were happening fast. Too fast. Not a carousel at all, more like a runaway train. And all he could do was hold on for dear life.

ooOOOoo

Starsky remembers.

He’s standing on the porch in the twilight of another day and takes his mind right back to the beginning. He remembers a world of noise and confusion, cobwebs in his head, a sense of fuzzy bewilderment. He remembers pain.

He remembers strangers peering at him, uttering words that made no sense. And the questions, of course. He remembers the questions, an endless string of them, the same ones over and over again. The questions led to dark places deep inside himself. They hurt, and he’d struggled against them.

He remembers lashing out at his tormentors in pain and frustration, a small mutiny, not something he recalls with pride. He’d been ready to walk away from it all. He remembers that decision so clearly.

Most of all he remembers the day a tall stranger had walked into the room and turned his world and all its meager contents upside down. The stranger had reached inside him and touched him in a spot he hadn’t known existed.

Starsky hugs the memory to himself. He has so few. Every one of them is precious. But this one holds a special place in his heart.

It’s all different now. The strangers have become colleagues and friends. He knows the answers to the questions now. He know who he is and where he has come from. And he knows all about the special place the tall stranger occupies in his life. Hutch is the center of his world, the sun around which his life revolves.

Starsky knows it. Sometimes he even feels it.

Then why can’t he recapture that moment of rightness he sensed in the clinic that day? It’s gone, like a spark that lit up a dark cavern and died.

He presses his fingers to his temples. The pain is still there, a muted ache that’s made itself right at home in his head. Maybe it’s information overload. Too much has happened in too short a time. He’s lived a lifetime in a few short weeks.

And now he’s about to take the next big step. Tomorrow he’s going back to work.

Starsky stares into the night. He’s up to the job, he knows that much. He’s spent a lot of time at the station lately, under pretext of picking up files or delivering messages or simply dropping by for a chat. It only took a couple of visits to figure the place out.

He wants to be excited, but he can’t. Is he doing the right thing? He’d thought Hutch would be pleased, but the news of his reinstatement hasn’t brought the spark back to his eyes, or the smile to his face. He’s upstairs somewhere, doing his own thing. It’s been a while since they spent their evenings on the porch together.

Starsky sighs and pulls his cardigan closer around him. He’s about to go in when the squeak of the screen door alerts him to Hutch’s arrival. Taking a deep breath, he pastes a big smile on his face and turns.

Hutch looks pale, but determined, in a kamikaze sort of way. The smile he wears is as fake as his own, but the warmth in his eyes is real and it heats the space between them like a fan-powered radiator. Starsky feels a funny stirring in his chest.

“I’ve got something for you,” Hutch says and holds out a small flat item that’s hard to make out in the dim light. Starsky takes it with surprise and a little dismay. Christ, it’s not their anniversary or something, is it? Apprehensive now, he turns the item over.

It’s his badge.

Or rather, it’s the folder that holds his badge and shield. The leather is worn and scuffed along the edges and has taken on a slight curve in the shape of a hip pocket. Starsky’s throat is dry as he flips it open and reads the inscription. To protect and to serve. Oh yeah.

“Welcome back, partner,” Hutch says in a voice that betrays all sorts of emotions.

Starsky looks at him. “I thought Dobey had it. I thought he’d give it to me tomorrow. I….”

Jeez, will you stop acting like he’s just asked you to marry him? It’s just a badge.

Except it isn’t. It’s a mark of confidence, Hutch’s way of telling him that they’re in this together, no matter what.

The funny feeling in his chest intensifies. “Thanks,” he manages. “Partner.”

A new sense of determination straightens his spine. He’s going to make this work. Everything’s going to change now. They’ll be working together like true partners. It’s going to bond them all over again.

 

IX

Hutch never ceased to be amazed by how little most people noticed about the world in which they lived, even people who should know better—friends, colleagues, fellow detectives. Once a pattern was set, everyone seemed quite happy to take it all for granted.

They’d survived three years of an intimate relationship on that basis. A million small looks and touches should have given them away years ago. Instead what everyone remembered was their women-chasing days.

Illusion made blind, and the truth, as always, was more than a little scary.

So it proved with Starsky’s re-entry into the work place. Hutch had feared dire mishaps and cockups of cataclysmic proportions. Instead Starsky proved adept at milking his reputation for unorthodox behavior. And while Hutch, on full alert and with his watchful eyes never far from his partner, noticed a hundred things wrong, no one else seemed to have that problem.

“Who the hell put these witness reports in here?” Dobey growled at one point as he trawled through the foot-high stack of papers that clogged the out-tray. “I’ve been looking for them all over. You know they go on my desk and nowhere else.”

“Sorry, Cap’n,” Starsky said with a shrug and one of his most lopsided smiles. “I must’ve put them there by mistake.” He got to his feet and ambled over to move the offending items.

“How many times have I told you, huh?” Dobey called after him. “Don’t you ever listen to a word I say? I bet you it was you who mixed up my requisition forms with the duty lists. Bigelow says it took him twenty minutes to sort them out.”

And that was it. No frowns, no funny looks. He was just being Starsky.

Much the same happened when they ran into Mart Ellis outside the station. Mart was that rare beast of an old cop with a young heart. Four decades of policing the Third Precinct had dented neither his idealism nor his cheerfulness. They’d worked together only once, years ago, and while Mart had been friendly with both of them, he’d taken a particular shine to Starsky.

“Hey, Starkinson.” Mart’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of them outside R-and-I. His gaze enfolded Hutch before settling firmly on Starsky. “I thought I’d probably run into you here. Haven’t seen you guys in ages. How’re you doin’?”

“Pretty good,” Starsky said with a flash of a grin. “Keeping busy, as always. How ’bout you?”

The hitch in the grin left no doubt in Hutch’s mind that Starsky hadn’t the foggiest who this guy was. Luckily Mart didn’t see the hitch. He only saw the grin.

“Same here,” he said with a sweep of the arm. “Been a tough coupla months. One undercover stint after the other. We hardly get a chance to sweep our beat these days. Well, you know what it’s like.”

Starsky nodded as if he did. “And how’s your partner?” he said.

“Leo? A pain in the butt. Away in Boston for his sister’s wedding. That’s why I’m here. Delgado is lending me out to Metro. Seems you guys are having a staffing crisis.”

“Tell me about it.” Starsky rolled his eyes. “We’re stretched thinner than a pancake right now. Good to have you on board.”

“Yeah. We may even get to work together again. We made a good team back then, didn’t we?”

“We made a great team,” Starsky assured him before checking his clunker of a watch. “Shit, Hutch, we better get moving. We’re way late.”

“Hell, so ‘m I. Michaels will have my balls.” Mart moved past them. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Let’s grab a beer sometime while you’re around,” Starsky called after him.

“You’re on.”

Hutch watched the exchange with awe. He’d been ready to jump in with a well-aimed word or two if Starsky got stuck, but that hadn’t been necessary. Somehow, in the split-second between greeting and reply, Starsky had given the stranger the once-over, appraised him, and pegged him for a friend. He had then proceeded to encourage just enough information out of him to make subsequent identification a breeze.

Sure enough, not ten minutes later, Hutch found him pouring over the Ortega smuggling case and Mart Ellis’ part in the sting operation that had netted them five wanted felons and a warehouse full of contraband.

Again Hutch was amazed at the speed with which Starsky found his feet. By the end of the day, Starsky moved around the place as if he had never worked anywhere else. He typed up reports, answered calls, took statements, and booked suspects. He took his turn teasing Dobey and joined in the banter around the coffee pot.

And sometimes he slipped up.

“For Chrissakes, will someone take that damn dossier upstairs?” Lieutenant O’Rourke, in charge in Dobey’s absence, snapped at the room as he bustled through. “The commissioner is going to be here any minute. I really can’t do everything myself around here.”

Eyes around the room lifted from their tasks to seek out the officer closest to the file in question. Getting the idea at once, Starsky stood and faced the row of cabinets behind him. He hesitated.

Twelve identical drawers. One nameless file. Hutch recalled that Starsky had probably never even heard of the damn thing.

“You mean the Carnfield-Whittaker report, Lieutenant?” he said quickly to O’Rourke’s retreating back, wishing he could jump up and whisk the file from its resting place.

O’Rourke aimed a withering glance at him. “Yes, Hutchinson. Of course that’s what I mean. Can you think of any other dossier we’ve compiled for the commissioner lately?”

He withdrew, slamming the door behind him. Starsky still stood eyeing the cabinets.

Hutch bent over his paperwork. “Bottom left,” he muttered at the typewriter. “Miscellaneous.”

Starsky removed the folder without a word and left the room. Hutch relaxed only when he reappeared a few minutes later. A look passed between them before Starsky dipped his lashes and glanced away.

Then there was the booking room incident.

Hutch had just delivered Damian Chang, a small-time crook and numbers runner for Big Sally, into the tender care of the booking officer when Menendez’ bass rose like a fog horn above the crowded room.

“Eh, Stanton, old man,” he boomed. “What you doing in this shit hole, huh? I thought you got yourself a cushy number up north.”

Hutch looked around. Mike Stanton, Menendez’s former partner, had just walked in.

Stanton lifted a hand in greeting. “I’ll be right over. Gimme a minute to drop this off. It’s urgent,” he shouted back across the room, indicating the evidence bag he was holding.

Over at lock-up, Starsky had also turned and was gazing at the newcomer with interest. Hutch saw his eyes light up with recognition and thought he could almost see the levers click inside his brain as he put face, name, and photo together. With dismay, Hutch saw him straighten, clearly intent on tossing out a friendly greeting as Stanton walked by.

Hutch moved with speed. He intercepted Starsky just in time, nipping his greeting in the bud. A second later, Stanton caught sight of them. His step faltered and a look of undisguised contempt distorted his young face. Not bothering to adjust the scowl, he regained his stride, rough-shouldered past them and strode away without a word.

Rubbing his shoulder, Starsky gazed after him with astonishment. “What’s his problem?”

Hutch took him by the arm and steered him away. “He knows about us,” he said, and when that elicited only a blank stare, he added, “He’s a homophobe.”

“Oh.” Starsky stared at Stanton’s retreating back. “Right.”

Something seemed to deflate inside him, and for a moment he was a million miles away, alien, and utterly unreachable. The worm of doubt stirred again, greedy and determined as it wriggled its way deeper into Hutch’s heart.

ooOOOoo

A week went by. Two. Before Hutch knew it, they had progressed from phone duty and leg work to interrogating suspects and putting rookies through their paces.

Starsky took it all in his stride. Instrumental in that feat was his ability to read between the lines, to make split second judgments, and to improvise when the going got tough—the mark of a true undercover cop. In fact he did it so well, even Cowan, who should have known better, was taken in.

Hutch longed for that blind faith in appearances. If only he could believe. Yet the more Starskyesque his partner became, the stronger the unease in Hutch’s heart. Keeping up his strong façade was becoming more difficult by the day.

The worst was the loneliness. He’d never felt so alone in his life. It made him aware of how isolated they had become, wrapped up in each other for so many years. For all the many people he called friend, there was no one he felt really close to, to trust in and to share the burden. Starsky had always filled that role to capacity.

They’d shared everything. The good and the bad. The happy days and the ones spent in hell. And at the end, just being together had always made the difference.

He hadn’t sensed their connection since that day in the clinic, that sweet link that had always hovered in the background somewhere like the steady hum of a refrigerator, often noticed only when the sound suddenly ceased.

Even when Starsky had lain in a coma, fighting for his life, a part of him had still been with him, tucked away in a corner of Hutch’s heart. He’d felt its small, warm presence right through the layers of Starsky’s unconsciousness.

Now he felt nothing.

ooOOOoo

It was the loneliness that drove him out one night, to Huggy’s bar and it’s warm, noisy press of people. To sink into the embrace of the crowd was the aim, to knock back a beer or three and maybe challenge one of the regulars to a round of pool. It would take his mind off things.

It didn’t work, of course. The place that night was full of strangers. Huggy wasn’t there. The new waitress didn’t know him, and Dianne had her hands full behind the bar. Even the beer tasted flat.

Hutch pushed his half-empty glass away and got to his feet. It had been a mistake to come. The good times they’d had here couldn’t be replicated without the vital ingredient of Starsky in the mix.

Cool night air wrapped around him as he stepped into a street still alive with the sights and sounds of the city at night. Hutch watched the bustle for a moment—the men in trendy suits and the women in high heels and blouses with eye-poppingly wide shoulder pads. On the other side of the street, the new glitzy restaurant was doing a roaring trade. A Cadillac stood parked amongst the bashed-up Chevies and Fords. As he watched, a stretch limo went by.

The area was coming up in the world, Huggy’s bar sitting on a potential gold mine.

Hutch was about to cross the road to reclaim his own down-at-heel mode of transport when a black Chrysler with tinted windows pulled up at the kerb and Huggy got out of the back. Dressed in dark pants and a simple white shirt, he cut an unusually sober figure. As Hutch watched, the passenger window rolled down, a dark-suited arm reached out, and a complicated handshake of some sort took place between Huggy and the owner of the arm.

The window rolled back up and the car squealed away.

Huggy turned and his gaze fell on Hutch. “Hutch,” he said, and if he was surprised to see him standing there not five feet away, he showed no sign of it. “What’re you doin’, man, hanging around here on your lonesome?”

He offered no explanation for the mysterious interaction, and Hutch knew better than to ask. “I’m on my way home,” he said. “I just dropped in for a drink.”

The use of the first person singular didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the fact of how unusual a thing that was. Huggy’s raised eyebrows and probing look said as much.

“Man, you look rough,” he said when he had completed his survey. “What’s the matter? That stab wound acting up again?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s…it’s Starsky.”

All of a sudden the burden of silence was just too much to bear, and Hutch knew he had to talk. Dr. Jolimont had been right, he needed to share this with someone. And who better than Huggy? He said, “Look, can I talk to you? Somewhere quiet, I mean. It’s important.”

“Sure,” Huggy said, no stranger to such requests. “Let’s go in the back.”

Bypassing the bar, he led the way down the alley past the dumpster to the back door and the now silent kitchen where the detritus of a busy day’s cooking still awaited the attentions of the cleaner. The raucous noise and thumping music from the bar sounded muted back there, as if filtered through cotton wool.

Opposite the kitchen, right next to the back door, was another, much smaller room decorated in shades of dusty brown and furnished with a table and chairs, a couch, and a small, but well-stocked bar. Here, Huggy conducted part of his other business, the trade in information that made him such a sought-after commodity.

Hutch accepted a glass of orange juice, but shook his head at the offer of something stronger. Absently he watched Huggy pour himself a rare shot of Scotch.

“You worry too much,” Huggy said as he took the chair opposite Hutch at the table. “Starsky’s fine. He’s getting better all the time. He’s almost back to normal.”

A hollow laugh forced its way from Hutch’s lungs. “Oh yeah, he’s getting better all right. Better at faking it. That’s the only thing he’s been getting better at.”

Huggy set his glass down very carefully. “Faking it? You care to elaborate on that?”

“You mean you haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

Hutch closed his eyes for a moment. “That it’s all just for show. Everything he does. None of it is real. He’s just pretending.”

“I think you’re expecting too much. We all know he’s still got ground to recover, but he’s getting there.”

“No,” Hutch said with great deliberation. “He says he’s getting there.”

He held Huggy’s gaze, willing him to see. In the background, the strains of some disco hit swelled, sending a pounding bass through the floorboards that emphasized rather than disturbed the silence in the room.

Huggy’s creased features smoothed out very slowly. “You mean…?” Hutch nodded.

“No way,” Huggy said, sitting back and reaching for his drink. “You’re imagining things. He’s fine.”

“He’s not fine. He’s far from it. He’s….” A final barrier cracked and crumbled, and Hutch accepted it with an almost overwhelming sense of relief.

“He doesn’t remember, Huggy. Nothing at all. Not a single thing about his past. He’s lost it all. He doesn’t remember the people he knew or the things he did or what he used to like or believe in or anything else that made him Starsky. He doesn’t remember!”

Huggy looked taken aback. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “Of course he remembers. He’s always talking about ‘Nam and New York and the Academy and everything. And what do you mean he doesn’t know what he likes? Sure he does. Take music. Just the other day, he went on and on about Ella Fitzgerald, and we both know he’s a big fan of hers.”

“Yeah. That’s ’cause someone told him he was. Tell me, what did he put on, the last time he put a dime in the jukebox?”

“Aw, Hutch, you don’t expect me to remember—”

“I’ll tell you. It was something by Bruce Springsteen, wasn’t it? Either that or Led Zeppelin. Or maybe Elvis.”

Huggy nodded slowly. “Elvis,” he said. “And Bruce Springsteen. You’re right, that’s what it was.”

“Take my word for it. That’s what he always puts on these days. Someone told him that’s the kind of music he plays when he’s in a bar, so now he plays that all the time. It’s almost as if he’s terrified to try something different in case it turns out to be completely out of character.”

“But, Hutch, that don’t prove nothin’. He’s always liked Springsteen and Elvis.”

“Yes, but now he’s listening to them to the exclusion of everything else. He was never that single-minded before. He tried out new things all the time. Now he just repeats the same thing over and over again.”

Hutch clenched his hand around his glass of juice.

“It’s the same with everything,” he said. “Take the gym. Ever since I told him he’s working out, he’s been pumping iron every day. Minnie told him he used to be a junk food junky. Now all he wants to eat is burgers. When he first came out of the hospital, he didn’t give a damn about his car. Then we told him how he used to fuss over the thing, and now he’s in the garage every day, polishing.”

He looked up and into Huggy’s skeptical face. “He’s trying, but he’s trying too hard. He’s overcompensating. He doesn’t know that he stopped eating so much junk. He doesn’t remember that he had to be sweet-talked into going to the gym with me every morning. He has no idea that he liked listening to classical music sometimes, ’cause no one’s told him about that yet.”

“I hear you, man,” Huggy said, “but, dammit, I just don’t know. Look, the last time you guys were in here, he was in top form. He had plenty to say on every subject and he knew what he was talking about. How did he do that if he doesn’t remember it?”

“Rote learning,” Hutch said. “That’s all it is. He’s memorized every name and every face and every event in his life. But it’s all just on the surface. Dig a little deeper, ask him for specifics, and he’s lost. That’s why he never sticks around for long. As soon as a conversation goes in too deep, he changes the subject, or he walks away under a pretext.”

He wiped a hand over his face. “He’s so good at it, no one has noticed he’s doing it. And when someone puts him on the spot, he improvises. You know he can do it. You’ve seen him undercover. Only this time, he’s undercover as himself. He’s like an empty shell stuffed full of Starsky facts, with the heart scraped out.”

Huggy made a visible effort to rally to the cause. “Aw, look, Hutch, but that just ain’t true. Deep down he’s the same old Starsky. He cares about the same things he’s always cared about. Injustice and cruelty and bigotry still make him mad, same as before.”

“Yeah, but what good is that when he can’t remember? He hasn’t just lost his memories, he’s lost everything—his past, his identity, his self. It’s like his whole life has been erased. He remembers nothing. Not you, not his family, not anything about himself. Not even me.”

That was the naked truth of it. He whispered. “He doesn’t know me. I’m just a stranger to him.”

Starsky was a fake, a copy of himself. A good copy, an almost faithful replica of the original, but still only a copy. Where was the real Starsky, the one he loved, and who had loved him, more than anyone had the right to be loved?

“What about his family?” Huggy said. “Do they know?”

Hutch stifled a derisive snort. “Family? What family? The mother who walked out on him when she found out about us? The brother locked up in a Mexican jail? Relatives who won’t speak to him because he’s gay?”

He raked a hand through his hair. “No, they don’t know. They wouldn’t want to. They’re barely on speaking terms.”

It was another weight on his chest. Starsky’s policy had always been to keep his family in blissful ignorance about the more harrowing events in his life, and he’d seen no reason to change that strategy in the light of the latest disaster.

One day, Hutch would have to tell them. But not yet. Not yet.

Huggy bit his lip. “Okay,” he said, “look at it this way. Starsky is going to a hell of a lot of trouble to get his life on track. Way I see it, there’s only one reason he’s doing it, and that’s you. He’s doing it for you. He’s got your best interests at heart, like always, and that means he must be in there somewhere.”

“Is he really?” Hutch said. “Doing it for me, I mean? Or is he doing it because he’s got no choice?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what else can he do? This is the only life he has. What would happen if he came out with the truth? He’d lose his job, his friends, his standing in the force. They would take all that away from him. He’d have to start from scratch. This way he has a whole life tailormade for him. A job, a career, a network of friends—”

“A partner.”

A long breath lifted Hutch’s chest. “Yeah. A partner.”

He looked down at his hands, entwined in his lap. “As David Starsky, he is somebody. As David Starsky with amnesia, he’s nothing. He knows that. Can’t blame him for trying.”

On the other side of the table, Huggy shifted with unease. “He’s gonna be all right, though, isn’t he? I mean, he’s always all right in the end.”

“I don’t know. I…. Yes. Of course, he’s gonna be all right. But I don’t know how long that’s gonna take. And now he wants to go back on active duty. He’s pushing for it, and so is Dobey. But how can I let that happen? He’s going to get himself killed out there without his memories. I can’t watch him every minute of the day.”

“He’s a good cop. That hasn’t changed.”

“But he doesn’t know the way we work!” Hutch roared. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t know how we do things out there. He doesn’t know that I go high and he goes low, that he covers the left and I cover the right and we don’t have to stop and discuss it. There are a million things we do without thinking. They took us years to get right. It’s not something he can pick up just like that.”

He sagged, exhausted from the sole, brief outburst.

“Too much can go wrong,” he whispered. “All it takes is one false move. I…I can’t read him anymore. I won’t know if he’ll dive right or left or if he’ll make a move on a perp or wait it out. We’d have to re-learn it all.”

He put his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to handle this. Look, I was wondering—can you talk to him? About going back on the streets so soon? Tell him he needs more time. He knows you guys go back a long way. He might just listen to you.”

An unexpected silence filled the room, strange and unnerving. It stretched until Hutch looked up in puzzlement. To his surprise, Huggy’s face was closed and guarded, and when he finally spoke, he sounded strained, distant, not like himself at all.

“I can’t,” he said. “I know this sounds strange, but I really wish you wouldn’t ask me that. It’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s just that I just can’t do it anymore.”

Hutch blinked in surprise. “What’re you talking about?”

Huggy bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m talkin’ about you and Starsky. I don’t know how to say this, but…. I been there for you through every crisis, right? When Starsky got kidnapped, when he got poisoned, when you went missing. When you got hooked on horse. When you fell out over that woman.”

“Yes,” Hutch said, astonished. “You were wonderful. You’re always there for us. We don’t know what we would do without you.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just it. I been there for you one too many times, and now I just can’t do it anymore. It’s taking too much out of me, if you see what I mean, worrying about you two all the time. It never ends. You go from one crisis to the next. And when this one’s over, you’ll be stumbling right into the next one.”

He shook his head. “How do you think that makes me feel, huh? You’re my friends, and regular as clockwork, one of you is in trouble. And every time that happens I’m there for you.”

He seemed to be battling some inner voice and when he looked up again, Hutch caught a glimpse of the Huggy he rarely saw, the unknown, unknowable Huggy of many secrets—self-contained, distant, and always a bit of a mystery.

“I thought he was fine this time,” the unknown Huggy said. “I went to the hospital with Dobey to tell you about Starsky, because Dobey asked me to. You have any idea what that felt like, having to tell you that Starsky had lost his memory? It took everything out of me. Then Starsky got better and I relaxed. And now here you are, telling me he ain’t.”

Huggy lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat and let them fall again. “I want to help you, I really do. But I can’t do it anymore.”

Hutch was stunned. “You can’t do it anymore? Well, maybe you should try it from my perspective. This ain’t exactly a walk in the park for me, either.”

“I know that, but that’s different. You’re partners, Starsky ‘n’ you. You’re together. Me, I’m just the bartender, right? The guy with all the answers. The guy you call up when you’re stuck.”

Huggy gave a helpless shrug. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the helping you I can’t hack anymore. It’s seeing you get into trouble. Every time it happens it takes a chunk out of me, and I wonder, is this it? Has their luck finally run out?”

His voice seemed to gain in strength. “When Starsky got shot I told myself, I’d help you see it through. I told myself, Hutch needs all the help he can get, but after that, that’s it. But then you got kidnapped by the Shark, and Starsky needed me. Then that business with Vic Monte happened and you both needed me. And now Starsky has lost his memory. There’s always something. It’s never-ending.”

He shook his head. “I can’t help you. Not this time. I’m just gonna take a backseat from now on. I’m sorry, Hutch.”

“What, just like that? After all these years of friendship, you’re turning your back on us? I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“I’m not turning my back on you. I just need a vacation from you. I have a life to live, same as you. D’you have any idea what’s going down in my life? I’m gettin’ married soon, did you know that? No, you didn’t. You don’t even know who she is, do you? You’re so wrapped up in each other, you ‘n’ Starsky, you have no time for anyone else. It’s Anita. Yes, Anita Gonzalvez, my waitress. I thought you’d be surprised.”

“Huggy, I—”

“We’re going to have a baby. The wedding’s in January. You’re invited.”

Hutch looked at him and it seemed to him that this was a different Huggy from the one he’d known for so long. He was still the same lanky shape he had always been, but for the first time, Hutch noticed a new kind of solidity to the boneless frame. He took in the faint lines that radiated from his eyes and creased the corners of his mouth. They made him look older, more careworn somehow.

All of a sudden, Hutch saw what he had never seen before. That Huggy was right. That they had used him. For years probably. Every time they’d needed help, Huggy had been there for them, unfailingly, never asking for anything in return. They’d started to take that for granted. They’d abused his friendship.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch said shakily. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize….”

He stood, feeling light-headed. Reality was beginning to crumble all around him. Now even Huggy was abandoning the sinking ship.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” he said. “I’m so happy for you and Anita. I really am. I’ll tell Starsky. I know he’ll be pleased, too.”

He turned away, through the door and to the exit that seemed to waver in a disconcerting way before him. Heard Huggy come urgently to his feet behind him. “Hutch, wait.”

Hutch stopped, a hand on the handle, head bowed.

“About Starsky,” Huggy said behind him. “Look, he’s gonna be all right. He’s gotta be. There’s still hope. I mean there’s always hope.”

A moment went by as Hutch battled the rising tide of his fear. It swelled in his chest and stopped his throat. Breathing became a painful task. Unable to trust his voice, he nodded, once.

Then he pushed through the door, and walked out into the night, sensing Huggy’s gaze on him all the way back up to the road.

ooOOOoo

He didn’t sleep that night. He didn’t even try. The unease that ballooned in his chest wouldn’t let him.

At six he rose and showered. He dressed with care. Drove the LTD to work with Starsky bright-eyed and chatty in the seat beside him.

Throughout the day, the unease built inside him like a premonition, a creeping knowledge of impending doom. He watched Starsky all day. He couldn’t take his eyes off him, all the while the foreboding grew and spread inside him like a tumor.

Starsky sensed it, too. His looks of concern gave him away, the way he hovered nearby all day. So they watched each other in an invisible dance around a truth oblivious to everyone else in the room.

People walked in and out. Voices filled the room, phones kept ringing. Life went on all around him, but Hutch was hardly aware of it. He had eyes only for Starsky. Crunch time. Something was happening. He knew it, felt it in his bones the way he sensed danger lurking in a night-dark alley or in the reassuring smile of a crooked snitch.

His eyes went to Starsky again where he stood beside the filing cabinet in easy conversation with Bertie and Maxine. He looked like Starsky, moved and talked and laughed like him.

It’s a mistake. He’s Starsky, my Starsky. That can never change.

The truth in his heart said otherwise. That this wasn’t Starsky, would never be Starsky, not the real one he knew and loved. He was a just copy, an almost perfect forgery.

In vain, Hutch struggled against the rising tide of that truth. He was on the brink, below him only the abyss. He was going to fall, and there was nothing to hold onto. Dread spread in his heart like a pool of ink. It was happening. It was happening now.

As if he knew, Starsky turned and looked at him with eyes that were dark and uncertain, a stranger’s eyes. Paralyzed like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, Hutch sat and watched him walk toward him, helpless to change what he knew was coming.

“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky said with a big bright smile. “I’m done over here. Whadda ya say we hit the road for some food, huh? I’m starvin’. There’s this new place over on Fifth I been meaning to try. Collins says they make the best chili burgers this side of the Mojave.”

Terror pulled Hutch into a cold embrace. Nausea churned through him as the truth demolished the last stubborn shreds of hope. He was on his feet. Made it to the bathroom and inside a cubicle. Lost what little food he had managed to get down that day while the truth thundered and echoed all around him.

I’ve lost him. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back.

A sound escaped his throat, a terrible sound of pain and grief. It seemed to rise from the very depth of his being, a primeval thing that tore at him as if the living flesh was being ripped from his insides, leaving a raw and gaping wound. It was a wound that would never heal. Hutch wanted to curl up on the tiles and die. Close his eyes and fall into darkness.

But he couldn’t. He had to keep going. Starsky, the new one, still needed him.

Hutch stayed inside the cubicle for another minute, just breathing. Then he went to the sink, splashed some water on his face, hauled in a long, deep breath, and walked out.

Starsky was right outside, looking helpless and more distraught than Hutch had ever seen him. He knew. Oh yes, he knew.

The look of distress on his partner’s face was all Hutch needed to get a grip. Starsky was still there, still a part of his life. He would have to hold onto that for as long as he could. Stealing himself, he forced himself to meet his partner’s eyes.

“Ready?” he said. “All right, let’s go and get that burger.”

ooOOOoo

Starsky lies awake. It’s one in the morning and sleep is a distant aspiration. Maybe it’s the burger. It’s sitting like a lead weight in his stomach. Overrated is what he’d said to Hutch. One goddamn overrated burger, not worth the gas it took to get to it, and he didn’t even finish the fries.

Maybe it’s the knowledge that a watershed has been reached and crossed.

He rolls over and stares into the darkness. He has a new memory to add to his collection, but this one he could really be doing without. It’s the look on Hutch’s face in the squad room that day. He’s never seen a look of such bleak despair before. The nightmare of being trapped in a coffin has nothing on that memory.

Almost as bad is the helplessness, the knowledge that there’s nothing he can do to turn around the whole goddamn, fucked-up situation. He wants to get up and yell and punch something hard enough to make it break. He wants to dig his fingers into his skull and claw out the memories that once inhabited that space.

But they’re gone. Hitting something won’t bring them back. The whole idea of trying to step into his former life as if it were a pair of his faded jeans has backfired. Had he really expected it to work? Idiot! He should’ve known Hutch would see right through him.

Groaning, he rolls the other way. Lies there for a moment and rolls back. Dammit. He gives up and crawls out of bed. Maybe a drink of water will help.

He’s on his way back from the bathroom when he hears the sound. He stops and listens. There it is again, a voice, dark and urgent, saying something inaudible. It’s Hutch’s voice, and it’s coming from behind Hutch’s door.

Nightmare time. Except this time it’s Hutch who’s doing the dreaming.

Starsky stands undecided. It would be kindest to ignore this. Hutch isn’t the sort of guy who likes losing it in front of…well, strangers.

On the other hand….

Another sound escapes the room, a low moan like that of a creature in pain, and it dissolves all of Starsky’s hesitation. He turns the knob and cracks the door open just wide enough to peer inside. It’s dark in there, but not dark enough to hide the outlines of the bed and the lump tossing restlessly under the sheets.

“Hutch?”

“No,” Hutch says in the darkness. “No!”

“Hey, Hutch. You okay?”

“You promised,” Hutch says with so much anguish in his voice, it puts a lump in Starsky’s throat. Unable to stop, he advances into the room until he’s right beside the bed. Bending down, he puts a tentative hand on a cotton-clad shoulder.

“Hutch, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

He gives the shoulder a gentle shake. Then gets the scare of his life when Hutch jerks upright, reaches out wildly and grabs him by the front of his t-shirt.

“You promised!” Hutch roars and hauls him close. “You went in there and you promised you’d be safe. Why? Why did you do it? I begged you not to do it. I knew something would go wrong. I knew it!”

“Hutch, wake up,” Starsky pleads as he tries to free himself.

Hutch holds on all the tighter. A terrible cry breaks from his chest. “You said you’d come back. You said you’d never leave me. But you did.”

The pain in his voice is a living thing eating him up from inside. Starsky groans. This is terrible. He starts shaking Hutch. “Wake up, Hutch. You’re dreaming. C’mon, wake up now.”

Wake up to what? Harsh reality? The knowledge that it’s not a nightmare, but the cruel truth? Light, they need light. His left hand feels for the bedside lamp and finds the switch. A dim glow illuminates the bed. But it doesn’t wake Hutch.

“Starsky, Starsky,” he moans, locked in the grip of his demons. A shudder runs through his body. He’s almost shaking. “Oh God, Starsky….”

There’s only one thing to do. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Starsky wraps his arms around Hutch’s trembling body and pulls him close. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here.”

Stupid words. They arrive as if ordered, and they mean nothing. Nothing.

Hutch’s arms go around Starsky with a desperate grip. “I dreamt…God, I had this terrible dream. I dreamt I’d lost you. I thought….”

“Shhh, it’s all right. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

It’s a lie, but what else can he say? He moves his hold, runs a hand over Hutch’s broad back that’s warm from sleep and chilled with terror both at the same time. Hutch’s arms are like a vice around him, taking his breath.

“Oh God, Starsky. Starsky….”

The lump in Starsky’s throat swells. He brings up the hand and pulls the fair head into the crook of his neck, trying to ignore how good that feels. Hutch lets himself be pulled. Slowly, very slowly, his racing heartbeat eases and the shaky breathing levels out.

“S-Starsk…?”

Hutch is waking. Any moment now he’s going to pull away, out of Starsky’s reach. He’s going to put on the mask he’s been wearing, the brave face, the strong face, and he’s going to be a mile away in the space of a moment.

The thought is suddenly unbearable. Starsky tightens his hold around the warm weight in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go. The touch he’s been dreaming of, it’s real, and it breaks down all the barriers he’s erected between himself and what his body has been trying to tell him.

“Don’t,” he says. He gives the back of Hutch’s neck a soothing rub, lets his fingers slide through the short, silky-soft hair, so different from his own wiry mop. “It’s okay. Just relax. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Starsky?” Realization floods Hutch’s voice. His whole body stiffens. “Oh God.”

Time freezes. Even Hutch’s heartbeat, a frantic rhythm only moments earlier, seems to have stopped. He’s awake, and aware, and poised on the edge of flight.

Starsky holds on with everything he’s got. But Hutch doesn’t flee. He draws away just far enough to look his partner in the face. They gaze at each in the dim light of the lamp, their faces only inches apart. Hutch looks raw and wrung out as if he’s gone several rounds against Cassius Clay.

Starsky’s heart goes out to him. When Hutch dips his eyes and looks away, he releases his hold and puts his hands around Hutch’s face instead.

“Don’t,” he says again as he re-aligns their eyes. “Don’t pull away from me. I’m Starsky. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. I need you.”

His thumbs move over Hutch’s cheeks in a slow, soothing caress. Hutch is so close, so close, and his eyes are deep and dark and contain a riot of emotions.

Starsky swallows. Something opens up inside him and floods him with a deep sense of rightness. He doesn’t think, just acts. Holding Hutch’s face between his hands, he leans forward and kisses Hutch on the mouth.

It’s a move born of pure impulse, and over far too soon. He barely has time to savor the taste of the lips he encounters. They are sweet and warm and incredibly soft, and they make him think of summer sun and lazy afternoons on the beach.

It’s a chaste kiss, a peck almost, but its meaning can’t be misunderstood.

But Hutch misunderstands anyway, and in a way Starsky hasn’t foreseen. “I’m all right now,” he says in a voice that sits only an inch away from the edge of panic. “I’m okay. It was just a dream. You don’t have to do that.”

Do what? Offer up a pity fuck? Is that what Hutch thinks he’s doing?

“You don’t understand,” Starsky says. He can still feel the softness of Hutch’s lips against his own. He’d had no idea a man’s lips could feel so soft.

He shifts on the bed, moves his leg an inch or so sideways. The bulge he’s been struggling to subdue ever since he’s pulled Hutch’s warm body into his arms, takes advantage of its new freedom and swells. Hutch needs proof? Well, here’s solid proof that will convince even Hutch’s doubting mind.

Slowly he drops his eyes to his briefs, knowing Hutch’s gaze will follow. When he looks back up, he finds that Hutch’s eyes have gone wide and round.

“I may not remember you,” Starsky says softly and with the oddest catch in his voice. “But I think my body does.”

“But,” Hutch says in a hoarse voice. “When did you…? I mean I thought….”

He looks so amazed that Starsky wants to laugh a little. “Yeah, so did I, but whadda ya know? Must be your irresistible charm.”

He says it with a shrug and a grin, wanting to take the edge off the moment. But Hutch tenses up even more, if that’s even possible. When Starsky leans in for another kiss, he draws away.

Starsky freezes. “What’s wrong? I thought you wanted this.”

Hutch looks terribly torn. “I can’t,” he says, and the way he says it almost breaks Starsky’s heart. There’s so much yearning in his voice, and so much pain. “Yes, I want it. I really do. But I can’t.”

“Why not?” Starsky says softly. “You want it. I want it. What’s to stop us?”

Hutch takes a long, slow breath, and Starsky sees that something heavy and complicated is taking place behind the smooth, high forehead.

“Because of what we had before,” Hutch says. “This thing we had. It was about so much more than this. If we did this, it would feel like…a betrayal.”

“But it’s me. It’s Starsky. How can you betray me with myself?”

Hutch is quiet for so long, Starsky is beginning to think he can’t, or won’t, answer.

“What we had wasn’t just about…that,” Hutch finally says. “The physical part, I mean. We had a connection, you know? That’s what really mattered.”

“Love, you mean? Yes, I know.” Starsky hesitates. “Are you saying that’s changed? You mean you don’t love me anymore?”

“No!” The word is a small explosion in the night, a horrified exclamation. Hutch’s fingers tighten on his arm. “I could never stop loving you. I love you. So much.”

He sounds so distraught that Starsky wants to reach out and pull him close again. But the moment is gone, maybe forever. Because it’s not Hutch’s love that has failed, it’s his own.

The realization puts a cold clamp around Starsky’s heart. “Maybe the love will return,” he says. “Maybe it already has. ‘Cause I gotta tell you, I don’t know what else to call this thing I feel for you.”

There, he’s said it. Something as good as ‘I love you’. And it’s true. He does love the big lug, even if it’s not quite the thing that Hutch remembers. There’s chemistry between them, that’s for sure. And something else, but he doesn’t quite know what to call it.

The words don’t bring the hoped-for smile to Hutch’s face. 

“It wasn’t just love,” he says. “It was so much more. It was trust and closeness and…and knowing each other. It took us years to build what we had. We had to go through hell and back to get it.”

And suddenly Starsky understands. It’s like a revelation, one that readjusts the whole picture and everything in it and brings out a central truth of such radiance that he’s amazed he didn’t see it there before.

“You mean the trust came first, and then the love,” he says, “and the sex is just sort of the icing on the cake, right? You’re saying that without the connection, the sex is meaningless, like gettin’ it on with a stranger.”

Hutch looks surprised as if he hadn’t expected him to make that leap so quickly, then looks guilty for having looked surprised. He’s so damn easy to read. Starsky has never understood why some think of Hutch as cool and aloof. His every emotion is written on his face.

Or is he simply better at reading that face than anyone else?

He suddenly notices how close they still are, sitting on the bed together. For the first time he takes in the surroundings: the room, the disheveled bed, Hutch sitting up with the sheets twisted around his lower body. Most of all, he’s suddenly acutely aware of the bulge that’s still sitting there in full view and refusing to take no for an answer.

Furtively he pulls a corner of the sheet over his lap. Not furtively enough, though. Hutch, who never misses much, has already seen.

“Oh, Starsk,” he says in a shaky voice. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should never have agreed to that job. It was madness. Everything about it felt wrong. If you hadn’t gone undercover….”

Starsky hardly hears him. He blinks. “What did you call me just now?”

Then he remembers. Hutch has called him that before, just once, on that first day in the clinic. Starsk. It’s Hutch’s name for him, something no one else calls him by. A name full of love and affection.

The look in Hutch’s eyes is raw and stripped bare of all pretense. “Starsk,” he repeats softly. “God, Starsk, what are we gonna do? I don’t know what to do. I-I just don’t know where we can go from here.”

And then he does something astonishing. He puts his hands around Starsky’s face, leans forward, and pulls their foreheads together. It’s the first voluntary contact he’s initiated since that day in the clinic. It’s a light touch, but it electrifies every cell in Starsky’s body.

His eyes close as he drinks in the touch. Hutch. A deep rush of affection for this complicated, beautiful, heartbroken man floods his heart. And he suddenly knows exactly where it is that he wants them to go.

He says, “Maybe we can start over. Try and get that connection back. We did it before. We can do it again. We could go back and start from the beginning.”

Hutch’s hands drop away as if burned. The touch breaks apart as he pulls away.

“Start from the beginning?” he says, appalled. “And ignore the last twelve years? Do you know what you’re saying? Do you have any idea what happened in those twelve years? The things we went through to make us what we were?”

“I know what happened. I know what we went through.”

The moment he says it, he knows it’s not true. In fact, it’s bullshit. What he knows are the facts, dusty words on reams of paper, other people’s memories. Hutch is right. He knows nothing.

But he’ll be damned if he gives up now. He knows what he wants now. He wants to be called Starsk again. He wants to get back what they lost.

“All right,” he says, “I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be like that again. Why couldn’t it?”

“Because we’d have to do it all again,” Hutch says. “Everything we went through in those first ten years—we’d have to do it all over again. Almost ten years! That’s how long it took us to realize what we meant to each other. It might take that long again to get it back.”

“I don’t understand. Why do we have to do it all again?”

“Because we had to go through it to get to where we were,” Hutch says with rising agitation. “Don’t you understand? What we had didn’t just fall into our laps. We earned it. Every Bellamy, every Marcos, every Humphries brought us closer together. All the fear and the heartache and the whole fucking horror of losing each other over and over again—they made us what we were.”

Frustration makes his voice go hoarse. “All that shit we went through, there was a point to it. Without it we would’ve been like…like Babcock and Simmons, partners on the job. And if we’d fallen in love, we would’ve been like all those other couples out there who fall in love, and fall out of love, and who fight and split up and then fall in love again with somebody else.”

Hutch pauses. Exhaustion is written all over his face.

“We had a connection right from the start,” he says, “but without all those years together, it would’ve been meaningless. We made it what it was. We made it strong. You have no idea how strong. What we had…God, Starsk, what we had between us…. It was perfect. It was weird and beautiful and…scary. It was something out of this world.”

Starsky stares at him. Weird and scary, just as he’d thought.

“And we could make it that again,” he says. “No, listen. If it was that important, wouldn’t you do everything in your power to get it back?”

Hutch’s hand comes up and goes to Starsky’s cheek, a brief touch full of tenderness and regret.

“We can’t get it back,” he says. “We’d have to go through every nightmare again. We’d have to lose each other all over again. We’d have to face another shooting, and another plague, and another Kira. We can’t do it all again.” His voice falls to a whisper. “I can’t do it all again.”

“Not even for us? To get back what we had?” Starsky lifts his chin. “I’m willing to give it a shot if you are.”

“It’s not a shot. It’s—“

“Ten years. I know. That’s a damn long time. But hell, the way I see it, if it was worth doing the first time around, then it’s gotta be worth doing again.”

“You’d give ten years of your life to try and get back what we lost?”

Starsky nods. “If that’s what it takes.”

He holds Hutch’s gaze, unblinking, willing him to believe. The time that slips by feels like a whole ten years all by itself. Finally Hutch nods, a minuscule movement that’s full of so much sadness. His voice is just a whisper in the dark.

“If that’s what it takes.”

 

X

Another day, another morning—and everything had changed again. Hutch knew it before he even opened his eyes. Something was different, and it wasn’t just the brightness pressing down on his lids or the absence of the dawn chorus, replaced by the drone of a distant lawn mower.

He pried open an eye. The room was full of light with shafts of sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds. And there was Starsky sneaking into the room with an extra wide smile on his face and a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

Frowning, Hutch squinted at the alarm clock, then almost launched himself off the bed.

“Nine thirty! What happened? Why didn’t this damn thing ring?”

“I switched it off,” Starsky said, matter-of-fact, as he deposited the mug on the night stand. “Last night, before I went back to my room.”

Hutch’s momentum stalled. “You did what? How could you do that?”

“I figured you’d lost enough sleep to justify a lie-in. Relax. I called Dobey and Cowan. You’re off duty for the next three days. Dobey is getting chewed out by Cowan as we speak. For exploiting a convalescing officer.”

“You called me in sick?” Hutch said in disbelief. “But there’s nothing wrong with me. I can’t believe you did that.”

Starsky looked unrepentant. “You need some downtime. When’s the last time you had a day off, huh? Don’t say last Wednesday, ’cause that was the day they caught Zac Reubenstein and we dropped everything to go in and grill him.”

“The week bef—”

“And don’t say the week before, ’cause on your one and only day off, they needed you in St. Quentin at the parole board meeting. You were in there all day, and I know how much you hate being stuck inside that place.”

“I had plenty of time off when I got out of the hospital.”

“That was sick leave. That doesn’t count. And before that you pulled out all the stops on the Leibovich case. I have it on good authority that you put in twenty-hour shifts the whole time I was under.”

Starsky advanced and aimed a Hutch-like finger at him.

“You haven’t had time off in ages. I’m talkin’ about time off that’s real time off, like a vacation, y’know? You’ve been burying yourself in work, and Dobey let you, ’cause he needed the manpower. Now that he’s got all those rookies raring to go, everyone else can get some slack. And you’re the first on the list.”

Hutch gave up and sank back into the pillows. He knew any version of Starsky well enough to know that the case was watertight. Then another thought struck and he got back up on an elbow.

“What about you?” he said suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be at work right now?”

“I got those tests scheduled at St. John’s today. Dobey took me off the roster a week ago.”

“The imaging scans, you mean? Jolimont canceled those two days ago.”

No choir boy had ever looked more innocent than Starsky. “Yeah, but Dobey doesn’t know that.”

He retreated to the door. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. We’ve worked our socks off the last coupla weeks. We can’t hold the police force together single-handedly. You need time off to chill, and I need time off to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t spend all day digging over your vegetable patch or something. Besides, it’s just one day. I’ll be back at work tomorrow.”

Hutch wanted to argue the point, but couldn’t quite muster the energy. A great lassitude had invaded his body and turned all his bones to Jell-O.

Starsky cast him his widest told-you-so grin. “I’m glad we’ve settled that. Relax now. Come downstairs when you’re ready, I’ll cook you breakfast.”

Then he was gone and only the mug at Hutch’s elbow proved that it hadn’t all been another dream.

Hutch lay back and stared at the ceiling. He’d slept, actually slept, as impossible as that seemed after everything that had happened the day before. The day before….

A few short hours ago, he had wanted to die. The memory of that despair still lingered like traces of poison on his tongue. Then Starsky had come to him and injected his heart with something Hutch had thought withered forever in his chest—hope. Hope that maybe one day, things could be again what they had once been.

Bittersweet memories of the night before rose and enfolded him. Of a closeness almost too much to bear, of strong arms holding him, a beloved voice whispering achingly familiar words, and a tentative, almost bashful kiss.

Hutch swallowed at the memory of so much courage and tenderness. There was no doubt about it. On some new and unexplored level, Starsky did care about him.

Love of a different kind.

Even rejection hadn’t squashed his purpose. Though disappointed, his acceptance had been complete. And when Hutch had sagged, drained by the ride on the emotional rollercoaster, he’d helped him lie down, spread the covers over him, and slipped away like a fragment of a dream.

Drawing the sheets around him, Hutch turned on his side and stared out the window. Maybe Starsky was right. Maybe a new closeness could be shaped from the ashes of the old. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe in that hope so bad, it hurt.

A part of him, the rational part, knew the futility of that belief. No matter how much time went by, things would never be quite the same again. The bonds that had tied them together had been forged from too many special strands. They couldn’t be replicated.

Whatever they might regain would be new and different, like…well, like the Torino after the original had gone up in a blast of dynamite during the Nash case and the insurance had replaced it with an identical model—similar to the first in many ways, but not the same. Never the same.

But the seed of hope Starsky had planted proved powerful. It germinated and grew, filling Hutch’s aching heart. When the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee tickled his nostrils, he pulled himself into an upright position and reached for the mug. The hot brew slid down his throat like a life-giving elixir. Then he pulled the sheets away and got stiffly to his feet.

In the dead of night, they’d made a deal. For Starsky’s sake and his own, he would have to do everything to keep up his end of it.

ooOOOoo

When he got downstairs—showered, shaved, and dressed in his most comfortable sweats—he found the kitchen in a state of upheaval, all the cupboards and drawers hanging open, and the counters crowded with bags and foodstuffs of every description.

Starsky was in the process of breaking eggs into a frying pan where an unhealthy amount of bacon had already begun to sizzle. He flashed Hutch a toothy smile that Hutch returned with a hesitant one of his own.

“So what’s all this about?” he said with a nod at the chaos.

Starsky’s smile widened another notch. “I got an idea. There’s this place I know down by the coast. I thought we could take a picnic and chill on the beach. It’s a gorgeous day for it. What do you think?”

Hutch eyed the piles of food and blankets, flasks and bottles, ready to go in the car. “Okay,” he said.

“Terrific. You’ll love this place.” Starsky dropped a couple of slices of toast in the toaster and depressed the lever. “It’s a real beauty spot. All secluded. Not a lot of people know about it.”

He’d done some early morning shopping, and not at the local K-mart, either. Hutch identified a Saint Augur and a Gorgonzola among the cheeses, and the two bottles of wine on the counter didn’t exactly yell plonk at him.

Hutch gave his partner a thoughtful look. Beauty spot. Secluded beach. All his favorite cheeses. What was Starsky up to?

Then it hit him. “It’s a date, right? You’re taking me out on a date.”

Bacon hissed as Starsky bent over the pan and poked the sizzling slivers with a fork. “Date? Whadda ya mean, date?” he muttered. “Course it’s not a date. It’s a picnic on the beach. ‘S no big deal. And I know you like all this fancy stuff, so I thought….”

The toast popped up. Starsky grabbed it, hissed, dropped it. Cursed and retrieved it. Tossed the crisp squares onto two waiting plates and smothered them with the contents of the frying pan.

Hutch watched the scene through hooded eyes. A flustered Starsky. The rarest thing. His heart warmed.

“Ready for breakfast?” Starsky said with purpose and turned, holding the loaded plates like twin buffers before him. “I hope you’re hungry, ’cause I got enough food here to feed the precinct.”

ooOOOoo

They drove north. Miles ticked away as Starsky took the Torino through the endless sprawl to the fringes of LA and beyond. The landscape opened up as the city dropped away.

After a few miles of winding coastal road, Hutch began to have a fairly good idea of where they were headed and wasn’t surprised when Starsky took a sudden left turn onto a narrow, unmarked dirt track.

The track wound its way through a mile of sandy hollows and sparse vegetation to the top of a shallow ridge. Beyond it, a small bay opened up like a surprise offering. Sandstone cliffs hugged the crescent of golden sand and framed a turquoise sea stretching away to the horizon. A sail boat in the distance completed the picture-perfect scene.

Starsky threw the car into park and hopped out. “There,” he said with a flourish when Hutch had joined him. “What do you think of that? Isn’t that terrific? Best kept secret on the entire coast. Hey, look, there’s no one around. We got the whole place to ourselves.”

Hutch cast him a curious glance. “How did you know about this place?”

Starsky shrugged. “I’ve always known about it. It’s just a place. I must’ve come here when I was a kid or when—”

The words dropped away as his eyes opened wide. “Oh shit,” he said. “You know this place, doncha? Dammit, of course you do, what was I thinking? You probably come here all the time.” Realization turned to dismay. “Aw, no, don’t tell me this is some kinda special place of ours or something.”

Hutch looked away. “Or something. Our special place is in the mountains, but we came here a lot when you were recovering from the shooting. We still do sometimes.”

“Aw, Hutch, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you to a place that’s full of your favorite memories.”

“It’s all right. Don’t worry about it. This is perfect, it really is.”

Starsky looked completely deflated. “This was a dumb idea. This is just making it harder on you.”

Hutch’s heart went out to him. Sometimes he was so much like the Starsky he knew, it was eerie. He both was and wasn’t Starsky, and the dividing line was beginning to blur.

Something shifted inside him, like a boulder subsiding. He shook his head. “It was a great idea. You were right, we need a break. And this is just the place for it.”

He popped the trunk, slung one of the bulging bags over his shoulder and picked up the cooler. “See those rocks over there?” he said. “Just around the corner from there is our favorite spot. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

He started walking, didn’t look back. Felt a sense of ridiculous relief when he heard the trunk slam shut and the sand crunch behind him before his partner fell in line with him. Together they picked their way down the steep path to the sheltered sands below.

At the rocky outcrop Hutch dropped his burdens in the sand, straightened and took a good look around. It was months since he’d last stood within the encircling cliffs and gazed at the far horizon. The last time had been in the first wave of summer—before the job, before Leibovich and the fight outside the Tivoli. Before.

Memories of that day surfaced unbidden in his mind, of a day of fun and laughter, kisses snatched on the beach, and a closeness almost too powerful to bear.

Hutch shoved them away as fast as he could. When he turned, he found Starsky’s knowing eyes on his face. “You’re lucky,” Starsky said quietly. “At least you got your memories.”

Hutch looked at him with surprise.

“It’s true,” Starsky said. “You got memories of this place I’ll never have. It’s weird. I know all these places—New York and ‘Nam and LA. I know Frisco, Vegas, even Duluth, but I don’t know how I know them. I remember this beach, but I don’t remember being here with you.”

He’d never talked about it before.

“I’d kill to have those memories back,” he said. “I tried everything. I thought I could force it, ya know? I thought if I tried hard enough, I could break through somehow.” He cast a look at Hutch. “You know all those files I’ve been reading?”

Hutch nodded.

Starsky’s gaze slipped away to the distant line where the sky met the sea. “For a while I thought I was onto something. I kept getting these visions, like flashbacks or mental images of the past. Like when you got shot by that kid or when we were trapped in that boiler room.”

He shook his head. “Some of them were so real, I thought, maybe that’s it, maybe it’s a memory. But it always turned out to be just my imagination. ‘Cause when I went and checked out those places for real, they always looked different. The images were all fake.”

A shadow passed over his face. “It’s not working,” he said. “Nothing is working. And I don’t know what else to try.”

Hutch swallowed at the look of dejection in his face. There was nothing he could say to take that look away. But maybe there was something he could do.

He opened his arms, and Starsky stepped into them as if he belonged there. Hutch’s arms closed around him and held on.

It was the most natural thing in the world, yet it took all of Hutch’s courage. Months of distance melted away as he held his partner in his arms. The warmth and solidity of Starsky’s body pressing against him was like a dream from a previous life. Heart pounding, he let his lips brush against the chocolate-brown curls, savoring the heady scent of sandalwood shampoo and aftershave.

Another crack opened up in Hutch’s defenses. Starsky. This was Starsky. He felt like him, smelled like him. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he could pretend it was him. And if he gathered all his courage, maybe he could….

But he hesitated too long. The moment passed, and Starsky stepped away. “Jeez, it’s hot,” he said. “Feels more like summer than the end of October, doncha think? I’m goin’ in to cool off.”

He toed off his sneakers, shed his shirt and stepped out of his jeans in a single fluid movement. Hutch saw that he had come prepared with his swimming trunks on underneath his pants.

“You coming?” Starsky said.

“It’s going to be cold as hell,” Hutch warned. He could still feel the warmth of Starsky’s curls against his cheek.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m counting on!”

With that he took off at a run. Water splashed up all around him as he hit the sea full tilt. He waded in, slowing only to produce a comic yelp when the first wave lapped against his stomach. And then he was in, and away at a crawl, took the next wave head-on, was gone for a small eternity until he emerged, behind the breaking waves, on a stretch of clear, calm water.

“Come on in,” he yelled and waved at Hutch. “It’s wonderful.”

Go on, Hutch’s inner voice urged. Make his day.

He cast a quick glance up and down the coast—only a distant beach comber in sight—and, deciding to forego the towel routine, dropped his pants and underpants, and quickly climbed into his swimming trunks.

All thoughts of easing himself gently into the chilly waters were shattered when Starsky surfaced before him like some primeval creature of the deep, tackled him sideways and dragged him in.

The cold made Hutch first gasp and then revel in the sensation. Breaking away from the shore, he pushed himself through the water with powerful strokes. A breaker loomed before him and he took it at a dive. When he surfaced, an unbroken expanse of ocean stretched before him all the way to Asia.

The water held and carried him in a crisp, almost sensual embrace. Some of his stiffness dissolved as his taut muscles relaxed and loosened. Starsky was right. It was wonderful. Taking aim for Japan, he struck out through the glassy medium.

The next thing he knew, a hand had reached out and dipped him under.

“Hey,” Hutch sputtered when he came back up. In response he got dipped again. By the time he’d regained the surface, Starsky was a safe distance away.

“Why, you sneaky little….”

Hutch crawled after him and reached for him. Starsky laughed and dodged away, sleek as a seal. Then it was Hutch who went down again, dragged down by a couple of strong arms wrapped around his waist.

That did it. Hutch broke free from the encircling arms, gained the surface, filled his lungs to capacity, and dived. Down, down he went. A submarine world of diffuse light and muted sounds embraced him. Halfway to the bottom, he turned and looked up at the shimmering surface. A pair of hairy legs rotated in the water above him as their owner appeared to scan the surface. Hutch took aim, latched on and pulled. He thought he could almost hear the gasp of surprise as Starsky went under.

Certain of dire retribution, Hutch pushed himself to the surface to make his getaway—only to find that he’d drifted much too close to the breakers at the surf end of the beach.

Taller and more powerful than the waves at the swimming beach, they deterred all but the strongest swimmers. Pushed up high where the sea bed angled to meet the beach, they formed rows of moving masses of water that towered over the beach before they crested and dipped, and crashed down with a thunderous roar in a chaos of foam and water.

Hutch felt himself being sucked into their wild embrace. Too late to backpedal. Already the swell was lifting him high. He pushed forward, using his arms to stay just behind the forming crest. On the periphery of his vision he caught a flash of a manic grin as Starsky gained the tip of the same wave.

“Here we go!” he heard him yell.

The moving water carried them forward at a dizzying speed. Paddling furiously, Hutch rode the wave, body-surfing, thinking he might just make it.

But no. The wave crested and rolled, taking Hutch along. He had time to catch a final breath before the wave tip collapsed and crashed with a roar, pushing him down into a swirling mass of green-tinted darkness.

And then he was in the wash, spun round and round by the giant tumbler of the beach. He lost sight of Starsky and the shore, lost all sense of space and direction. Tossed about at the mercy of the sea, he was upside down, hit the sea floor, came back up, went back down.

Hutch struggled to gain the surface, acutely aware of the next monster wave that was already looming behind him. He made it and gulped a lungful of precious oxygen. The undertow caught his legs in a powerful tug. He got knocked down and sucked under again.

A hand brushed his arm. Starsky. Caught up in the maelstrom beside him. Hutch grabbed it by instinct and held on. An arm reached for him and caught him around the waist. Suddenly there was ground under his feet.

Arms around each other, they stumbled forward through the chaotic swirl, pulling each other along, until the power of the undertow suddenly lost its grip and released them, and they found themselves in the shallows, mere feet from the shore, and the water only knee-deep.

Starsky was holding onto him, laughing. They were both laughing now as the thrill of the wild ride pumped through their veins. Hutch still had an arm draped over Starsky’s shoulder. Starsky’s hands were on Hutch’s waist, holding onto him, holding him. Wet curls clung to his forehead. His chest and shoulders glistened with water.

The laughter ebbed. Their movements stilled. Everything stilled until only the water rose and fell around them. Their eyes locked. Starsky’s were the color of the sea, and the light inside them was deep and warm.

Hutch swallowed. The beach and the sea and everything around him dimmed. He moved at the same time Starsky did. Their lips came together and locked in a salty kiss.

The kiss was heaven. The kiss was hell. And every shade in between. Because it was Starsky, and he tasted like Starsky, and he set every cell in Hutch’s body tingling, and yet it wasn’t him, it was a different person, and there was no connection. The thing that mattered most wasn’t there.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s face was filled with light and wonder. He looked as if poised on a precipice, ready to spread wings and fly away. “God, Hutch….”

They fell into another kiss. Hutch put everything he had into that kiss. He wanted to kiss Starsky senseless, drown himself in Starsky. He wanted to give him everything, every part of himself, heart and soul.

He couldn’t do it. The memories of years of love and trust stood like a wall between him and the man he had just kissed. They were a barrier impossible to scale. He pulled away.

Starsky came around as if from a dream. The dark blue of his eyes seemed very deep. Hutch wanted to fall into them and dive down into the bottomless pools and go in search of the man who’d once lived there. He blinked to break the spell.

“Give me time,” he whispered. “I’ll get there, I will. But for now let’s just…take it slowly, okay?”

The hands on his waist lingered for a second, then dropped away. Starsky’s long lashes dipped as he pulled himself back from the brink. He gave the smallest nod, just one.

“You got it,” he said in a voice shaded with all sorts of emotions. “Slowly it is.”

Squaring his shoulders, he faced the sea where thunderous breakers still rolled and crashed and pounded the beach as if the world hadn’t just been turned upside down. His eyes flicked to Hutch’s. An evil grin twitched on his face as he reached for Hutch’s hand and held on tight.

“C’mon,” he said and tugged him forward. “Let’s go back in and catch another wave.”

ooOOOoo

Nothing was quite the same after that. A subtle shift had taken place, too small to be visible to the naked eye. On the surface, they were just two guys on the beach, enjoying a day in the sun, swimming, tossing a Frisbee around and trading easy banter. Deep down, Hutch knew the scene was an illusion and that everything had changed all over again.

Now whenever he looked at Starsky, a new tension flickered between them like static electricity as they hovered on the brink of something new and exciting. The sight of his partner’s lithe tanned body, cavorting around in the skimpiest pair of red swimming trunks, didn’t exactly help to keep Hutch’s head on a level keel.

Getting back home in the early evening came almost as a relief.

The first thing Hutch noticed as they stepped into the darkening house was the blinking red light of the answer machine.

“Hey, we got a message.” Starsky dumped the two bags he was carrying, tossed his keys on the table and switched on the light.

“You deal with it,” Hutch said as he brought in the cooler and an armful of wet towels and kicked the door shut behind him. “I hate talking to those damn machines.”

“That’s ’cause you’re a dinosaur,” Starsky said with a grin and set the tape to rewind. “This is the 80s, you know. Gotta go with the times.”

The tape whirred and hit the end. A beep sounded, followed by an endless pause. Finally an irritated voice came on. “Uh, yes. Hello. This is Cowan here. David, are you there? Pick up the phone, will you? I hate talking to these damn machines.”

Hutch stifled a snicker and Starsky rolled his eyes. A couple of seconds went by before the voice continued.

“Okay, uh…listen, I spoke to Shepardson from the review board. He says as far as they’re concerned you’re good to go, but because of the new health and safety regulations they’re going to need a copy of the specialist’s report after all. It’s just a formality, he said. I couldn’t get hold of you, so to speed things up I called St. John’s to get your file transferred.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky. Saw to his surprise that all traces of a smirk had crumbled from his face.

On the tape, Cowan cleared his throat. “Reason I’m calling—they wouldn’t give it to me. Wouldn’t even talk to me about it. They said they couldn’t release it without your consent. I told them we already had your consent, but they said they couldn’t do anything until they had your confirmation.”

A crackle distorted the next few words. “…probably just a bureaucratic cock-up. Call them up and sort this out, will you? Tell them to send the report directly to me. The sooner I get hold of it, the sooner we can have you back on the streets.”

Click. Silence.

Hutch set the cooler down. “What was all that about?”

Starsky hadn’t moved. The tan he had acquired that day had paled to gray. He seemed like an island in an ocean, alone and suddenly very far away.

“Cowan was going to sign me off fit,” he said slowly. “I passed the physical and the psych test. Everything came up tops. I thought if I could get Jolimont to hold back her report, the review board would go by Cowan’s assessment and approve my return to active duty.”

Not a bureaucratic cock-up then. “You passed the psych test? I didn’t even know you took it.”

“I did it on Monday when you were out to see the DA. I just walked into Cowan’s office and told him I wanted to get it over with. It was a doddle.”

Hutch didn’t doubt it. Conning his way through the department’s psych test would be child’s play for a man of Starsky’s abilities. Besides, expectations worked in his favor. The tests only confirmed what everyone already thought they knew.

“But you’re in and out of St. John’s all the time,” he said. “Isn’t Cowan wondering what you’re still doing there?”

“He thinks it’s for check-ups and after-treatments. For headaches and stuff.”

“You mean you lied to Cowan?”

“Of course I fucking lied to Cowan! I could hardly have told him the truth, could I? I’d be out on my ass already if I’d done that.”

So many lies. So much deception.

“And Jolimont?”

Starsky turned away. “She knows. Of course she does. She wouldn’t be much of a shrink if she didn’t. The weird thing is, she thinks I can still be a cop. She’s nuts.”

“So you asked her not to disclose her findings.”

“It’s my right,” Starsky said to the window. “Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.”

“It’s your right,” Hutch agreed, “as a civilian. As a cop, you don’t get much say in the matter. Hospital files go straight to the medical department. It’s standard procedure.” He added, “You suppress that report and they’ll know you have something to hide.”

“You think I don’t know that? Of course I know. I was hoping they wouldn’t want to see it. I thought if I could convince Cowan to sign my release, the review board would take his word for it and okay my reinstatement.”

“And then Jolimont’s report would never have to see the light of day.”

“Exactly.”

Hutch shook his head. “And you really thought that was going to work?”

Starsky finally turned. He looked hard and grim and about a million miles away. Disappointment poured off him like chill from a glacier.

“What else could I have done?” he said. “I had to at least try. I’m not exactly working with a full box of options here.”

“You could’ve told me. We could’ve tried to work it out together.”

“What good would that have done? You would’ve just tried to talk me out of it. Besides, this is my problem, my fucking screwed-up memory. I gotta deal with it.”

Hutch looked at him and saw nothing in that distant face he recognized. It was as if the night before and the kiss on the beach and all the changes that had wrought had never happened. This was a different Starsky, an alien invader cast in a familiar image, incomprehensible, and utterly fake.

“Let’s be straight with each other,” the fake Starsky said. “We both know that the moment Jolimont passes my file to Cowan, I’m history. There’s no chance in hell they’re gonna let me go back on the streets when they find out I never did get my memories back. And if I withhold the file, they’ll know something is wrong and have an independent assessment carried out. Either way, I’m screwed.”

Bitterness hardened his voice. “I’m sorry, Hutch. I thought we could start over, be partners on the jobs again, but I guess that ain’t gonna happen now.”

He turned away. Snatched up his keys and made for the door.

Hutch finally found his voice. “Where’re you going?”

“Out. For a drive. To get my head together. Don’t wait up.”

Hutch watched him go with an empty heart. A few seconds later, he heard the Torino fire and reverse. Saw a flash of red as the car streaked past the window.

He sat on the couch. The rush of hope he’d felt that morning now seemed to lie years in the past. He’d been a fool to believe in that hope.

The old Starsky would have come to him, for love and support. They would have worked it out together. This was the unknown Starsky, the one with boundaries and no-go zones, the one who walked away to deal with his disappointment alone. Nothing could have brought home more clearly that this wasn’t Starsky, would never be the Starsky he once knew.

Hutch’s heart contracted with longing. Darkness fell like a curtain and wrapped him in a cold embrace, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with grief, in limbo, in a place of terror and pain so raw, its edges cut like daggers.

I miss him. I miss him so much. How can I do this without him? God, without him….

What a cruel fate so have been given so much—hope and the belief in a new beginning—only to have it all snatched away again and be plunged into an even deeper hell.

The grief, he knew, would never go away. It would cloud his heart in darkness for as long as he lived. But he was still functioning, and there were still things he had to do. He had to make sure Starsky held onto to the job he loved—and there was only one way Hutch could think of how that might be accomplished.

He had to act. Fast. And alone. Tomorrow when Starsky was at work. Discussing it with him was not an option. He couldn’t even go to Huggy anymore.

The weight of loneliness was hard to bear. And now he was facing a decision that would horrify Starsky.

I’d do anything for him. I’d cheat for him, steal for him, betray every value I hold dear. I’d kill for him if I had to.

The small matter of a lie and a whitewash didn’t seem to weigh too heavily by comparison.

Hutch knew he was kidding himself. What he was contemplating was criminal. But the vision of Starsky exposed, the truth dragged out into the open and racing like wildfire through the departments, the looks on their colleagues’ faces when they realized they’d been conned….

He couldn’t let that happen. He owed it to his partner to explore every avenue that would allow him to hold onto the fractured pieces of his life. And what was more, he would have to do it in such a way that Starsky would never find out.

The burden of that decision was one he would have to bear for the rest of his life. And alone. Because this was something he would never be able to share with Starsky.

ooOOOoo

The park bench was chipped and damp and covered in graffiti. Heaven knew why the Feds always suggested a park bench as the venue for a clandestine meeting. In Hutch’s experience, nothing drew the eye like a couple of guys cozying up on a bench in a deserted park on a drizzly afternoon.

He shifted on the unforgiving wood. Beside him, Montgomery had been quiet for so long, he might have dropped off to sleep. Hutch cast him a sideways glance. Not asleep. Stunned, yes. And appalled.

The federal agent finally stirred. “Who else knows about this?”

“Apart from Starsky and me? The doctors at St. John’s. A mutual friend. And now you.”

“No suspicions in your department? No rumors?”

Hutch shook his head. “Everyone thinks he’s fine. Even Cowan.”

“Let me get this straight. Your partner has amnesia. His memories haven’t come back. And you’re telling me he’s back at work and no one has noticed?”

“He’s an undercover cop. He’s good at that kind of thing. Isn’t that the reason you wanted him for your little job?”

Montgomery ignored the dig. “Why are you telling me all this? What is it you want from me?”

The moment of truth. There was still time to change his mind and walk away.

Hutch said, “Starsky wants to go back on active duty. For that he needs Cowan’s approval. And for that, Cowan needs to assess Starsky’s medical file from St. John’s.”

The way Montgomery’s eyes narrowed, he already knew what was coming. “So?”

“Starsky’s badge won’t be worth two cents by the time Cowan has finished reading that file.”

“I’m asking you again. What is it you want from me?”

Hutch took a deep breath and looked the agent in the eye. “I want you to go into that clinic and confiscate that file. I want you to eradicate every scrap of paperwork the clinic has on Starsky. I want you to make sure the doctors don’t talk.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Montgomery said it without force or heat, without even raising his voice. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

Hutch nodded.

Montgomery’s face might have been made of stone. “How the hell do you think we do that?”

“I don’t know. Take the case out of their hands. Swear them to secrecy. Tell them they must forget they ever treated a David Starsky at the place. Tell them it’s a matter of national security. Tell them whatever you like. I know you can do it. The Feds do that sort of thing all the time.”

“Christ, Hutchinson, you really think it’s that easy?”

“You could do it if you wanted to.” Hutch leaned forward. “You know as well as I do that Starsky’s career is over when that file gets out.”

“If he’s lost his marbles, then it probably should be.”

Hutch drew himself to his most imposing height. “He hasn’t lost his marbles,” he said in his coldest voice. “He’s as good a cop as ever. That hasn’t changed.”

“I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“Let me remind you that not so long ago you were desperate to get him to do your dirty work for you. You practically begged him. You had a very high opinion of his abilities then.”

“I have nothing more to say to you.” Montgomery stood. So did Hutch. When the agent turned to go, Hutch stepped sideways and into his path.

“You owe us,” he said.

“How do you figure that?”

“You got him into this mess. It was your idea, your undercover job. You can’t wash your hands of him now that it’s all falling apart.”

“He got knocked out in a fight,” Montgomery said. “It could’ve happened anywhere. What happened to him had nothing to do with the job.”

“He wouldn’t have been in that fight in the first place if it hadn’t been for your goddamn undercover job.” Hutch moved deep into the agent’s personal space and locked eyes with him.

“He gave his best,” he said. “He risked his life. He did everything you asked of him, and he did it well. If it hadn’t been for that fight, he would’ve delivered the goods, too. He went out on a limb for you. You owe him.”

They faced each other like angry dogs. Hutch pushed his advantage. “You owe both of us. You know you do.”

“I said I can’t do it. It would be a misuse of my powers, and you know it. I’m surprised you even ask. I thought you had more integrity than that.”

Montgomery’s steely look pinned him to the spot, and it took all of Hutch’s willpower to hold his gaze.

“My partner needs me,” he said. “I thought you knew what that felt like. You had a partner like that once. Sounded like you cared about him. Sounded like you would’ve done anything to help him out. Maybe I was wrong.”

It was a hit below the belt, but Hutch was past caring. He’d blown it. His one chance of suppressing the truth had lain within his reach, and he’d blown it.

A quick vision of breaking and entering, of stealing into a dark office and laying claim to an inch-thick folder inscribed David Starsky surfaced and sank just as quickly. It couldn’t be done. The only one with the resources to pull it off was an FBI agent.

Montgomery regarded him thoughtfully. “Starsky know you’re doing this?”

Hutch shook his head. “And he must never find out.” The slippery slope of deception. He felt sick just thinking about it.

“He’s going to figure it out,” Montgomery said, matter-of-fact.

Hutch bowed his head. “I know.”

“You realize that if any of this gets out, you’ll be fucked? They’ll rake you over the coals. It won’t just be your partner who’ll lose his job, it’ll be both of you.”

“I know,” Hutch said again. “And I won’t pretend that I don’t care. But I don’t have much choice in the matter.” He held Montgomery’s gaze. “I may be lacking in integrity, but I’m not short on loyalty. And my first loyalty is to my partner.”

Montgomery eyed him a moment longer before he stepped away and the contact broke. He gave a short sharp nod. “I need some time to think about it.”

Hutch stared at him. “You mean you’ll do it?”

“I mean I need some time to think about it.” The agent turned to go, stopped, turned back. “Hutchinson.”

“Yeah?”

“One last thing. If I do this—if I do—I’ll be covering my ass. If anything goes wrong, if any part of this gets out, you’ll be the fall guy. I’ll make absolutely sure of that. You understand?”

Hutch nodded.

ooOOOoo

The line is bad and full of crackles and the officious busybody in St. John’s reception intent on misunderstanding.

“You heard me,” Starsky growls. “I said release the goddamn file…. Yes, I realize that…. Yes, I know I said…. For crying out loud, just do it!”

He slams the phone down. It’s taken him five days and three reminders from Cowan to pick up the phone and authorize the release of his medical file. The action feels like signing his own death warrant. The black frustration that’s been churning in his gut the last few days digs in a little deeper.

Opposite him Hutch is fielding two phone calls at the same time and acts as if he hasn’t heard. It’s early evening, usually a busy time, but the place is nearly empty. Everyone’s down in South Central where another budding riot is keeping half the police force busy.

Starsky eyes his partner across the desk. He’s back at work after the vacation Starsky has forced on him, and he doesn’t look as if the time off has done him a lot of good. In fact, he looks like shit. He’s neglected to shave, and the t-shirt he’s wearing under his sports jacket is the one he’s worn the day before and the day before that.

“You look like shit, Hutchinson,” Lieutenant O’Rourke informs him as he walks by. “Must’ve been quite some party. I’m surprised you didn’t take another sick day to sleep it off.”

Starsky is on his feet and chest to chest with the man in a matter of split seconds. “Lay off him,” he growls. “He clocks up more overtime in a day than you do in a month. Go pick on someone else for a change.”

Hutch doesn’t react to the taunt at all.

“Oh, cute, Starsky,” O’Rourke sneers, “very cute. Take a dig at one of you, and get his partner in the face. You guys are so predictable. Why don’t you come up with a new routine for a change?”

“Why don’t you shove your unwanted sarcasm up your oversized ass?”

“How dare you talk to me like that!”

“Go fuck yourself!”

“Starsky!”

“Cap’n?”

“Starsky, come in here a minute. Close that door behind you.”

“Cap’n?”

Dobey cuts a powerful presence behind his desk. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demands. “With you ‘n’ Hutch, I mean? Don’t give me that look, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. Something is wrong between you. You’re out of sync somehow. Do you think I can’t tell? It’s been going on for long enough.”

Is it really only a few short months ago that he found the guy in the funny suits hilarious? Now the guy is someone he knows and respects. He listens.

“Look, what you get up to in your private lives is none of my business,” Dobey goes on. “Heaven knows I’ve closed both eyes to what’s going on between you, but when your marital tiff or whatever you wanna call it starts to affect your work, I can’t ignore the matter any longer. Now either you two get your act together or I’m going to have to assign you to a couple of temporary partners.”

“Aw, Cap’n—“

“You know I’d hate to do that, especially now that you’re almost ready to go back on the streets.”

“Back on the streets? But we aren’t cleared yet.”

“Hutch got cleared a couple of days ago. I got the form right here. Yours shouldn’t be far behind. All we need is the paperwork from St. John’s.”

“Hutch got the all clear?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know that,” Dobey growls. “Now listen to me good. I’m not sending you out on the streets while you’re in this funk, so you better sort out what’s eating you two.”

“But, Cap’n—“

“And I don’t ever want to hear you address a superior officer the way I heard you address Lieutenant O’Rourke just now. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Cap’n. I’m sorry, Cap’n. I’ll apologize to O’Rourke.”

“You do that. And now get outta here, I got work to do.”

Starsky closes the door with care. Hutch doesn’t even look up. Starsky sits down opposite and gazes at him. Everything is falling apart like sand castles in the sun, despite his best efforts. He’s going to lose his job, that’s a given. He has days, a week at the most.

And Hutch. Since that day on the beach, he’s been distant and subdued. No, not subdued. Hollow. This is what someone looks like who’s had his insides scraped out and fed to the dogs. Starsky has no idea what to do about it. He’s done everything, tried everything. He’s at his wits’ end.

They’re on their way home when inspiration strikes. It’s late, almost midnight, and the city lies dressed in neon under an ink-black sky. The usual static-laden mumble is on the police radio. Events in South Central are escalating. Starsky listens with half an ear. His attention is on Hutch who sits beside him like a statue carved of wood and about as talkative.

The radio erupts again, but this time the call has nothing to do with the riot. “All units in the vicinity of Scarborough,” it squawks. “459 in progress at 2885 Winston Street.”

“That’s not far from here,” Starsky says.

Hutch nods without comment.

“All units. Calling all units. Please respond. 459 in progress at 2885 Winston Street.”

“I betcha it’s a liquor store,” Starsky tries again. “What else could it be at this time of night?”

“Yeah,” Hutch says, looking out the window.

“They’ll be lucky if they get someone down there in the next couple of hours,” Starsky says. “Robberies are going to be at the bottom of the pile tonight.”

This time, Hutch doesn’t react at all.

The idea roars awake as if it’s been lying in wait for just such a moment. He has to know. All of a sudden, nothing is more important than that. He has to see what it’s like, being a cop out there on the streets, with Hutch. Just once—before it’s too late. Before they take his badge away and the life he’s come to know and love is irretrievably over.

“All units in the vicinity of Scarborough—“

Starsky watches his hand move as if it were an alien tentacle. It reaches out and snags the mike. Brings it to his mouth and thumbs the button.

“This is Zebra Three,” Starsky hears himself say. “We’re in the vicinity and responding. ETA five minutes. Over.”

It’s an act of pure impulse. Crazy, stupid, totally irresponsible. He can’t help it. Still holding the mike, he jabs the button for the siren. A wail erupts from the speaker and makes a couple of late night pedestrians jump. The car shoots forward, pushing its occupants into their seats.

Hutch comes alive. “Starsky, what the hell are you doing?”

The radio erupts at the same time. “Zebra Three, you are not logged in.”

Starsky grips the mike. “This is Zebra Three. Log us in now.” And to Hutch, “Here, stick the mars light on.”

“Zebra Three, you are now logged in.”

As a means of jolting Hutch out of his mood, the strategy couldn’t have been more successful. Hutch is absolutely beside himself.

“Starsky, have you lost your mind? We can’t respond to this. We’re not cleared. We’re on desk duty. What the hell has gotten into you?”

He leans over and tries to grab the mike from his hand. Starsky moves it out of his reach. Winds down the window and slaps the light on the roof himself.

“I‘m not cleared, you mean,” he says as he takes the car into a tight lefthand turn. “And in case you forgot, I never will be now. Jolimont’s report is on its way. This is my last chance to find out what it’s like.”

“Have you gone completely insane?”

“Don’t you understand?” Starsky says with the quickest glance at his partner. “I gotta know what it’s like being out there with you, doing our job. I gotta know.”

He changes lanes, roars across the intersection past two swerving cars. “I take responsibility. I’ll tell them you had nothing to do with it. Once the truth comes out, I’ll be down as a nut case anyways. You can blame anything on me.”

Hutch stares at him as if at a stark raving lunatic. On the radio, dispatch is coming through with the details. It’s a liquor store all right. Two perps, masked and armed. It’s a fairly good guess that they’re not after a six-pack.

“We can do it,” Starsky says. “It’s a run-of-the-mill holdup. A couple of rookies could handle it.”

“That’s not the point!”

Starsky pulls into Winston Street. “What’s the matter?” he says. “You think I’m not up to it? That’s it, isn’t it? You think I can’t cut it out there anymore. Well, you’re wrong. I’m a cop, Hutch! That hasn’t changed.”

Hutch is getting agitated. “It’s not that. It’s…the way we work. So much can go wrong. You don’t know how we do these things. You don’t know—“

“And now I never will! They’re going to pull the plug on me, Hutch! I’m gonna be on welfare a week from now!”

Another intersection. Three blocks to go. Why won’t Hutch understand? He turns to pleading.”Hutch. Please. I gotta do this. Just this once. It’s my last chance. There’s never gonna be a chance like this again. Besides, we have to do it. No one else is responding to that call.”

Hutch goes very still. In the midst of the urgency, he’s an island of stillness. Winston Avenue seems to stretch forever, every second elongated into what seems like minutes.

“Does it mean that much to you?” he finally says.

Starsky looks at him. “It means everything.”

More time passes while Hutch battles some inner turmoil. Starsky knows he’s won when he sees Hutch’s chin come up and the look in his eyes harden. He’s never seen that look on Hutch’s face before, but he knows it right away. It’s the look of a cop gearing up for action.

“All right,” Hutch says with such grim determination, it sends a shiver down Starsky’s spine. “Let’s do it.”

 

XI

Hutch never knew for sure what swayed him, whether it was Starsky’s need, or his own, or the simple realization that this would be the last time they’d be doing this together.

Hutch had always believed in going out with a bang.

He straightened in his seat. The weeks of desk work fell away as the street cop inside him roared awake and he was suddenly awash with an almost forgotten sense of alertness, a heightened awareness that left no room for anything but the job on hand. Setting his jaw, he focused on the surroundings.

Like so many areas of central LA, the once upmarket neighborhood of Scarborough had long ago lost its battle against a slow slide into seediness and neglect. One by one, the jewelers’ stores had given way to pawnbrokers, fashion boutiques to second-hand shops, and restaurants to fast-food diners. Down-at-heel brick and sandstone buildings dotted the area like a rash.

The far end of Winston Street lay dark and deserted for the night. Only a couple of rundown-looking stores still had their lights on. Even the apartments and offices that occupied the upper floors had an abandoned feel to them. A couple of cars went by, no pedestrians. The phone booth at the corner stood empty, the anonymous caller long since gone.

“There it is.” Hutch pointed to a narrow shop front with a flickering neon sign above the door. The store occupied the street level of a six-storey building. A separate entrance gave access to the upper floors.

Starsky slammed the Torino into the curb, killed the engine and jumped out. He was already on the sidewalk when Hutch intercepted him, put a hand on his chest and flattened him against the wall.

“Listen to me,” he said rapidly. Starsky looked at him. “This is how it works. When we check out a place, you take the front, I take the back. When we kick in a door, you go low, I go high. When we sweep a room, you cover the left, I cover the right. You got that?”

“I got it.”

“Watch me. When we can’t talk, we signal. This means hold it.”

“Okay.”

“And this means circle around and approach from behind.”

“Okay.”

“Remember we always watch each other’s backs.”

“Hutch—”

“And keep eye contact. Don’t do anything—”

“Hutch!”

“—without checking with me first and—”

“Hutch, we gotta go!”

Hutch looked at him. Starsky looked cool and alert and focused, as always when action was imminent. He held Hutch’s gaze. Something complicated and indefinable passed between them. Hutch nodded. They went in.

ooOOOoo

The store lay in semi-darkness, its only illumination the sputtering neon sign on the street outside. It seemed deserted. There was no sign of forced entry. The door yielded easily to Hutch’s hand. False alarm?

They stepped inside, alert and watchful, guns drawn. Dusty shelves crowded with bottles lined the walls. Spider webs decorated the corners. Paradoxically, the floor was sparkling, each tile scrubbed to a high sheen that reflected the intermittent bursts of light pouring in through the door. One wall was given over to imports labeled in Asian scripts—Chinese characters and neat Korean lettering on bottles of sake and rice wine. Beside the door, an ancient refrigerator kept up a noisy hum.

At Hutch’s nod, they separated and spread out. Hutch moved around the cluttered counter to check the cash register. It was full of the day’s takings. Not a run-of-the-mill holdup then.

“Hutch.”

A low, tense sound. Hutch looked up. In the far corner of the room, Starsky had holstered his gun and gone down on a knee. Hutch rounded the counter with speed.

Concealed behind a stack of beer crates, a man of Asian appearance lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. In death he looked wide-eyed, astonished almost, as if the suddenness of his departure from the world of the living had taken him completely by surprise.

It didn’t require a medical degree to determine the cause of death. A ragged bullet hole from which blood still oozed gaped like a grotesque third eye in the middle of his forehead. A small pool of blood had collected on the floor.

They exchanged a look. Definitely not a run-of-the-mill holdup.

Hutch pointed at the floor. There was more blood there, not a pool, but a neat, well-defined footprint. A few feet away, an outline of a similar print pointed the way to the back of the store and a doorless opening covered by a beaded curtain.

That should have been the end of it. Standard procedure dictated a retreat to the car and a call for backup, a coroner’s wagon, and a lab team.

Hutch eyed the still dripping blood, the fresh footprints outlined in blood that put the time of the murder no more than a few minutes into the past. Whoever had done it couldn’t be far away.

Starsky was already at the opening. He moved the curtain aside with the barrel of his gun and peered into the gloom. Hutch went to join him. The curtain concealed a murky hallway. They looked at the hallway. They looked at each other. Together they advanced into the darkness.

The passage led to a cramped back room, and the back room to a storage area lit by a single low-wattage bulb. Stacks of crates and boxes bearing the names of popular brands of beer, gin, and scotch cluttered the view.

But the crates did nothing to obscure the voices. They punctured the silence so suddenly, they caused Hutch to freeze mid-step. Another look passed between him and Starsky. The perps were still there. Didn’t they know they’d been seen?

Cool customers. They hadn’t even bothered to secure the front door.

From behind the shelter of a tower of crates, Hutch strained to listen. They seemed to be arguing in a semi-whisper in a language full of clipped consonants. Chinese? Vietnamese? Korean?

Not for the first time Hutch wished he had learned to distinguish between them. He glanced at Starsky who flashed him a V-sign while shaking his head. Okay, not Vietnamese. Not that that was a whole lot of help.

Hutch risked a peek around the boxes. There were not two, but three of them. One, built like a sumo wrestler, had just succeeded in prying the lid off a wooden whiskey crate. The other two, as lean and wiry as their companion was large, crowded close. Hutch spotted two hand guns.

Whatever these guys were after, it wasn’t petty cash. Drugs, maybe?

Another glance confirmed the idea. The dense white substance in clear plastic bags that emerged from the crate couldn’t be anything else. Starsky had seen it, too. His eyebrow went up a notch. Instead of petty robbers, they’d stumbled on a gang of drug dealers.

Sumo and his two lean accomplices were starting to move the bags. Hutch craned his neck. There was the silhouette of a pickup truck in the loading area and behind it what looked like a sliding gate.

He fell back into the shelter, his mind racing. The store had to be a front, and the murder victim an accomplice gone bad or a member of a rival gang. Either way, his life had been worth no more than the price of a bullet.

Starsky, who had stuck his nose around the crates again, tapped him on the arm. Hutch took another look. A fourth man had just climbed out of the truck. Caucasian, he had the massive build of someone living on too much beer and burger. Nonetheless, he moved with speed and precision.

“What’s taking so long? Move it, for Chrissakes, or we’ll be here all night!”

The drawl identified him as American, Texan maybe. He looked the part in a tasseled leather jacket, studded jeans, and a pair of cowboy boots complete with spurs. Only the semi-automatic stuck in his belt marred the look of the urban cowboy.

“Why you kill him?” the lean one in the blue shirt said to him. “Boss say scare him, not kill him.”

“He knew too much. He would’ve ID’d us.”

They moved, and Hutch lost sight of them. “That’s the last one,” he heard the Texan say. “Open the gate. Let’s go.”

Damn. They were going out the back. Hutch uttered a silent curse when he thought of the Torino, stranded at the front of the building. Useless. By the time they’d retrieved it, the perps and the drugs would be miles away.

They had to act now, or risk losing them.

A glance at his partner confirmed that he had come to the same conclusion. He was gesturing urgently, the meaning clear. He would creep around the edge of the room under cover of merchandise to reach the vantage point beside the gate.

It wouldn’t be easy to nail them in that cluttered room. They would have to create an illusion of numbers. If Starsky got it wrong….

Hutch brushed away a stab of fear. It was too late to worry about that now. He would have to trust Starsky to get it right. He nodded. Starsky withdrew on silent feet.

Hutch held off for a few more seconds to give Starsky time to get into position. Then he took a deep breath and jumped out from behind the sheltering crates.

“Police! Freeze!” he roared and put a warning shot into the ceiling.

“Police!” Starsky yelled from across the room like an echo as he hit the floor in a crouch. “You’re surrounded! Nobody move!”

But they all did. After a frozen moment of shock, they scattered like rabbits released from a box. Two dropped behind a wooden shelf stacked with six-packs, a third dived behind the pickup truck. And the Texan drew his weapon and opened fire.

Shit. Hutch ducked behind the crates, popped a couple of shots back in his direction. Bullets pinged off a metal pipe beside him and embedded themselves in the wall.

From across the room he heard the Beretta’s familiar blast, amplified to deafening proportions in the confined space. A grunt mingled with the sound of shattering glass. Gin fumes started wafting through the air.

Hutch made a dash across the aisle, only to come face to face with a mountainous mass of a man. Sumo wrestler? More like a baby elephant. The man let out a blood-curling yell and aimed what Hutch assumed was a karate kick in his direction. Hutch dodged the kick and, opting for a good old-fashioned punch to the jaw, put his opponent on the ground. Three seconds later he had him handcuffed to a nearby shelf.

A bullet whizzed over his head. Hutch peered around the shelf. Across the aisle, the guy in the blue shirt was taking aim at him. Starsky was on his left, creeping up from behind, taking a chance. If Blueshirt glanced aside, he wouldn’t fail to see him.

Hutch straightened and fired two bullets in his direction, aiming wide. The shots did the trick. Blueshirt jerked back, distracted, and Starsky made his move. A moment later, Blueshirt lay with his face crushed against a crate and his arm twisted around his back.

Over by the pickup truck, Hutch made out the crouching form of Blueshirt’s companion, a man with a face so badly pock-marked, he appeared to be wearing a mask. Starsky’s shot had clipped him on the arm, but his aim at Starsky was straight and steady.

Hutch didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger. Scarface toppled and his gun fell wide.

Two down, the third injured. The whole thing had only taken a minute. They had the upper hand. The Texan had seen it, too. Abandoning his companions to their fate, he took to his heels through the only other exit, a side door to an unknown part of the building. Hutch saw it out of the corner of his eye. He uttered a silent curse. The Texan was the big fish. He mustn’t get away. He took a quick look at Starsky.

His partner had a yelling Blueshirt on the floor and the handcuffs snapped on in moves familiar from a hundred similar encounters. He even remembered to cast Hutch the all-important glance of confirmation. “It’s okay,” he shouted. “I got it under control.” Still kneeling on the protesting perp, he let off a quick warning shot, and Scarface, alive and quietly crawling toward his weapon, jerked back.

Hutch made a snap decision. Starsky could handle it. He’d be fine.

He rounded the shelf and threw himself through the side door in time to glimpse the polished spurs disappearing into the stairwell. The Texan was going for the roof. No surprise there. They all went for the roof. Gripping his gun, Hutch set off in pursuit.

ooOOOoo

Starsky is in his element. As he wields his gun and doles out punches and manhandles struggling perps to the ground, a great sense of rightness bubbles up inside him. For the first time in just about forever he knows precisely what to do and how to do it. No need to weigh his actions. No need to fake it. Every move comes naturally, the knowledge and instinct are right there at his fingertips.

It’s almost a game, a glorious release from the tensions of the past few months, and it brings with it an almost indecent sense of freedom. Forget the desk work. This is what he’s good at, what he’s meant to do.

He handcuffs his perp to a pipe and pats him down for hidden weapons, all the while keeping an eye on the scarfaced one in case he tries to make another move for his gun. Whenever he has a glance to spare, it goes to the side door through which Hutch and the cowboy have disappeared.

Scarface is next. Starsky kicks his gun out of reach and bends to examine the leg wound Hutch has inflicted on him. It’s a flesh wound and painful as hell if the man’s curses are anything to go by. He improvises a bandage torn from Scarface’s shirt, ignoring the stream of abuse the man hurls at him.

He’s out of handcuffs, but there’s a roll of duct tape on the shelf. He grabs it and employs liberal amounts to secure the foul-mouthed perp. The final strips of tape go over the perps’ protesting mouths. Silence at last.

Three turkeys trussed up good and tight and wriggling on the floor. Starsky steps back and admires his handiwork with the satisfaction of a job well done.

It’s the new-found silence that makes him realize how quiet it is outside. Too quiet. His eyes go to the door again. Where’s Hutch, and what is keeping him?

Frowning, Starsky sticks his head through the door. There’s a stairwell behind it and a narrow passage—a connection, presumably, to the front entrance on Wilson Street. With a final glance at the squirming perps, he steps through the door.

Sure enough, the passage curves back to the front of the building, bypassing the liquor store. Starsky advances with caution. His gun is a snug weight in his hand, and all his senses are on high alert.

He has almost reached the front when he finds his way barred by a security gate forged of slender metal links. A dark foyer, empty of life, is visible beyond. The gate is locked.

Cursing, Starsky retraces his steps. A growing sense of urgency speeds his pace. He starts running, to hell with caution. Something must be wrong. Hutch has been gone for ages.

He reaches the stairs and takes them three at a time. They are narrow emergency stairs in unadorned concrete, sparsely lit and clearly in little use. Cigarette butts and empty beer cans litter the corners. Starsky can detect no sound or movement. His sense of urgency soars.

First landing. A door opens onto a floor of deserted offices. He can imagine the type—ambulance-chasing solicitors, third-rate private eyes, dubious personal services. He doesn’t waste time inspecting them. Hutch and the cowboy are on the roof, he’s sure of it. Unease turns to fear. The roof is a dead end, not the place to be, alone with a cornered criminal.

He’s on the fourth floor landing when he hears the shots—two, three and a fourth in quick succession. They come from the roof, and all are from a semi-automatic.

Fear jumps in his gut. What’s happening up there? Why the hell isn’t Hutch shooting back?

The answer comes to him in a flash. The Magnum holds six bullets, and Hutch has fired…. The warning shot. Two aimed at the cowboy. Two to distract the lean one. One that put Scarface on the ground. Six.

Hutch is out of ammo!

Starsky goes weak in the knees. His heart hammers in his throat as he flies around another landing. Faster, faster. The building has become a hundred storeys tall. He refuses to entertain any other reason why Hutch might not be shooting back.

Another shot echoes down the stairs. And another. None are from a Magnum. There’s no answering fire from Hutch at all.

Terror strangles Starsky’s throat, taking his breath. At last, the final flight. The door at the top is open. Beyond it, there’s darkness and a glimpse of a star-studded sky. There are no more shots. The rooftop is very quiet.

Starsky has never known fear like this before—raw and concentrated as if all the terrors of a lifetime have been compressed into this single moment. He flies up the last few steps, nearly stumbles through the door. The scene before him hits him like a crowbar and burns an indelible image in his mind. In a single flash he sees…

Hutch.

Crouching behind a skylight, his useless weapon still clutched in one hand.

Cowboy is on the other side. He has the drop on Hutch.

A shot shreds the silence. Hutch falls….

He falls slowly as if he has all the time in the world to make it to the ground. Onto his knees, then sideways, until he crumbles in on himself and lies still.

A soundless scream freezes in Starsky’s throat. Time ceases to flow. Everything ceases, even the breath in Starsky’s lungs. A gray nothingness descends as the world goes blank around him. Maybe he utters a moan, but he’s not sure. The rooftop wavers before his eyes.

All he sees is Hutch. Who’s lying very still, face down beside the skylight.

In a world where time has lost its meaning, he’s alone with the icy touch of terror in his heart. And something else—a sudden knowledge so profound, he can hardly believe he didn’t see it there before.

I love him. I love him!

He doesn’t know how he knows or where the certainty is coming from. The knowledge is simply there, and it overwhelms him. Not rote learning this, but a truth greater than life.

There’s no time to explore the newfound truth. The Texan moves, and time speeds up again. He’s at the skylight and his attention is all on Hutch. His gun hand comes up again.

Starsky unfreezes with a jerk. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t think. He raises his gun and empties the clip into the unsuspecting figure. The perp jerks and topples without a sound.

Starsky is in motion before the body has hit the ground. He races over the rough ground and around the skylight. Falls on his knees beside the motionless figure behind it.

“Hutch, Hutch.”

Hutch is on his side and there’s blood all over the side of his face. With shaking hands, Starsky finds the main artery in Hutch’s neck. There’s a low and steady pulse. He’s alive. He’s alive!

“Hutch.”

Swallowing back his fear, he brushes the blood-soaked hair aside. A shallow groove traces a path along the side of Hutch’s head where the bullet has grazed his temple. Blood still oozes from the wound.

With infinite care he turns Hutch over and rests his head on his thigh. Hutch stirs and his eyes open slowly. It’s a breathtaking sight, and at that moment Starsky would gladly mortgage his soul to whatever deity has decreed that Hutch should live.

“Don’t move,” he says in a voice that’s much too tight. “Just lie still. Lemme check you out.” His mind races through what needs to be done. Stabilize the injured. Administer first aid. Rush downstairs for an ambulance….

But Hutch has different ideas. He groans and pushes himself into a sitting position. “Shit, what happened?” he says. He feels for his temple, then looks at his bloodied fingers. “The bastard clipped me!”

Starsky is beside himself. “Christ, Hutch, what’re you doing? Don’t move. You could be concussed or something.” He slips a steadying arm around his partner.

“I’m okay,” Hutch says. “No, really, I’m fine. He just knocked me out for a minute.”

His voice is strong and clear. There’s no sign of dizziness. Starsky stares at him. This is surreal. For a moment the rooftop seems to flicker before his eyes.

“You mean you’re okay?”

“I think so,” Hutch says as if commenting on the weather. He digs in his pocket for a folded handkerchief and presses it to the wound. “He clipped me, that’s all. What happened to him? Is he—?”

“He’s dead. I shot him.” Starsky clutches Hutch’s arm. “How can you be okay? He shot you! I saw you go down. You were so still. I thought….”

The look on Hutch’s face softens. His hand goes to Starsky’s cheek, a brief, all too brief, touch of reassurance. “I’m fine. Honest. This probably looks a lot worse than it is. Head wounds always bleed like hell.”

Starsky swallows. Relief the size of the Mississippi rolls through his veins. Hutch is all right. Hutch is fine. He wants to laugh and cry. He wants to throw his arms around him and hold on tight. He wants to tell Hutch he loves him, for real, for good, wants to haul him close and kiss him in ways he’s never kissed a guy before.

He squashes the impulse. Kissing Hutch will have to wait. “Can you stand?” he says. “Here, lean on me. We gotta get you to a hospital.”

Hutch removes the bloody handkerchief and probes the graze again. “I don’t think I need a hospital,” he says. “I hate to sound like John Wayne, but this is really only a scratch.”

Using the skylight for leverage, he clambers to his feet unaided and is already halfway around the structure before Starsky catches up with him. Hutch walks over to Cowboy’s crumpled form and turns the body over.

“Definitely dead,” he confirms. “Thanks, buddy. That was a close one.” He straightens, casting a quick look at Starsky. “Are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”

Starsky blinks. Shouldn’t that be his line? The rooftop flickers again—some trickery of light and shadows. He shakes his head to dislodge the sensation.

Hutch has already moved on. He’s all business as he secures Cowboy’s semi-automatic, holsters his own gun, and makes for the door. “All right, let’s go and call the troops.”

Starsky follows with a sense of complete bewilderment. What, that’s it? That’s all Hutch finds to say? Relief turns to helpless anger. Two long strides bring him side to side with Hutch.

“He could’ve killed you!” he says as he grips his partner by the arm. “An inch to the left and you would be dead right now. What the hell were you thinking, going after him with no ammo?”

Hutch turns inside the door. “No ammo? What’re you talking about? I got plenty of ammo.”

“You do?”

Hutch regards him with a frown. “Of course I do. I always carry spares. You don’t think I’d pursue an armed felon without a working gun, do you? Are you sure you’re all right?”

No, he’s not sure. He’s not sure of anything anymore. He feels odd, out of it. The rooftop keeps shifting before his eyes. He blinks, blinks again. What the hell is wrong with him? This is no time to lose it. “Then why didn’t you shoot?” he demands. “I heard his gun, I didn’t hear yours. Why didn’t you shoot back?”

An unreadable expression washes over Hutch’s blood-smeared face, and instead of an answer he plucks his gun from his holster and holds it out. Starsky stares at it. The gun is busted. The side of the casing is dented, the chamber askew. The hand grip has a jagged tear in it.

The Magnum will never discharge another bullet.

“We were on the edge of the roof,” Hutch says. “I almost had him when he took a pot shot at me. He got lucky. I don’t think he meant to hit the gun.”

That’s when Starsky realizes that the blood on Hutch’s hand isn’t just blood from his temple. It’s the hand that’s bleeding. He takes it between both of his own and examines it. There are cuts and bruises, no broken bones. The gun has taken the brunt of the shot.

A weird sense of dislocation creeps over Starsky as if he’s been cut loose from reality. So this is how they work? With such casual disregard for life and limb, such cold indifference? Hutch has looked death in the eye, but he acts as if it’s all in a day’s work. He doesn’t seem fazed at all.

“You seem pretty damn cool about all this,” he says a little too sharply. “That creep shot you twice. You came this close to buying it. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Sure it does,” Hutch says with a shrug. “But I’m a cop. I can’t make a big song and dance about it every time some lowlife takes a shot at me.” He re-holsters his useless piece and enters the stairwell. “C’mon, let’s call it in.”

Starsky feels light-headed. His sense of weirdness deepens. He blinks again. The outline of the skylight shifts before his eyes. Before he can think of something to say, far less put it into coherent words, the tread of heavy boots echoes up from the floors below. Backup has arrived.

ooOOOoo

Lieutenant Delancy from the Sixth took charge.

“You’re Dobey’s men, aren’t you? What are you doing in this jurisdiction?”

“We were in the neighborhood,” Hutch said in a distracted manner. It was four in the morning and they were back on the roof in the company of a handful of cops and the coroner’s team. The spotlights Delancy’s men had erected cast a blinding glare over the scene. “Thought we’d better take that call.”

His gaze went to Starsky, who had wandered off and was eyeing the skylight with a frown.

“Well, I’m sure glad you did,” Delancy said with a nod at the Texan. “He’s been on our wanted list for months.”

Hutch probed the patch of gauze the paramedics had applied to his temple. Only a dull throb remained, the pain blunted by a couple of aspirins. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. All in working order, no damage done.

“Why, who is he?” he asked. He glanced at Starsky again. What the hell was wrong with him? He was acting weird, and while that in itself wasn’t normally a cause for concern, the puzzled, almost jittery look in his eyes was.

“You don’t know? That’s Jat Cairo, Patsy Cairo’s youngest. He’s been out of control ever since his brother took over the family business.” He added, “His old man is in the clinker.”

“I know. We put him there.”

Delancy raised an eyebrow. “In that case you probably know that Jat was a nasty piece of work. He killed for fun. We’ve been after him for a long time. Your captain will be pleased.”

“Our captain,” Hutch said tersely, “will have our heads on a stake. We’re not cleared for active duty.”

This time the eyebrow climbed right up into Delancy’s receding hairline, but all he said was, “Sislo here tells me you’ve come from a double shift. You better get yourself down to the hospital for that x-ray and then go home and get some sleep. We’ll deal with the paperwork tomorrow.”

Starsky had drifted over to the body and was peering at it with a look that could only be described as perplexed. As Hutch watched, he straightened and started walking around it in a widening circle.

Delancy jerked his chin at him. “What the hell is he doing?” he growled. “He’s messing up the evidence. What’s the matter with him anyway?”

“Nothing’s the matter. He’s fine.” Hutch maneuvered himself between Starsky and Delancy.

“Well, then get him the hell outta here.”

ooOOOoo

They went home. A pink glow lit the eastern horizon by the time Starsky pulled the Torino into the driveway of their house. It had been a silent journey. Starsky hadn’t said one unnecessary word, a measure of how rattled he was.

Hutch wanted to say something reassuring, but couldn’t muster the energy. He felt wired, tired, exhausted to the point of wide-eyed wakefulness. He wasn’t sure if he was able to negotiate the steps to the front door, never mind hold a conversation.

All he did was keep a wary eye on his partner, who wandered around the house behaving like a lost sheep and looking like a zombie.

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” Hutch finally suggested. “You look like a zombie.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, how about some breakfast then? I could scramble us some eggs.”

“Nah, not hungry.”

Hutch cast him a concerned look. Their last meal, a limp sandwich from Metro’s canteen, lay several hours in the past.

Starsky rallied with an effort. “You’re the one who should be hitting the hay. You’re the one got clipped, after all.”

Hutch felt for the patch of gauze again. He kept forgetting it was there. He shook his head. “I couldn’t get to sleep right now. Too tired, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

A peculiar version of normality unfolded. Hutch took a shower, Starsky leafed through the morning paper. Hutch checked over his vegetable patch, Starsky got a load of washing on the go.

Later that morning, Dobey called. Hutch braced himself, but his captain merely said, “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. I’m moving you to the late shift. See me in my office before you start.”

Lunch scored a moderate success with a modified version of goulash à la Anton Rusz. In the afternoon they drove over to the Sixth to put their statements on paper.

And all that time, Starsky’s puzzled frown followed him around. It was beginning to freak him out. When dinner time came and there was no change, Hutch put down his fork and said, “Look, what’s the matter with you? Is this still about me getting clipped? I told you, I’m fine.”

Starsky poked at his omelet. “I know. You said.”

“Well, what is it, then?” And when Starsky remained silent, he added, “The whole thing was your idea. You wanted to see what it’s like out there. Well, now you know. That’s what happens when we hit the streets together. We get shot at, and sometimes we get hit. I thought you knew that.” He added in a softer tone, “I’m all right, I really am. You got there on time, didn’t you? I knew you would.”

“I almost didn’t.” Starsky looked up from his plate. “He had you cold. Because of me you almost got killed. If I hadn’t taken that call and made you go along with it….”

“You didn’t make me. I agreed, didn’t I? What’s with the guilt trip, anyway? That’s usually my department.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. Besides, that’s what we do. We take risks, we always have done. It’s our trademark, so will you please stop acting like an old woman about it?”

Starsky cocked an eye at him. “Hey, that’s a pretty sexist thing to say. Minnie would have your balls for that comment.”

“Fair enough. A rookie then. Will you please stop acting like a rookie about it?”

Starsky rolled his eyes, and that was it. He stopped acting weird. Or maybe he just faked not acting weird. Hutch no longer knew how to tell the difference. When Starsky settled down in front of the TV with every intention of making it through a late night showing of a Dracula flick as if his mind had somehow conquered his body’s need for sleep, Hutch gave up and went to bed.

ooOOOoo

Starsky is adrift on a sea of weirdness. What with the strangest day he’s had in months and Hutch’s cool indifference to his own mortality, he’s beginning to doubt his own senses. And why does an image of the damn rooftop keep popping into his head like some kind of a deranged traffic light?

Dracula doesn’t help. In fact, the movie is crap, even by his own admittedly pretty low standards in the arena of horror flicks. When the credits roll, he turns the set off with a sense of utter futility. It’s close to midnight when he finally climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

He’s tired to the bone, but sleep eludes him. Every time he shuts his eyes, he sees that roof again, and the skylight, and Hutch crouching behind it, trying to dodge the bullets. He sees the attacker, hears the shot. Most clearly of all he sees Hutch as his legs fold beneath him and he crumbles to the ground.

Starsky groans and rolls over. What the hell is wrong with him? Hutch is right—he’s a cop, he’s supposed to take these things in his stride.

Maybe it’s lack of sleep. He closes his eyes and wills himself to relax. Gradually his breathing steadies and he starts dropping through the layers of his consciousness to the twilight zone where unnaturally heightened senses balance on a knife’s edge with total oblivion.

He’s hovering between sleep and wakefulness when he finds himself on those stairs again, racing to reach the top. Dream or imagination?

The blurry images sharpen and now he knows it’s a dream because there are subtle differences as if he’s in some kind of a twisted alternative reality. Instead of the narrow emergency stairs he sees a wide staircase adorned with solid painted banisters. Open corridors branch off from the landings. And the stairs aren’t concrete, but wood covered with a threadbare carpet.

Just like the night before, the stairs go on forever, only this time he’s not racing to the top, taking three steps in one go. He’s moving through molasses, nightmare-fashion. Every step is an effort, every landing a battle to keep going. A strange pain churns in his insides.

Absurdly, the smallest details stand out in ridiculous relief—a patch of peeling paint on the wall, a flight of creaking stairs, a sudden overpowering odor of overcooked cabbage. It’s surreal, a trick of the unconscious. Only the fear is exactly the same. It burns in his chest like a physical sensation.

Finally, the roof. Again he almost stumbles through the door. Again Hutch is crouching low behind a skylight. A dark figure looms before him, ready to shoot. Again Starsky brings up his gun.

There’s something wrong with this vision. In the dream, the perp is a blurred outline that fades in and out of sight. Starsky blinks and focuses with an effort. He mustn’t miss. Hutch’s life depends on it.

He pulls the trigger. Again. And again. The shots come in erratic bursts as if he’s a new recruit on his first trip to the shooting range. Despite that, the bullets find their target. The shadowy figure jerks and collapses.

Starsky knows what comes next. He’s going to race around the skylight and drop down beside a motionless Hutch, terrified of what he’ll find.

But that’s not what happens in the dream. Instead of motion, he stands rooted to the spot. His legs don’t seem to work anymore. The strange pain stabs at him again.

Behind the skylight Hutch rises like a phantom from a tomb. His face is ghostly pale. He goes to the body, turns it over, looks at Starsky. His lips move, but Starsky can’t hear what he’s saying. The roar of a distant waterfall fills his mind, and there’s a sense of relief so powerful, it almost takes the pain away.

Hutch is coming toward him. Different, this is different, not the way it happened. It’s a distortion, a variation on a theme. His mind is playing tricks on him. Because in the surreal landscape of the dream, it’s not Hutch who falls. It’s him.

One moment he’s standing beside the roof door. The next his legs are folding and he’s sliding sideways. Hutch is there. He catches him and holds him and lowers him to the ground. Darkness closes in all around him. The whole world narrows to a point until all he can see is Hutch. And the fear no longer lives in his heart. It resides in Hutch’s eyes instead, and in Hutch’s voice. Hutch looks stricken, and utterly terrified.

And in the darkness of his bedroom, Starsky jolts upright.

 

XII

Hutch felt the disturbance in the night like a physical force, an earth tremor, perhaps, or the static electricity of an approaching storm. He was instantly wide awake.

Another nightmare. Will the goddamn things never stop?

He threw back the sheets, swung his legs out of bed. For too long he’d stood by with his heart pounding in the unyielding grasp of uncertainty. No more. This time he was going over there and getting to the bottom of the problem once and for all.

He stuck his arms through the sleeves of his dressing gown and pushed barefoot into the hall—only to collide with his target when Starsky’s door flew open and the room’s occupant burst through. The force of the impact almost brought them both to a fall.

“Starsky, what—”

“Hutch.” Two hands shot out and put a grip on his arms. In the half-light, Starsky looked disheveled and wild-eyed. He wore a pair of briefs and nothing else. His bare chest heaved with the aftermath of erratic breathing. “Hutch, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Hutch said automatically. “I told you—”

“He shot you! The bastard shot you!”

“Yes, but it’s okay. It was just a graze, remember? The x-ray—”

“He shouldn’t have shot you!” Starsky shouted. “It shouldn’t have happened like that. I got there on time. I killed him!”

“What’re you talking about? What shouldn’t have happened?”

“You getting shot. That’s not how it happened.” Starsky’s fingers dug in deeper. “It should’ve been me, not you. Something went wrong.”

“Christ, Starsky, you’re making no sense.” Hutch gave his partner a cautious shake. “Snap out of it. It was a nightmare. You were dreaming.”

Starsky shook his head. “I wasn’t asleep, I was awake. It can’t have been a nightmare.”

“It must’ve been. You have them every night.”

A moment went by. Starsky blinked slowly and his iron grip on Hutch’s arms eased. “Dunno,” he said. “Didn’t seem like a dream to me. The whole thing felt so real.”

But he sounded less certain now, and more confused than ever. Hutch’s heart went out to him. Tough guy Starsky all churned up by a nightmare. He wouldn’t like that one bit when he came out of it.

Already a telltale firming of the jaw heralded the return of the Starsky he knew. The hands on his arms dropped away as Starsky visibly pulled himself together.

“You’re right,” he said. “It must’ve been a dream. Shit, did I wake you? I’m sorry. Go back to bed. I’m okay now.”

“You sure?”

Starsky was already on the retreat. The bedside lamp in his room cast his shadow large across the wall. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

But he didn’t sound sure. Hutch followed him into the room. “Wanna tell me about it?”

Starsky dragged a watery smile onto his face. “You mean ’cause we always tell each other everything?”

Hutch’s heart did a little jump. He’d said that, hadn’t he? In St. John’s a small lifetime ago. He nodded. “Yes.”

Starsky hesitated, running a hand through his thick hair. Then he sank down on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands.

“I think I’m going crazy,” he said. “I keep thinkin’ something was wrong with what happened last night, that it shouldn’t have gone down like that. I keep seeing things. Even when I’m awake, I keep seeing them. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You haven’t slept in almost two days,” Hutch pointed out. “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I guess.”

Wrong approach. Hutch sat down beside him and tried again. “Why don’t you tell me what the dream was all about? Was it about me getting shot?”

“Yes. No. I mean, that’s just it. You didn’t get shot. I did.”

“In your dream you got shot?” Come on, Starsky, talk to me.

“I think so. I must’ve done, ’cause I fell down and you had to catch me. You looked so scared! It was the weirdest dream. There were those endless stairs and the roof and the skylight and that creep taking pot shots at you and—”

He broke off. The frown on his forehead deepened for a moment, then smoothed abruptly. His eyes opened wide. All the tension flowed out of him like air from a punctured balloon. He groaned.

Hutch watched the transformation with concern. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Starsky turned to him. “I just had a brain wave. I think I know what it was. It must’ve been one of those visions. The damn things are haunting me. Now they’re even screwing with my dreams.”

“Visions? What visions?”

“Those images that kept popping up in my head. False memories or visualizations or whatever you wanna call them. Of people and places and events from the past. I used to get them all the time. I told you, remember? That day on the beach?”

Hutch nodded.

“I knew they were fake,” Starsky said. “They were just my imagination running wild. But for a while they confused the hell outta me. That’s why I started going around to see what all those places looked like for real. I went all over LA. I even drove out to the canyon road to check out where your car went off the road. Did I ever tell you about that?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I did. Check it out, I mean. I went to as many places as I could.” He looked at Hutch. “But I never went to Bellamy’s.”

“Bellamy’s!” Hutch said, astonished. “You mean Vic Bellamy?”

“Yeah, you know, the creep who pumped me full of stuff and—”

“Yes, for Chrissakes, I know who Bellamy was. But….” Hutch blinked. A mental landscape unfolded before his eyes. “Oh, you mean because of the rooftop?”

“And the stairs and the skylight and everything.”

“The stairs were different,” Hutch said slowly, “but what happened on the roof was almost the same. It was dark. And he came at me just like Bellamy did.”

“And I was trying to catch you up, just like then. I heard his gun, but I never heard yours. And when I got to the top, you were taking cover behind the skylight just like it says in the Bellamy file.”

They shared a look of understanding.

“Damn, you’re right,” Hutch said. “There’re a lot of similarities. You shot him just like you shot Bellamy five years ago. Even our relative positions were the same. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. But that explains it. In your dream you must’ve confused the events of last night and what you read in Bellamy’s case file!”

“Yeah.”

“You dreamed that you followed me up the stairs, saw me in trouble and shot the perp, just like last night. And then you dreamed that you fell and I caught you ’cause you knew that would happen, ’cause you’d read that in the file.”

“I didn’t just read that file,” Starsky said. “I devoured it. It was one of the first I ever read, and I was absolutely blown away by it. I must’ve read it a dozen times. Maybe that’s why I got so many false memories about it.”

Hutch looked at him. “So, just a dream, huh?”

A sheepish look wandered over Starsky’s face. “Yeah, but I gotta tell you, that was the realest dream I ever had. The details were amazing. I swear I saw every damn stain on the walls, and that godawful ugly carpet on the stairs, and—”

Hutch frowned. “Carpet?”

“—and when I keeled over and you held me and you yelled at me, I swear I almost felt the pain, like my whole body was on fire or something and—”

“What? What did you say just now?”

“I said it felt like my whole body was on f—”

“No, before that.”

“Uh. I fell down, and you held me and you yelled at me—”

“I held you?”

“You had me in a clinch actually. We were on the ground and you were holding me real tight. The pain got pretty bad, and then everything went dark, but I could still hear your voice. You were yelling at me.”

Hutch went very still. “H-how do you know all that?” he said in a voice he hardly recognized. “D-did Huggy tell you about that?”

“Huggy? No. What’s Huggy got to do with it?”

“You mean he didn’t tell you?”

Starsky shook his head.

A sense of terrible excitement built up inside Hutch and he pushed it away with an effort. He had to keep cool, he had to keep focusing. “Huggy didn’t tell you? Then how can you possibly know all that?”

“Dunno.” Starsky shook his head. “Someone must’ve told me. It’s probably in one of the statements and—”

“No one could’ve told you,” Hutch interrupted. “No one knows about that. I never put that in any statement. Huggy was the only one I told, and he wouldn’t have told anyone else. Besides, what you just said…it’s all true. The details and everything.”

They stared at each other. The room and everything in it became small and distant, like a scene viewed the wrong way down a pair of binoculars. “Oh God,” Hutch whispered. “Oh God, oh God.”

Starsky swallowed, his eyes fixed on Hutch. “What’re you saying exactly?” he said in a hoarse whisper. All the color had drained from his face.

“Jesus, you’re as white as a sheet,” Hutch said. “And your hands are like ice. Get back into that bed. What did you do with the blankets? Here, I got them. C’mon, let’s get you warm—”

Starsky clutched at him. “To hell with getting warm. What’re you saying?”

“First tell me again what you saw. Tell me exactly what you saw.”

“In the dream?”

“Yes, in the…in the dream.”

He wrapped a blanket around his partner, rubbed his back to force some warmth back into his body. Starsky seemed oblivious. He stared into space with an intensity as if he wanted to crawl inside his skull and dig out the very fabric of the dream.

“At first it was just like last night,” he said slowly. “There were those endless stairs. They went on and on. I thought I’d never get to the top. I wanted to run, but I felt as if I was moving through Jell-O. I could hardly keep going, and I felt all weird—”

“Weird? How weird?”

“Just…weird. All shaky somehow. I couldn’t breathe so good. And everything looked distorted. But I knew I had to keep going. I had to get to the top. I knew you were in trouble. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did.”

The hand that still rested on Hutch’s arm tightened. “I got to the door and there he was, just like last night. He had his gun on you, but you weren’t shooting back. Then he took aim at you and I shot him.”

“Okay, and what happened then?”

“Then everything changed. I was standing there just beside the door and I couldn’t move. I wanted to go to you so bad, I wanted to make sure you were okay, but I couldn’t. Instead you came toward me and took my gun from me and I kinda fell sideways and you caught me.”

He looked at Hutch. “It was just a dream, Hutch. It doesn’t mean anything. I knew that was going to happen. It’s all there in the Bellamy report—”

“What kind of a day was it?” Hutch interrupted. “Quick, tell me. Don’t think about it, just tell me. Was it cold, warm, wet, what?”

“It was night. Cool, I think. There was a…a chill in the air. You were wearing your leather jacket and a woolly sweater.”

“And the stairwell? What color was it?”

“I-I dunno, uh…. Beige, I think. Yeah, some kinda beige.”

“Not gray? Not concrete?”

“No. Beige. Smooth painted walls. The banisters had some kinda green paint on them. And the carpet was something stripy, in different shades of brown.”

Hutch went hot and cold. Goose bumps sprang up all over his body. He could hardly breathe. But he had to hold it together. He had to get it right. This was too important to mess up. He forced his voice to go low and calm, desperate to keep the tremors at bay.

“Okay, now I want you to think real hard. You said I yelled at you when you were down and I was holding you. Do you remember what I said?”

“I think so. You said something like, ‘Hold on, you bastard. Hold on, dammit! Don’t you dare let go.’ And then you said, ‘This isn’t the end. This is not the end!'”

Hutch started shaking. His mouth felt parched. He swallowed, not taking his eyes off Starsky. “And then?”

“And then I think I must’ve choked or something ’cause you sat me up so I could breathe and…and you kept your arm around me and your hand was in my hair and you were holding me so tight….”

“And I said…?”

“You said, ‘Hold on. Don’t let go. Don’t you dare let go. I need you. I love you.'” Starsky’s eyes met his with astonishment. “And then you kissed me. On the forehead. Right here.” He touched his right temple, not taking his eyes off Hutch.

Hutch stared back at him. Shivers ran through him like low amplitude propagating waves. “It’s a memory!” he whispered. “Starsk, it’s a memory! A real one. It’s gotta be. How else could you possibly know all that?”

Starsky swallowed. “I dunno. Maybe someone told me. I mean maybe I was the one who told someone, years ago. And then I heard it somewhere after I lost my memory and—”

“You told no one!” Hutch cried and grabbed him by the arms. “You wouldn’t have done that. What happened on that roof was special. It was between you and me. We never told anyone. We never even talked to each other about it, afterward!” A sob forced itself from his throat. “You remember, you remember! There’s no other explanation. Starsky, Starsky. God, Starsky.”

He was incoherent, drunk with hope. His hands were around Starsky’s face. Tears blinded him. He didn’t recognize the terrible sound that escaped from his throat. All his self-control was washing away in a flood of hope and joy and renewal. He was losing it.

Starsky had him by the arms. “There’s more,” he said. The words started tumbling out in a mad rush. “The ground was all rough. I felt it under my hands when you held me, and…and there was something rotten in a corner. I remember the smell. Hutch, do you remember that? Or am I imagining it?”

“No, I remember it, too. There was some trash up there. I’d forgotten about that.”

“And the crack in the skylight. Do you remember that crack? One of the panes was broken. I saw that so clearly, I don’t know why.” His voice threatened to crack like that window pane. “You’re right, Hutch, it’s a memory. It’s gotta be! I remember something. I remember!”

They stared at each other in breathless wonder. Both moved at the same time. A final barrier tumbled as their bodies came together. Their arms went around each other and they clung to each other with all their strength. The chill had fled Starsky’s body. He was glowing, radiating heat like a furnace.

They pulled back to look each other in the face. Starsky looked utterly overcome. When Hutch moved as if to rise, his hands shot out and put a grip on Hutch’s dressing gown that made the shoulder seams creak. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go away. I need you.”

There was no doubt in Hutch’s mind what Starsky meant, none at all. He swallowed thickly. Then he put his hands around Starsky’s face and drew him into a long, lingering kiss. When they surfaced after what felt like an eon, Starsky looked dazed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Hutch told him, full of a wild new-found joy. “I’m here, I’m right here. I’m not leaving you.”

ooOOOoo

Hutch entered a state of peculiar weightlessness as if gravity no longer held a grip on his world—a world where everything was familiar and nothing was quite the same as before.

He was back in his own bed, the one he’d shared with Starsky, wrapped around his partner who clung to him as if he feared Hutch might change his mind and walk away.

As if he would. He tightened his hold, wishing he had more limbs to hold his partner close. The sensation of Starsky in his arms, his solid strength, his warm scent, the small fragment of a returned memory—it all overwhelmed him. He wanted to get closer, closer.

He kissed Starsky again, couldn’t stop kissing him now that he’d started. His exhaustion had dropped away long ago and in its place there was a boundless sense of liberty as if his heart had been freed from a cage too small to contain it.

It wasn’t the same as before, it would never be the same again, but it was so much more than he’d dreamed possible only an hour ago. It was a gift, and he wasn’t about to squander it. Not this time.

His hands started moving over the beloved body. It had been so long, so long. He explored the broad back and slender waist before his hand slipped lower to the top of Starsky’s briefs. His heart beat faster. He was about to slide his hand inside when Starsky stopped him with a look and a single word. “Wait.”

Hutch froze. “Wait? But….” I thought you wanted this.

“I do,” Starsky said. “I want it. But I gotta tell you…I mean you gotta know that….”

“Know what?”

“That this is all I remember, just this one single moment from five years ago. I don’t remember anything else.” Starsky held his gaze. “And maybe I never will. Maybe this is all I’ll ever have.”

“You don’t know that,” Hutch said quickly. “This could be just the first of many. This one came back, maybe the others will, too.” He heard the eagerness in his voice, rich with a renewed surge of hope.

But Starsky didn’t seem to share it. “But what if they don’t?” he said. “What if this is the only one? This one came back because of some pretty weird coincidences. That ain’t never gonna happen again.”

They gazed at each other from two inches apart. Uncertainty lurked in the depths of Starsky’s blue eyes. And Hutch finally got it. It wasn’t his memory Starsky was worried about. It was Hutch. Starsky wasn’t sure of him—and small wonder after all the dramatics Hutch had pulled on him recently.

In a flash of clarity Hutch saw what he’d failed to see in the weeks of his misery. Starsky had done everything in his power to become the man Hutch needed him to be, but it had never been enough. Hutch had always wanted more—the real Starsky, the man with all his memories intact, the partner he’d lost all those weeks ago. Nothing less than the real deal would do. He’d made that clear in so many unspoken ways.

No wonder Starsky thought of his memories as a precondition to being loved.

Hutch recalled that he still had grounds to make up in the department of trust. His heart ached with the realization of what he’d put his partner through. It was time to put an end to his misery.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said very clearly. “I don’t care if you never remember another thing. I don’t care what you do and don’t remember. You’re here. We’re together. I love you. Unconditionally. I love you just the way you are. And I’ll still love you when you’re old and decrepit and have lost all your marbles and confuse me with the postman or the pizza delivery guy.”

Starsky lay very still and the look in eyes had turned soft and warm. “But what about the connection?” he said. “You said it was the most important thing. That without it, all this would be meaningless.”

Hutch bit his lip. Had he really said that? He moved his thumbs over the familiar face, drank in the sight of those deep blue eyes.

“I was wrong,” he said. “I love you more than anything in this world, with or without the connection. I love you. I need you. That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, but—”

Hutch leaned down and sealed his mouth with a kiss. “No more buts,” he said. “That’s the way it is. Unconditional, no matter what.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize.”

ooOOOoo

The kiss that followed was everything Hutch could have dreamed of during the lonely weeks of his exile to the room across the hall. It was warm and sweet and full of a lifetime of promise. A sound escaped Starsky’s throat as he leaned into it, a raw sound of need and hunger. When they broke apart, he sat up, rolled Hutch over and sat astride of him.

“You,” he said, “are wearing way too many clothes. Get outta this thing already.”

He hauled on the sleeve of Hutch’s robe, causing the fraying cloth to part company with the rest of the garment. Hutch twisted around to allow Starsky to strip it from his shoulders. The t-shirt was next. Starsky didn’t stop until he had Hutch naked on the bed.

Energy crackled through him, electrifying Hutch. Stripping Starsky of his briefs was a job of seconds. He felt Starsky’s hands roam over his body on a journey of exploration, let his own hands rediscover achingly familiar territory.

When Hutch reached down and took hold of him, Starsky almost jumped. Excitement and anticipation glowed on his face, mingled with just a trace of uncertainty.

“Go easy on me, will ya?” he said with a flash of that crooked smile. “It’s still kinda the first time.”

Hutch kissed him again. “I’ll make you fly,” he promised. “I’ll take you to heaven and back.”

And he did. His own needs forgotten, he drew on every ounce of knowledge he had of his partner’s body to rouse the passion he knew lay locked within. He wanted this to be perfect. This was Starsky who, in his former life, had known every trick and move in the book, plus a few that weren’t. To make love to him as if it were the first time was a chance that would never come again.

He decided to keep it simple. They were neither of them in any shape for the heavy stuff. He started to stroke the base of Starsky’s shaft, taking his time over the task. “How’s that?” he said.

“Mmm, feels good.”

“And that?”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah….”

“Okay, and how about this?”

“Holy shit! Holy shh—” Starsky’s fingers found their way into Hutch’s hair and hung on. “Dammit, Hutch, will you stop torturing me and get on with it? I’m dying here.”

Hutch grinned. He had no intentions of rushing it. Ignoring his own growing urgency, he shifted downward until Starsky’s straining erection caressed his cheek. He kissed it with great tenderness, then bent over it and took the velvety head into his mouth. Starsky’s breathing quickened.

Hutch ran his tongue around the top and explored the small ridges and creases he knew so well. Beside him, Starsky made familiar little animal noises, a symphony in Hutch’s ear.

Turning on the heat, he gave it all he had to bring Starsky out in a sweat. And when he had, he eased off and sat back.

Starsky groaned. “You’re not gonna leave me here like this, are you? Hutch, please….”

Hutch looked him over. Starsky’s eyes were half closed, his body tense with anticipation. His chest lifted and fell with fractured breathing. He had one leg drawn up and bent sideways to allow unrestricted access to the sensitive area below. A thin sheen of sweat covered his skin. He was ready.

Hutch bent down and took him in, all of him. Starsky’s hips pushed up to meet him. A shout of joy escaped his lips. His body trembled as Hutch worked his magic.

When Starsky came, with a long breathless shudder, it was like the release of some long pent-up pressure, a small explosion, and Hutch gulped the precious fluid as fast as he could.

He’d missed this so much, so much. The taste of Starsky, the heat of his body, the small delicious details of his arousal that drove Hutch mad with a rapture all of its own.

He didn’t need to look at Starsky to know that he’d done good. Starsky’s body glowed with light and pleasure. And the way he reached out and pulled Hutch down beside him and wrapped his arms around him and kissed him spoke more volumes than the contents of Jefferson Library.

They lay together, belly to belly, for a long moment, just breathing and feeling each other’s heartbeats until Hutch’s still very much aroused cock could no longer be ignored.

“Okay, your turn now,” Starsky whispered and kissed him again. His hand ran over Hutch’s side and hip and down to his now painfully straining erection. “What do you want? What do you like? Some of the same?”

The answer came to him like a flash and Hutch knew exactly what it was that he wanted. No heavy stuff, he’d decided, but….

He wanted it. Needed it. Needed to feel Starsky inside him. Starsky was ready for it. The blow job had only increased his need.

Hutch sat up and turned, his eyes never leaving Starsky’s face. Inched backward until Starsky’s still semi-hard cock rested, warm and moist, against his lower back.

Starsky’s eyes widened. “You want me to…?”

“Only if you want to.”

Starsky hesitated. “I do, but…. Geez, Hutch, ain’t no way I’m gonna fit inside of you.”

“Yes, you will. Trust me. Pass me the lube. It’s in one of the drawers.”

“The lube?”

Hutch blinked. Damn, he’d forgotten. He reached over his partner’s naked body and retrieved the tube himself. Starsky stared at the nondescript container.

“That’s the lube? You mean we use that for…?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “And I thought it was someone’s old hair gel or something. I used it to rub on my holster.” A light sparkled in his eyes. “To soften the leather.”

A bubble of laughter welled up from deep inside Hutch and broke free. The action felt alien, and he did it again, aware of the look of amazement on Starsky’s face. Then Starsky joined in and they laughed until Hutch felt tears running down his cheeks and they had to hold onto each other for support.

Starsky moaned. “Christ, Hutch, I had no idea it would be like this.”

A fresh wave of warmth and joy rolled over Hutch. He swallowed. “C’mon, I’ll grease you up.”

Starsky’s cock had lost none of its vigor and it responded to the fresh attention with enthusiasm. Again Hutch turned. Maneuvered himself into position.

Starsky eyed him with a touch of uncertainty. His eagerness deflated a little. “We’ve done this before, right?”

“Many times,” Hutch assured him. He was on the edge. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. “Go on. It’ll all come back to you.”

And it did. The last of the misery of the past weeks dropped away when Hutch felt his partner inside him, joining their bodies. They started moving together in an almost forgotten harmony. When Starsky reached around and took hold of his cock, Hutch almost shouted with the exquisite fire the touch sent through his groin. Their bodies slid moistly against each other, slick with their mingled sweat. Together they rocked to the rhythm of Starsky’s thrusts.

Starsky came first. With a strangled shout of “-tch—” he plunged in deep for a final time, shuddered, before everything about him went very still. Hutch cried out as he followed a moment later.

Together they fell, covered in sweat and sticky fluids. With limbs as limp as jello, Starsky was out for the count. Many moments passed before he found the strength to lift an arm and curl it around his partner.

“That was…damn, that was….”

“Good?”

“Good? It was fucking amazing. How did you know I had all these feelings inside of me? I didn’t even know it myself.”

“I know you,” Hutch said. “I know everything about you. I think I know your body better than I know my own.”

“You got the advantage on me there. Looks like I got a lotta catching up to do.” Starsky trailed a hand over Hutch’s smooth flank, then tugged at him a little. “Come here and hold me, will ya? I think I’m floating away.”

Hutch was only too happy to oblige. Starsky nestled against him and made himself comfortable. They lay in silence for a while, savoring each other’s closeness.

“Was it this good when we did this the first time?” Starsky finally said.

“The first time?” An image of a mountain cabin and a roaring fire sprang to Hutch’s mind and with it a memory of an overwhelming sense of joy and gratitude and closeness and love, and the knowledge of a brand new beginning.

He smiled at the memory. “We sure thought so at the time. We thought it was the most mindblowing thing since sex was invented. Actually we didn’t have a clue what we were doing. But we had a lot of fun figuring it out.”

Starsky’s eyes were on his face. “God, you’re beautiful when you smile,” he said. He reached out and stroked Hutch’s cheek. “And now you’re blushing. I never saw you like this before. I’m discovering a whole new Hutch today.”

Hutch felt the warmth deepen on his face. “We gotta get some sleep,” he mumbled. “It’s almost four in the morning.”

“Sleep is overrated,” Starsky said and relaxed into Hutch’s arms. “Tell me about that rooftop again. Tell me everything that happened that day. I wanna make absolutely sure it wasn’t just my mind playing tricks on me.”

ooOOOoo

Starsky lay awake in the twilight, just breathing. Hutch had dropped into a shallow slumber. Even in sleep he kept his arms locked around him, chest to chest, as if he feared his partner might dissolve into a vision of smoke and shadows. It was a tight hold, and although Starsky was having trouble breathing, he wished Hutch would hold him even tighter.

He lay quite still and soaked up Hutch’s closeness. Hutch had the most wonderful smell. Starsky wanted to drown himself in that smell. A strand of Hutch’s hair tickled his cheek. Despite his exhaustion, he felt awake, alive in a way he hadn’t known before.

It wasn’t just the amazing trip Hutch had taken him on, mindblowing as that had been. It was something else, something that defied definition.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift back to the memory. A real memory, after all this time. He could hardly believe it. He let his mind roam around it, tasting its flavor as if it were some exotic delicacy—a novelty ice cream, maybe, or one of Hutch’s weird breakfast concoctions.

Again the already familiar sequence took him up the stairs to the starlit roof. Again he lived through the shots and his own fall and the precious, precious memory of Hutch holding him. He remembered the warmth, the feeling of safety in the harbor of Hutch’s arms. And the kiss. Of course, the kiss. Not a kiss of farewell. A kiss of affirmation and love.

And then? What had happened then?

Starsky frowned. Oh yes. After that Hutch had manhandled him down the stairs and into the car and raced him, sirens blaring, back to the hospital. He’d been slumped in the passenger seat, fading in and out of reality while the pain had cascaded over him in waves and Hutch had yelled at him to stay with him, stay with him. He remembered the white tightness of Hutch’s hands around the wheel and the hard lines of fear etched into the corners of Hutch’s mouth.

Memory or imagination?

He wasn’t sure. But then he saw himself under the bright lights of a hospital room and he knew it was real when he heard someone say that they had to take him upstairs now, and he knew that meant that Hutch would have to leave, and he also knew that there was nothing anyone could do for him then, that his luck had run dry and the time had come to say goodbye.

They all knew it. Franklin knew it. Dobey knew it. Only Hutch hadn’t accepted the inevitable. The set of his jaw said it all. Hutch refused to give up. Denial by any other name.

Hutch was going to walk away from him without a last farewell. He couldn’t let that happen. There was still so much to say.

“Hey,” he said. The sound took all of his strength. Hutch stopped, reluctant, as if he knew what was coming. Starsky remembered that so well. He found Hutch’s stubborn gaze and held on. It was too late for words. All he could do was lock eyes with him. A bubble closed around them and shut out the world, and the words he needed to say filled the space between them.

I love you. I’ll miss you. A part of me will always be with you.

And Hutch was somehow inside him and all around him, too, as if they suffused each other and together made something wonderful and new. It locked them together and made them one. For the briefest moment only and then it was over. The lights dimmed and Hutch’s face went fuzzy, the bubble dissolved and there was darkness. And in the familiar reality of his bedroom Starsky opened his eyes with an overwhelming sense of astonishment.

There was no hospital room and no bright light. There was no darkness either. He was in his own bed, with Hutch warm and safe beside him. The memory of the bubble suffused him. Something had happened inside it, something that defied explanation.

When Hutch settled deeper into sleep, relaxing his grip, Starsky got up on an elbow and gazed at his sleeping companion’s face, a face so familiar to him now, he could hardly recall the time when he had thought of the man as a stranger.

Hutch. Beautiful Hutch. Starsky couldn’t stop looking at him. He reached out and traced a finger over Hutch’s upper lip. He felt on the cusp of something as if he were riding a tall wave ready to crest.

And there it was, all of a sudden, without fanfare or warning—the thing he’d sensed inside the bubble. A stronger, brighter version of it. Welling up as if from the raw center of his soul, it spread to his toes and fingertips and set every cell in his body buzzing with the breathtaking truth of what they were, he and Hutch, together.

It felt right. It felt just the way it should be. It made him think of a gate closing or a lock snapping shut. Two parts that belonged together, one forever incomplete without the other. What good was half a lock?

He knew right away that this was what Hutch had been talking about. It was the connection, a bond so old, it seemed to stretch through the ages into the past and forward to futures still to come. It was weird and wonderful, just like he’d thought. It was something so strange, he couldn’t think of a word for it.

Excitement raced through him, and Hutch stirred in his sleep as if he knew.

“Hutch,” Starsky whispered and leaned over him. He kissed the soft lips very tenderly. “Wake up.” His voice shook a little. “I remember something else.”

Hutch was awake in an instant, bolt upright in the bed and staring him in the face.

Starsky laughed a little. Tears pricked the insides of his lids. “I love you,” he said. “I love you so much.” He kissed Hutch again.

A softness came over Hutch’s face, an expression both tender and bittersweet. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

Starsky shook his head. “You don’t understand. I love you. Look.”

He put his hands around Hutch’s face and aligned their eyes. The thing that had no name wrapped itself around them and drew them close. They connected with what was an almost physical sensation. Hutch started shaking.

“I remember!” Starsky said, buoyed by a sweeping joy. “I remember us. I remember how much I love you.”

And Hutch put down his head and wept.

 

XIII

The night didn’t hold much sleep after that. Every moment seemed too precious to waste on oblivion. Hutch couldn’t keep his hands off Starsky, or his eyes. He felt brittle, like a glass doll shattered and glued together again from far too many pieces. He’d fallen apart. Again. He knew it and he didn’t care.

Starsky had just held him, his steady heartbeat a calming counterpoint to the wild pounding in his own chest.

The memory, the memory—they talked about it endlessly, all of it, again and again. They couldn’t get enough of it. They were on a high, drunk on five-year-old memories of a dusty rooftop and a brightly lit emergency room.

And touching. The night was full of touch. Hutch couldn’t stop running his hands over the beloved body, every inch and hidden nook of it. He was in a fever, a delirium. He wanted to crawl inside his partner’s skin and never come out.

But most of all, there was the connection, the first tentative stirrings of the precious lifeline that tied them both together. Hutch couldn’t get enough of it. Again and again he let his eyes roam over Starsky’s face, let himself fall into the dark blue eyes that were shining with the new light of awareness, to make sure, to make absolutely certain that this was real, and not a creation of his overactive mind.

Between talking and touching and soaking up their togetherness, they took it in turns to snatch a moment’s sleep. But even in the depth of unconsciousness, Hutch kept a tight hold on Starsky, unable to let go.

Once he cried out in the twilight of a dream, waking himself as he did so. The sound of his partner’s name still rang in his ears as he came around. The arms around him were firm and familiar, and so was the voice, and the connection.

“Shhh. It’s all right. I’m here. Go back to sleep. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Hutch only complied when he had opened his eyes and verified what his heart told him. That Starsky was there, that he had come back to him.

When he surfaced for good much later the next morning, it was to an almost forgotten sense of wellbeing and the knowledge of a new beginning in a shiny, brand new world.

Hutch knew the feeling well. There had been so many of these awakenings over the years. Each time the promise of a new start felt a little more precious. And this time was more special still, a resurrection, a homecoming after an odyssey through a dark valley of fear.

He’d come a long way.

Beside him, Starsky sprawled like a starfish all over the bed. He had an arm thrown across Hutch’s chest and his legs were tangled up in the sheets. In sleep he looked relaxed and peaceful. All the lines he had acquired in the past weeks had been smoothed away.

He’d come an even longer way, the longest.

Hutch gazed at him with a heart so full, it felt like a knot in his chest. He took in the small mole on Starsky’s cheek, the chiseled shape of his rugged face, the way the long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks as he slept.

I almost lost you. Again. And you came back to me. Again. How many more times can we do this?

He stayed like that, just looking, for what felt like a very long time until Starsky stirred and his blue eyes opened slowly, languidly. Hutch held his breath.

“Hey,” Starsky said and gave him a sleepy smile.

Hutch’s throat constricted. “Hey,” he said very softly.

Starsky stirred like a lazy cat, naked and not in the least bit self-conscious about it. “What’s the time?”

“Almost lunch time. We slept right through the morning.”

“Good. Let’s stay in bed until tomorrow.” He reached for Hutch and pulled him down for a kiss. Starsky’s lips tasted of sleep and sex and something else uniquely Starsky. It was a heady mix that put goosebumps all the way down Hutch’s back.

He groaned and fell into the kiss. Starsky’s hands came up to steady his head. Hutch felt the warmth of his fingers right through his scalp, and the heat of his tongue in his mouth, exploring. He joined the action enthusiastically. A part of him still felt raw and fragile, held in the tenacious grip of half-belief.

“Tell me,” he muttered between kisses. “Tell me.”

“I remember you,” Starsky told him for about the twentieth time. He pulled Hutch closer. “I remember us. I remember that I love you.”

So much. To be given so much in the face of certain defeat. Hutch’s whole world was spinning and only the arms into which he found himself enfolded stopped him from tumbling off the edge of it. He wanted to stay like that forever, wrapped up in the arms of the man he loved.

Starsky had different ideas. Detaching himself, he took Hutch’s hand and guided it to his hardening cock. “Do this thing to me you did last night,” he said in a husky voice. “This thing with your hand, the one where you….”

Hutch grinned and reached for him. “This, you mean?”

He had the satisfaction of seeing Starsky’s eyes roll back in rapture.

They made love, slept some more, made love again. Making up for lost time.

And afterward they talked. There was still so much to talk about. About the memory, and the other one in the hospital, two memories really, a small treasure trove. Sitting up against the headboard with the sheets tucked around their legs, they teased out the details, explored the hidden depths.

“Why now?” Starsky said at one point. “I been tryin’ so hard to get my memories back and nothing worked. Why now?”

Hutch ran a finger down his arm. “You were scared,” he said. “For me. You thought you were going to lose me. That’s a pretty strong emotion. Maybe it was the jolt you needed.”

Starsky gazed at him. “Damn right, I was scared. I thought you were dead.” He drew a deep breath. “When he shot you and I saw you fall…. I knew there was no way he could’ve missed you. I was so damn scared.”

Hutch hugged him. “And then there were all those weird similarities,” he said. “Those stairs, and the rooftop, and the way he came at me. Something about it must’ve really jogged your memory.”

“Jolimont’s aha moment.”

“That’s right, the aha moment.”

Starsky shook his head. “I thought she was nuts for going on about it. Turns out she was right all along. I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her about this. She’s gonna have kittens.”

His gaze traveled lazily around the room from the piles of discarded clothes on the floor, to the crooked blinds, the crumpled bed, and their own disheveled, sticky selves until it came to rest on Hutch’s face and the small patch of gauze that still covered his temple. With infinite care he pushed the hair back with his thumbs and stroked the skin on either side of it.

“We gotta get this tidied up,” he said. “You’re coming all undone here.”

“I’m fine,” Hutch said, and for the first time in months the statement couldn’t have been more true. Despite that he submitted readily when Starsky rolled him out of bed and towed him off to the bathroom.

There was no awkward morning shuffle in the hall this time. Instead, they pushed into the room together, almost tripping over each other as Starsky propelled him into the shower, pressed in behind him and slid the door shut. Squashed against each other, washing became a delightful challenge.

Afterward Hutch sat on the edge of the bathtub while Starsky dabbed disinfectant on the wound and replaced the gauze with a plaster. Still damp and naked, they shared the sink as Starsky wielded his toothbrush and Hutch ran a razor over his cheeks.

It was all new to Starsky, but he took to it like a bird to the air. No faking.

The joy that swept Hutch’s being was intense enough to hurt. Setting down the razor, he wrapped both arms around Starsky’s slender hips and rubbed his newly smooth cheek against Starsky’s still stubbly one.

“Mmhm,” said Starsky around his toothbrush. “Mmm.”

They grinned at each other in the mirror. Hutch took in the image: Starsky’s rugged features beside his own much paler appearance, Starsky’s wiry curls mingling with his own short strands of hair, the light and the dark, so different, and yet so much the same.

He let his hand run from Starsky’s flat stomach to the faint network of scars that crisscrossed his broad chest under a mat of curly hair. Starsky held his gaze in the mirror as Hutch caressed the shallow ridges one by one. The bathroom lights threw Starsky’s muscular torso into high relief, and Hutch felt a pinch of relief to see that his own recent efforts in the gym had paid off and his biceps started to fill out again.

Starsky seemed to think so, too, as he turned and circled Hutch’s upper arms with his hands, feeling the strength there and clearly enjoying the firmness of the muscles he encountered.

Hutch smiled a little as he flexed his arms. “Not like Felicity, huh?” he said before he could stop himself.

“Who?” Starsky looked blank. “Oh, Felicity!” His face fell a little. “You’re not still hung up about her, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I know you love me.”

“Damn right I do. And don’t you forget it.” He took Hutch’s cock, now soft and limp from exhaustion, into his hand. “Not like Felicity at all,” he muttered. “Definitely not like Felicity.”

He leaned in and kissed Hutch lightly on the lips. “I love you,” he said. “I could say it all day long. I love you, I love you. I think I’ve always loved you.”

“Three years and counting,” Hutch said.

“You kissed me,” Starsky reminded him. “On that rooftop. And that was five years ago.”

Hutch smiled. “It wasn’t that kind of a kiss then.”

“You even used the ‘L’ word.”

“I told you lots of times that I loved you. It wasn’t that kind of love then either.”

“Are you sure? How do you know? Maybe it was.”

“Maybe it was,” Hutch agreed, “and we just didn’t know it.”

The sense of wellbeing that had taken over the reins of his body stirred to admit another, very different, almost as forgotten a sensation. “You know what?” he said, surprised. “I’m hungry. Let’s call out for a pizza.”

Starsky gave him an odd look. “Aren’t you forgetting something? We gotta go to work today. Late shift, you said. It’s almost time to go.”

Hutch came down to earth with a bump. Work? The very idea seemed alien. Too much had happened in too short a time. He didn’t want to think about Metro, or Dobey, or the consequences of the previous day’s escapade. He wanted to lock all the doors, take the phone off the hook, and crawl back into bed with Starsky.

How could Starsky be thinking about going to work at a time like this?

“We have to,” Starsky insisted. “I have to read Bellamy’s file again. Just to make sure I got the details right, you know?” He added, “I don’t have much time left before I’m out on my ass. This may be my last chance to lay my hands on it.”

Of course. A light went on inside Hutch’s head. He smiled. “I have a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t we go past Bellamy’s old place? Then you can check out the roof with your own two eyes. We can grab a bite to eat on the way. And after that we might as well go in and see Dobey before he blows a gasket.”

ooOOOoo

Dobey didn’t blow a gasket although he gave it his very best shot.

“What the hell did you think you were doing? You weren’t cleared for street duty. You weren’t covered, you weren’t insured. You know you can’t go off and respond to a call on a whim. No solo trips! How many times have I told you that?”

He sounded like Dobey, but a weary, more careworn version of the man, and although he went on in the same vein for a considerable length of time, it was clear that his heart wasn’t in it.

Nor did Starsky manage to get into the swing of things. “Someone had to respond,” he said, sounding lame. “And we were only a couple of streets away.”

Hutch, still walking on air, followed the exchange from the lofty heights of exhilaration. Nothing could touch him today, not even Dobey’s righteous anger. He might as well have been on a different planet.

His captain wasn’t slow to notice. “What’s the matter with you two?” he growled with a penetrating glare at his detectives. “You win the lottery or something? The least you can do is wipe those grins off your faces while I’m bawling you out.”

He reached inside his jacket, withdrew a large pink-patterned handkerchief and proceeded to wipe his brow with it. “I should have you both on traffic duty,” he grumbled as he lowered himself into his chair. “You can thank your lucky stars that your release came through today or you would both be up to your necks in trouble.”

Starsky looked at him with surprise. “My release? You mean they reinstated me?”

“Of course they reinstated you. What did you expect?”

“But the report from St. John’s?”

“Received and filed. But I wouldn’t call it a report. One page statement would be more accurate. All it said was that you’ve recovered from a concussion and associated complications.” Dobey shook his head. “God knows what took them so long to come to that conclusion. I could’ve told them that weeks ago.”

Starsky stood like one stunned. Hutch, by contrast, felt faint. Montgomery. The man had come through with the goods after all. Hutch wasn’t sure if he should feel horror or relief.

He felt neither. What did it matter compared to the delicious warmth of Starsky’s arm pressing against his own, the solidity of his presence, shoulder to shoulder with him, and the surge of joy and gratitude that buoyed his senses? He said, “And Cowan is okay with that?”

“Sure he’s okay with it,” Dobey said. “Why wouldn’t he be? Of course he would’ve preferred a proper report with all the details and test results and what have you but we all know what these specialists are like. They play their cards close to their chests.”

Dobey picked up a folder and held it out. “Here’s your new case. A double homicide over in Altona. Forensics are still at the scene, but the ME should have a preliminary report for you by now. Take a look and let me know what you think. I want results on this one and pronto. No more private parties!”

Hutch took the file and opened it. “Is Cowan getting back to them for more details?” he asked in his most casual voice.

“St. John’s, you mean? I doubt it. What’s the point? Starsky is fine, and that’s all we need to know.”

Starsky finally stirred. He turned his head very slowly and fastened his gaze on Hutch’s face. The look was pure Starsky and it penetrated Hutch to the core.

Hutch looked away. “Oh well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” he said brightly and squinted at a close-up of the crime scene.

“Hey, what’s that we hear?” Babcock said at that moment and stuck his head through the open door. “They cleared you? You mean you’re finally getting off that lazy butt of yours and lending us a hand out there?”

“Looks like it,” Starsky said. He was still looking at Hutch.

“You mean you remember everything now?” Simmons broke in as he leaned around his partner. “Even what happened in Leibovich’s center?”

“No,” Hutch said before Starsky could. “He lost the days before the fight. The doctors say that’s normal. They think it’s unlikely he’s gonna get those back.”

Starsky’s eyes felt like drill bits on his face.

“Too bad,” Babcock said, still hugging the door frame. “Imagine the looks on the Feds’ faces if we told them we know what’s going on in there.”

A clutch of regretful looks made the rounds.

“Never mind the Leibovich case,” Dobey said briskly. “We got three new homicides and a dozen older cases to solve. Now that I finally got all my detectives cleared for action, maybe we can make a dent in that figure. You all know what to do. Any questions?”

“No, Cap’n.”

Dobey straightened. “In that case I suggest you get your asses outta here and hit the streets.”

“Sure thing, Cap’n.”

“Will do, Cap’n.”

Babcock and Simmons peeled away. Starsky nodded at Dobey and walked out. Hutch followed.

ooOOOoo

Starsky didn’t utter a single word until they reached the hall and he had Hutch cornered in the nook between the water cooler and the candy machine. Then he pierced him with a hard stare and said, “All right, what did you do?”

No need for elaboration. He knew. Of course he did. Hutch could hardly believe he had once thought that Starsky might never have to find out. Whether it was the returned memory or the newfound connection that crackled between them like a live wire and grew stronger by the minute, Starsky saw through him almost as well as before. There was no hiding from him anymore.

Renewed joy flooded Hutch’s veins and washed away the twinge of guilt. Besides, he was tired of feeling guilty all the time. He decided to tough it out. “Nothing you wouldn’t have done yourself if our roles had been reversed,” he said.

“You went to the Feds, right?”

Hutch nodded.

“Kurzweil?”

“Montgomery.”

“Montgomery? I thought he was the tough one. How did you get him to do it?”

“I, uh, appealed to his better nature. He said he’d have to think about it.” Hutch hesitated. “I didn’t think he’d do it.”

Starsky was silent for so long, Hutch was beginning to fear the worst. But when their eyes met, Starsky’s were bright with an eerie light of complicity.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “Right now we better go and check out that crime scene. Dobey will go ballistic if he comes out and still finds us here.”

They had almost reached the stairs when Starsky’s step faltered and he stopped to stare at Hutch.

“I can’t tell her now, can I?” he said. “Jolimont, I mean. I can’t even go and see her again. I’m officially discharged. No more tests, no more therapies.”

Hutch hadn’t thought of that. He’d deprived Starsky of possibly vital medical attention. Again the stab of guilt, half expected, always lurking, failed to materialize.

Starsky cast him a look, walked into the nearest office and over to the first unattended desk. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Dr. Jolimont, please. It’s David Starsky.”

A minute later he dropped the implement back on its cradle. “She wouldn’t take the call,” he said. “That was Dr. Wong. He said my case is closed and there’s nothing more they can do for me. And then he hung up.” He drew in a breath. “Looks like we’re on our own now.”

We. The use of the plural made Hutch’s heart sing. It made him realize how much he had dreaded Starsky finding out. “You mean you’re not mad at me?”

Starsky looked at him. “I don’t know. No. Yes. Maybe. I gotta think about it. I’m just so goddamn happy right now, the old brain ain’t exactly firing on all cylinders.”

Hutch swallowed. Starsky’s honesty had always taken his breath away. A warm light danced in Starsky’s eyes. Whatever happens, we’re in it together, it said.

They moved toward each other by instinct, stopped by instinct, too.

Starsky tore his eyes away and withdrew from the danger zone with what looked like a Herculean effort. “I’ll go and, uh, get the ME’s report,” he said in a strangled-sounding voice. “Meet you at the car.” And then he practically galloped from the room.

Hutch took a moment to adjust his face and breathing. He was about to follow his partner out when a thought came to him. He reached for the phone Starsky had just put down and dialed.

“The number you have dialed is no longer in service,” the stiff-voweled voice of a recording informed him. Montgomery, true to his word, had covered his tracks. Hutch doubted they would ever meet again.

He replaced the phone thoughtfully. One of these days he would have to tell Starsky what Montgomery’s parting words to him had been.

ooOOOoo

A murder case, a shady deal, an angry captain—none of it had the power to penetrate. Somehow they made it through their shift. Somehow they made it home without crashing the car. They even made it all the way through the front door before they fell on each other, mouths locked together, desperate hands tearing at sleeves and zippers.

Not stopping to turn on the lights or draw the blinds, they stumbled into the living room. The couch was all they needed. And then they made love to each other as if it was their final day on earth.

Afterward they lay among the scattered cushions, limp and tingling with life all at the same time.

“Christ, what are you doing to me?” Starsky muttered, exhausted. “I haven’t felt this way since I was fifteen and lusting after Georgia from next door.”

Hutch smiled a little. He knew the story well. He had to remind himself that, with the exception of a single memory, Starsky was as amnesiac as ever and all his references to the past as fake as before. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

What mattered were the changes. Everything was different now. The new light in Starsky’s eyes, the perceptive smile on his face, the way he seemed to see right into Hutch to the remotest corner of his soul.

It was overwhelming, and it was all down to the connection. The vital bond was back and as far as Hutch was concerned that was all that mattered. To hell with the rest of the memories.

But then they started trickling back anyway.

Dawn wasn’t far away when they finally swapped the couch for the infinitely greater comforts of the bed. Hutch lay on his side with Starsky pressed against him all the way down to his toes. The room was dark and peaceful. He was about to drop away into the fuzzy realm of dreams when Starsky stirred behind him.

“Hutch?”

“Mmm?”

“I think I know this. I’ve seen this before. I mean us, together like this.”

Hutch shifted around and faced him, couldn’t make out more than his outline.

“At first I thought it was a dream,” Starsky said in the darkness. “We were in this room together. Everything was made of wood and there was this enormous fireplace. We were in front of the fire. And then we kissed.” His voice grew animated. “I think it’s that cabin you were telling me about. The one beside the lake. Not Dobey’s, the other one.”

The cabin. Another milestone in their lives, the most important, maybe. Hutch still couldn’t think of that time without a lump forming in his throat. He swallowed. “You mean you’re remembering that?”

“I must be. Why else would I be seeing it so clearly? I even remember how I drove up there to find you. I was so scared I wouldn’t find you. And then I crashed the car and—” He broke off. “Wait a minute. That can’t be right. I must’ve known where you were. I mean we went up there together, didn’t we? I thought…. But I remember how….”

His voice faded to a puzzled silence. The next thing the mattress bounced and brightness flooded the room. Hutch blinked, found Starsky staring at him with a look of utter dismay on his face.

“Yes, I remember!” he said. “I remember the whole thing. We had a fight, didn’t we? Over some woman. I-I punched you! I said some terrible things to you. It took me forever to realize that…. But when I went to your place, you’d left and I didn’t know where you were….” His eyes grew a little wider with every fresh memory as it dropped into place. “God, Hutch, I had no idea all this happened. You never told me about this. What if I hadn’t found you? We would’ve lost each other.”

“But you did find me,” Hutch reminded him. “And we made up and—”

“And we kissed for the first time! Right in front of that fire. It was wonderful! How could I forget that? How could I forget you?” Moisture gleamed in his eyes. “I forgot you,” he whispered. “I couldn’t remember you at all. How could I forget the most important thing in my life?”

Distress vied with amazement and a few other heavy emotions all jumbled up together. Action was required. Hutch pushed him down, hooked a leg over his hip and pinned him to the mattress with his body and a kiss. “You remember now,” he said when he’d released Starsky’s mouth. “That’s all that matters. You remember.”

He crushed their cocks together. Within seconds they were both rock hard again. Starsky was like a madman under Hutch’s hands. He came with a cry and a shudder and an eruption that soaked the sheets. Seconds later he had dropped into a coma-like oblivion.

Hutch, still hard, accomplished his own release, before padding the sticky spot with a sheet and pulling the covers around them. Starsky lay like one dead, the only sign of life the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. Hutch wondered if that should worry him, decided against it, hooked an arm around Starsky and closed his eyes.

He didn’t wake until the light of the midday sun found its way through the chinks of the blinds. The warm presence beside him had gone. An exploratory arm soon determined that the space beside him was empty. He opened his eyes, a little surprised at the sense of wellbeing that flooded his system. Every cell in his body seemed to be celebrating. Giving his tattered robe a miss, he pulled on some pants and a sweatshirt and went in search of his partner.

He found him in the living room and for a moment it seemed as if he had entered a time warp and gone several weeks back in time. Starsky had pulled out all the photo albums and left them in piles all over the room. He was on the couch among the still scattered cushions, a leather-bound tome open on his knees.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said when Hutch dropped down beside him. “I just had to make sure I….”

Pictures of the lake and the cabin were all over the place. Dated from a later visit, they nevertheless showed everything Starsky had needed to see—the room, the bed, the fireplace. The cabin nestling among the trees. Hutch’s car parked in the shade beside it. Hutch, of course.

Starsky picked up a photo of Hutch sitting on the wooden steps of the porch with his guitar cradled on his lap and the broadest smile on his face. “See this?”

Hutch eyed his paper image. “What about it?”

“Well, I was looking at this when I suddenly got this really weird feeling that I’d seen you like this somewhere else.”

Hutch’s heart skipped a beat. “Another memory?”

Starsky made a show of casual cool, failing entirely to pull it off. “I think so. But not of the cabin.”

He turned back the pages, pushed the album toward Hutch. The photos showed a small cottage with a tree growing right next to the entrance.

“Here,” he said, tapping the page. “My old apartment. I remember it. The time we lived there together after I got shot. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of this couch. I remember we made out on it once, just like last night.” His face grew bright and animated. “I know it’s a memory ’cause I remember stuff that’s not in the pictures. Your guitar was over there. You were always hogging that end of the couch when you played. And over in the corner was where you kept your potting stuff. Your plants were all over the balcony, right?”

Hutch nodded, unable to trust his voice.

“I see it all so clearly. It’s not in the picture, but I can see it anyway.” Starsky looked up. Sunlight crept onto the porch and in through the French doors and bathed his features in an eerie, almost unnatural glow. “They’re coming back,” he whispered. “They’re all coming back. I can’t believe it.”

Something fluttered in Hutch’s chest like a small bird trying to get out. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathed in deeply. Then he opened them and reached for the nearest album on the floor. Venice Place. Perfect. He shoved it into Starsky’s hands and stood.

“Here, look through this one. I’ll go make coffee. And then we’ll go through these with a fine-toothed comb. See what else you can remember.”

ooOOOoo

In the days that followed, memories started popping up from everywhere. They went from a trickle to a flow. Soon they were pouring in thick and fast. The smallest thing could set one off—a face, an image, a leading prompt from Hutch.

The memories with the most punch emerged first, and Hutch featured in every one of them. Hutch trapped under his car in a canyon. Hutch in an isolation ward with the word Starsk written large on the window. Hutch leaning over a hospital bed, looking deliriously happy.

Then other moments that defined Starsky’s past. Prudholm, Terri, Rosey. Marcos.

And finally glimpses of a remoter past. The Academy. Vietnam. New York.

Sometimes the trivial and mundane took equal footing with the heavy stuff. Hutch asleep on the backseat of the car during a stake-out. Starsky taking a bite out of Hutch’s burrito. Sitting with unidentified companions around a table in an unidentified bar.

Some memories surfaced fully formed, complete with vibrant details. Others crept in like shadows from a mist, offering only a glimpse of a forgotten scene.

After a few days, the memories were rolling in so fast, Hutch was beginning to worry about overload and coping capacity. But Starsky seemed to soak it all up without any ill effect other than a vast amount of astonishment at the riches he uncovered.

“I feel like someone who’s lived his whole life in a shack,” he said, struggling to explain the inexplicable, “and then one day he discovers a door he never noticed before and when he opens it, there’s this huge mansion behind it with about a hundred rooms.”

They explored the rooms one by one. Each one added a little more color to the tapestry of Starsky’s life.

Days went by. When they weren’t pouring over pictures or chasing across town on a journey of discovery, they put in overtime shifts at work. They threw themselves at their murder case and cracked it. Took on another, cracked that one too. Everything they touched seemed to turn to gold. Leads appeared, evidence fell in place. Suspects crumbled under the irresistible force of their interrogations.

They were on a roll, and Dobey was ecstatic.

So was Hutch, if for wildly different reasons. He knew they’d reached a watershed when Starsky, trying to get an angle on the smuggling case Dobey had assigned to them that morning, leaned back in the driver’s seat of the Torino and turned to him.

“Let’s skip this whole stake-out maneuver,” he said. “I’m fed up with all this creeping around. We know the guy is guilty as hell. And we know he’s fencing the goods. Let’s just waltz in there like we did with Fat Rolly a few years ago and shove his nose in the evidence. See if he spills the beans.”

“How do you know we—?”

The grin he received could have blinded the sun. “I just remembered it.”

“You did, huh?”

“Uh huh.”

They shared a look. Hutch’s inner thermostat shot up. With difficulty he returned his attention to the job. “All right,” he said, “let’s do it.”

ooOOOoo

Starsky sprawled on the couch with his feet on the coffee table and a can of beer in his hand. In the kitchen Hutch was creating an unholy racket with pots and pans, intent on producing some culinary masterpiece full of vitamins and fiber and stuff. To fuel the memory recovery process, no doubt.

He took a swig from the can and slouched a little lower. He was getting his memories back. It was unbelievable. Bit by bit, the fractured landscape of his life was taking shape. Only that morning he’d seen, quick as lightning, an image of his dad sitting on a bench in Central Park next to a toddling Nicky who was clutching a toy car in one hand and an enormous ice cream cone in the other.

It was mindblowing. Exhilarating like an acid trip. He couldn’t get enough of it. He wanted to tear through the albums and files and every alley and place in town in a mad hunt for memories.

For Hutch’s sake, he’d decided to slow the pace. Because the more he remembered, the more Hutch worried. He’d been throwing around expressions like sensory overload, mental upheaval, post-traumatic stress and other high-faluting vocabulary all week.

Typical. First he couldn’t wait to get his partner’s memory back and then it was all happening too fast for him. But then Hutch was a worrier, always had been. Never happier than when he had something juicy to fret about. Starsky grinned as he luxuriated in the newfound knowledge that made that assessment possible.

Besides, as he had already explained to Hutch, getting his memories back didn’t mean he was re-living them all. A few punchy recollections excepted, most of them seemed quite happy to slide back into place without much fanfare.

“It’s not like I’m goin’ through everything from scratch,” he’d assured a concerned Hutch. “They’re still only memories. I don’t have to work through all the issues again. Okay, some of them are pretty disturbing, but that’s just the same as when you remember something disturbing from your past.”

He’d leaned in and kissed Hutch lightly on the lips. “I’m okay. Really. It’s weird, but most of the time, as soon as I remember something, it feels like I always have, and I can hardly remember what it felt like when I couldn’t. It’s like the memory has never been away. Does that make any sense at all?”

It must have done, because a much happier Hutch had subsequently declared that a celebration was in order and that they were going to have some decent food for a change, home-cooked no less, and with a bottle of wine to boot. And then he’d thrown himself at the preparations.

Starsky smiled as he listened to the comforting sounds of domestic activity coming from next door. Hutch. What an extraordinary, amazing person. Best friend, partner, soulmate, lover.

But not, apparently, a speedy cook. Hutch’s dinner preparations went on and on. Starsky felt his eyelids droop. As an enticing aroma of grilled chicken, mushroom sauce and other rich flavors began to waft into the living room, he set down the beer, stretched out on the couch and closed his eyes.

Almost immediately an image of Hutch appeared. Ah, a new memory. Starsky smiled in anticipation. He loved memories with Hutch in them.

This one showed his partner in decisive action, and although it was grainy and blurred like a movie from the thirties, Starsky had no trouble making out Hutch’s fists flying in a fight against an unseen opponent. A second only, and it was gone.

Starsky frowned as he tried to pin the image down. All he got was a sense of confusion, of darkness, and of people running around. Not enough to go on. He made a face. That was the problem with these flashes. Out of context, they meant nothing. He needed Hutch’s help to nudge the random fragments into a coherent whole.

He put the image aside and closed his eyes again.

The flash returned. This time he saw Hutch clearly. He’d felled his opponent and was snapping on the handcuffs. It was night. A street light lit the scene. Looked like a street brawl was in full swing. The peeling façade of a bar provided a fitting background to the scene.

Starsky gave up and concentrated. Okay. Nighttime. Darkness. A bar. A fight. A street light. Where could that have happened? When? Any identifying features?

A dozen scenarios jumped to mind, none fit the image. It might have been any of the many fights they’d been in over the years. On the other hand….

Slowly the memory expanded. More images dropped into place. There was the face of a woman, white with fear. A thug with more muscles than brain cells. The flash of a fist flying at his face, of his own fist landing a counterpunch.

Not daring to move, Starsky reeled in the scene. Excitement started pumping through his veins. Nighttime, darkness, a bar, a street light? Holy Jesus and Mary!

He sat up. Stared at the wall for a breathless moment, numb and excited both at the same time. Then he filled his lungs with air, threw back his head and yelled, “Huuuutch!”

Something crashed in the kitchen and a second later Hutch came hurtling into the room, a ladle still clutched in one hand.

“I remember,” Starsky gasped at him. “I remember the fight. The fight, Hutch! At the Tivoli. Where I lost my memory. I remember it. I remember the whole thing!”

 

XIV

Hutch sat down and listened. It was an already familiar exercise. In the past couple of weeks, he had become adept at steering Starsky’s unstructured recollections in the right direction. With memories popping up at random all over the place, Hutch could never be sure which one would be next. To his surprise, Starsky had even had glimpses of the undercover case and his first few days in Leibovich’s sprawling center.

The one thing Hutch had never expected him to recall was the night at the Tivoli. That, he’d assumed, would always be a total blank. Yet here Starsky was, recounting that night in detail, and all Hutch found to do was nod and confirm.

“We were in Lonzo’s car,” Starsky said. “We must’ve come straight from the center. When we got to the Tivoli, there were four, no, five guys hanging around outside, and there were a couple of hookers at the corner. Right?”

Hutch nodded, wondering if Starsky had also seen a battered Ford with a distraught Hutch and an annoyed Montgomery inside. He shifted on the couch, unsettled by the memory.

“I see it like it happened yesterday,” Starsky marveled. “I even remember the stupid joke Lonzo cracked when we got out of the car. And right after that, one of those bullies took a swing at that hooker. I didn’t really think about it, I just waded in, and before I knew it I was in the middle of a punch-up.”

Hutch nodded again. He found he was still holding the damn ladle. “Hang on a second,” he said and dashed back into the kitchen to turn the grill and cooker off and pull the mushroom sauce from the heat. Dinner would have to wait.

“All right, and what happened then?” he said when he walked back in.

“Well, I remember the fight. Looked like everyone was in it. A whole buncha people poured out of the bar and joined in. Christ, Hutch, I even remember when that lowlife hit me over the head!”

Hutch put a hand on Starsky’s thigh in silent support but Starsky didn’t seem to need it. He looked animated by the new memory and the depth and the detail of his recollection.

“I didn’t see him,” he said. “He must’ve been right behind me. But I remember the impact. It was like an explosion of pain. And then everything went dark.”

This time, Hutch squeezed Starsky’s thigh as much for his own comfort as for Starsky’s.

“I must’ve been out of it for a while,” Starsky continued, “’cause when I came around, everything was real fuzzy and the noise was unbelievable and there was someone propping me up.”

“Simmons,” Hutch supplied.

“Simmons? Oh, yeah, that’s right. I remember now. I was looking around tryin’ to figure out what was goin’ on. The place was a riot. But then my vision cleared and the first thing I saw was you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Starsky confirmed happily. “You were in full swing right in the middle of the crowd. Of course, I didn’t know it was you. I just remember seeing you. You put that fellow on the ground and handcuffed him.”

Hutch bit his lip. “And do you remember what happened then?” he said very softly.

Starsky’s pleased expression descended into a thoughtful frown. “No, that’s all. Why, what happened? Did—?”

The long lashes dipped and rose. The words crumbled on his lips as his face emptied of blood. He almost reeled when the memory hit.

“You got stabbed!” he said, horrified. “That’s what happened! I saw it. I saw how the bastard stabbed you! He came at you from behind. You turned at the last moment, but he got you anyway.”

The breath that left his chest was almost a moan. “God, Hutch, you got stabbed. You almost died. Ten feet away from me. And I wasn’t there for you.”

“You were concussed and confused,” Hutch reminded him. “You were completely out of it.”

“But I saw you. I saw you go down. And I didn’t go to you. And afterward, when you were in the hospital, I wasn’t there for you. You were all alone.”

Hutch recalled the befuddled days in the hospital when Starsky was conspicuous by his absence and no one had the guts to tell him what was wrong.

“You couldn’t have come to me,” he said. “It was a miracle you were even conscious. Besides, you didn’t know me. You’d just had your memory knocked out of you by some flake with a tire iron.”

“I should’ve been there for you,” Starsky said, distraught. “I should’ve looked after you. You were in the hospital and I wasn’t there for you.”

He pushed down the waistband of Hutch’s jogging pants, exposing Hutch’s hips and stomach. His hands went to the scar and stroked the still puckered flesh. Then he bent his head and kissed it. He kissed it again and again with growing agitation, slung his arms around Hutch’s middle and pressed his face against the jagged ridge.

“Hey, hey,” Hutch said, alarmed. “Take it easy. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You needed me and I wasn’t there.” Starsky’s voice sounded muffled against Hutch’s stomach. Hutch curled a hand around his neck and was about to administer a soothing rub when Starsky lifted his head.

“Wait a minute,” he said in a completely different voice and sat up. “What did you say just now? You said I’d just had my memory knocked out of me. That’s what you said, right?”

“What about it? You know that’s what happened.”

“I know. But that means that I should’ve been in my right mind when I slugged that guy. In fact I should’ve been okay when I arrived there with Jo and Lonzo. I should’ve had all my memories then. ‘Cause that was before I got hit, right?”

“Right,” Hutch said, wondering where his partner was going with that.

“So I was definitely all right when I got there?”

Again, Hutch felt transported back to that sultry night, tasted again the fear, the helplessness, the need to see Starsky after those four endless days of silence. He remembered the growing sense of unease that had built over the days until it had tipped into the certainty that something was wrong, so wrong.

But Starsky had been okay. He’d been fine. Hadn’t he?

“Of course you were all right,” Hutch said. “I saw you with my own two eyes. You looked like you were hanging out with your two best pals.”

“I know, but….” Starsky frowned. “This is gonna sound crazy, but that’s not what I remember. I mean I don’t get a sense of being all right, being myself, if you know what I mean. Even in the middle of that fight, I remember thinking ‘What the hell am I doing here?'”

“You were there ’cause you were an undercover cop on an assignment.”

“Yeah, I know that now but I didn’t know it then. When I think about that fight and the hooker and that two-ton gorilla who was bullying her, I don’t think I knew I was a cop.”

“You probably still have a few gaps in your memory,” Hutch said. “Give it a while. Maybe it’ll come to you.”

Starsky shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I remember the car journey and those two guys keeping up the banter, but the whole time I felt kinda weird, like…like an actor on the wrong set. I couldn’t even remember the bar we were goin’ to. I had no idea where we were headed.”

“You’re confusing that with something else,” Hutch said patiently. “When you were in the car with them, you still had all your memories. You’d been to that bar before. You must’ve known perfectly well where you were headed.”

“I know what I remember,” Starsky said darkly and with a stubborn set to his jaw. “I remember being in the car with them and thinking ‘Where the hell are they taking me?’ So I asked them. Why would I have been doing that?”

“You actually remember asking them? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Hutch felt his forehead go crinkly. “All right. Let’s assume that’s what happened. What did they say when you asked them that?”

“They told me the Tivoli in Bayswater. They said they went there all the time. I remember thinking it was kinda weird for test subjects to go out on the town for drinks every night.”

“Test subjects? Is that what you thought they were?”

“That’s what they said they were. Test subjects in a research center, same as me.”

Hutch goggled at him. “But they weren’t test subjects. They were part of the crew.”

“I know. But I didn’t know it at the time. No, hold on, that’s not right. I didn’t remember it at the time. But I remember it now.”

“Lemme get this straight. What is it exactly you don’t remember?”

Starsky shook his head. “You don’t get it. I do remember. Now I remember, but then I didn’t.”

“You remember not remembering?” Hutch massaged his temples. “This is doing my head in.”

Starsky took him by the shoulders and treated him to a penetrating stare. “Listen to me. I remember the trip to the bar, but on that trip I didn’t remember the bar.”

“You’d been there before—”

“I know! I know that now. But at the time when I was in the car with those guys, I didn’t know it. I didn’t remember it. It’s like I had a blackout. I had no idea what I was doing there or even why I was there.”

“You were undercover—” Hutch started.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know that.”

“Sure you did. You must’ve done. You can’t have forgotten that you were a cop.”

“I didn’t remember being a cop.”

“So what did you think you were doing there, with Jo and Lonzo? Why were you hanging out with them in the first place?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. I don’t remember. I mean, I remember it now, but I didn’t then.”

They stared at each other. Hutch’s mind was rotating.

“Jesus, Starsk, do you have any idea what you’re saying? You sound like you’d lost your memory before you got hit. And that doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Starsky only shrugged. He seemed very collected. Hutch didn’t feel collected. He jumped up and started a restless journey up and down the room.

“This can’t be right. We’re missing something.”

“I’m tellin’ you—”

“All right, all right, let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that you’re right. Answer me this one thing then. When you arrived at the Tivoli, before you got knocked out, you looked around you, didn’t you? To check out the place. Cops do it by instinct. You would’ve done it, too. Think carefully. Did you notice any cars parked on the other side of the road?”

Starsky’s eyes sparkled as he caught Hutch’s drift right away. “Of course!” he said and stabbed a forefinger at Hutch. “You! You were there, in your car. I should’ve seen you.”

“And did you?”

Starsky went very still and his gaze curled inward. “There were three cars over there,” he said finally. “A Mazda and a Lincoln, I think, both empty. And a Ford with two people inside. Their faces were in shadow. Yeah, I saw that.”

“And…?”

Starsky looked up, and Hutch knew the answer before he even opened his mouth.

“I didn’t know them,” Starsky said. “Neither of them. They were just a coupla guys in a car.” His voice grew tight. “It was your car, Hutch, and I didn’t recognize it. I didn’t recognize you. I saw you and I didn’t know you—”

“My face was in shadow—”

“Your face could be in complete darkness and I would still know you! I’d know you in a pitchblack alley with your head in a paper bag. With my memories intact I’d know you anywhere. But then I didn’t. I didn’t even recognize your car.”

Hutch was in motion again, like a lion in a cage.

“It makes no sense,” he repeated. “Goddammit, Starsk, it makes no sense at all! Think about it. ‘Cause if it’s true and you couldn’t remember anything before you got to the bar…. It would mean that the knock on the head had nothing to do with the amnesia…. And if that’s the case….”

His stride faltered. He turned slowly. His arms dropped as his eyes sought Starsky’s. “If that’s the case, then how the hell did you lose your memory?”

ooOOOoo

It was almost midnight. The detritus from a meal of charred chicken and soggy vegetables in a lumpy mushroom sauce littered the table. They’d gone over the whole thing from so many angles, Hutch was beginning to get double vision.

“You had amnesia the whole time you were there,” he said again as if the repetition could somehow ease the passage of the monstrous idea through his brain. “Even when I first saw you.”

“Looks like it,” Starsky said. He seemed very calm, given the circumstances. Hutch, by contrast, felt as if he’d swallowed an ant farm.

“But you were definitely okay when you called us from the Tivoli four days earlier,” he said. “That means that whatever happened to you must’ve happened in those four days.”

“Uh huh.”

“So all we gotta do is figure out what happened in those four days. Maybe you got into a fight at the center. Maybe you got knocked out and you don’t remember.”

Hutch pushed his half-finished plate away from him. “Try concentrating real hard. Maybe you remember something about those four days. Anything to give us a clue.”

Starsky looked away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Hutch hardly heard him. He’d switched to detective mode, hot on the trail of answers. He leaned forward and put a hand on Starsky’s arm. “You’ve done it before. We know you can do it. Just give it a try.”

Starsky withdrew from his touch. “I can’t, okay? Don’t ask me to do that. I just can’t.”

“Why not? You already remember the beginning of the case. Even the phone call from the Tivoli. You said you were going to check out the basement. Maybe something happened down there that would explain—”

Starsky’s composure shattered like a dropped glass. The table shook as he leapt to his feet, overturning his chair behind him. To Hutch’s surprise, anger darkened his face.

“I said I can’t,” he yelled. “Why don’t you ever listen to me? Are you deaf? I said I can’t, so just fucking leave me alone!”

No, not anger. The look on the familiar face was something Hutch had seen there only a handful of times in all the years he’d known Starsky. It wasn’t anger, at all. It was fear.

The look pierced Hutch like a skewer. A scared Starsky was a truly frightening thing. Starsky didn’t scare easily. When he did, he had every reason to be.

Hutch got to his feet slowly. In a flash, the memories of those nerve-racking four days darted through his mind again—the cramped surveillance van, the endless hours of listening for a sign, any sign of Starsky’s whereabouts inside Leibovich’s sprawling center. The rising unease in his heart and the growing certainty that something was wrong, terribly wrong. He’d been ready to stake his life on it.

But then Starsky had turned up at the Tivoli looking all right, and he’d shelved those fears. And after the fight and all the new terrors that had created, the four unaccounted-for days inside Leibovich’s mansion hadn’t seemed to matter anymore.

Now he saw his error. In his relief to see Starsky alive and well, he’d made assumptions that weren’t borne out by fact. He’d dismissed those four days. He’d blamed communication problems and a busy therapy schedule for Starsky’s lengthy silence. He’d shrugged off the importance of Leibovich’s basement lab.

Good God, how could he have been so stupid? Everything, everything hinged on those four days and the secret lab Starsky had suspected existed down there. Because Starsky had been planning to go down there that night. And something down there had taken his memory away.

Human guinea pigs. Illicit therapies. Vets missing, presumed dead.

Hutch went weak with horror. Starsky had been down there. For four whole days, probably. The experiments, the very ones he’d been sent to investigate, had been tried out on him.

He saw it all in the space of a second, enough time for Starsky to have backed away to the wall with a hunted look in his face. Hutch’s heart bled at the sight.

“You remember something, don’t you?” he said softly. “Something to do with the basement, right? What happened down there? What did they do to you? Tell me.”

Starsky exploded. “I don’t know!” he yelled. “I don’t have your fucking answers. You’re just like the rest of them with all your goddamn, fucking questions. Get away from me. Leave me the hell alone!”

All of Starsky’s composure had gone out the window. He was unraveling before Hutch’s eyes. His hands were clenched, his eyes wild and staring. Deeps veins stood out on his forehead. It was a terrifying sight and it frightened Hutch to the core.

“Starsk, it’s me,” he pleaded. He held out a hand. “It’s Hutch. Look at me. Don’t you recognize me? I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise I won’t ask you any more questions. Please, just look at me.”

He suddenly thought of St. John’s and his first meeting with Dr. Jolimont there. She’d mentioned questions, hadn’t she, and Starsky’s violent reaction to them? Destructive behavior and the need for tranquilizers to subdue the patient?

Jesus.

Simultaneously he realized that he didn’t need to ask any questions at all. He already knew some of the answers.

“Look at me,” he repeated. “Please, babe. I know they asked you questions. And you couldn’t answer them. It’s all right. I know. You don’t have to say anything.”

Hutch approached him as he would a cornered tiger. He held out a hand. “C’mere, babe. Please. I promise I won’t ask you anything.”

Starsky came to him slowly, like some wild, wary creature. Very carefully, Hutch put his arms around him and pulled him close. “It’s all right. I’m here. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

The touch worked like a spell. Starsky’s tension ebbed away as he leaned into the embrace. Hutch tightened his hold.

“That’s it,” he whispered into the dark curls. “That’s good. Just relax. It’s gonna be okay.” Not letting go, he steered his partner to the couch and coaxed him to sit down beside him.

Starsky seemed to return to himself from somewhere far away. “God, Hutch, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I felt so weird. I think I just….”

“Freaked.”

“Yeah, I freaked. Haven’t done that for a long time.”

“That’s what you think. Everyone else knows you’re the freaky one in this relationship.”

It was a pretty lame joke, and the look he got from his partner said as much. Hutch swallowed a sigh of relief. “Look, if you wanna talk about—”

Starsky stiffened at once, relaxed only as if by sheer willpower. “I can’t,” he said. “It hurts.”

“Shhh. It’s all right. You’re here with me. You’re safe. No one can hurt you here. There’s nothing to be afraid of. All right?”

Starsky bit his lip. “Yeah, all right.”

Hutch had an idea. “How about I tell you what I already know? Huh? That way, no questions. And you can stop me at any time. Okay?”

Starsky produced a strained smile. “Hey, I’m not a Barbie doll. I’m not gonna break. And I promise I won’t freak again.”

They regarded each other for a moment. Hutch nodded.

“Based on what you told me about your nightmares,” he began, “I’d say there’s an interrogation room in that basement complete with restraints and bright lights. I’m thinking KGB-style debriefing room. They got you in there and grilled you, although I can’t imagine why. Maybe they figured out you were a cop and wanted to find out how much you knew.”

Starsky had his head down. His forehead rested lightly on Hutch’s shoulder. He nodded once.

“Okay,” Hutch said, “and then something happened that made you think the room was closing in on you. It got dark and cramped and you couldn’t breathe in there. It felt like a coffin.”

“It was just a room,” Starsky said unexpectedly. “Like a doctor’s surgery. It wasn’t a coffin. That’s just something I used to see in those nightmares.”

“Used to?”

“Well, I haven’t had any since…since the night I remembered Bellamy.”

The night of his first memory. The night of the returned connection. That made perfect sense to Hutch. They’d been together ever since, connected, never apart for more than a few minutes.

“There will be no more nightmares,” he said firmly. “I’m here. We’re together.” His arms tightened around Starsky. “We can deal with this. You’re not alone.”

He stroked the broad back. Maybe it was better to leave it. It was late, and they had made enough traumatic discoveries for one day. Maybe the truth was better unearthed in broad daylight.

But then Starsky started talking. Haltingly at first as if feeling his way in the dark, then with growing steadiness.

“I remember that room. It came to me just now. It was just a normal room, but they did something to me in there that made me feel like I was in a box.” He faltered.

“Take it easy,” Hutch said and kissed Starsky on the side of his head. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”

Starsky nodded. He took a long breath. “They did something to me, Hutch. They put these wires on my head.”

“Wires? You mean like electrodes?”

“Yeah, electrodes. Exactly. They wanted me to forget what I’d seen. That room with the lights. There was a guy in there, one of the vets on the missing list. I recognized him. He was strapped to a chair and his head was covered with wires, electrodes, here and here….”

His hands went to his forehead and temples. “I saw it with my own eyes, that night I went down there. And then they found me. I don’t know how they knew I was there. I’m sure no one saw me. But when I tried to get back out, they were waiting for me.”

He spoke in a low voice. His head was bent low. The words came out in a slow, measured flow, unstoppable now that they’d started.

“They took me to another room just like the one I’d seen earlier,” Starsky said. “There were five of them, four doctors from the center, and Leibovich. He was there the whole time. He gave the order to put those electrodes on me. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Starsky, but you’re leaving us no choice. You really shouldn’t have come down here. This may hurt a little, but don’t worry, you won’t remember it.'”

A shiver ran over him as he relayed the words. Despite that, he seemed calmer now, dreamy even in a sleepwalking kind of way.

“They shot me up with something,” he said. “I don’t know what. And then they put those wires on me and hooked me up to this thing with dials and monitors and switched it on.”

He lapsed into silence. Hutch held him close, not speaking. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. He was breathless with horror.

“He was right,” Starsky finally said. “It did hurt. It was like they’d pushed needles into my eyes. I think…I think I screamed. I tried to fight them, but they just turned up the dial. God, Hutch, it hurt! And it did something to me. Every time I came around, I knew something was different. It was like being in a box, and the box got smaller all the time.”

Starsky’s skin felt icy under Hutch’s touch. At the same time he seemed strangely remote, drowsy almost.

“I don’t know how much time passed or what day it was,” he said. “After each session they put me in this totally dark room and left me there. It was all part of the treatment. I’d sleep for a few hours and then the whole thing started over again. Every time they turned on that machine, the box got smaller. And then came the questions. Endless questions. They wanted to know how much I remembered. I think….”

He shivered. His voice dropped to an almost inaudible level. “I think something went wrong. I think they overdid it. Maybe they got the setting wrong. They started yelling at each other. They didn’t know what to do. They kept saying they had to get me outta there.”

When he looked up, Hutch saw that his face was drained of blood. His eyes lay dark in their sockets. He seemed to have aged a decade. He wouldn’t let go of Hutch.

“That’s all I remember. I’ll try again tomorrow. I think I-I gotta get some sleep now.”

Hutch forced himself to speak. “You did good. I’m proud of you. C’mon, let’s get you upstairs.”

ooOOOoo

He half steered, half carried his wrung-out partner to the bedroom. Starsky went with him like a sleepwalker, out like a light as soon as his head hit the pillow. Hutch slipped the blue sneakers off his feet, peeled off his jeans, and piled the covers over his chilled body. Starsky didn’t stir, locked in sleep so deep already, he seemed comatose.

Hutch drew the blinds, switched off the lights. In semi-darkness, he pulled the cane chair as close to Starsky’s side of the bed as it would go and settled in for a long vigil, knowing there was nothing in the world that would make him go to sleep that night. The nightmare scenario Starsky had invoked would see to that.

He saw it all so clearly now, couldn’t imagine why none of them had thought of it before. The illicit experiments—not drugs or hypnosis or psychosomatic treatment methods, but something much more devious. The mechanical approach. Memory-suppression by means of electroconvulsive shock therapy.

It was an old idea, much hyped in the 50s until it had finally been shelved amid outcries and accusations of cruelty and abuse.

Now Leibovich had revived the technique. And knowing it to be illegal, he had done so in secret. He had tried out his prototypes on unsuspecting volunteers. He had exploited vulnerable patients in his search for a medical breakthrough. And when he had been found out, he had used his knowledge to silence, to maim, to destroy.

Hutch stared into the darkness. Starsky’s account had been sparse, bare bones only, but it didn’t take much to fill in the blanks. Starsky had found a way to get into the basement. He’d explored the place and found the answers he’d been sent to find. He’d been ready to take his knowledge to safety.

And then they had discovered and overpowered him.

A muscle twitched in Hutch’s cheek as he pictured the scene. Starsky would have fought like a madman. He would have tried everything to get away. They would have needed all five doctors to subdue him.

In the end a simple tranquilizer would have done the job, and after that he would have been tied up and locked in and guarded.

Hutch let out a shaky breath. The thought of Starsky down there, alone and scared, outnumbered and defenseless, facing an unknown enemy, sent waves of icy terror through his veins. He clenched his hands to keep them from trembling.

Four days. Four endless days.

All the time in the world to subject him to their devious treatments, to run electric currents through his brain, to test and probe and mold his mind and try to scrape his memories away.

Starsky’s amnesia—not an accident at all, or a random injury in a street fight, but the result of a cold, deliberate act perpetrated by a cruel and calculating mind.

It had been deliberate. They’d done it to him on purpose. The place was a torture chamber. The Nazis couldn’t have devised a more monstrous experiment.

The muscle twitched on Hutch’s cheek again. When he placed a hand on it, he felt the small pucker dull against his fingers. He reached out and groped for Starsky’s hand under the covers, latched onto it as if it were the only thing standing between him and purgatory.

Starsky didn’t stir. He lay like one dead, his breaths so shallow, they were barely noticeable. Even his pulse had slowed to a low, almost imperceptible throb.

Hutch sat there with Starsky’s hand in his own and the horror visions of Starsky’s four-day nightmare in his head. Again and again, he saw Starsky strapped to a chair and wired in. He saw him struggling against his restraints, yelling abuse at his tormentors. Saw a white-coated accomplice throw a switch, slide a lever. Saw Starsky’s screams recede to moans and the terror in his eyes fade to blank incomprehension….

Hutch stifled a moan. The slide into darkness was sudden and instant as terror turned to rage in the space of a heartbeat. Roaring up from a dark place deep inside his soul, it filled him with a chilling, numbing fury so powerful it extinguished all rational thought.

Hutch was no stranger to anger in all its many shapes, from festering, seething wrath to the kind of fury that made him want to yell and punch the walls.

This was different. This was anger in its raw form, a purposeful, calculating rage of the kind that could turn a man into a killing machine. He knew, simply knew without a shred of doubt, that Leibovich would be a dead man if he were standing before him that very moment. Nothing, no force of nature, not even Starsky himself, could have stopped him from clamping his hands around the man’s throat and pressing his thumbs into his windpipe and squeezing the fragile structure until the man’s face turned purple and his eyes bulged from their sockets and his knees buckled beneath him and he fell lifeless at Hutch’s feet.

He wanted to make the man pay for the damage he’d done, the pain, the loss, the months of fear and heartbreak. He wanted to rip him limb from limb, tear the flesh from his bones, and feed the pieces to the vultures.

The power of that desire almost took his breath away. He hadn’t felt anger like this since…Gunther. Even then it had been tempered by the softening effects of fear and pain and sorrow.

These were new emotions, the rage and the overwhelming desire for vengeance. He hadn’t known he sheltered those feelings inside him. They appalled and invigorated him at the same time.

He saw himself standing on the brink of something dark and terrible, a descent into a kind of hell that eclipsed all other types of hell he’d known before.

Hutch wrestled with the impulse. If he gave in to it, it would take his soul and crush it. It would strip away his humanity and make him one and the same as the man on whom he planned to exact his revenge. The man who had used Starsky, who had put the lethal wires to his head and flipped the switch and taken his inner self away from as if it counted for nothing.

Renewed fury lashed his heart. The room and all it contained faded to black as Hutch pictured the slowest, most agonizing torture he could devise to make the man pay for what he had done.

Maybe he would have lost himself there, he was never sure afterward. He was so close. But just as the darkness reached to claim him, Starsky stirred for the first time in many hours. The covers shifted as he rolled over with a sigh.

Hutch returned to himself with a jolt. To his surprise, streaks of gray light seeped through the gaps in the blinds and bathed the room in a brightening hue. The long night was finally over.

“Starsky?”

The blue eyes that met his were wide and clear and very deep. The deathly pallor had receded and so had the eerie drowsiness. Hutch thought he looked heavenly.

“Hey,” Starsky said softly. He took in Hutch’s appearance and the chair pulled up beside the bed. “Have you been up all night? Poor baby. You didn’t have to do that.”

He reached for Hutch’s hand and tugged on it. His other hand lifted the covers invitingly. “Come to bed. Get some sleep.”

Obediently, Hutch stripped off his rumpled clothes and slid in beside him. Starsky wrapped him up in his embrace. This time it was Hutch who did the clinging.

“Hey, relax. You’re squishing me.”

Hutch held on all the tighter.

“It’s okay,” Starsky said into his ear. “Everything’s gonna be okay. Just close your eyes and go to sleep.”

Hutch did as ordered.

But the darkness in his heart reached deep. It had left a shadow on his soul, one that threatened the very fabric of his integrity, already tarnished by the shady deal he’d wrought with Montgomery. He knew it even as he dropped off to sleep. And wondered yet again at the price they had to pay for their love.

 

XV

“You sure you want to do this?” Hutch said for the third time even as he adjusted his holster and shrugged into his leather jacket.

Starsky nodded. “I’m sure.”

“You don’t have to, you know. You can still change your mind.”

“No, I can’t, and you know it. The man is a murderer. He’s killing human guinea pigs as we speak. He’s gotta be stopped. We’ve lost far too much time already.”

Hutch gave his jacket a final tug, slammed the door and followed Starsky to the car. Three days had gone by since their discovery. Three days of talk and exploration that had culminated in a decision he still didn’t think was such a hot idea.

“And you’re sure you’re up for it?” he said as he climbed inside.

Starsky let the engine purr. “I should be the one to ask that question,” he said with a meaningful look. How much did he guess about his partner’s murderous urges and descent into a personal purgatory the other night?

Hutch evaded the look, and Starsky relented.

“Yeah, I’m up for it. It’s gotta be done.” He put the car in gear.

“Even if it means having the truth come out? How you faked it and all?”

It was Starsky’s turn to look uneasy. “It doesn’t have to come out. Let them believe I got my memories back just like everyone thinks I did. They’ll assume the memories of Leibovich’s secret lab are just the latest batch.”

So many lies. How much longer can we keep this up?

Starsky was reading his mind again. “How’s this for a deal?” he said as he put the car back into park and faced Hutch. “We don’t volunteer anything we don’t have to, but if it’s necessary for the case or if they figure it out, we stand by it and take the flak.”

They eyed each other. They were talking about the amnesia, but there were other areas to which that strategy might be applied.

Hutch nodded slowly. “Deal.”

ooOOOoo

Kurzweil and Montgomery were already in place when they entered Dobey’s sanctuary. Their nods of greeting were frosty. Their faces gave nothing away.

“We hear you’re back on active duty,” Kurzweil said to Starsky in an effort at civility. “I’m surprised it took them so long to clear you. After all, it was just a concussion.”

The look Montgomery shot at Hutch could have chilled a six-pack. Fortunately both Dobey and Kurzweil missed it.

Hutch couldn’t bring himself to return the look. Here was the man he thought he would never have to face again. The man who, in his turn, must have operated under much the same assumption. By asking him here, Hutch had turned an unwritten rule upside down. No wonder Montgomery looked as if he would gladly strangle him.

But everything was different now, and the rules no longer applied. Montgomery would see that in just a moment.

Pleasantries over, Kurzweil lost no time in coming to the point. “Captain Dobey tells us you have information on the Leibovich case. This had better be good. We don’t like having our time wasted.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, got a small nod of reassurance back. Starsky started talking. A minute later, the agents were on their feet and all their cool had gone out the window.

“You remember the basement? You got the information? Christ Almighty, are you sure?”

They settled down to listen. Again Starsky related his descent into the secret lab and the room he had discovered down there. He described the bright lights, the chair and its occupant. He described the machines and the wires. He told of his retreat and the moment of his capture.

Kurzweil was on the edge of his seat. Montgomery’s scowl had slipped. Gripped, they hung on Starsky’s every word. Hutch thought they paled a little when Starsky described how the electrodes were applied to his temples.

Starsky spoke of the pain and the sense of walls crowding in on him with each successive session. He told of the bright lights of interrogation and the endless questions pouring out of the dark. He related what he’d been able to glean of the setup, the doctors involved, and Leibovich’s previous victims. And finally he described how the walls had closed in on him, shutting out the life he’d known, and how darkness had overwhelmed his mind.

Hutch, sitting close by, struggled to keep his face and emotions under control. Even though he’d heard it all before, it still managed to make his blood boil. The special agents, by contrast, seemed pole-axed. And Dobey, already in the know, looked sick all over again.

Starsky alone handled the situation like a pro. Cool and unruffled, he seemed unaffected by the details of his tale. Only Hutch knew how much it cost him to revisit the places of his nightmares.

“They only meant to take a few hours of my memory,” Starsky said. “Just enough to make me forget what I’d seen down there. If it had worked, they might’ve let me go. But something went wrong. They cocked up. They wiped my entire memory and when they realized it, they panicked. At first they tried all sorts of things, but I think they only ended up making the situation worse. And then all of a sudden for no apparent reason, they stopped everything and bundled me out of there as if they couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

He paused. Glancing at his watch, Hutch was surprised to see that only an hour had gone by. He got to his feet, walked to the cooler, filled a plastic cup with water and held it out to his partner. Starsky took it with a nod of thanks and downed the contents.

The small break allowed the agents to gather what was left of their composure. Kurzweil leaned back in his chair, Montgomery reached for his notebook. Only the tightness around their eyes betrayed how much Starsky’s revelations had shaken them.

“All right,” Kurzweil said with an unconvincing attempt at professional briskness. “Let’s start again at the beginning and go over some of the details.”

Dobey aborted the motion with a look and a wave of the hand. “There’s more,” he said. “I think you should hear the rest before you start in on the specifics.”

Kurzweil hesitated, then nodded. Montgomery returned the notebook to the desk. Their expectant eyes fastened on Starsky’s face again. Now came the twist in the tale, the one that would really blow their minds.

“They took me upstairs,” Starsky said, picking up the thread again. “At the time I had no idea I couldn’t remember anything. I felt…okay, really. Confused, but okay. I didn’t realize anything was wrong with me.”

“You didn’t realize you had no memories?” Montgomery said, astonished.

“I didn’t get a chance to think about it,” Starsky said. “Things moved quickly. They took me to some sort of a sitting room and introduced me to a couple of guys there—Witt and DiMario. They said the three of us were test subjects in the same medical trial, only the other two had been at it for longer. Of course, I had no idea I’d met those guys before.”

He described the room and the extent to which Leibovich had gone to make the scene convincing—the casual surroundings, the relaxed atmosphere, the doctors’ matter-of-fact attitude. Witt and DiMario excelling in their roles as old hands eager to take a newbie under their wings.

“They put on a great act for me,” Starsky said. “They sat me down and got me a drink and told me not to worry if I felt spaced out. They said it was a normal side-effect of the drugs used in the trial. They said that sometimes after a trial they could barely remember their own names. They had a good laugh at that, as if it was all just one big joke. They really did everything to put me at my ease.”

“They made you believe your memory loss was a normal side-effect of some experimental drug you’d taken?” Kurzweil said.

“Yeah. They said it would wear off, a couple hours max, nothing to worry about. They made it sound perfectly normal.”

Starsky made a face. “I fell for it. I really believed I’d taken part in some kind of an experiment. Not my finest hour, I admit. Maybe if I’d had more time and a clear head, I would’ve spotted the holes in their story, but the whole thing only took a few minutes. As soon as the doctors left the room, Witt and DiMario said they’d been about to sneak out for a drink. Did I want to come?”

He shrugged. “Well, of course I did—they were my new best pals after all—so we all piled into DiMario’s car and off we went. On the way the two kept up a steady stream of banter. They really did a great job of distracting me.”

“That must have been when Sergeant Babcock saw you,” Montgomery said. “From the surveillance van. He called in to say you’d just left the building with DiMario and Witt. He said you looked perfectly all right.”

Hutch recalled the moment with clarity. He’d been about to abort the case and bring Starsky in against the better judgment of his colleagues when Babcock had called in with the news.

He glanced at Starsky. Shadows of exhaustion had crept onto his partner’s face. Not physical exhaustion. Mental and emotional. Hutch saw it with concern.

It was Kurzweil who broke the small silence. “I don’t get it,” he said, and all eyes turned to him. “Why did they go to all that trouble? What was the point of that whole charade?”

Starsky took a moment to reply. “They had to get me out of the Center,” he finally said. “But I had to be seen to go willingly. They knew the place was under surveillance. They had to make sure I appeared as normal as possible.”

“Yeah, but why did they take you out of the Center at all? Why didn’t they just kill you and dump the body?”

Hutch shot the man a frown, but the agents failed to notice. They were on the edge of their seats again. Any further and they would slide off. Their gaze, firmly fixed to Starsky’s face, reminded Hutch of leeches intent on sucking their victim dry.

Time to take over.

“Leibovich had an amnesiac cop on his hands,” he said. “Killing him would’ve brought the entire police force to his door. He had to do something to draw our attention away from the Center.”

He looked from Kurzweil to Montgomery. “Starsky had to be seen alive and well somewhere far away from the Center. They had to do it quickly, and what’s more, they had to do it in a public place, in full view of as many people as possible.”

He permitted himself a wry shrug. “It worked. We all fell for it. We thought Starsky was okay. We saw him leave the Center looking and acting pretty much like himself. We were so relieved, we didn’t stop to think or question. Not exactly our finest hour, either. We followed him to the Tivoli and everything seemed okay until—”

“Until he got into that fight,” Montgomery said.

“The fight!” Kurzweil said, sitting up. “Jesus, are you saying the fight was staged, too? That Leibovich faked the whole thing to make us believe the amnesia was caused by a knock on the head?”

But Montgomery shook his head. “Too uncertain,” he said. “Leibovich wouldn’t have taken that chance. If he had really wanted to cover his ass, he would’ve made sure Starsky never got out of that fight alive.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky and back. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what we think he meant to do.”

The two agents just looked at them.

“You’re both right,” Starsky said, taking over again. “Leibovich did try to stage a fight, and I was meant to get killed in it. If I had—if I had died that night, in a fight in front of a dozen witnesses—no one would ever have found out that my memory had been tampered with. And then there wouldn’t have been anything to lead back to Leibovich.”

Hutch thought of the moment he and Starsky had figured it all out, only a couple of days earlier. The rage he’d felt then still glowed, banked under a layer of careful restraint.

“You got any evidence for all this?” Kurzweil said.

“We got better than that,” Hutch said. “We got a witness. The guy I arrested that night, Cockburn Avery. Babcock and Simmons took his statement. They couldn’t pin anything on him, so they had to let him go.”

It was Hutch’s turn to lean forward. “I read his statement a dozen times,” he said. “Something always bothered me about it, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The penny dropped when we realized the whole thing was a setup. Avery knew there’d be a fight. Read the statement. Read between the lines. He knew. He didn’t know why, but he’d been told to expect one. And what’s more, he’d been told to expect it inside the bar.”

He looked at Montgomery. “Something always felt wrong about that fight. You noticed it, too. One moment Starsky slugged that bully, the next moment all hell broke loose and the place was overrun with people punching each other. Staged, that’s what it was. I just didn’t see it at the time.”

Montgomery nodded slowly.

“Starsky was meant to get killed in that bar,” Hutch said. “He was meant to die in there. We think Leibovich paid someone to take him out during a bar brawl and to make it look like an accident. We think the whole thing was meant to happen inside the bar, not outside.”

“So what went wrong?” Kurzweil said.

Montgomery stirred. “Starsky jumped the gun,” he said. His gaze met Hutch’s for the first time that day. “That’s it, isn’t it? He went and picked a fight before Leibovich’s stooges were ready for it.”

“Exactly. Starsky jumped the gun and did his damsel-in-distress rescue and spoiled the whole elaborate plan by starting a fight with a bully who had nothing whatsoever to do with Leibovich. He was just some common drunk.”

Hutch shook his head. “Leibovich’s hired killer inside the bar must’ve thought the plan had been changed. He saw the fight in the street and rushed out along with everyone else in the bar.”

“The fight Starsky got into wasn’t planned?” Kurzweil said carefully.

“Not the way it happened. Not with that bully who threatened the hooker. That was all Starsky’s doing.”

To Hutch that was still the most amazing twist in the tale—that Starsky’s own actions had saved his life. If he had entered the building as planned, he would have been a dead man.

“Leibovich’s hit man might still have been able to pull it off,” he said. “But then we showed up and joined the fight, and he didn’t get the chance. The closest he got was to try and take him out with a tire iron. Starsky lived, and when he was diagnosed with temporary amnesia later on, everyone assumed the knock on the head was to blame.”

ooOOOoo

Four hours had passed. Half-drunk cups of coffee, reams of notes and an overflowing ash tray vied for space on Dobey’s desk. They’d gone over the whole thing so many times, Hutch’s head was beginning to spin.

The four hours had changed everything. Gone were the agents’ impassive faces. They no longer bothered to hide their excitement. Goodwill beamed in their eyes. Their undercover subject had delivered—in the face of all expectations to the contrary.

Kurzweil was on the phone to a higher power. He was at the window with his back to the room, stretching the cord as far as it would go. A snatch of a merry Christmas jingle drifted in through the window from the street below, adding a surreal counterpoint to Kurzweil’s grim-voiced summary of the situation.

There was a pause during which whatever top-level hierarchy Kurzweil was dealing with had much to say. When Kurzweil finally put the phone down, he stood for a moment in deep thought with his hand still resting on the receiver.

“There’s one thing that doesn’t add up,” he said at last. All eyes fixed on him. He turned, looked straight at Starsky. His forehead had come out in a series of deep wrinkles.

“Leibovich tried to kill you and failed. Don’t you think it’s strange that he didn’t try again?”

He placed both hands on Dobey’s desk and stared at Starsky as if he were an exotic new species. “He must know you’ve been getting your memories back. After all, you got cleared by St. John’s and went back to work. So why isn’t he worried you’ll remember his lab? Why isn’t he at least keeping an eye on you?”

Hutch exchanged a look with Starsky. They’d known the question would come, although perhaps not quite so soon. Starsky gave him a dip of his lashes and one of those tiny smiles that said so much. His arm brushed Hutch’s as if by accident as he turned to face Kurzweil across the desk.

“We think he did,” he said. “We think he kept tabs on me right from the start. There was a guy in the clinic, one of the consultants. Hutch saw him and thought there was something fishy about him.”

“I knew I’d seen him before,” Hutch explained. “But not at the clinic. He was out of place, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

“So we did some digging,” Starsky said. “Turns out, the guy is one of Leibovich’s shrinks, but he also lectures at St. John’s teaching hospital. He goes in and out of there all the time. It was easy for him to check up on me while I was in there.”

Kurzweil frowned down at him. “And after they released you?”

“After they released me, they sent the odd character around to do spot checks on me.” Starsky related the incidence of the unknown visitor at the door.

“And he wasn’t the only one. There was a string of others who just happened to bump into me over the months. They must’ve known exactly what to say to me to find out if I was gettin’ warm about that basement.”

“All right,” Kurzweil said grudgingly. “But that doesn’t explain why he didn’t act when he realized your memories were coming back.”

“Starsky’s long-term memories were coming back,” Hutch corrected. “Not the short-term ones he’d set out to destroy. Remember he didn’t mean to erase his entire memory store. That was a cockup. He was targeting specific memories, three or four days at the most. He wasn’t worried about Starsky’s long-term memories.”

“But why chance it?” Kurzweil said. “Why not make sure? He’d already tried to kill you once, why not try it again? What reason could he possibly have to let you live?”

“Ego,” Starsky said simply. “He has a massive ego. I saw that when he held me down there. He was cocksure of himself and his breakthrough. He thought his methods were foolproof. He bragged about it. He said all he needed was to finetune the technique. He was convinced my memories of the basement were gone for good. He let me live ’cause he thought I couldn’t be a threat to him anymore.”

He let his gaze roam the assembled men. “There’s one other reason. To him I’m living proof that his methods work. I’m his masterpiece, if you like. Now that he thinks he’s in the clear, he couldn’t bring himself to kill me any more than…than Picasso could’ve ripped up those twisted ladies of his. Destroying me would’ve meant destroying his best work. He’s too full of himself to do that.”

Montgomery and Kurzweil exchanged thoughtful looks like men who heard what they themselves had long suspected.

“So all he did was monitor me,” Starsky said. “Time went by and nothing happened. Everyone thought I’d had a concussion with associated amnesia, and no one was in the slightest bit suspicious of him.” Starsky shrugged. “Why would he rock the boat?”

“He wasn’t worried about your long-term memories?” Kurzweil said.

“No, it didn’t really matter to him if they came back or not. All he cared about were my memories of his basement. He did everything to erase those. He was convinced I would never get those back.”

“But you did anyway,” Montgomery said softly with a look that seemed to penetrate to the innermost sanctum of Starsky’s mind.

“Yes, I did.” Starsky held his gaze until the burly blond dipped his eyes. “I can’t explain it. Maybe he got overconfident and made a mistake. Maybe he got the settings wrong. Let’s face it, the whole thing was a shambles. He may have scored successes in a handful of guys, but he never did any whatcha call ’em…?”

“Clinical trials,” Hutch said. “Trials under controlled conditions. He never conducted those. He lost his scientific direction. He got carried away. He acted like a butcher in a slaughterhouse.”

“Half-baked methods,” Dobey spoke up from the other side of the desk. “I said so right from the start.”

A silence descended on the room as each man lapsed into thought.

Kurzweil was the first to break it. “We’ll have to get the team back together again,” he said. “We’ll get right onto it. We have to come up with a new plan, a sting operation of some sort. With Sergeant Starsky acting as a lure, maybe we can get Leibovich to—”

Hutch stood, a movement that was as purposeful as it was sudden.

“No,” he said in a voice that was much too sharp. “Starsky can’t get involved again, and neither can I. You got what you wanted, you got your answers. Have Leibovich shadowed, find out where he’s moved his lab and human guinea pigs, get a warrant and arrest him. You don’t need us for that. Whatever you do, it’s your baby now.”

Kurzweil looked set to argue. Montgomery cut in before he got the chance.

“We need a statement,” he said to Starsky. “We need to debrief you properly. And you have to agree to testify in court. You’re our only witness.”

Hutch finally met his eye. Montgomery’s were a steely shade of gray that carried a hint of reluctant complicity. They shared a lethal secret. It was a bond that could never be undone.

“You’ll get your statement,” Starsky said to the agent as he joined Hutch on the floor. “And of course I’ll testify. But my partner is right. We can’t get involved in the action or in any sting operation. We can’t go undercover again.”

Hutch stood there and an enormous weight seemed to levitate off his shoulders. To hear Starsky say it out loud, with such conviction, confirming an unspoken pact, felt like the release from a narrow prison cell. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d needed that confirmation.

ooOOOoo

It was all over—or so Hutch thought. The Feds had left with buoyant steps, already deep into plotting their next moves. Hutch’s relief to see them go was rivaled only by a sense of utter weariness. Low sugar levels, probably. It was four in the afternoon and breakfast was a distant memory. He therefore didn’t object when Starsky suggested a quick bite to eat in the canteen. In a concession to fatigue he even consented to taking the elevator.

It was over. The phrase rolled around and around in his head as they entered the almost empty space, loaded their trays and commandeered the table in the corner next to the spindly Christmas tree the canteen staff had erected only that morning. Relief would be the spice in his food today.

Sure, there would be more debriefings, and testimonies, and a court case if and when Leibovich got caught and charged, but at least the case was out of their hands. There was nothing left for them to do. It was over.

Except…except….

“What’s on your mind, Socrates?” Starsky said and nudged him with a shoulder, and Hutch realized that he’d been sitting with his chin propped on his hand, staring a hole into the distance. He shook his head and dug his fork into the ravioli.

But like the trace of bitter almond, a niggling sense of unease had crept in to sour the dish. Hutch had learned long ago never to disregard that type of niggling unease. He set the fork down again.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It all seems too smooth. I think we’re missing something, some piece of the puzzle. We’ve been too fixated on Leibovich and what happened outside the bar.”

Starsky, too, knew when to listen to one of Hutch’s unease attacks. He swallowed the morsel of meat pie he had just pushed into his mouth and turned his eyes on him.

“Not sure, really,” Hutch said in reply to his unspoken question. “I just feel that we haven’t covered all the angles yet. For example, how did Leibovich know you were an undercover cop?”

Starsky shrugged. “He caught me snooping around his secret lab. That’s pretty strong evidence.”

“Yeah, but why did he catch you snooping in the first place? What gave you away? It’s not like you would’ve advertised your presence.”

“I must’ve given myself away somehow. Maybe someone saw me and—”

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Hutch interrupted and stabbed the air with his fork. “You were in enemy territory. You would’ve made sure you weren’t seen. You would’ve been extra careful. I know you were, ’cause you’d promised me.”

Starsky eyed him sternly. “All right, where’re you goin’ with this? Spit it out already.”

“I just remembered something,” Hutch said. “When you first told me how they found you down there, you said something weird. You said you were sure you hadn’t been seen. That’s what you said, right? But then you said they were waiting for you when you tried to get back out.”

“That’s what it seemed like. But he could’ve found me down there by chance.”

“Maybe,” Hutch said. “But I can’t believe you would’ve allowed that to happen. Besides, it was the first thing you said. You said that they were waiting for you.” He leaned forward. “Why were they waiting for you? How did Leibovich know you’d be there?”

“You think he knew he was gonna find me there? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Think, Starsk. When he saw you down there, what exactly did he do? What did he say?”

Starsky’s eyes curled inward in an already familiar way as he tried to marshal the still fractured details of that day.

“I was on my way out,” he said slowly. “There was a narrow corridor with the stairs and the elevator at the end of it. I’d almost reached the stairs when a door opened and Leibovich and two of his stooges stepped out in front of me. Then another door opened behind me and two more guys came out.”

Starsky’s furrowed brow smoothed as a troubled look spread over his features.

“Leibovich came right up to me,” he said. “He didn’t look surprised at all. He looked as if he’d been expecting me. And then he said ‘That’s him. Take him!‘”

“‘That’s him,'” Hutch repeated. “And the doors opened in front and behind you? Well, that settles it. He knew you were coming. He was waiting for you just moments before you would’ve gotten away.”

“Okay, but maybe he saw me earlier and decided to head me off at the exit.”

“I don’t think so. I think he knew you’d be there. ‘Cause that’s not all. Get this—four days later pretty much the same thing happened when he bundled you outta there just minutes before we were going to raid the place.”

“Smooth.”

“Exactly. Too smooth. I bet you an entire month’s salary that he knew we were going to do that.” Hutch stabbed a finger in Starsky’s direction. “He was half a step ahead of us the whole time. That can’t have been a coincidence.”

“A tip-off?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. And something else. Whoever blew the whistle on you did it after you’d gone down there or Leibovich wouldn’t have waited so long before he intercepting you. He would’ve stopped you before you’d had the chance to see anything incriminating. That way he wouldn’t have needed to use his Frankenstein machine on you.”

Starsky turned troubled eyes on him. “Yeah, but Hutch, if that’s true it must’ve been an inside job, someone who knew I was planning to go down there. Someone like—”

“The Feds.”

“Yeah, but that’s hard to believe. It was their operation. What reason would they have had to sabotage it?” Starsky pushed his half-finished meat pie away. “Look, we’re going about this the wrong way. Let’s start at the beginning. Who knew I was going down there?”

Hutch spread his hands. “You might as well ask who didn’t know. Everyone knew. The whole conversation is on tape. Anyone on the support team could’ve heard it.”

“The tapes didn’t go out until the next morning,” Starsky reminded him. “You just said someone blew the whistle on me after I’d gone down there, and that was in the middle of the night.”

“That’s true. But, Jesus, that must mean it was one of the night team!”

Starsky looked at him. “Tell me already. Who knew I was going down there?”

“Let’s see. Simmons took the call. The Feds, ’cause I reported it to base as soon as you got off the line. Dobey, of course.”

“And when I got back from the bar?”

“I wasn’t on site then. I was at the base. Simmons reported you back in just before midnight. You must’ve gone down to the basement right after that.”

“Okay. And what about four days later when Leibovich moved me out of the center? Who knew you had just decided to storm the place?”

“Again, me, Dobey, the Feds at the base. Simmons, of course, ’cause he was on duty in the van at the time….”

The words died on his lips. His mouth suddenly felt as dry as the Mohave Desert. He stared at Starsky. Starsky stared back at him. A deadly silence seemed to fall around them.

Starsky swallowed. “Simmons was on duty when I called?” he said very carefully. Hutch nodded.

“And he was on duty when I got back?” Starsky said. Hutch nodded again, unable to speak.

“There was only a single officer on duty during the night, right? So after you left, Simmons would’ve been alone in the van.”

Hutch closed his eyes. A terrible sinking feeling had invaded the pit of his stomach.

“And he was there again when you decided to pull me in,” Starsky said. “Was anyone else with him after you left to see the Feds?”

Hutch’s voice came out as a croak. “Babcock’s night shift was due to start, but he hadn’t arrived yet.”

“Simmons was alone in the van long enough to make that call,” Starsky said.

They stared at each other. Hutch felt sick. He shook his head.

“I don’t believe it. We must’ve missed something. Simmons…he was our most dedicated man. He put in almost as many hours as I did. When you disappeared for those four days, he went to pieces. He was a total wreck. He—”

He closed his eyes. This was ridiculous. Unthinkable. Simmons was a pal. How could they possibly suspect that he…?

Hutch forced himself to take a slow steadying breath when he felt Starsky go tense beside him. He looked up just in time to see Babcock and Simmons walking in. Simmons, first into the room, held the door for his partner. A smile produced in response to something Babcock must have just said to him still lingered on his face.

All the air seemed to go out of the room as Hutch’s eyes fastened onto Simmons’ face like limpets to a rock. He felt Starsky’s stare like a parallel beam beside him.

Simmons seemed unaware of the double scrutiny. His gaze went around the room with a slow, even sweep, casual and relaxed. Hutch saw him take in the noisy corner containing Nguyen, Whelan and Andreotti, and the quiet one where Dobey had just settled down with the commissioner. He saw him wink at Amanda and nod at Mbeki.

An hour seemed to pass before Simmons’ leisurely inspection reached their table, although it couldn’t have been more than a heartbeat. His gaze slid over them one at a time, Starsky first, then Hutch. Finding their eyes on him, he lifted his chin in a casual greeting.

The sweeping arc of his survey had already traveled on when something stalled the smooth progression. Slowly, reluctantly almost, as if drawn by an invisible chain, his gaze backtracked until it rested on Hutch’s face again. Their eyes met and locked.

Breathless and frozen, Hutch watched as Simmons’ eyes widened slowly and the remnants of his smirk crumbled away. The pale lips parted in a face suddenly drained of blood.

And Hutch knew. Without a single doubt, he knew. A hundred clues arose before his eyes and dropped in place to form a picture. Simmons cash-strapped and hooked on a lavish lifestyle. Simmons alone in the surveillance van with information worth more money than a cop could ever earn. Simmons falling apart in the aftermath of his betrayal.

Motive, means and opportunity. It all made sense.

Jeremiah T. Simmons. Brother cop and trusted friend.

My God.

Hutch rose in slow motion. His eyes never left Simmons’ face. Back was the cold destructive force that had made him want to throttle Leibovich. He felt chilled inside, frozen almost, and filled only with the blank determination of a robot programmed to kill. He was going to commit murder, right there in front of everyone.

Simmons knew it, too. He saw it on Hutch’s face somewhere. “Hutch,” he said, taking a nervous step back. “Hutch, wait.”

Hutch advanced like a slow and relentless force of nature. He was shedding his humanity step by step. He knew it and he didn’t care. He couldn’t have stopped himself any more than he could have stopped a tornado or an avalanche. Simmons’ hands came up in a gesture that might have been plea or defensive measure.

“I didn’t mean for him to get hurt,” he said in a rush. “I didn’t know what was going on in there. All I did was warn him. I’d never have done it if I’d known he would….”

Semi-coherent, the words would make sense to only three people in the room. For Hutch, they only confirmed what he already knew. That Simmons had made the first move, the call that alerted Leibovich. Without that tip-off, Leibovich would never have known.

As if he thought that could really save his skin, Simmons plowed on, unstoppable, digging his own grave with each additional word.

“I didn’t want to do it,” he said, his voice rising to a high pitch. “I waited for as long as I could. Hutch, please. You gotta understand. I had no choice. Those loan sharks had me by the balls. They would’ve killed me if I hadn’t come up with the money. Besides, there’s no harm done. Starsky is fine. He remembers now, and….”

Hutch stopped hearing him. The edges of his world dropped away, the sights and sounds around him faded to gray. Only the face before him stayed crystal clear. The face of the man who had sold Starsky down the river. For money.

His fist struck that face square on. He felt the impact, heard the crunch of breaking bones. Saw Simmons stagger and sway. Hutch drew back and put his full weight behind a left uppercut.

Simmons went down like a lead weight. He didn’t defend himself at him.

“Hutch! Stop it, Hutch, for Chrissakes. What the hell are you doing? Are you out of your mind?”

Half a dozen hands were on him, hauling him back and away. Babcock, Andreotti, Whelan. He threw them all off. A blind need had taken control of his being. He wanted to hurl himself on the downed man and pound his face until it needed reconstructive surgery.

On the floor, Simmons stirred with a whimper. His face was a mass of blood and broken bones. He made no attempt to get up.

The sight brought Hutch up short. In a glimpse of sanity, he saw Simmons as he had never seen him before—a weak, pathetic creature, corrupt and in slavery to Mammon. A man without a shred of decency.

Hutch’s skin crawled. All of a sudden, he couldn’t bring himself to touch the man again.

Starsky, who alone had made no move to restrain him, now came to stand beside him. At the same time, a no-nonsense Dobey pushed his way to the front.

Their captain quickly took charge. “You all heard what he said. He as good as confessed. You’re all witnesses. Take him upstairs and get him cleaned up. He’s under arrest. The charge? Corruption, of course. He can count himself lucky. It could’ve been accessory to murder.”

Dobey himself slapped the handcuffs on.

“Starsky, take your partner home. I’ll call you later.”

The last thing Hutch saw before firm hands led him from the room was the look of utter devastation on John Babcock’s face.

 

Aftermath

They didn’t talk about it at first. There didn’t seem to be anything left to say.

They drove home in silence, downed a couple of drinks in silence, picked at some food with barely a monosyllable between them. Shattered was the word that occurred to Starsky as he fumbled with the toothpaste, dropped it, retrieved it, dropped it again, before giving up on the small task in disgust. He felt weary to the bone, drained at every level. He wanted to go to bed and sleep for a week.

Hutch seemed no better. In fact, he seemed worse. Hollow-eyed and subdued, his rage dissipated, he’d slumped into a trough of exhaustion so deep, Starsky barely managed to coax him up the stairs to the bedroom.

By some unspoken consent, they never strayed far from each other’s side.

They didn’t talk about it the next day, either, nor the days after that. Work consumed most of the following week. Somehow they dredged up the energy to stay on top of their tasks, not helped by the somber mood in the squad room in the wake of Simmons’ stunning betrayal.

Days went by. The Christmas jingles in the shops and streets increased in volume and frequency. Christmas lights went up all over the neighborhood. Going through the motions, Starsky hung decorations and fairy lights and started checking out Christmas trees. Not that it really mattered. Hutch had already signed them both up for duty right across the festive period.

Work seemed to be the only activity capable of taking Hutch’s mind off things. And sex. Hutch couldn’t seem to get enough of it. In the mornings and at night, before work and after, and once, in a rare departure from the unwritten rule, in the car in a dark alley right in the middle of a murder investigation.

Starsky went along with it all, never failing to keep a close eye on him. Something was fermenting inside Hutch. Maybe there were things left to say after all.

Hanukkah came and went, and then Christmas. Hutch made it through the festivities with the grim cheer of a man condemned to an eternal spin on a funfair ride.

When New Year’s eve approached and there was no sign of him unbuttoning any time soon, Starsky was getting a little worried. The post-mortem of a crisis was something that could take Hutch weeks to chew over. No way was he going to allow that this time.

He picked his moment with care. On Saturday morning, Hutch spent a few happy hours pottering around the greenhouse and putting the finishing touches to his winter-ready garden beds. When he climbed back up to the rear porch, trailing clumps of soil and assorted bits of plant matter, Starsky was ready for him with a smile and a mug of hot chocolate.

“Take a break,” he said, patting the empty space on the bench beside him. “You’ve been out there since dawn. You haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

Hutch seemed happy to oblige. He folded his lanky frame onto the couch, squeezed up close and leaned in for a kiss.

“You can be breakfast,” he whispered into Starsky’s ear. “You’re right, I’m starving. I could eat you up right here.”

He slipped a soil-stained hand under Starsky’s sweater and shirt and moved it in suggestive circles over his belly and into the waistband of his jeans. Starsky’s inner thermostat crept up and he struggled to stay focused.

“Hold it for a minute,” he said. “I wanna talk to you about something.”

He might as well have told the earth to stop turning. Hutch had already unbuttoned his jeans and was inching down the zip.

“Mmmm, you’re so warm,” he mumbled into Starsky’s neck. “And you smell so good. You’re driving me crazy.”

He was driving Starsky crazy, too. Already his carefully knitted scheme was beginning to unravel. When Hutch’s skillful fingers slipped inside his briefs and started working their magic there, Starsky’s resolve wilted. He moaned and arched into the touch.

The next thing he knew they were on the rug in the living room, clumps of soil and all, and Hutch was on his knees beside him, sucking him off as if he were a lollipop.

It was a considerable amount of time later that he recalled the original purpose of his mission.

Damn. That didn’t exactly go to plan.

Consequently when he had another go at it later that day, Starsky made sure that there was plenty of space between him and the couch where Hutch had just settled down in the company of some dense tome entitled “Hydroponics for the Urban Gardener” or something like that.

“I been thinking,” he said in a conversational tone from just inside the doorway and propped a casual shoulder against the door frame.

“Careful,” Hutch said, not looking up. “You might strain something.”

“Haha. No, seriously. I gotta talk to you about something.”

Hutch set the book upside down on the coffee table, but not, as Starsky had been hoping, in preparation to paying him his undivided attention. Instead he got to his feet, ambled over with what could only be described as a predatory gleam in his eye, pressed Starsky against the door frame and started nuzzling his neck.

Starsky wanted to groan. The man was a sex maniac. It was impossible to talk to him these days. He braced himself against the relentless force bearing down on him.

“Listen to me, will ya?” he said, holding Hutch off with both arms. “It’s about the degree course. The next module starts in January and I want to have a go at it. I wanna finish the course and get that damn degree, no matter how long it takes. What do you think?”

For once the topic, usually so close to Hutch’s heart, failed to divert him from his purpose. He’d twisted around, trying to reach his target from a different angle.

“The degree course, huh?” he mumbled distractedly. His lips connected with the tender spot behind Starsky’s right ear and put a trail of tickly kisses there. “Sure, why not? But you haven’t finished the prep class yet.”

Starsky squirmed a little. “I know,” he said. “I missed a whole term. But I talked to the tutor and she said, Hu-utch! Dammit, Hutch, will ya stop that for a minute?”

“Oh, is that what she said?” Hutch said, grinning.

Starsky rolled his eyes. “No, you big dope. She said I should forget about the prep class and go straight for the course. The prep class was just supposed to be a leg-up. She thinks I’m ready for the real thing. Are you listening?”

“Uh huh. I’m listening.”

Hutch had unbuttoned the top of Starsky’s shirt and was tracing the curve of his shoulder with his lips. “But what about the degree exemption?” he said between kisses. “I bet you it’s yours if you ask for it. You deserve it, and I’m sure Dobey agrees.”

“That’s the other thing I meant to tell you. He already has, and so has Ryan. Dobey told me yesterday.”

Hutch finally lifted his head. “Ryan is giving you the degree exemption? But that’s great!”

“Yeah. We can take the lieu’s exam any time you like. Get off the streets for good, if that’s what you want.”

The surprised look on Hutch’s face was all the information Starsky needed to know that, for once, he’d been a mile off track in his assessment of the situation.

“You thought I wanted us off the streets?” Hutch said.

Starsky shrugged. “I thought you might. It’s been a tough year. If ever there’s a good time to quit, it’s now. You mean you don’t wanna quit?”

“No, bird brain,” Hutch said and poked a finger at Starsky’s chest. “I don’t wanna quit. I like being a cop. How many more times do I have to say it before you’ll believe me?”

Starsky made a face. “All right, so what’s eating you if it’s not that? And don’t tell me nothing is eating you. You been acting weird ever since we found out about Simmons.”

Hutch’s smile dropped away. “Yeah, Simmons….” he said and looked away.

“That’s it, isn’t it? It’s Simmons. What he did. That’s what’s really bugging you.”

Hutch heaved a deep breath. “No,” he said, “Not exactly. I mean, yes, of course, I’m upset by what he did. We all are. Especially Babcock. But….” He looked back at Starsky. “It’s not what he did that’s ‘bugging’ me. It’s what I did. What I almost did.”

He disconnected himself from Starsky and took a couple of steps into the room. Stood there, half turned away. He seemed to be reaching deep inside himself for the words he needed. Every trace of a playful manner had dropped away from him.

“I wanted to kill him,” he finally said. “And before that I wanted to torture him with my own bare hands. I wanted to rip him apart until his own mother couldn’t have ID’d him.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

“I might’ve done. I wanted him dead, Starsk, so bad. I wanted to make him suffer. Leibovich, too. Especially Leibovich. I wanted to make him pay for what he did to us.”

Hutch’s hand described a vague loop in the air. “I’m a cop,” he said. “I’m supposed to believe in the American justice system. Instead I wanted to roast him over a slow fire and hear him scream. I had visions about that. I spent a whole night thinking about the best way to kill him as slowly and as painfully as I could. What kinda person does that make me, huh?”

“A human kinda person?”

“You don’t understand. Something changed inside me when that happened. I turned into someone I didn’t recognize. I had this rage inside of me. I never felt that way before. Not even about Gunther.”

Starsky took a step toward him. “And now you’re beating yourself up over it. Over something you didn’t even do.”

“I did do. I hit Simmons like I never hit anyone before. I broke his nose and dislocated his jaw. He lost four teeth!”

“He deserved it,” Starsky muttered darkly. He walked up to Hutch, put a hand on his arm. “You’re right. You pack a mean punch when you’re angry. But that doesn’t make you a monster.”

“Doesn’t it? I took justice into my own hands. I betrayed everything I used to believe in. What about the next time? Maybe the next time I won’t just break someone’s jaw. Maybe I’ll beat him to death, instead. Would that make me a monster?”

Something tightened inside Starsky’s chest and his hand dropped away from Hutch’s arm.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said in a voice that felt rough around the edges. “You’re forgetting something. I’m that monster you’re talking about here. ‘Cause I didn’t have your self-control when our roles were reversed.”

A startled look transformed Hutch’s face. He exhaled slowly. “The Haynes case. Moo-Moo and Pola.” It wasn’t a question. “You mean you remember all that?”

“Yes, I remember. I remember everything now. I know what I did.” Starsky looked away. “I shot them and it wasn’t in self-defense. It was revenge, pure and simple. I thought they’d killed you. And you know what’s the worst? I didn’t think of the girl at all. I only thought of you.”

“They would’ve got away.”

“That’s what everyone said, and that’s what I put in the report. But that’s not why I killed them.” Starsky bit his lip. “I ain’t proud of it.”

Hutch reached for him then and pulled him close. “Do you have any idea what I would’ve done to Gunther if he hadn’t been convicted?”

Starsky leaned into him. “Yes, I do. The scumbag doesn’t know how lucky he is to be safe behind bars for life.”

Hutch nodded. “The things we do for each other,” he said.

Starsky twined his arms around Hutch’s torso. Through the layer of Hutch’s woolly winter shirt he felt Hutch’s heartbeat as if it were his own. He savored the sensation before pulling away just far enough to meet Hutch’s eye.

“There’s a line we must never cross,” he said. “If we did, we’d be no different from the scum we pick up on the streets every day. Promise me you won’t do anything we can’t live with. It’s a fine line, but we must never cross it.”

“I’ve already crossed it. That deal with Montgomery….”

Starsky took hold of one of Hutch’s shirt buttons. “We’ve both crossed it,” he said. “We’ve been dancing a merry jig on that line these past years. And every time we cross it, we go a little further.”

He let go of the button, placed his hands flat on Hutch’s chest instead. “No more,” he said. “We can’t do that anymore, not even for each other. All this taking the law into our own hands, cutting corners, cutting deals…. It’s gotta stop or we’ll end up exactly where Matt Coyle once said we would.”

“Coyle? You mean you remember that, too?”

“Hutch, I told you. I remember everything now. Everything. I also remember what you said to me afterward. You said we must never do anything that means we can’t look each other in the eye. You said we must never cross that line. And you were right.”

He let his hands slip around Hutch’s hips again, held him in a light embrace. “Promise me you’ll never cross that line. It would destroy us if we did. It would kill this thing we have between us.”

“It’s because of this thing between us that we keep crossing it,” Hutch reminded him.

“Promise me you won’t,” Starsky insisted. “If we did, we’d go over to the dark side. It would change what we have between us. We can’t risk that.”

Hutch looked at him then. “I thought it had already changed,” he said. “I couldn’t feel our connection. I thought we’d lost it. I was so scared.”

Starsky smiled. “Of course we didn’t lose it. It’s because of the connection that I got my memories back. D’you really think that without it, I would’ve stood a snowball’s chance in hell?”

“What do you mean?”

“You got under my skin right from the start. You did something to me that day you came to the clinic. Everyone else was a stranger, but you…somehow I felt I already knew you.”

“That’s not what it seemed like at the time,” Hutch said. “You practically threw me out, remember? You didn’t know me at all!”

Starsky hugged him. “You don’t understand. At the time I didn’t want to remember. I was ready to walk away from it all. I was already planning my escape. Then you came along and everything changed. Suddenly nothing was more important than gettin’ my memory back.”

The sense of purpose he’d felt after those endless days of pain and confusion, trapped inside his darkened mind, still had the power to electrify.

“I tried so hard,” he said. “Remember how I memorized all those files and facts? I devoured entire photo albums. I went all over the city to hunt my memories down. D’you really think I would’ve gone to all that trouble if I hadn’t sensed something special about you, about us?”

He took Hutch’s unhappy face between his hands.

“It’s like there’s a piece of you inside of me, something Leibovich couldn’t reach with all his wires and currents and electrodes. I think that’s the only reason my memories came back. And you know something else?”

“No, what?”

“I think they would’ve come back sooner or later even without the whole Bellamy-on-the-rooftop drama. All that did was speed things up.”

“You don’t know that.”

Starsky shrugged. “All right, maybe it wasn’t just the rooftop. Maybe falling in love with you had something to do with it, too. It was like this massive light bulb had come on in my head.”

“In love?” Hutch said astonished. “You fell in love with me?”

“Damn, I never told you that, did I? I realized it the moment that lowlife Cairo shot you. I was going to tell you, but then my memory started comin’ back and then all those other things happened, and—”

“You really fell in love with me?”

“I really did. Just like the first time.” Starsky grinned. “That’s the one good thing came out of having amnesia. It gave me the chance to fall in love with you all over again.”

Hutch kissed him then. Starsky leaned into the kiss, and it was sweet.

And then Hutch asked an astonishing question. “What was it like?” he said. “Having amnesia, I mean. Before you remembered?”

Before he remembered, out in a void, alone in the dark and cut off from everything that made him human. Starsky hesitated.

“It was cold,” he said at last.

“Cold?”

“In fact, it was freezing. I felt like I was shivering the whole time. Not physically, you know, but….”

Hutch nodded. He knew.

A warm, fuzzy feeling crept over Starsky. “How do they stand it?” he said. “All those people out there who don’t have what we have? How do they keep going, day after day, so alone all the time? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, I don’t think anyone else out there has got what we’ve got.”

“I know. We’re weird.”

“Weird and wonderful.”

They held each other in a light embrace. The warm, fuzzy feeling wrapped itself around Starsky like a woolly blanket. To his surprise he found that they were still standing inside the doorway, and that the light had faded outside, and that the room lay in shadows.

“Let’s…go upstairs,” he said. The words came out a little strangled. “I wanna do things to you.”

“Things?” Hutch smiled.

“Things like these,” Starsky said in a husky voice, caught Hutch’s head between both hands and pulled him into a long, deep, satisfying kiss. Hutch fell into it with enthusiasm, and for a long moment there was nothing but the two of them, just him and Hutch. The way it should be.

And then he took Hutch by the hand and towed him toward the stairs. He was going to make Hutch fly. He was going to lay on a show neither of them would forget in a hurry. Fireworks guaranteed.

But at the bottom of the staircase, Hutch stalled. “Wait,” he said and set his free hand on Starsky’s chest.

Starsky stared first at the hand and then at its owner. “Wait?” he said in disbelief. “Whadda ya mean, wait? What happened to the walking, talking sex machine called Hutch? Seems to me that ‘wait’ wasn’t in your vocabulary these last coupla weeks.”

Hutch looked a little sheepish. “I know. I just can’t seem to get enough of you these days. But right now…. I think there’s something we gotta do first, something we should’ve done a long time ago.”

“And what’s that?”

“Go and see Huggy.” In the dusky light Hutch’s face looked soft and disarmingly open. “Not because we want information or need his help or anything like that. Let’s just go and see him for fun, ’cause we like hanging out with him. Let’s take him on a great night out before he gets hitched. Make sure he knows he can always trust us to be there for him whenever he needs it.”

Something soft and tender invaded Starsky’s being and turned all his insides to a pile of mush. He reached out and stroked Hutch’s cheek.

“I love you, you know that?” he said.

Hutch smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

 

– End –

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Chapter End Notes:

Many thanks to Annie for the beta and to Mara for insightful suggestions and help along the way.