Hooked

236

Starsky returns to work after the shooting, but things go from bad to worse within a short time…for both of them.

 

Dedication: For Wuemsel

---

Detective Sergeant David Starsky fidgeted in the cheap leather chair in the waiting room. He didn’t notice the embarrassing noises the leather made as he moved. Stormy blue eyes stared out from behind long, dark lashes at the magazine he held in shaky hands, but his mind didn’t register the images. He threw the magazine down onto the rectangular wooden table before him. It skidded across the slick surfaces of the other magazines and headed for the edge.

Next to him, a hand reached out reflexively and snatched up the magazine before it hit the floor. Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson tossed the book onto the middle of the heap and regarded his friend with a frown. His own blue eyes sparked with anxiety and dread. In a few minutes, he thought, we’ll be called into that room. His gaze flickered toward the heavy oak door across from him. In a few minutes, the Medical Board will decide Starsky’s future . . . OUR futures. If Starsky isn’t cleared to go back on the streets . . . . His mind wouldn’t allow him to finish the thought. With a slight shake of his head, he turned toward his partner and offered a vague smile of encouragement.

Starsky snatched up the same magazine. Thumbed through it. Tossed it back on the table. He stood abruptly and looked toward the water cooler in the corner. Changed his mind. Sat back down. “Wish they’d hurry up,” he grumbled, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Starsk,” Hutch chided quietly, “you’re going to wear yourself out before you even go in there.” He nodded his head toward the oak door. It seemed bigger than before. His own pent up frustration screamed to be released. He wanted to pace the floor to let off some steam, but keeping Starsky as calm as possible was his first priority. Just a few more minutes . . . .

Suddenly, the door to their future opened before them. Both men froze, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Now that the time was finally upon them, they wished they could stall fate for just a few more minutes.

Seventeen minutes later it was over. When the door opened again, the partners exited with shock etched on their faces.

“I can’t believe it,” Starsky said breathlessly.

Hutch held the outside door open for him. “Believe it,” he said. He fished in his pocket for the Torino keys. Starsky had been too wound up on the way over to drive.

Suddenly, Starsky let out an ear-piercing war whoop. A smile broke out on his face like the sun emerging from behind clouds. Hutch laughed and tossed him the keys. “Feel like driving now, partner?”

“Does a cow squirt milk?”

Hutch shook his head and got in the passenger side. There was no point in correcting another one of Starsky’s slightly tarnished coined phrases. He doubted the excited man next to him would even hear it. Instead, he reached over and grabbed his friend’s right shoulder. “Buddy, this calls for one hell of a celebration.”

“You bet!” Starsky’s grin was at full voltage. “Pits?”

“If you go anywhere else, Huggy will have your hide. He’s waiting to hear the verdict.”

Starsky turned the key in the ignition and felt the welcome vibration of the car’s powerful motor as it hummed to life around him. Squealing tires, he headed for Huggy’s bar.

***

Hutch tried to talk his over-zealous partner into waiting until Monday to return to work, but Starsky would have none of it.

“Look, tomorrow’s Thursday,” the dark haired man reasoned. “If I go back tomorrow, I can ease myself back into things. One day more, and I’ll have the weekend off. If I wait ‘til Monday, it’ll be like jumpin’ into a cold pool after a barbeque!”

Hutch opened his lips to ask for an interpretation of that last remark, but Starsky cut him off.

“Besides, I’ll drive myself nuts thinkin’ about it between now and then.”

And me with you, Hutch agreed. “You have a doctor’s appointment on Friday.”

“C’mon, Hutch. Dobey won’t hassle me about slippin’ out for an hour. I’ll go let the doc poke me for a few minutes, give him the good news that all his hard work paid off, then I’ll be right back. His office is right in town.”

Hutch knew he was defeated just by the gleam in his partner’s eyes. “Ok. Fine. Tomorrow it is. I’ll pick you up at . . . .”

Starsky’s head snapped around to look at his friend so fast that Hutch’s words died on his lips. “You kiddin’? My first day back and you wanna bring me in like I can’t drive?” His nostrils flared angrily at the memory of all the months gone by when he wasn’t able to sit behind the wheel of his beloved car.

Hutch held up both hands defensively. “Sorry! What was I thinking?”

***

Thursday morning, Starsky flew around the house they shared, trying to push his slowed body back to its previous hyper speed. Since the shooting by Gunther’s men, Hutch had used the money his grandfather left him in a trust fund to buy the little house on the beach. He thought that it would be easier on them both. Trying to get a comb through his wet, curly hair, Starsky looked around at his bedroom in the reflection of the mirror. He stopped struggling with the comb for a moment and braced his arms on the bureau. You’re something else, buddy, he thought, as overwhelming gratitude for what Hutch had done filled his heart to bursting. He looked his reflection in the eyes. Now that I’m back to work, I’m gonna pay you back my half of this investment if it’s the last thing I do.

“Hey in there! Did you decide on Monday after all?” Hutch called from the front door.

“Comin’!” Starsky dropped the comb, ran his fingers through his unruly locks a few times and left well enough alone.

“I see you dressed up for your first day back,” Hutch teased as they headed for the Torino. Starsky wore a faded pair of bell bottom jeans with frayed cuffs, a black T-shirt and a blue windbreaker.

“I told ya,” Starsky said as he unlocked the door, “I wanna ease back in. I been out for eight months. If I don’t wear my usual wardrobe, the guys at the station might not recognize me.”

Hutch snorted at the absurd thought, then put up an arm to block his partner’s exit through the doorway. “Got your pills?”

Storm clouds gathered in the brunette’s eyes immediately. “Look,” he started, pointing a finger in the blond’s face.

“No, you look,” Hutch said firmly, staring him down. “It’s your first friggin’ day back. You have no idea how you’ll feel later.”

“I know how I’ll feel if I take one of ‘em pills,” Starsky spat. “I’ll fall asleep. That’ll look real . . . .”

“I don’t care how it looks!”

Starsky pushed his way past his friend’s arm and mumbled, “Then you take ‘em.”

Hutch’s eyebrows rose for a minute as the suggestion sank in. He nodded slightly to himself and trotted over to the kitchen counter where the prescription bottle of Demerol sat untouched. He popped off the lid, shook two into his palm then stashed them in his shirt’s breast pocket. He pushed the lid firmly back on the bottle and gave it one victory tap before sprinting for the door.

Starsky slid into the driver’s seat and waited for Hutch to close his door before he peeled out of the driveway and headed to the precinct. They carried on their usual light banter on the way, Starsky completely happy and at ease. However, Hutch tensed more and more as they neared the station. As they came within a hundred feet of the entrance to the parking garage, Starsky put on his turn signal. The blond’s hand shot out and grabbed his friend’s arm before he even realized what he was doing. “Not there,” he whispered.

“Hutch . . . .”

“Argue with me another day, okay Starsk? Not there. Not today. Maybe you can handle it, but I . . . . just park around front today, p-please?” Painful memories made the man’s blue eyes glisten in the dim light inside the car.

“No problem,” Starsky agreed quietly. He gracefully parallel parked in front of Parker, their station house. He turned off the engine and sat quietly for a moment. Before he could think too much, he threw open the door and got out. He trotted around the car and opened the passenger door. “Let’s go, Blintz. You’re gonna make me late on my first day back!” He slapped his emerging partner on the back and they headed up the half dozen steps to the front door.

Inside, a petite, attractive black woman whispered into a phone. “They’re coming up the steps!” She cradled the phone then rushed out to greet the men as they came through the doors.

“Starsky!” Minnie squealed with delight. On tiptoe, she threw her slender arms around his neck and planted a big, wet kiss on his cheek.

“Ahem!” Hutch said, trying to get in on the action.

“Oh, Hutch, I see you every day.” She dismissed him with a flick of her wrist. “Today my hugs and kisses are for this sweet thang.”

Blushing slightly, Starsky disentangled himself from Minnie’s grip. “Thanks, Schweetheart! You always know how ta make a guy feel welcome.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother!” He grabbed his partner’s elbow and steered him down the hall.

As they neared the squad room doors, Hutch fell back a pace and let his friend push through the swinging doors first.

“WELCOME BACK!” a room full of people shouted at once.

Starsky staggered back a step and fell against Hutch’s chest. “Geez! Give a guy a heart attack, why doncha?” he laughed, regaining his balance. All around him were smiling faces.

As he walked further into the room, he saw that a card table had been set up in the corner with punch and breakfast treats; bagels with butter or cream cheese, croissants, pastries and a big urn of coffee. He immediately set his trajectory for the table while people slapped him on the back and welcomed him along the way. When he finally reached the table, he grabbed a plate and filled it with pastries. Then he made himself a large cup of coffee. As he took his first sip of java loaded with cream and sugar, he noticed that the room was suddenly silent. He slowly turned to see everyone standing with their arms crossed or hands on hips, watching him.

Hutch broke the silence. “Some things never change.”

Everyone broke out in laughter and the party was on once again.

***

“Didn’t get mush done today,” Starsky slurred from the couch. One blue sneaker had been kicked off, the other remained. His windbreaker was tossed on the corner of the couch, the gun holster dropped on top of it.

Hutch chuckled as he hung up his jacket and holster in the closet by the front door. “You shouldn’t have had so much punch.”

“Whooda thought somebody’d spike punch inna police apartment?” Starsky slouched down further into the cushions and grabbed a throw pillow. “Who’d do a thing like ‘at?”

Hutch came over to the couch and swatted his friend’s feet away so he could sit. “Dobey,” he said conspiratorially.

Starsky lifted his head for a minute to see if the blond was serious. “Nah uh! Really?” His neck suddenly turned to rubber and his curly head plopped back onto the pillow. “Dobey did it in the squad room with a bottle!” What he thought of as a clever reference to the game Clue set him off and he started to giggle.

Hutch reached down and grabbed the foot that still had the sneaker. He made short work of the laces then tossed it to the floor to join its mate. “You have a good first day, buddy?” he asked quietly.

Suddenly somber, his partner replied, “The best. An’ I know you put ‘em up on it. To it, I mean. You’re the best.”

Hutch smiled as he stood. Bending down, he lifted his inebriated friend’s legs and put them up on the couch. “You’re the best, too, Starsk,” he said in turn.

“No.” Starsky sat up suddenly. As soon as the room settled down to a slow spin, he continued.  “I mean it, Hutch. You stuck with me all them months, making me do them horrible exercises and stuff. You . . . you bought this house . . . .” he choked up suddenly and couldn’t go on.

“Starsk, although I never, ever want to go through something like that again, I would.” He stooped down to Starsky’s eye level. “It’s me and thee, partner. To the bitter end.” He reached up and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch to drape it over the man who had inexplicably become the most important person in his life.

Snuggling up with the warm cover, the woozy detective settled his head against the throw pillow. As he lost the battle to stay awake, he mumbled, “Yeah, but I prefer happy endin’s.”

***

Desk duty was never a favorite task, but considering the alternative, Starsky was happy to comply. Sitting in his old metal chair staring at stacks of folders awaiting his attention felt like heaven compared to laying flat on his back looking at the ceiling. He grabbed up a new folder and opened it, but he didn’t see the print. Instead, his mind tugged him back to one of the many days in the hospital. Flat on his back, unable to move without causing himself agony, he had little else to do but count the beeps from the heart monitor over his left shoulder.

A pencil tapped twice on his folder, startling him back to reality. He dropped the file to his desk and took in his partner’s inquisitive look. Oh boy, Starsky thought. Head tilted forward, ice-blue eyes boring into mine, the eyebrows inching up his forehead . . . and the telltale crease between his eyes. “I’m fine,” he said out loud. “Just spaced for a minute.” Before his tenacious friend could delve any deeper, Starsky pushed up from his chair and hurried over to the coffee maker. The mug in his hand was still half full, but he warmed it up anyway.           He took his time adding sugar and cream, hoping the delay would give him time to recover from getting up too fast.

Hutch smiled slightly to himself. It was good to have him back. Damn good. Just seeing him jump up from his chair like that . . . . The smile slowly fell away from his face. Seven months ago, Starsky could barely sit up in bed. Eight months ago, he was struggling to breathe, his chest shattered and shredded.

Starsky’s hands shook slightly as he returned to the desk. He plopped back down in his chair and spilled the dark liquid in his overly-filled mug on the manila folder. “Oops.” He used his shirt sleeve to wipe off the droplets. He ducked his head, waiting for the inevitable smart remark from his partner. When none came, he brought his head up. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Hutch’s attention snapped back from the past with a wicked jolt. “Hey, yourself,” he said brusquely.

“Have a nice trip?” Starsky used both hands to bring the mug to his lips and took a sip.

“Not especially.”

“Wanna share?”

“Not especially.” Hutch took a deep breath and forced himself to remember why he had smiled in the first place.

The brunette regarded the sudden smile with suspicion, confusion then amusement. “You’re weird, ya know that?”

Hutch snickered and picked up his pencil. Changing the subject, he glanced at his watch. “Shouldn’t you be going? It’s twenty ‘til two.”

“Yeah, yeah. I was just about to leave. His office is only ten minutes from here.”

“Want me along for the ride?” Hutch asked hopefully.

“Nah. I’ll be in and out. It’s only a checkup. Be right back.” The dark-haired detective hurried out the doors.

***

Traffic was light for a change. For the first time in a very long time, Starsky felt light-hearted going through the doctor’s office doors. No more doom and gloom, worrying if he’d ever again make the grade. He’d made it. Back on the force. Being a cop like his dad was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do for as long as he could remember.

“Detective,” Doctor Franklin said in greeting. “From the smile on your face, I guess I don’t have to ask how you’re feeling today.” He shook the man’s hand and directed him to sit on the exam table.

“Nope. I am happy to report that, thanks to your efforts and those of my long-suffering partner, I have officially been cleared for duty.”

Franklin’s face split in an uncharacteristically wide smile. “David, that’s excellent! When do you return to work?”

“Actually, my first day back was yesterday. I’ll be riding a desk for awhile.”

“Any problems?

“Nah, I broke that desk in a long time ago,” Stasky chuckled.

“David.”

“Sorry.  Ok, maybe a little achy.”

“That’s to be expected. How much Demerol do you have left?”

“All of it. I hate takin’ pills.”

Franklin sighed and rubbed at his forehead with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. He’d crossed this bridge many times with his stubborn patient. “David, I prescribed the pills to be taken at night to help you get some solid sleep. If you don’t get sufficient rest, you won’t be back to work for long.”

“Whenever I took them in the hospital, they made me feel loopy,” Starsky whined.

“That’s why you take them before bed. Even though you’re on desk duty, you’ll be using muscles you haven’t used for a while. Are you still doing your exercises?”

“Um,” Starsky looked down at the floor, over to the wall. “Mostly.”

Franklin slapped the thick file containing the detective’s medical information down on the exam table. Starsky jumped.

Franklin leaned in close. “Detective. I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know you quite well over the years.”

Starsky flinched, remembering the first time he’d met Franklin. The time he’d been poisoned and had twenty-four hours to live. There had been numerous other trips for cuts, bruises and general wear and tear from the dangerous job he did with gusto.

“I’m well aware of how stubborn you are, your tendency to ignore medical advice and your disdain for medication.”

Starsky could feel his face warm with embarrassment. He dropped his gaze to his lap and studied the threadbare patch on the left knee of his jeans that would soon be a hole.

“Where is your partner today, by the way?”

Starsky mumbled something in reply.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said, I figured this would be a quick in an’ out checkup. Hooray, I’m back to work an’ all that. If I’m okay to go back, then I must be okay. Y’know? So what’s the big deal?” he huffed.

“The big deal, detective,” he drew out the word, “is that you won’t stay okay for long if you don’t do what is necessary to keep yourself that way. And although I hate to say this, I think I need to remind you–one word from me and your return to active duty will be abruptly rescinded.”

Starsky swallowed hard.

“Now, pay attention. Starting this evening, I want you to take one Demerol before bed. Whether you feel you need it or not. Clear?”

“Crystal,” Starsky replied grumpily.

Franklin picked up the folder, flipped a few pages then found what he sought. “I gave you a prescription for sixty tablets. That will last you two months. If you find that you wake in the middle of the night and you are in pain or discomfort, it’s fine for you to take another tablet. How long will you be on desk duty?”

“A month, I think.”

“Good. You have plenty of pills to take you into your return to full active duty. If you need a refill, just call my office.”

Starsky slid down from the table, wanting to end the visit.

“We’re not done.”

Starsky reluctantly hopped back up on the table.

“Let me take a look at your injuries.”  He stood there and stared his patient down until his request was fulfilled. Starsky shrugged out of his jacket, holster, and shirt. With two fingers, the doctor gently probed each of the three scars on his patient’s chest and lower abdomen along with the matching scars on his back. “Everything seems to be healing well,” he nodded. “You’ll have to be especially careful of this scar,” he said, pointing to the angry red mound of smooth flesh on the upper left of Starsky’s chest. “Since you’re left-handed, you’ll be pulling on this. Try to drive as little as possible.”

Starsky pursed his lips. “Am I done?”

Franklin smiled slightly. “Yes, you’re done. Don’t forget what I’ve told you. Make an appointment on your way out to see me in a month.”

Starsky snatched his shirt up and started to redress himself. “Thanks, I’ll do that.” On his way out of the office, he went straight for the exit. I’ll call for the appointment later.

***

Hutch forced himself not to react when the squad doors swung open. When his partner finally seated himself across from him, he looked up. “Oh, welcome back! Everything go okay?”

“Just like I expected,” Starsky lied.

Hutch could see it in his eyes. “Took you longer than I expected.”

“Traffic,” Starsky said. He picked up any folder within reach and flipped it open. “Lots of patients waitin’, too.”

“But you had an appointment.”

“He was runnin’ behind,” Starsky said tightly. He closed the file and tossed it into the pile of countless others.

Hutch’s gaze followed the tossed folder. They had lots of work to do. A mountain of folders from all the detectives in the department had happily been heaped on their desks by Dobey.

***

As the days stretched into weeks and then a month, the heartbeat of the department returned to normal and everyone settled back into the comforting arms of normalcy. It even seemed as though Starsky had become accustomed to desk duty. Any other time, he would complain. Any other time, Hutch would almost have to handcuff his partner to the desk to make him stay put. But this was a time unlike any other time.

Starsky discussed cases with Hutch, just like old times, and they rounded corners and pulled together threads for some of the other detectives who were stalemate on their cases, but Starsky never hinted at returning to the streets. That was fine with Hutch, for within the comfort of normalcy, memories and fears emerged that until then had been easily suppressed with adrenaline and hope.

Hutch’s nightmares came back around the third week of Starsky’s return to work. What happens if Starsky’s injured again? That would be eight months of pain, sweat and tears from both of us, wasted. What if he’s . . . killed? Hutch thought those worries had been gone for good. He thought it would be clear skies and smooth sailing and all those other clichés people made up to make themselves believe that tomorrow had to be better than today. When he awoke screaming in the night, covered with sweat and panting for breath, he would always explain it all away. Something he ate. A gruesome photo from one of the files. A scene from a horror movie he’d watched with his partner. Anything but the truth. Fear’s cold fingers dug into his chest and gripped his heart.  I’m scared, Starsk.

Starsky soothed his partner the best he could. He knew that Hutch would sort things out in his own time. So when his partner offered him a lame excuse for his terror, he took it. He knew the real deal. It was the same fear that kept him from mentioning returning to street duty. The same terror that made him wonder if he’d be this lucky the next time. Or if Hutch would. He fought to keep the trembling inside as he reached out to brush the moist blond locks back from his friend’s forehead. Then he quickly retreated to his own room and the sanctuary of his bed, where he could stare wide-eyed into the dark, facing down his own demons. I’m scared, Hutch.

***

Harold Dobey was loud, crass, bossy and completely in tune with the needs of his men. He practiced the rough façade like one would practice a developed skill to keep it honed. Strong men were shaped by strong leaders. He had crafted a squad of men that any captain would be proud of, especially the department’s most successful detective team, Starsky and Hutchinson. They didn’t quite fall for the ‘tough captain’ routine as much as the others did, but they pretended enough to allow him his dignity. Over the years, they had somehow crow-barred their way past his carefully constructed walls of authority and found their way into his heart. Now they were like sons.

When the day for Starsky to hit the streets finally rose on the horizon, it found a bleary-eyed Harold Dobey sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his temples. Most of the night had been spent restlessly turning from one side to another. Each turn of the overweight man caused the mattress to bounce crazily and the covers to be pulled off his loving wife, Edith. She’d tug them back, he’d roll over again and the whole process would start again. That woman’s a saint to put up with me, he thought affectionately as he leaned over to kiss her forehead. She was, at last, in a deep sleep. He tucked the covers around her then stood to start his day.

Dobey paused for a moment before he pushed through the swinging doors that led to his kingdom of knights, left in his charge to hold back the darkness one city block at a time. He schooled his features into the scowling mask of a commander that he wore at the office and marched through the doors.

“Starsky! Get your feet off the desk and quit getting crumbs all over that report!”

The brunette hustled the best he could to get his legs down without pulling a muscle in his healing lower back. “Soffy, Cpm,” he mumbled through a mouth full of donut. He grabbed his mug and sipped some cold coffee to help him swallow the confection. “’Mornin’ to you, too,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Starsky, get down to R&I and bring back the file on Charles Jarrid. Stan should have it waiting on his desk,” Dobey directed.

“I’ll go,” Hutch offered, starting to rise.

“I said ‘Starsky.’”

“I know, sir, but . . . .”

“But nothing. He’s back on active duty.” Dobey pulled a pencil from where it rested behind his ear and used it as a pointer. “I think if he’s able to go back on the streets today, he can handle a trip to R&I to get a folder.”

Starsky got hurriedly to his feet. “I’m on it, Cap’n.” He gave a quick salute and hurried toward the doors.

Dobey waited until the exit doors stopped swinging then said quietly, “Hutchinson, in my office.”

Hutch shut the office door behind him once he was inside. The captain lowered himself into his old, worn black leather chair with a grunt and tossed his pencil onto the desk. His gaze took in the numerous scratches, gouges and stains adorning the old walnut desk and a frown pulled at his lips. He felt as old as the desk and slightly more worn. “Starsky’s scheduled to start back on street duty today,” he said without looking up at his subordinate.

Hutch sat in an old wooden chair on the other side of the desk. His head was bent as he studied his hands on his lap. His large, calloused fingers were woven together in a tight embrace, white knuckled from lack of circulation.

“Hutchinson?”

Hutch’s head tipped up briefly, just enough to flash an icy blue look at the captain. “I hear you,” he said.

“Worried?”

“Terrified,” Hutch admitted in a whisper.

“How’s he been doing?”

Hutch blew out a breath and gathered his thoughts. “I know he’s still hurting. I catch him wincing now and then when he doesn’t know I’m watching. You know how stubborn he is. Won’t take the pain meds the doc gave him. Not even to go to sleep at night. When I ask him how he’s doing, it’s always the same, one-word answer – ‘fine.’”

“Well, is he?”

“Fine?” Hutch paused to push the fingers of his right hand through his hair in frustration. “Well, let’s just say that he’s been happy and content to do desk duty for the past month. No complaints, no grumbling . . . .”

“That bad, huh?” Dobey said knowingly.

“He hasn’t even mentioned going back out on the streets.” Hutch slid forward to the edge of his chair. “Cap, I don’t know how . . . what am I supposed to do? I know he’s scared. He has good reason to be, but he’ll never admit it. And it’s my job as his partner and friend to back him up. He’s worked so hard for this . . . to get back out on the streets and get his life back to normal.” Hutch closed his eyes and shook his head.

Dobey sat back, nodding. The chair emitted a high-pitched squeak in protest of the weight shift. The captain cleared his throat. “That’s why I’m starting you two off slowly.” The chair screamed in protest as he leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the desk. “There’s plenty of crime out there to go around.” He gestured over this left shoulder toward the window with a flick of his head.

“The file you sent him for?”

“Charles Jarrid. Just got out of prison after a ten-year stint. He was arrested by Greerson and Pettit, so he has no reason to recognize the two of you or to hold any grudges.”

Grudges. The word hit Hutch like a punch. The longer they were cops, the more enemies they made. The more enemies, the more scores to settle. Suddenly, the blond felt very tired of treading water in the sewer the city had become.

“All I want you to do,” Dobey continued, “is check out the place where he’s staying.  Keep track of anyone who visits.”

“Yeah, yeah. Standard routine for all new releases.” The detective rubbed at his temple with his left hand. “You know Starsk is going to freak out when he hears we’re pulling babysitting duty.”

“Tough,” Dobey said sternly, but his expression told another story. He knew the hot-headed brunette wouldn’t stand for coddling. “He’s been out eight months. He’s got to acclimate somehow. Just break it to him gently.”

Hutch’s jaw dropped open. “Me? Me, break it to him gently? Aw, come on!”

Dobey picked up the discarded pencil and pointed to the door. “Your partner should be back by now. Out.”

Sputtering and muttering to himself, Hutch obediently got up and went to the door. He paused in the doorway and looked beseechingly back towards his superior.

“No way, Hutchinson. He’s your partner. You handle it.”

“Thanks,” the blond muttered, slowly closing the door behind him. “Thanks a lot.”

Across the room, his partner sat on the edge of the desk swinging his leg.

“Hey, Starsk. Did you get the file?”

“You and Dobey have a nice chat?” There was a hint of ice in the brunette’s tone.

“Uh, well . . . not a chat, really. He was just filling me in on today’s assignment.”

“Without me in the room?”

“I guess he thought it would save time,” Hutch blustered, avoiding eye contact.

Starsky narrowed his eyes at his partner. His leg stopped swinging. After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, he asked, “So?”

“So?”

“So what’s the assignment, dummy?”

“Oh! The assignment. Uh, the file?”

“Right here,” Starsky reached behind him to get the file off his desk. Halfway through the turn, he felt a burning ache in his upper left chest. Gritting his teeth, he slowed the turn but continued the motion. When he turned back around, he handed it to his partner without a word and kept his eyes on the folder. One look into his eyes and he knew his overly perceptive friend would see the pain there.

Hutch accepted the folder, flipped it open and pretended to scan the contents. He took his time. He knew the short diversion would give Starsky the time he needed to work through the pain. After stretching the time to review the thin folder to just short of suspicious, he said enthusiastically, “Well, buddy. Let’s roll and I’ll explain everything while we’re in the car.”

Hutch had managed to convince Starsky to park the Torino at the front curb for the past month. As they walked toward the front exit, Hutch thought he heard the slightest wheezing sound coming from his partner and forced his gate to a stroll. By the time they reached the car, he could clearly see that his friend was in some sort of trouble.

“Hey, Starsk? How’s about I drive so you can look at the folder while I explain . . . .”

“I’m drivin’.”

“Come on. I’ve been driving your car for the past . . . . well, for months. I already read the file.”

“Memorized it, ya mean,” Starsky said under his breath. Determined, he marched to the driver’s side and fished the keys out of his jeans pockets.

Not as tight as they used to be, Hutch observed. You used to have to do some major squirming to get anything out of those pockets. Now your jeans are hanging on you. His brows pulled together into a crease.

Starsky unlocked the car door. Without looking up, he said, “Whatever you’re thinkin’, just quit it.”

Startled, Hutch pulled himself out of his reverie. As soon as his door was unlocked, he got inside. A moment later he was thrown against the passenger side door as Starsky gunned the Torino’s engine and propelled them into traffic.

“Ok.” The curly-haired detective slowly rolled down his window, then rested his left arm on the door. “We’re in the car, we’re drivin’. So, what’s the assignment?”

“Uh, babysitting.” Hutch cringed inwardly. The one thing he didn’t want to say was what blurted out of his mouth. Quickly, he outlined what Dobey had dictated.

“Piece a’ cake,” Starsky said. He eased the car in the general direction of Jarrid’s reported address.

Hutch turned his face toward the passenger side window to hide the look of shocked surprise on his face.

***

“That Jarrid’s a piece o’ work, ain’t he?” Starsky observed as he picked at the steak and mashed potatoes on his plate. At his request, they were eating in the living room in front of the TV with the patio doors open. A wonderful sea breeze filled their small house with refreshing salt air.

“Yeah, he’s a piece of something,” Hutch laughed. “Starsk, it’s bad enough you’ve got me eating in here with my plate on my knees. Do we have to watch the news while we eat? Shit, we live the news every day.”

“All the more reason to keep up on things,” the brunette said, pointing with his fork to emphasize his words.

The blond sighed and took another bite of steak. While he chewed and pretended to watch the news, he stole glances at his friend. Two days of sitting in the car watching nothing but Jarrid and his scummy friends reunite at a rundown hotel had taken their toll on his back. He could only imagine how stiff Starsky must be. “You done?”

“Yeah. Not that hungry,” he said with a shrug as he handed his plate over to Hutch. The food was moved around a bit, but only a quarter of the meal had actually been eaten.

The blond dumped the food into the trash, put the dirty dishes in the sink then returned to the living room. “Move over.”

“Huh? You were sittin’ in the chair. I got the couch.”

“Starsk, it’s a big couch. I’m getting a stiff neck watching TV from the chair. It’s on an angle.”

With a theatrical sigh, Starsky moved from the center of the couch to the far right.  Hutch plopped down unexpectedly hard next to him and jarred his already hurting left side. Starsky gasped.

“Starsk! I’m sorry! Are you ok?”

“Blintz,” he grated out through clenched teeth. “you’re such a . . . klutz.” Against his will, he started to pant from the pain.

“I’m sorry,” the blond said again. His face was pinched with the anguish of causing his best friend pain. He immediately sprang up from the couch and headed for the kitchen.

The sudden movement caused another gasp of pain, followed by a low moan.

Hutch stopped in mid step and spun around. “Oh, God. Starsk! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“With friends . . . like you,” Starsky’s right hand came up to clutch at his upper left chest. “You’re killin’ me, Blondie.” He attempted a snicker to lighten things up, but it came out as a hiss of pain.

Hutch shook two Demerol into his trembling palm and filled a glass with water. He was back to the couch within a minute. “Here, buddy. Take these.”

“Nuh uh.” Starsky stubbornly shook his head.

“Look, mushbrain. You’re in pain. These are pain pills. Get the connection?”

“Don’t,” A line of perspiration beaded up on Starsky’s upper lip, “want . . . .”

“I wasn’t asking,” the blond said firmly. He pushed the hand holding the tablets closer. “Take these.”

The brunette glared up at him, panting.

“Look, take these or . . . or I’ll tell Dobey to put you back on desk duty.”

To his great surprise, Starsky just looked at him for a minute as if weighing the options. Finally, he took the pills.

Hutch put the now empty glass on the coffee table and sat down carefully on the couch next to his hurting friend. “Starsk. About being back on the streets . . . .”

Starsky put a hand out to stop him mid sentence. “Tired. Help me up so I can go to bed.”

“Buddy, I think we should talk.”

“Fine, but let’s do it . . . another time . . . when I can breathe again . . . okay?”

Unable to argue with that logic, Hutch helped his friend slowly to his feet. When they reached Starsky’s bedroom door, the winded man braced his arm in the doorway.

“I’ll . . . take it from here, Blondie.”

“Um, you want me to help you . . . .”

“Nah. ‘m fine. Go bed. See ya inna mornin’.” He managed a strained smile.

Hutch backed off. “Sure. Call me if you need me, huh?”

Starsky nodded once then closed his door. A few long steps later, he made it to his bed. Still in socks, sweatpants and a t-shirt, he gingerly crawled under the covers. Folding to the pain, he hugged himself into a fetal position and waited for the pain pills to kick in. He prayed it would be soon.

***

Morning came quickly. The alarm buzzed for a full minute before it registered on the drug dampened mind inside the curly head poking out from under the covers. A hand waved toward the nightstand to silence the irritating buzz emanating from the horrid device. The third swat took it out. Bleary-eyed, Starsky pulled himself up to a sitting position then swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had to take a mean whiz, but couldn’t seem to clear his vision enough to trust standing up. Rubbing his eyes, he managed to get one eye open enough to navigate and rushed to answer Nature’s call.

Hutch was filling the coffee carafe at the sink with his eyes closed. As he turned to the dump the water into the coffee maker, he heard his partner shuffle into the kitchen.

“’Morning,” he slurred. He stabbed at the power switch on the coffee maker twice before connecting with it to turn it on. Five minutes later, each of them sat at the kitchen table in silence, concentrating all their energies on the mugs of coffee that pumped caffeine into their brains to kick start them for the day.

Starsky finally spoke halfway through his second cup. “Slept pretty good. You?”

Hutch yawned in response and shook his head. “No. Had trouble falling asleep.”

“You shoulda taken one of those pills you forced on me. They knocked me out.”

“Starsk, I didn’t force . . . .”

He waived the comment away. “Whatever. I’m glad you did. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in awhile.”

“Yeah?” Hutch blinked his eyes open all the way. His friend sat across from him, his hair a ridiculous riot on his head, still dressed in his clothes from the night before. “You slept in your clothes?”

“I coulda been in a suit of armor and I woulda slept.”

Hutch bit back an ‘I told you so’ and smiled instead. He stood, gathered the two mugs and dumped them in the sink. “Hit the shower, bucko. Time for work.”

“Bucko?” Starsky mimicked as he rose easily from the table. Hey, I’m not stiff! “Where the heck did ya come up with that one?”

Hutch shrugged one shoulder on his way to his bedroom. “Must have been on TV.”

“Bucko,” Starsky mused as he headed for the shower, shaking his head.

Thirty-five minutes later, the coffee and showers had done their jobs and the detectives were wide awake, logged in for duty and on their way to center city.

***

“Now that we’re through with our babysitting job, I thought we’d spend a little time today reacquainting ourselves with a few snitches and contacts on the streets,” Hutch offered. “What do you think?”

“Dobey doesn’t have a case for us yet, so why not? Where do you want to start?”

A smile tugged at Hutch’s lips. “How about we start with Huggy and get some breakfast while we’re at it? My treat.”

Starsky’s eyebrows shot up. “Your treat?” He pushed harder on the accelerator.

“Hey, let’s get there in one piece!”

“Sorry, Hutch. My stomach is driving. I’ve got nothin’ to do with it,” he chuckled.

All units. 211 in progress near the corner of Franklin and Donner Streets. Elzo’s Liquors.

For a moment, both men froze and stared at the radio in front of them as if it had just dispatched a message in Japanese.

“Kinda early for robbin’ a liquor store, ain’t it?”

Hutch gave two quick nods in response then reluctantly picked up the mic. “Zebra 3, responding.” He glanced over at his partner and saw a shadow cloud his eyes. Only for a second, then it was gone.

“Hang on!” Starsky pulled a U turn on the practically deserted street to head in the direction of the crime scene. He also pulled something else. Biting the inside of his lip to keep from crying out, he concentrated for all he was worth on his driving and not the burning pain spreading across his upper chest. Luckily, Hutch seemed too caught up in his own thoughts to notice.

It was a shorter trip than either man had expected. There was no time to think, to prepare. They each poured from their respective car doors like liquid and molded themselves to the side of a black and white parked near the curb.

“Greer,” Hutch said in greeting to the uniform hunkered down behind the vehicle. “What do we have?”

The young man with close cropped brown hair turned worried green eyes to the detectives. “There are a couple of guys with ski masks in there. Armed. The only hostage is the store owner.”

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a look. They split up, blond to the left, brunette to the right.

Starsky used parked cars to get closer to the storefront. “Bay City Police Department!” he yelled toward the closed door. “Come out with your hands . . . .”

Gunfire through the store’s glass door interrupted him.  The brown sedan behind which Starsky squatted took the bullets. He froze. The fingertips of his right hand rested lightly on the sun-baked metal door of the car to balance him. His breath came in pants and sweat poured from his hair into his eyes, stinging them. Fear. He could taste it. He knew the psychology of what he was feeling. Knowing it and controlling it, however, were two very different things. He closed his eyes for five seconds. Counted them out. Forced the memory of the past year out of his head.

Hutch’s heart constricted painfully when he heard the gunshots. For several seconds, he didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. What if . . . . He shook his head hard and forced himself to concentrate on the here and now. Silently, he approached the back service door to the liquor store.

Taking a deep breath, Starsky continued to shout at the building. “There’s no way you’re goin’ anywhere, so just give it up.”

The sound of Starsky’s voice traveled to the back alley where Hutch crouched, waiting. He started to breathe again. It shouldn’t be long now.

Like a well-practiced recipe, the ingredients in a burglary always seemed to mix the same. Add pressure to the front and the bad guys always try to squeeze out the back. The service door flew open and two masked men stumbled out into the daylight.

“Freeze! Police!” Hutch yelled in his strongest voice.

The shorter of the two perps stood several feet behind his accomplice. Trapped, he began to raise his gun. Instinctively, Hutch squeezed off a bullet from the Magnum. The force of impact at close range swept the man off his feet and tossed him in the air. He impacted the wall with a crunch then crumpled to the ground. This gave the tall, skinny criminal just enough time to raise his own gun.

Hutch, still watching the first burglar, caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. Knowing it would be too late to bring the Python to bear on his target, he opted to dive for cover. The perp pulled the trigger as Hutch was still in midair, lunging toward the safety of some metal trash cans to his left. He landed hard on his left elbow on the unyielding concrete. The sound of running footsteps told him that the second burglar was hot footing it out of there.

Panting for breath, cradling his thrumming elbow, Hutch kicked one of the upturned trashcans in frustration. Sloppy. Damned sloppy. Starsky should have been around the corner two minutes ago, backing me up. Suddenly, Hutch’s blood went cold. Starsky? Where . . . .

“Hutch!”

The ice in his veins melted. “Here! I’m over here.”

Starsky skidded around the corner of the building, panting hard. “You . . . you ok? Heard . . . heard shots.” He squatted next to his partner, his eyes searching for blood. He saw the pain etched across the blond’s face, saw the cradled arm. “Break your arm?”

“No. Just hit my damned funny bone.” Hutch looked up, ready to read his partner the riot act for showing up late. What he saw made the words die on his lips. Starsky’s face was pale, sweaty and his expression pained. His breathing was labored. Suddenly, he turned a paler shade of white and his eyes widened.

With a shaking hand, Starsky reached over to touch the right sleeve of Hutch’s tan jacket. A bullet hole had made a clean entry and exit through loose material at the bottom of the blond’s bicep. The brunette swallowed hard several times as he stared at the hole that could have been through flesh.

“Hey. Hey! Are you going to help me up, or do I have to sit here in the trash all day?” Hutch knew he had to distract his partner quickly. “Starsk, c’mon. It stinks. Help me up already.” Putting as little of his weight as possible on his friend, Hutch took Starsky’s hand and allowed him to help him up.

Slowly, the duo made their way back to the car. They worked their way through the follow up and tied up loose ends as quickly as they could at the crime scene. Greer reported that one of the other black and whites had radioed in that they’d picked up the second perp a block away. The storekeeper was shaken up, but unhurt. Everything had worked out . . . this time.

The Torino sat like an oasis amidst the black and whites cluttering the street. Inch by inch, detail by detail, the two detectives made their way back to the familiar safety of Starsky’s pride and joy. Once inside, they sat for a moment, each of them caught up in a storm of thoughts. Starsky finally slid the key into the ignition, started the engine and pulled slowly out into the street. He headed directly to the station. He intended to finish out the day writing up the burglary report and would look for anything else they could do inside. Visiting with snitches could wait another day.

That night, Starsky took two pain pills before bed. He didn’t need any prompting.

***

Starsky began the next day of his life with a smile on his face, determined to move forward, even if the smile was forced. A good night’s sleep, thanks to the Demerol, helped enormously. He greeted his groggy friend at the kitchen sink with a light slap on the back.

“Whataya say we shower, skip the java and I’ll treat for breakfast?”

Hutch turned slowly to see who the blithe idiot was behind him at six in the morning. “Huh?”

“Breakfast. My treat. C’mon, shower up and let’s get this party started!”

“Party?” Hutch scratched at the distress of blond hair atop his head.

Starsky took his friend by the elbow and tried to steer him toward the bathroom.

“Hey! No pushing!” Hutch protested. He was still half asleep and confused.

A short time later, Starsky did a fair imitation of his old strut on his way to the Torino. Hutch trailed behind, still fighting the cobwebs of too little sleep from nightmares and no caffeine with which to help clear them.

The blond plopped into the passenger seat with a grunt. “Breakfast, huh?”

“Yup. Only I thought we’d go to the diner over on Second Street.” Superstitious by nature, there was no way Starsky would dream of beginning the day with breakfast at Huggy’s. That was how yesterday started. And yesterday was yesterday. Today, he desperately needed to move ahead. Away from the past. Away from admitting that he was a shadow of his former self. Away from the fear.

The only reply was a grunt.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Starsky said cheerfully. He eased the Torino out of the driveway and rolled down his window. He started to hum the last song he’d heard on the radio while dressing for work.

Hutch slowly turned his head toward his partner. “Starsk?”

The brunette turned toward him for a moment, eyebrows raised. “Hm?”

“Did you take a couple of pain pills this morning or something?”

Guilt crossed Starsky’s face for a millisecond. He glanced toward the side view mirror to hide his reaction. “Nope,” he replied truthfully. The two pills he’d dumped out of the bottle were still nestled in the breast pocket of his shirt. “Why?”

“You’re just . . . you seem,” Hutch sputtered. “Ah, never mind.” He leaned his right elbow on the door and nibbled at his right thumbnail as they made their way toward the diner.

The detectives were seated in a booth at the front of the diner.  The dark-haired half of the duo immediately started rubbing his hands together as the menus were handed out.

“Wow, look at the size of this menu! It’s like a book!”

“Two coffees, please,” Hutch told the waitress. “Starsk, tell the nice lady what you’d like to drink.”

“Ain’t one of those coffees for me?”

“No.” In order to handle his partner’s unexpected exuberance, he needed caffeine. Lots of it. Quickly.

“Oh. Okay. I’ll have a coffee. Just one.” He made a face at his partner. Then he went back to reading just about everything on the menu out loud. He changed his mind six or seven times as to what he’d be devouring for his first meal of the day.

When the waitress returned with their coffees, she asked if they were ready to order.

“Um, I know what I want, but . . . Hutch, ain’t you gonna look at the menu?”

Hutch smiled demurely up at the waitress. “I don’t need to. You’ve just read the entire thing to me. I’ll have the number three, scrambled, rye toast.”

Seemingly oblivious to the snide remark, Starsky said, “I’ll have two eggs, over easy, hash browns, sausage and pancakes. White toast.”

“The number six?” the waitress inquired.

“Yep. That’s the one,” he confirmed with a smile.

The meal was a pleasant one, as soon as Hutch had a chance to charge his batteries. He knew what Starsky was doing. He’d seen it before. He wondered how long he could let it go on before he’d have to bring his friend around to face what had happened the day before. But it was still early in the day, the sun was shining and Starsky was actually eating something instead of pushing it around on his plate. He shelved his concern and played along.

“We’d better get in,” Hutch said finally. He wiped his lips with his napkin. He raised two fingers toward the waitress to get her attention for the bill.

“I’m payin’, don’t forget.”

“You kidding? I’m just trying to get the waitress to hurry up so that we’re not late.”

Starsky paid the bill, left a generous tip then they sauntered out to the Torino. “Zebra 3, loggin’ in at 7:59,” he announced.

Zebra 3, report to Central. Captain Dobey’s office.

“Copy, Central,” Starsky replied. He dropped the mic on the seat between them then pulled out smoothly into traffic. He began to whistle. Hutch recognized the song from earlier.

“Stuck in your head, huh?”

The brunette stopped whistling abruptly. His thoughts had been drifting toward yesterday’s burglary. “Huh?”

“That song,” Hutch clarified. “Last thing you hear gets stuck in your head.”

Relieved, Starsky chuckled. For a moment, he thought Hutch had been reading his mind. “Yeah. Hate it when that happens.” He shifted his concentration to driving, the song erased from his mind. The rest of the short trip to Parker was quiet.

The two men walked double time down the hall in order to reach Dobey’s office as soon as possible. Their captain wasn’t a patient man and the longer he waited, the louder he got.

A knock on the door made Dobey look up from the paperwork he was reviewing. “Come in,” he barked.

Hutch poked his head in the door. “You wanted to . . . .”

“Come in, shut the door and sit down.”

Used to the gruff treatment, the men did as they were told and thought nothing of it. Starsky normally would have put his feet on Dobey’s desk at this point just to piss him off, but his lower back ached and he didn’t think he could manage it.

Hutch noticed. “Cap, I’m getting a bit of a headache. Can I bum a few aspirin?”

“You know where they are.”

Hutch got up and opened the top left drawer of Dobey’s desk. As he walked over to the water cooler, he asked casually, “Want any, Starsk?”

“Nah. I’m fine.” He turned toward his superior. “So what’s up, Cap?”

His answer was a folder tossed to him from the black man’s pudgy hand. “Victim in the Red District. Female, nineteen, hooker. The usual profile. Apparent suicide. Check it out.”

Hutch gulped the last of the water in the paper cup, crumpled it up then threw it and the two aspirin he hadn’t needed into the trash can. “Suicide?”

“Knife in her belly. She bled out. The crime lab said there were no fingerprints on the knife.”

“No fingerprints?” both detectives asked in unison.

“Nope. Not even the girl’s.”

“So much for suicide,” Hutch muttered as he sat back down. Starsky handed him the folder he had just flipped through.

“Well, men, it’s been nice visiting,” Dobey said sarcastically. “Now get out of my office and get to work!”

“Yessir!” Starsky said, jumping up first. Damn! he chastised himself. I’ve got to remember not to move so fast. His lower back kicked up a notch on the pain scale.  As they got closer to their desks, he said, “Why don’t you take a minute to flash through that file. I gotta use the john.”

Hutch nodded. He sat on the edge of the desk to peruse the information they’d just been given.

Starsky moved as quickly as his back would allow. Once inside the Mens’ Room, he reached into his breast pocket for one of the pain pills. He bent over and sucked down some water from the sink, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Hutch looked up when the doors swung open. “That was fast.” He thought he noticed a pinched look of pain. “You okay?”

“Terrific! Ready to go?” Starsky asked. He held open one of the doors, leaning on it heavily but not in an obvious way. When Hutch scooted past him, he left the temporary support and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. C’mon, pill. Hurry up an’ work!

If Hutch hadn’t been absorbed in looking at the photo of the victim in the folder, he would have seen how stiff his partner was when he looked for oncoming traffic before pulling out of the parking space. If his mind wasn’t preoccupied by the plight of the young life cut short, he might have noticed how his friend’s jaw was set, teeth clenched, his lips a thin line. By the time he finished pondering their case, the Demerol had kicked in and there was nothing to see except relief on his partner’s face.

Which is better? Hutch wondered. To bring up an uncomfortable subject when someone is already in a bad mood, or to bring it up when they’re in a good mood and perhaps better able to handle it? But then, the good mood would be shot to shit. He sighed. Might as well dive in. The victim’s apartment is a good fifteen minutes from here. Plenty of time to breach the subject, at least.

“Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“About yesterday. We never did talk about it.”

Starsky turned toward the blond with a pained look. “Do we gotta do this now? We’re on our way . . . .”

“Yeah, we’re on our way,” Hutch replied cryptically. In a softer voice he said, “We have to talk about it sometime.”

“What for?” Starsky took his eyes off the road for a moment to look into his partner’s eyes, blue mirrors of his own. “It happened. It’s part of the job. That’s all.” He turned his attention back to maneuvering through rush hour traffic.

“That’s not all,” Hutch said hotly.

“Well, stow it ‘til later, will ya? This traffic is a bitch an’ I need all my concentration right now.” That’s not all, huh? Starsky thought. What do you want to discuss, huh, partner? How I was too slow backin’ you up? How you almost got shot ‘cause I’m nowhere near who I used to be – how I used to be? The Demerol asserted itself and threw him a curve. For a second the road seemed to swerve wildly. He blinked rapidly, trying to restore some clarity.

The fifteen minute trip stretched out to an unbearable forty minutes of uncomfortable silence inside the Torino. The dizziness left as quickly as it had come and they managed to get to the crime scene in one piece. As soon as they pulled to a stop at the curb, Hutch got out and slammed his door behind him. Starsky flinched then eased himself out of his side of the car.

Consummate professionals, they asked all the right questions, took all the right notes and finished their preliminary investigation in record time. Back in the car, Hutch flipped his notebook closed and sighed. “Nineteen.”

“Yeah,” came the quiet response from his left.

“No one should live like that. Die like that. Especially not someone who’s still a baby, for Christ’s sake.”

Starsky said nothing. There was nothing to say. Nothing ever made it better except catching the sick bastards that committed the grisly crimes they saw week after week, month after month, year after year. He started to wonder how many murders he and his partner had investigated over the years. He’d lost count long ago. Actually, he’d lost the desire to keep count. This case was made to look like a suicide, but they both knew it wasn’t. The lack of fingerprints on the murder weapon, the digs in the wood around the doorknob showing forced entry, the trail of blood. After all these years and all the bodies, murder had come to have its own scent. This case definitely stank of it.

They spent the afternoon setting the gears of investigation in motion. Neighbors were questioned. Mug books and case files were checked for criminals with histories of hurting or killing hookers. Huggy made them lunch and agreed to keep his ears open on the streets for any news relating to the incident. The victim’s family was located, contacted with the bad news then questioned.

When four thirty came, Hutch picked up the mic and signed them off for the day. To answer his partner’s questioning look, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “That’s enough for me for one day. Let’s go home.”

Since driving throughout the city all day had set his lower back on fire and put a serious cramp in his left shoulder, Starsky offered no complaints. He nodded once then headed toward the comfort and peace of their house on the beach. As he drove, all he could think about was a hot shower, a beer and plopping his ass down in one of the lounge chairs on the back deck. The second Demerol he had taken at lunch had worn off long ago.

Starsky pulled the Torino into the concrete driveway next to their beach house. The engine, a constant thrumming roar throughout the day, was finally silenced. Hutch got out first and was halfway to the front door before he realized that his partner wasn’t following him. Turning back toward the car, he saw his friend slumped in the driver’s seat, staring blankly out the windshield. Just as he was about to walk back over to the car, Starsky roused himself and got out.

“Shower, sweats and a beer, in that order,” he chuckled to Hutch as he passed him on the way to the front door.

“I’ll second that.”

***

“I just don’t wanna talk about it right now, okay?” Starsky said through gritted teeth. “All I wanna do is sit here, sip my beer and watch the sunset. Is that too much to ask?”

“No.”

“Well, what then? Why do you keep bringin’ it up?”

The blond huffed out a breath. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I needed to talk about it?” He turned and stormed back into the house, closing the sliding glass door so hard it should have shattered.

“Shit,” Starsky said, shaking his head. He took a sip of beer, looked at the sunset then angrily threw the beer bottle as far as he could. The resulting pain in his left shoulder and chest was enough to make him gasp and fall back against the cushion on the chair. The soothing mood he had tried so desperately to create after the long day at work was now irreparably ruined. “T’riffic,” he gasped through the pain. “Fuck this!”

As soon as he was able, he extracted himself from the lounge chair and went into the house. Hutch was sitting on the couch, flicking through the channels on the TV with the remote. Starsky got a glass of water and headed toward his bedroom.

Hutch muted the TV. “Where’re you going?”

“Bed.” The door was shut, the conversation officially over.  Starsky sat on the side of his bed and opened the top drawer to his dresser. He had moved the prescription bottle from the kitchen counter to his dresser that morning. After all, he was the only one taking the pills. He shook two out into his palm and popped them into his mouth. Two gulps of water and relief was on its way. As he pushed the top back on the bottle, he had a second thought and removed the lid. He hesitantly shook one more pill into his palm.  After downing that one, he pulled off his shirt, kicked off his sneakers, dropped his jeans to the floor and lay back on the bed to wait. He was grateful that the wait wasn’t long.

***

His first thoughts when he awoke were, Friday. Thank God. Starsky examined his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. I look like the same guy. Sound the same. Feel like shit. Even shaving was giving him a problem – the pain pills had worn off during the night and muscle spasms still ripped through his shoulder whenever he raised his arm. He tried to shave right-handed. The resulting nicks and cuts all over his face annoyed him to no end, but he had no choice. Brushing his teeth with his non-dominant hand was even more fun. Twice, the toothbrush left his mouth altogether and he ended up with toothpaste across his cheek. Minty toothpaste on a shaving nick was a new experience for him. One he didn’t care to repeat.

He was glad that Hutch had given him the bedroom with the attached bathroom. He applied pieces of toilet paper to all the cuts on his face then headed straight for the dresser. One ought to do it, he thought, shaking a pill into his palm. He tossed the bottle back into the drawer then returned to the bathroom. A few gulps of water later and he felt better just knowing that relief was on its way. By the time I’m dressed, I’ll be right as rain.

Jeans, navy pull-over and one sneaker later, Hutch’s words rang in his head like a recording. Maybe I needed to talk about it. Starsky closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to dislodge the words from his memory. Gotta move forward. How can I move forward if he keeps trying to go back? Gotta try harder. I can do this. His gaze wandered to the dresser drawer that was still open a crack. He crossed to it without thinking, took out the bottle and shook four, then five pills into his hand. He pushed them down deep into his right front jeans pocket. Pasting a smile on his face, he pulled open his bedroom door and stepped out into a new day.

***

He’s smiling, Hutch noticed over the rim of his coffee cup. What the fuck is he smiling about?

“Ready to go?”

Hutch tilted the cup and drained the rest of the coffee from it. “You want a cup?”

“Nah. I’ll get one when we get in.”

Hutch rinsed his mug and sat it in the sink. Without a word, he pulled his jacket off the back of the kitchen chair, shrugged into it and headed for the front door.

Starsky closed his car door gently. The tension inside the small interior was palpable. He started the engine and it roared to life. Still, the silence between them was deafening, drowning out the powerful engine. As he pulled out of the driveway, Starsky asked, “Everything okay?”

Hutch snorted. He stared straight ahead. “Okay? Sure, everything’s okay. Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Uh . . . .”

“I mean, if everything is okay with you, buddy, then everything is okay with me.”

Uh oh. Starsky swallowed hard. “Um, good!” he answered lamely. Then he turned his full attention to driving and let his partner sulk. Stubborn pain in the ass.

The curly-haired detective was so relieved when they got to Parker that he fairly sprang out of the car. He led the way up the steps, down the hall and made a beeline for the coffee machine inside the squad room. Hutch was already typing up the report from the previous day’s investigation when he returned with a steaming mug. Since his partner seemed to have things well in hand, he excused himself and headed for the bathroom.

He splashed cold water on his face in the Mens’ Room, trying to clear the fog in his brain long enough to figure out how he should handle Hutch’s mood today. He stood, arms braced on the sink, and stared at his dripping face in the mirror. Nothing was coming to him. His mind was blank. Aw, fuck it. He reached into his top breast pocket and found it to be empty. He panicked. Then he remembered that he’d put the Demerol in his jeans that morning. He paused and looked down at the pill in his hand. I’m not really feeling any pain right now. Well, not physical pain, he reasoned. These make me feel better when I’m upset, too. Calmer. He popped the pill in his mouth, cupped some water to his lips then dried his face with some paper towels. A few minutes later, he was back at his desk sipping his mug of coffee.

Hutch ripped the report out of the typewriter and tossed it across the desk. “Here. Make yourself useful. Review this and sign it,” he said over his shoulder. He put a new paper in the typewriter.

“What are ya typin’ now?”

Hutch sat and stared at the blank paper sitting in the typewriter. The paper waited patiently for ink to be applied letter by letter, for a tale to be told word by word. “Nothing,” Hutch said. He pushed back his chair suddenly, grabbed his jacket and pulled it on. “Let’s get out of here, huh?” Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the doors.

Starsky sighed and followed him. He didn’t realize he still had the coffee mug in his hand until he made it to the front door. He stashed it in the nearest corner and dashed out the doors. Hutch was sitting in the car already, leaning his tense jaw on his right fist, staring out the windshield. Mr. Jolly should try one of these pills, the brunette thought, chuckling to himself. Maybe I’ll offer him one. He sobered immediately at the thought of giving away any of his support pills. That’s how he had come to think of them. As support to get him through his days. And nights.

He got in behind the wheel and closed the door a little too hard. A sudden wave of dizziness made him stab three times at the ignition before the key went in. Finally, he got the car moving and they cruised through the city. “So, what’s the addendum for today?”

Hutch looked at him like he had two heads. “You mean, what’s the agenda for today?”

Starsky returned the same look. “That’s what I said.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. His partner may be street smart, but he often butchered the English language. “Let’s check with Hug and see if he’s heard anything.”

Without responding, Starsky pointed the Torino in the direction of Huggy’s bar, The Pits. A few minutes later, the men left the bright sunny street and entered the darkened interior of their friend and informant’s bar. Neon beer advertisements cluttered the windows and walls, supplying most of the room’s lighting. The rest of the light came from domed fixtures hanging low above each of the booths that lined two of the walls.

Huggy immediately put two drinks on the bar in front of the two men. A root beer for the brunette and unsweetened iced tea for the blond.

“What it is,” Huggy said in greeting. “’bout time you turkeys roosted. I’ve got some info for you.”

Hutch paused in the middle of a sip of ice tea and banged the glass down on the bar. “Hug, if you had something, why didn’t you call us?”

“Chill, amigo!” the thin black man held up his hands, palms out. “I only got the info this mornin’. I knew you’d be by, just didn’t know it was going to take you so long.”

Starsky sipped at his root beer and stared off into space.

“There’s a name floatin’ on the streets about some dude who likes ‘em young and pretty. Only sometimes, they ain’t so pretty when he leaves ‘em. Dig?” He pulled a towel from under the bar and mopped up the spills Starsky was making on the counter. “Now, the piece that got wasted the other night . . . .”

“Piece?” Hutch asked with a glare.

“Oh. Uh, the young victim, I mean. I heard her pimp was one mean mother who didn’t go for nobody messin’ up his merchandise. This guy, name’s Richard Slinger, he supposedly roughed up the chick a bit and she told her man. The pimp had a few of his associates put a hurtin’ on Slinger. Word is, he was pissed and came back to do the girl for rattin’ on him.”

Hutch slid a fifty across the bar. “Thanks for the drinks, Hug.”

“Dick Slinger,” Starsky muttered. He started to giggle.

“What?” Hutch asked.

“Dick is short for Richard,” Starsky said, as if even a first grader should know that. He drank down the rest of his root beer and winked at Huggy. “Thanks, Hug. You’re the best.” He slid off the bar stool and walked as steadily as he could to the exit.

“Yo, did he just wink at me?” Huggy asked incredulously.

“Looked that way to me. Anything I should know about?” Hutch asked teasingly.

Huggy snapped the towel at him. “Get your white ass outta here,” he laughed.

Hutch found Starsky drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. He leaned in the passenger window. “Hey. You alright?”

Starsky turned his head toward his partner’s voice. As soon as he decided which of the two was really Hutch, he answered. “I’m fine. I’m not the one sulking around all day, snappin’ at people.”

Hutch opened the door. “Snapping . . . what the hell are you talking about?” He slammed the door shut.

“See what I mean?”

All units, all units. Stolen vehicle sighted on Grand Avenue. Red Mustang.

Starsky snatched up the mic. “Zebra 3, responding.”

The wind was knocked out of Hutch as Starsky slammed the accelerator and the Torino peeled out into the street, tires smoking. When he recovered his breath, he panted out, “Starsky, are you nuts? That’s at least ten minutes from here.”

“Make it in five.” Starsky clutched the wheel harder, whitening his knuckles.

Hutch’s face went as white as his partner’s knuckles. “F-five minutes? No way. Starsk, come on, you’re going too fast!”

“Okay,” Starsky said in a calm, reasonable voice. “You’re right. Seven minutes. Five’s unrealistic.”

Hutch noticed an unnaturally bright glint in his friend’s eyes and reached for the seatbelt. “Take it easy, okay, Starsk? I want to live long enough to retire someday.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

In no time at all, the Torino skidded into place right behind the stolen vehicle.

“Zebra 3, in pursuit,” he announced happily into the mic. “Heading west on . . . .” he took a look around to see where they were. At the speed he was going, the distraction caused them to swerve.

“West on Fisher!” Hutch supplied with a yelp. “Fisher!”

“Thanks,” Starsky said, his eyes back on the road. “West on Fisher,” he finished. He dropped the mic onto the seat.

The driver of the Mustang ran over curbs, through signs, in and out of alleys, all the time with the Torino in hot pursuit. Just as Hutch thought he was going to lose his breakfast and last night’s dinner, the Mustang ran up on some concrete parking dividers and got stuck. As the detectives bailed from the car with their guns drawn, two black and white units pulled up around them. Moving forward in a cautions crouch, Hutch was able to ascertain that the driver of the car had impacted the windshield with his head and was unconscious. He backed off, signaling to the other officers that the perp was down and out.

Hutch turned to tell Starsky to radio in for an ambulance, expecting his partner to be right behind him. To his surprise, Starsky was still back at the car, leaning heavily on his open car door. He holstered his Magnum and strode back to the Torino.

“Starsk, you ok?”

“Yeah, fine. I saw you signal to the others and jogged back to the car to call for an ambulance.”

Hutch studied him with narrowed eyes.

“What?” Starsky said. He skirted around his open door and reached inside. Panting, he reported in.

Hutch leaned over him in the doorway. “You’re breathing pretty hard.”

“Told ya,” Starsky said without looking up. “I jogged back to the car. I’m getting’ old, ya know?”

Hutch snorted, momentarily satisfied. He went around to his side of the car.

Starsky watched him in his peripheral vision. My shoulder and chest are fucked, he thought miserably. Really, really fucked. The wild chase through the city had exacted a toll on the brunette’s recovering body that he wasn’t prepared to pay. As quickly as his shaking hands would allow, he pulled two Demerol out of his jeans pocket and dry swallowed them.

Taking as deep a breath as his pain-constricted chest would allow, he pushed himself upright behind the wheel. Before Hutch got in, he reached across with his right arm and pulled the driver’s side door closed. Sweat dripped from his curls.

As soon as Hutch sat down, Starsky could feel his eyes on him. Scrutinizing. Analyzing.

“Some chase, huh?”

“Starsk . . . .”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had the thrill of a chase.”

“You call that a thrill?” Hutch asked incredulously.

“Sure! Hearts pumping, adrenaline’s rushin’ – makes you feel like you’re alive!” He managed a believable smile but didn’t risk eye contact. Instead, he started the engine and headed back to the station. “Ah, more paperwork. Not much of an adrenaline rush there.”

“How would you know?” Hutch snorted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Starsky asked, offended.

“Nothing. Just a joke,” Hutch sighed.

“Yeah. Nothing.” Starsky leaned his left arm on the door’s armrest and drove with his right hand. He positioned himself to look as though he was driving leisurely. By the time they got back to the station, he was in agony. “Gotta hit the john,” he announced as they walked down the hall. “Root beer.”

Something niggled at the back of Hutch’s mind and his gut reacted. “Good idea. I could use a pit stop myself.” He thought he caught a slight falter in his partner’s step as he followed him into the restroom.

Hutch stepped up to a urinal. Starsky went into a stall. “I might be a few minutes,” he mumbled as he locked the stall door. Inside, he immediately took out the remaining two pills and dry swallowed them. I’m getting good at that, he mused. Never used to be able to swallow pills very good even with water.

Knowing that help was on its way, he was able to leave the bathroom with some semblance of normalcy and return to the squad room. He took his place in front of the typewriter. It was his turn to do the report. After the comment in the car, there was no way he was going to ask his partner to do it for him. Literally painstakingly, he tapped out the words in the briefest report he could get away with.

When the day finally came to an end and they stumbled into their house at 5:00, Starsky announced immediately that he needed a nap.

“What about dinner?”

“Not hungry.”

Hutch pushed his fingers through his hair. “Me either. Not as hungry as I am tired, anyway. A nap sounds good.”

Starsky was already in his bedroom with the door shut by the time Hutch had finished his sentence. With shaking hands, he took out three pills. Two definitely wouldn’t be enough for the pain he was in. He dry swallowed them just because he knew he could then flopped face down onto the bed. Fifteen minutes later, he was in a pain-free oblivion.

***

Demerol. Sounds like, Damn it all, Starsky mused with a chuckle. Who’d a thought the damn things really worked? Being back on street duty was terrifyin’ at first, but now . . . a couple of these babies and I’m good to go. He patted his jeans pocket and finished dressing. One week into it, and I’m back in the saddle again. Thank God. Hutch worked so hard with me all them months. I gotta make it work. For him.

Hutch sat waiting in the LTD. He was relieved it was his turn to drive. His partner had been showing off all last week, scaring the daylights out of him in his reckless pursuit of normalcy. Hutch snorted. Normalcy. What the fuck does that mean? He watched as his partner locked the front door. Strolled down the sidewalk to the passenger side door. Slid into the seat. Greeted him with a full blown Starsky smile. Normalcy. Hutch put the car in gear and pulled out of the driveway. I have no idea what that word means.

“Beauty of a day, huh, Hutch?”

“Yep.”

“Ah, smell that smog! Not too bad today.”

Hutch glanced over at his partner. The brunette’s eyes were closed, his face turned into the sun. He looked . . . normal. “Sleep okay last night?”

“Yep. You?”

“Fine.” In truth, Hutch had been tossing and turning all night. Much to his surprise, Starsky had returned to street duty smoothly and confidently. Much to his surprise, he wasn’t happy about it. Every day they went out on the streets, his chest constricted with fear. How many years have we been doing this? How long will our luck hold out? How long until one of us . . . . I just can’t go through that again. He slammed his palm against the wheel in reaction to his thoughts.

Starsky jumped, “Whoa! What’s up?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I just remembered, I mean, I forgot . . . I meant to do something before I left the house and forgot.” Lame, lame, lame.

“Like what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.”

“It was important enough ta scare the shit outta me!”

“Excuse me, your highness,” Hutch answered tersely. “I thought I no longer had to walk on eggshells with you now that your back to being a big, bad street cop again.” Even as the words tumbled out, Hutch regretted them.

Starsky stared at him for a moment. “What?”

“Nothing.”

All units . . . .

Saved by dispatch, Hutch thought gratefully.

314 at the intersection of White and Dunston.

“We’re right around the corner,” Starsky said, reaching for the mic.

“An indecent exposure call?” Hutch asked.

Starsky held down the call button. “Zebra 3 in the vicinity and responding.”

“Oh, brother,” Hutch complained. Secretly, he was relieved. Nothing dangerous about some fruitcake exposing himself. He took the next left and was at the scene in minutes.

“I don’t see any naked bodies,” Hutch observed. “I guess the next thing we’d look for is a trench coat.”

“Pretty warm day for a trench coat.”

“Not if you’re naked underneath,” Hutch countered.

“Drop me off here,” Starsky instructed. They were two hundred feet from the intersection. “You park across the street over there by those shops then meet me halfway.”

“Yessir,” Hutch muttered sarcastically. He pulled to the curb to let his partner out then parked in front of a bookstore across the street.

Starsky sauntered along the sidewalk, the picture of nonchalance. His eyes, however, were taking in and cataloguing every man in the area. He saw Hutch park and get out of the car, slowly walking along his side of the street on his way to their rendezvous.  The brunette paused by a bench near the corner where an elderly woman sat reading under an oak. It felt good to take advantage of the shade. He saw his partner look his way and shrugged his shoulders.

“Excuse me, young man,” the elderly woman said.

Starsky turned his attention to the source of the voice. “Yes, ma . . . .” the words caught in his throat and his eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

“Would you like to sit on the bench with me?”

The woman had placed her novel down on the bench next to her and was now holding her unbuttoned blouse open, exposing two very ample, very sagging breasts.

The brunette could feel his jaw drop open and made a conscious effort to close it. “Uh, uh . . . .”

“I used to be a show girl,” the woman told him brightly.  Long gray hair was pulled up into an untidy bun. Her clothes were threadbare and mismatched. She batted her eyelashes at him from behind coke-bottle glasses.

Starsky frantically waived his partner over to join him. “Ma’am,” he said calmly, looking up into the tree branches. “Um, please close your blouse.”

“Why, honey? Don’t you like the view?”

“Well, I’m a cop and you’re not supposed to be, uh, displayin’ . . . .”

“Ah, crap! The cops!” The old woman pulled her blouse closed. Then she reached over, grabbed the novel from the bench and threw it with all her might. “I’m not going to the slammer!” she screamed.

His eyes still averted from the woman’s breasts, Starsky never saw the book coming. The corner of the hardback caught him squarely in the groin. He went down like a rock.

“Starsk!” Hutch saw him go down and broke into a sprint. He slid to a stop next to him. “You alright?”

The red-faced brunette was clutching himself, unable to speak. He tossed his curly head toward the old woman who was making her way as quickly as she could down the sidewalk.

Hutch caught up with her easily and grabbed her elbow. “Hold it, Granny.”

She turned and immediately began to yell, “Help! Help! Mugger!”

Several people nearby began to come to her aid. Hutch quickly pulled his badge case from the back pocket of his tan corduroys and flashed his badge. “Police! Go back to your business.”

Seizing the distraction, the woman swung her purse with all her might and caught the blond in his midsection.

Although the wind was knocked out of him, he grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the purse and held tight. When he had enough air to speak, he wheezed out, “Assaulting . . . an . . . officer.”

She sighed and her arm suddenly went lax in his grip. “Okay, I give up. Take me in. But you should know, I’m good friends with the mayor.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Very good friends, if you know what I mean.”

Hutch was never so glad to see back up as when a black and white pulled to the curb next to him. He pushed the squirming senior into the backseat, gave a quick explanation to the uniforms then told them he’d fill out the report back at the station. As the car pulled away, he could hear the woman’s voice through the open passenger side window. “The mayor is not going to be happy about this!”

Hutch went back and bent over next to his partner, one hand on his own bruised stomach. Starsky had recovered enough to get to his knees, although standing was still a few minutes away.

“You okay?”

Starsky nodded. His face looked like a bad case of sunburn. Hutch couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or a reaction to the pain of having his nuts rearranged.

“Think you can get up?”

Starsky shook his head, held up a finger to indicate he needed a minute.  Eventually, he started to attempt standing. Hutch helped him over to the bench where the brunette sat with a groan. He bent forward and held his head in his hands. Hutch rubbed his friend’s back. “Take your time, buddy. It’s nice here in the shade.”

Ten minutes later, Hutch brought the LTD over to the curb next to his friend. Starsky gingerly walked from the bench to the car then eased himself in to the seat.

“You okay?” Hutch asked again, his initial amusement turning to concern. “Need to see a doctor?”

“No,” Starsky croaked. “Ice. Need some ice.” What a way to start the day.

“There’s an ice machine in the cafeteria at the station. We just need a plastic bag,” Hutch turned in his seat and sorted through the empty coffee cups and trash in the back seat. “Ah, here we go.” He pulled out a relatively clean plastic bag from the Quicktime Mart. “Hang in there, buddy. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

When they pulled up in front of Parker, Starsky grabbed his arm. “Hey, I’m feelin’ much better. Um, just get the ice and come back to the car, ‘kay?” the brunette asked pleadingly.

“Sure, Starsk. Whatever you want.”

Hutch returned a few minutes later with much needed relief in a little white bag. “Here you go.” He got in the car and gently laid the bag on his partner’s lap.

“Thanks, Hutch. You’re a life saver.” Starsky put his head back against the headrest and sighed with relief as the cold seeped through his jeans.

Hutch watched him for a minute. No cursing, no complaints. As it was, Hutch had cursed a blue streak enough for the both of them on the way back to the station. He smiled slightly. Poor Starsk. Never catch much of a break, do you? He put the car in drive and pulled out into the heat of the day.

***

It was a quiet day, crime-wise. Their only case was the death of the young prostitute. Hutch cruised for a while to give his partner time to recoup. He even stopped for some hot dogs around eleven o’clock and brought Starsky’s to the car so he didn’t have to get out. While he was ordering, Starsky popped a few pills.

“Feel up to doing a little work?” Hutch asked after he swallowed the last bite of his hot dog.

The pills had done a much better job than the makeshift ice pack. “Yeah.” The ice pack was mostly water now. He bundled it up with the rest of his trash and took it to the garbage can a few feet from the car. As he returned to the car, he couldn’t see the look on Hutch’s face inside.

Good lord, Hutch chuckled to himself. His whole crotch is soaked and he’s too numb to know it!

Starsky got in and patted Hutch on the shoulder. “Thanks for lunch. Let’s move!”

Their first stop was a snitch that Huggy had mentioned to them the day before. Hug said they could find Vinny around Tenth Street in the heart of the Red District. Sure enough, they found the man lounging in the doorway of a condemned building.

“Nice neighborhood,” Starsky observed as he got out of the car.

Hutch, intent on the interview, had forgotten all about his partner’s wet pants. “Vinny?”

“Who’s askin’,” the man asked suspiciously. Small dark eyes set too close together gave his face a rodent-like look. The scruffy beard and greased black hair added to the illusion.

“Huggy sent us,” Hutch said. Starsky stood behind him and scanned the streets while his partner took the lead.

“A girl was killed here the other day,” Hutch started.

Vinny sniffed nervously and shifted from one foot to the other. “What about it?”

“For starters,” Hutch said heatedly, “she was only nineteen years old.”

“Nineteen or ninety, we all gotta go when our ticket’s punched,” Vinny said philosophically.

Hutch took a step forward and snarled menacingly. “Yeah, well I don’t think nineteen is a good time for anyone to have their ticket punched. I mean, how would you feel if your ticket was punched right now?”

He got the reaction he wanted. Vinny backed up a few steps and swallowed hard. His squinty little eyes grew larger as he took in the full height of the man in front of him. His gaze flashed to the cop’s partner, now in plain view. Suddenly, his face did a complete metamorphosis. From stark fear, it morphed into total amusement.

Hutch turned to follow his gaze. Oh shit!

Starsky looked at them as if they’d lost their minds. Both his partner and the little weasel guy were staring at him like he was green with antennas. “What?” he asked, holding out his hands to either side.

As Starsky stood waiting for an answer, Vinny started to laugh. A giggle at first, then a full-fledged guffaw. Hutch’s face turned several shades of red. He turned and grabbed Starsky by the elbow and steered him back to the passenger side of the LTD.

“What the fuck?” Starsky asked angrily. His mind was fogged from the pills and it was hard to concentrate, making him even more frustrated. Something was happening and he wasn’t catching on. Finally, he followed Hutch’s gaze as it flickered down toward his waist. “Holy shit!” Starsky yelled, seeing the huge wet spot around his groin. “It looks like I pissed myself!”

Vinny roared. He was laughing so hard that he had to cling to the building to remain upright.

“Get in the car, Starsk. We’re not going to get anything from him today.”

“Ya think?” Starsky asked angrily, hurrying into the car. The seat was soaked. “T’riffic. Just t’riffic!” he yelled.

Hutch peeled away from the curb. He bit the inside of his cheek hard in order to keep from smiling.

“Ya knew, didn’t ya?” Starsky asked in a deadly tone.

“Uh, well . . . I,” he lost it for a minute and a laugh broke through his stoic barrier.

Disgusted, Starsky turned his reddened face toward the side window. “Take me home,” he demanded.

“It’s only two . . . .”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what time it is,” Starsky shouted. “Take me home so I can change my pants. And get my car. I ain’t riding in this saturated piece of shit.”

Hutch turned toward him, mouth open, but Starsky stopped him with a finger. The Hutchinson Finger, used against him. He shut his mouth and headed for home.

***

The next day, Starsky was returning to the squad room after one of his increasingly frequent visits to the restroom when he heard laughter on the other side of the squad room doors. He could just make out his partner’s voice. He paused to listen.

“So the old lady flashed her titties at Starsky?” a man’s voice asked. “Did he get a boner?” The group broke into laughter. Starsky tried to place the voice.

“I guess it’s lucky he didn’t,” Hutch chuckled, “because she ‘booked’ him, right in the nuts!”

More laughter. Starsky felt his anger rising.

“Tell them about later.” That voice was definitely Grandy.

“Oh, the snitch,” Hutch snickered.

Starsky caught a few words, but most of the story was told in a quiet, conspiratorial voice.

Hutch finished with, “Here I am, trying to stare the guy down, shake him up a bit, and he gets an eyeful of Starsky. The guy thought he’d pissed himself!”

“So much for good cop, bad cop,” Baker hooted.

Starsky took three deep breaths, started to whistle, then strode through the doors. “I heard a bunch of laughter out in the hall. What’s the joke?” The whole time he spoke, he stared at his blond-haired partner stonily.

The group quickly and quietly dispersed. Hutch scratched his head nervously and sat down in his chair. He picked up a file to avoid that stare at all costs. “Just something silly. I don’t even remember now.”

Starsky wanted to punch him. He wanted to pick up his chair and smash it to splinters across his desk. How could he? He humiliated me in front of the entire squad room! He felt the fingers of both hands curl into fists. All eyes were focused on him. He could feel them boring holes into his flesh with their stares, waiting to see the fall out.

Slowly, he uncurled the fingers of his left hand. He forced it to reach out to his chair, to slowly pull it away from the desk. It scraped noisily on the floor. Then he sat down. He picked up a pen, picked up a folder and got to work. He didn’t say another word for the rest of the long, long afternoon.

***

The next day was strained between them. And the next. Their usual, casual banter took on a nasty edge. Nothing blatantly insulting or offending, just enough to put them both on edge. By the time the second week of street duty drew to a strained close on Friday, both men were worn thin with stress.

As they pulled up to the house, Hutch made an attempt to salvage what looked to be a nasty weekend. “Hey, Starsk?”

“What?”

Hutch got out of the car and waited for Starsky to do the same. As they walked to the door of their ocean front home, he said, “It’s Friday night, finally! I don’t know about you, but I could really use some R&R. What do you say we have dinner at Huggy’s? My treat.”

“’m not hungry.” Starsky peeled off his jacket and threw it onto the chair by the door. He unclipped his holster and hung it on the back of the chair.

Hutch hung his jacket and holster in the coat closet. “Yeah, I’m not really hungry yet, either.” He tried plan B. “There’s a new club that just opened on Crescent Street. They’re supposed to have some great music and hot chicks.”

Starsky looked up at him, his face blank. “I’m tired, Hutch. I just wanna crash.”

Tired, frustrated and pissed off that he couldn’t smooth things between them, Hutch pulled the closet open and grabbed his jacket. “Well, I’m going to go check it out.”

“Fine,” Starsky called over his shoulder on the way to his bedroom. On his way to the dresser drawer. “Let me know how it is.”

“Fine,” Hutch growled. He slammed the door behind him.

A few minutes later, the LTD peeled out of the driveway. Somewhere deep inside Starsky cared, but right now all his attention was on the brown bottle in his shaking hand. He’d been taking the pills so much that they weren’t having the same effect on him anymore. He shook six pills into his palm and downed them with a glass of water. Then he fell back onto his bed and waited for relief.

***

Hutch came in at three in the morning, drunk. The whole way home, he considered what he’d say to his partner who would undoubtedly be waiting up for him on the couch. There would be the usual argument about no phone call, being worried, blah, blah, blah. Christ, sometimes I feel like I’m married.

He staggered to the front door and didn’t bother to be quiet when he let himself in. He took a deep breath, ready to face the pain in the ass he called a partner. The man who never grew up and wanted to play cops and robbers his whole life, even if it killed them both. The man who . . . wasn’t sitting on the couch waiting for him.

Hutch stumbled further into the room. Not on the couch, not in the kitchen – he paused by Starsky’s bedroom door and tried the knob. Locked. Cocking an ear to the wooden door, he could make out snoring on the other side. Bastard! Not even worried about me! he thought through liquored up brain cells. He shuffled to his bedroom, fell face down on the bed and passed out.

***

They didn’t talk about it the next morning. Any of it. The joke in the squad room. The night on the town. The pettiness between them. In fact, they barely spoke. The weekend passed at last and both men were actually glad to be going back to work.

Hutch squelched any more talk about his partner in the squad room. He knew that Starsky knew. He felt like a shit for having humiliated his best friend but didn’t know how to apologize. Let sleeping dogs lie. Still, it was hard. He missed their friendly banter during the day. It was almost unbearable, the two of them in the small confines of a car day after day.

Street life returned to normal. That word again – normalcy. On the streets, it means guns, knives, violence crime – all the crap that Starsky gets off on, Hutch thought one day as they sat at a traffic light. He looked around at the other people in the street, at the shop owners, at couples sitting on benches, mothers watching their children in the park, and he wondered. Is that what other people call normalcy? His heart ached for it. This job, the worry . . . Starsky’s killing me. Why did the stupid musclehead insist on still being a cop, anyway? What’s he trying to prove?

A headache was working its way from one side of his head to the other and he rubbed at both temples.

“There’s aspirin in the glove,” Starsky said without turning from watching traffic.

Hutch opened the glove compartment in front of him and found a full bottle of aspirin. He broke the seal, shook three out into his palm then downed them with the cold remains of the coffee he’d bought at lunch. “Thanks.”

As he reached to return the aspirin bottle, he asked, “How’ve you been feeling?”

Starsky’s head slowly came around. “Huh?”

“Light’s green,” Hutch pointed out. The car started forward. “You seem to be doing pretty good. I haven’t heard you say that anything’s hurting.” A full bottle of aspirin. Is that because he’s already used a bottle and just replaced it, or because he never takes them?

“I’m fine,” Starsky said quietly. Certain parts of me hurt worse than my injuries, but why would you care?

Hutch nodded once. At a loss for anything more to say, he just said, “Good.”

The week passed with amazing speed. Although the two friends managed not to be at each other’s throats constantly, the silence that replaced the crankiness was a heavier burden on each of their hearts. Friday came. Hutch made another attempt at atonement. If I could just get him out of the damn house for awhile, maybe relax a bit . . . .”

“Um, Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“Take the next left, will ya?” It was the end of their shift. They were on their way home and Hutch was determined to make a detour.

“Why?”

“You’ll see. Just humor me, will you?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Starsky took the left.

“Now a right.”

“Is this going to be far?”

“Nope. Just around the corner.” A minute later, Hutch called out, “Pull over there.” He pointed toward a long, brown building with neon lights outlining the entire exterior. “Cool, huh?”

“Hutch, what’s this?” Starsky asked tiredly. He had just taken several Demerol and it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. His bed was calling him and he wanted desperately to answer it.

“It’s that new club I told you about, Chic Clique. Cool, huh?” Hutch asked excitedly.

Starsky didn’t even give it a once over. “Yeah, looks cool. Can we go home now?”

Hutch bit his tongue and took a steadying breath. He put a smile on his face and said, “Nah, come on, partner! All work and no play and all that. It’s Friday night! Let’s go in and I’ll buy you a beer.”

Starsky sighed again. “Hutch, I’m beat.”

“Well, pull yourself together long enough for a beer, would you? Come on!”

“Hutch, I really appreciate the offer, but no thanks.”

“Buddy,” Hutch said tensely, “you spend all your time at home sleeping, then working. Then sleeping, then working, then sleeping . . . you getting the pattern here?”

“Listen, you go. I’ll give you money for a cab to bring you home later.”

“No. Starsky, I want you to come inside with me.”

Anger surfaced quickly from the tired man, surprising them both. “Look, buddy. It’s been a long week. I’ve got several holes in me that I didn’t used to have when I was younger and working with you takes a bit more out of me than it used to.” Shit. I didn’t mean to say, working with you. I just meant working . . . . He kept going, trying to cover the flub. “I’m beyond tired. I just wanna go home and relax. I’m not telling you not to go to the club, so stop tryin’ to tell me that I hafta.”

Hutch opened the passenger door of the Torino and got out. He leaned in the open door and looked his partner square in the eye. “You know, Starsk, you’ve been a real prick lately.” He stood up straight. “A real little prick.” He slammed the car door so hard that the rolled down window shattered inside the door.

Time stopped for a heartbeat. Hutch stood with his hand still extended after slamming the door. Starsky’s mouth dropped open. The insult had slapped him across the face and the damage to the car had kicked him in the gut. When time resumed its relentless progress, Starsky slammed the Torino into drive and peeled away from the curb.

“Starsky!” Hutch yelled after him. He blew out a breath of defeat and disgust. Disgust with himself. With nothing else left to do, he turned around and went into the club, hell bent on punishment.

Starsky drove home on automatic. Even through the fog of the drugs coursing through his blood stream, the hurt was deep enough to bring tears to his eyes. He finally pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. His hand rested on the door latch of the car, but he found he couldn’t get out. He could see the silhouette of the house against the darkening dusk of early evening.

A sob broke free and the tears flowed. This isn’t my home, he thought resentfully. This is Hutch’s house, bought with his money. I’m just a guest. From the way he’s been actin’ lately, an unwanted guest. I’ll bet he’s sorry he used his grandpa’s trust money to buy this, now. He scrubbed the tears away with the sleeve of his jacket. He started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

As if the Torino had a mind of its own, he ended up at Merle’s Garage.

“Whoa, Starsky! What happened to the Tomato?”

“Rough day at work.”

Merle saw something else in the man’s face. He’d known Starsky for ten years or better. I’m no detective, he thought, but Starsky looks like he’s been bawlin, it’s the passenger side that’s damaged, and the blond sidekick is nowhere to be seen. “Where’s your partner?”

“He had to, uh, work late. Writin’ up the report on what happened. You know . . . .” his words trailed away.

“Yeah, I know how it is,” Merle said with a nod. “M’ man, it’s Friday night. Ain’t no way I can get you a window ‘til Monday.”

Starsky just stood there, shoulders slumped.

“Tell you what, though. I got this Cutlass here. Ain’t no beauty, but she runs. You can have it as a loaner ‘til I work my magic on your ride. Dig?”

“Yeah, Merle. I dig,” Starsky said with a sad smile. Merle handed him the keys.

“Just bring it back with gas in it,” Merle said as he turned and walked back toward the shop.

Starsky approached the other car as one would a stranger. The Cutlass was blue, or had been at one time. The paint was worn to more gray than blue. He transferred some things out of the Torino into the Cutlass then slowly pulled out of the mechanic’s parking lot.

The bank’s open late on Friday, he thought sleepily. I’d better get some cash to pay Merle on Monday. He pulled into a parking space near the front door and went inside.

“David!” A perky young black girl with green eye shadow and deep ruby lips greeted him from behind the teller’s window.

“Hi, Darleen,” he said with a slight smile.

“Honey, you look like something from a horror movie!”

“Ah, I bet you say that to all the guys,” he joked.

She giggled. “What you need, sweetie?”

“Savings withdrawal slip, please. And a balance?”

She supplied him with the slip and a piece of scrap paper with his balance on it.

“Wow, I have that much? A whole $635.15?” he said sarcastically.

“You a rich dude!”

He stood staring at the paper for a minute.

“Um, David? How much you want?”

He snapped out of his reverie. “Can I borrow a pen?” He took the offered implement and filled out the slip for $600.00.

Darleen looked at it with raised eyebrows. “Damn! You going on a trip?”

“Car repairs. They’re a killer,” he replied. A trip. Hm.

She handed him the money. “Sorry to hear you have to spend your money on something other than fun, honey. After all you been through, you deserve to kick up your heels! Try to have a nice weekend, you hear?”

Starsky gave her a genuine smile. “Thanks. You, too.”

Behind the wheel of the Cutlass, the drugs and strain of the day started to demand attention in the form of emotional overload. With a vague plan in mind, he set his jaw and pulled out into traffic. He headed for Hutch’s house at the beach. He pulled up close to the front door, let himself in and went directly to his bedroom. Out of habit, his steps took him to the top drawer of the dresser first. Then he realized that the pill bottle was already stashed in the breast pocket of his jacket. He went into the kitchen and grabbed several plastic trash bags. He filled them with clothes, making several trips to the trunk of the Cutlass. Finally, he pulled the comforter off the bed, grabbed a pillow and tossed them into the back seat of the car.

As an afterthought, he filled another bag with snacks from the kitchen. A new bottle of whiskey caught his eye in the bottom cabinet near the fridge, so he took it. He found a brown bag under the sink and ripped off a chunk. On it, he wrote, “I’m not missing, so don’t look for me.” He signed it, “The Little Prick.” He hurried outside and locked the door behind him.

***

Starsky’s instinct was to head northwest, so he headed southeast instead. After two hours of driving, he knew he was losing the battle to stay awake. He pulled into a parking lot of a supermarket that was closed for the night. Crawling into the backseat, he sandwiched himself inside the comforter and put the pillow under his aching head. The pillow smelled of home. Pushing that thought aside, he struggled to get comfortable in the small area. He had to lay on his right side because his left arm and chest throbbed with pain.

The brunette grunted. He reached inside the jacket he was still wearing and pulled out the pill bottle. “You’re the only friend I still have left,” he said to it. He fished around in the bag on the back floor of the car for something to wash the pills down. His hand wrapped around the long, glass neck of a bottle. “Perfect,” he said out loud. He screwed off the lid to the Jim Beam and washed down a bunch of pills. He’d stopped counting how many he took at one time a while ago.

***

Hutch staggered in around two in the morning. Totally obliterated, he went directly to his bedroom and passed out on the bed. He never noticed that the Torino wasn’t in the driveway. It seemed like he had only been asleep for a few minutes when the phone rang. He rolled over carefully so as not to dislodge the head which felt precariously connected to the rest of him by a thread. His hand fumbled for the phone, sounding like the drum section of a marching band. He finally managed to bring it close to his ear. He opened his mouth to form a greeting, but never got the chance.

“Hutchinson!”

The voice was so loud that the blond instinctively tossed the phone away from him with a yelp. Fighting nausea, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Oh god, he thought, someone please just shoot me. It slowly registered in his alcohol saturated brain why he was sitting up at all. The phone. Where’d it go?

Dobey quickly pulled the receiver away when it connected with the floor. Carefully placing it back to his ear, he could hear moaning in the background. He could feel his blood pressure rising. “Hutchinson!” he shouted into the mouthpiece.

Even from a few feet away, the voice was clearly distinguishable. Hutch pushed his legs over the side of the bed, slid forward and fell to his knees on the floor. Even with the room spinning wildly around him, he inched forward toward the receiver. He paused to take a steadying breath then put the phone to his ear. “Captain?” he said in a near whisper. His mouth felt like each of his teeth were wearing sweaters. Dirty sweaters. “Why are you calling in the middle of the night?”

“Middle of the . . . . for Pete’s sake, Hutch, pull it together. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning!”

Total confusion reigned amongst the remaining few brain cells skittering around in Hutch’s skull. He looked at the window and could see light around the edges of the drawn blinds. “Oh. It is? Am I late for work?”

Dobey sighed. It was like speaking with a child. “It’s Saturday.”

Hutch’s forehead creased as he tried to make sense of it all. “Saturday? I’m off today. I’m not late.”

“Damn it, Hutch! I’m not calling you because you’re late.” Dobey knew a Hutch hangover when he heard one. He used his next words to sober the man up a bit. “Do you know where your partner is?”

Hutch stopped breathing for a second. Even through the ruthless effects of the hangover, something in his mind clicked and went on instant alert. “He – he’s in bed. I guess.”

“Guess again.”

Hutch rubbed at his eyes and shook his head. “Is he okay? Did something happen? Where is he?” He got unsteadily to his feet.

“He seemed to be alright,” Dobey said quickly. “At least, physically.”

Hutch’s world was coming sharply into focus against his will and it hurt his head enormously. “Captain, with all due respect . . . I’m sure you guessed that I tied one on last night and I’m paying for it now in spades. Just cut the sh . . . please just tell me what’s going on with my partner.”

“Your partner,” Dobey said dryly, “called me at my home this morning asking for a leave of absence. When I tried to question him about it, he told me to either grant his leave or take his resignation.”

“What?” Hutch asked in a whisper.

“We need to talk.”

“Uh, I’m . . . . He said that? Resignation?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take a quick shower and be over your house in a half hour or less.” Hutch hung up the phone without even a goodbye.

A five minute cold shower helped to sober him. A few aspirin and a cup of coffee were definitely needed before he could think about driving, so he headed for the kitchen as he towel dried his hair. He paused outside Starsky’s bedroom door. It was partially open, so he gave it a push. His meticulously neat partner’s room was a mess. When he stepped inside, he noticed that several of the dresser drawers were half open, as was the closet. The blanket was missing from the bed, along with one of the pillows. Hutch swallowed hard and continued his trip to the kitchen.

Several of the cabinets were open and different food items were scattered on the counter tops and the floor. How the hell did I walk past this last night and not . . . . ? Because you were fucked up, that’s why, he chastised himself. A brown piece of paper on the otherwise empty kitchen table caught his attention. There was writing on it. With a huge knot forming in his stomach, he picked up the note and read it. The signature felt like a knife in his gut. Yeah, I fucked up good. He stuffed the note into his pants pocket and headed for the front door. He didn’t deserve the coffee and aspirins. Right now, he wanted to hurt.

***

Dobey was waiting for him at the front door. His wife, Edith, served both men a cup of coffee as soon as they sat down at the kitchen table.

Dobey waited until his wife herded his two children into the living room before speaking. “You look like shit.”

“I feel worse than shit,” the blond replied, resting his elbows on the table with his head in his hands.

Dobey got up and got some aspirin from the cabinet near the stove. He came back to the table and handed three tablets to the hurting man before him. “Here. Take these.”

“No, thanks, I . . . .”

“Take them,” Dobey ordered. “You’re of no use to me if you can’t think straight and if you’re hurting as badly as you look, then you’re not going to be able to think at all.”

Hutch nodded then swallowed the tablets with his coffee.

Dobey took a deep breath, then slowly blew it out. “Ken, I see more than you think I do in the office. I’ve noticed the knit-picking between you and Starsky lately. The snide remarks. The practical jokes that are just this side of going over the line.”

Hutch lowered his head and stared into the blackness of the coffee in his cup.

“I’ve heard some things come out of your mouth when your partner wasn’t around that I never thought I’d hear.”

Hutch’s stomach did a flip, threatening to give back the coffee and aspirin.

Dobey continued. “The two of you have been through hell and back. I had every confidence that you would both find even ground somewhere along the way and set things straight between you. I guess I was wrong.” He sat quietly for a minute, waiting for some kind of response. Hutch just lowered his head even further. Dobey slapped the table, startling the blond badly. “Well? What have you got to say about it?”

When Hutch looked up, his face was etched with misery and guilt.  With a shaky voice, he said, “You’re right.”

“Ken,” Dobey said in a mild voice, “talk to me.”

For the next twenty-five minutes, Hutch spilled his guts. Once he started, he didn’t seem to be able to stop. He told his captain, his friend, about how terrified he was that they were back out on the streets. He explained that after seeing his best friend endure so much pain and struggle so hard to return to active duty, the last thing he wanted was to ask him to quit. And yet, that was the only thing he wanted him to do. The worry vied for first place with guilt day after long day, until he finally started to lash out with his words and actions.

“I guess, somehow, I was trying to make him angry. . . with me, the job . . . I don’t know. I just wanted him to get sick of it and quit. I just wanted him to be safe, to stop being a target every day of his life.” Hutch grabbed a handful of his hair in each of his fists as he leaned forward on the table. He started to rock back and forth a bit. He barked out a humorless laugh. “I guess I just wanted my best friend to stop doing the one and only thing that ever made him happy. The one thing that kept him going, kept him alive. God, I’m such a jerk!”

Dobey’s heart wrenched seeing the man across from him falling apart. For many years, he had come to think of Starsky and Hutch as his sons. Sometimes, being a father was a harder job than being a police captain. “Ken,” he said gently, placing a hand on the blond’s forearm in an attempt to get him to stop rocking. “we all make mistakes. Friends forgive each other.”

“Oh yeah?” Hutch challenged. He stopped rocking and looked up at the captain. His eyes were brimming with tears as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of brown paper. He tossed it across the table toward Dobey.

The older man took the paper and read it. It didn’t take much of a detective to figure out the message, or that Starsky was replying in kind to a name Hutch must have called him. Sighing deeply, he folded the paper in half and handed it back to Hutch.

Hutch looked at him beseechingly. “What should I do?” he asked. He sounded lost and afraid like an abandoned child.

Dobey considered for only a moment. Then he handed Hutch a few napkins to dry his eyes and blow his nose. “Go home.” He said simply.

Hutch stopped in mid blow. “What?”

“Go home, Hutch. Obviously, you’ve hurt Starsky’s feelings pretty badly. He needs time to lick his wounds.”

“But . . . .”

“It’s too late for ‘but,’” Dobey said gruffly. “If he calls me again, I’ll let you know. You do the same. In the meantime, go home and do some soul searching. When he does come back, you’d better be ready.”

Hutch nodded miserably. He stood and without another word, left through the back door.

***

The sound of shoppers awakened the detective sleeping in the backseat of the Cutlass around 9:30 in the morning. Groggily, he pulled himself up and pushed aside the damp comforter. He wasn’t sure if he had been sweating or if he had drooled on it. Not that it mattered. All that mattered in that moment was that he needed to pee ten minutes ago. All supermarkets have restrooms, he thought happily. I can take a leak and freshen up a bit.

As he leaned forward, he noticed something that would put a definite crimp in his plans. Unfortunately, since he had to go so badly and since it was his first relief of the day, his body was making a show of it. There was no way he was going to be able to walk across the parking lot without someone noticing the flagpole between his legs. T’riffic.

Grabbing the plastic bag of supplies off the floor of the car, he quickly dumped the contents onto the comforter.  He managed to get his zipper down then squirmed into position to aim into the bag. A few seconds later, the emergency was over. He was quite pleased with himself for his quick thinking. Smiling, he leaned forward to open the front door and fairly tumbled out with the plastic bag. All of his muscles had tightened up during the night. He managed to remain upright and headed for a nearby trash can. On the way, he noticed that the plastic bag had a leak. He hurried the rest of the way, hoping no one had seen him.

He headed toward the supermarket, intent on washing up in the restroom and buying a bagel or something for breakfast. He was almost to the front doors when he remembered that he hadn’t locked the car. Everything he had was in that car. He hurried back, patting his pockets along the way in search of the keys. When he finally opened the driver’s side door, he found the keys in the ignition. Gotta be more careful, he scolded himself. I coulda lost the whole damn car! He carefully rolled up the windows, grabbed the keys and made sure both doors were locked.

The market’s restroom was dingy, even that early in the morning. Starsky wrinkled his nose at the smell of urine mixed with the odor of fish from the seafood department next door. He washed his hands and face in the sink, then used six or seven of the scanty paper towels to dry off. Pieces of the towels got stuck on the stubble of his beard and he had to pick them off. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They felt fuzzy. I could buy a toothbrush and toothpaste, he considered. He’d forgotten his own. Straightening both arms, he leaned against the sink and took a good look at himself in the smudged mirror. Is this how homeless people live? he wondered. Homeless. I guess I’m homeless now. Unless you count the car as a residence, he mused. He thought of all the homeless people he’d seen in his years on the force. He saw them in a slightly different light now.

As he straightened to leave, he suddenly felt nauseated. Before he could even wonder why, he found himself on his knees in one of the stalls. The first few heaves produced a lot of liquid. Then he went into dry heaves. It seemed to go on forever. Just as he thought he’d be able to get up, the smell of fish and urine assaulted him and he bent over the toilet again. Finally, he convinced his body that whatever it was trying to get rid of was gone. He rinsed his mouth quickly in the sink then hurried from the wretched smelling room to which he’d contributed one more odor.

Thoughts of a bagel or anything else to eat fled his mind. All he wanted was to get back to the car and lie down. Sweat poured down his face and dangled in droplets from his curls. With badly shaking hands, he managed to unlock the car and crawl into the back seat. Panting, he lay on his back and stared up at the ripped ceiling fabric of the car. His shoulder was beginning to throb worse than his head, complaining of the strain placed on it from the ordeal in the restroom.

Miserable and sick, he reached for the only thing that could help. His support. He shook out a half dozen pills and tried to dry swallow them, but almost heaved. He pulled the whiskey bottle out from under the seat and took two small gulps, just enough to get them down. Fifteen minutes later, he was snoring blissfully as life went on around him.

***

It was early evening by the time he awoke. The windows were still tightly closed in the car and he was soaked to the skin with sweat. He was nauseated by the heat, lack of food and lack of fresh air. Leaning over the front seat, he unlocked the passenger side door then pushed it open for some air. The door banged loudly against the car parked next to him. Shit!

He pushed the seat forward and squeezed out of the passenger side door. Just as he was inspecting the dent he’d caused in the white Cadillac, the owner came back with a cart full of groceries.

“Hey!” The man’s face turned beat red when he saw what had happened. “Look what you did you my car!”

Starsky held up his hands in surrender. “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . .”

The man took a good look at Starsky then caught a whiff of him on the breeze. His gaze flashed to the beat up Cutlass, to the blanket and pillow in the back. “Vagrant! You probably don’t even have insurance!” the man seethed.

“I’m so sorry! Listen, I’ll pay for it . . . .”

The man waived a disgusted hand in the detective’s pallid face. “Yeah, right. And I’m Rockefeller.”

“No, really . . . .” Starsky reached into his pocket to get his money.

“Get out of my face, bum,” the man snarled, shoving Starsky hard.

Starsky fell to the asphalt on his left side. If the wind hadn’t been knocked out of him, he would have screamed with agony. He watched mutely as the man slammed the Cutlass door shut, threw his groceries in the Cadillac then peeled out. He was left there, writhing in pain on the ground.

One of the lot attendants came by to pick up stray carts and saw him on the ground. He rushed over, filled with concern. “Hey, man! Are you okay? You having a heart attack?” He got a little too close and the stench of body odor hit him. He backed up quickly.

“N- no. Not heart,” Starsky struggled to communicate as his breath came back to him. “I’ll be . . . okay. Just fell, ‘s all.”

“You sure?” the boy asked, already backing away.

“Yeah.” Starsky sat up and hugged his left arm to his chest with his right arm. “Could ya help me up?”

Reluctantly, the young man came forward and pulled him to his feet. As he helped him to the car, he noticed the blanket and pillow in the back. “You know, there’s a limit to how long you can park here,” he said.

Starsky looked up at the young, clean face that regarded him with barely hidden disgust. “I was just leavin’,” he said, extracting himself from the kid’s helpful grip. He slid carefully in behind the wheel, closed the door with his right hand then started the engine. A few minutes later, he was back on the road to nowhere.

The pain was making his vision swim. He rolled down the driver’s side window all the way and gulped in fresh air. The inside of the car had smelled worse than the awful restroom at the supermarket. I’ll have to change my clothes soon and air out that blanket. He considered stopping at a motel, but didn’t want to use his money up too fast. Besides, if anyone came looking for him, that’s the first place they’d check. Not that anyone’s gonna come lookin’, he thought sadly.

As he drove, his emotions kicked into high gear. Hutch only helped me through recovery because he felt guilty that I was shot. Always did think it was his fault. He bought that house because he felt guilty, like he owed me. Used up all his money. Now he probably regrets it.

He rubbed at his watering eyes while stopped at a red light. How can Hutch trust me to watch his back anymore? I’m weak and beat up. Damaged goods. I’ll bet he doesn’t. Yeah. He drinks and gets hung over to make the score even. Now that I’m back on the streets, Hutch probably realizes that he’s saddled with a cripple for the rest of his life. How’s he gonna find a wife, have a family and kids, when he lives in the same house with another guy?

His thoughts drifted back to the early days in the hospital. People told him what a miracle it was that he’d survived. How his heart had stopped, but he’d managed to find his way back.

I shoulda stayed dead.

***

Hutch thought Saturday was the longest day of his life. Until Sunday. By Saturday afternoon, he had cleaned up the mess Starsky had left. He even cleaned his friend’s bedroom. His evening was spent watching TV, trying desperately not to think. All the while, he kept one ear tuned to the phone. It never rang. Now it was Sunday and there was nothing left to do to occupy his mind.

It was two in the afternoon. He had no recollection of doing anything that morning except taking a shower. And waiting for the phone to ring. Dejectedly, he poured himself a glass of iced tea and started toward the back deck. Halfway through the living room, he turned around and went back to the kitchen. He sat the glass of iced tea in the sink and went to the fridge. Pulling out a six pack of beer, he grabbed a bottle opener and resumed his trek. He plopped down onto one of the cushioned lounge chairs, pried off the cap from the first bottle and drank half of it in one go.

Hutch squinted out at the ocean. The sun danced on the waves as they caressed the shore. Couples walked hand in hand, ankle deep in the surf. Kids laughed and played in the sand. A couple of guys were tossing a football to each other.

Anger bubbled up from nowhere. How could you do this, Starsk? I stuck with you through all that horrible shit in the hospital. I was there with you every step of the way through therapy. I bought this house – he stopped to take a calming breath and open another beer.

We’ve been friends for what seems like forever. We have one stupid fight and you bail? He took a long gulp of beer and almost choked on it as guilt clamped down on his chest. It wasn’t just a fight, was it, buddy? He tried not to remember, but the bad jokes at his partner’s expense, the pettiness, all came back to him. I guess what I missed, he realized, was that you needed me even more when you came back to work than when you were trying to get better. He opened the last beer and slumped down further in the chair. Where are you, Starsk?

***

Starsky drove for as long as he could before his left arm and chest hurt so badly that it brought tears to his eyes. He found a small rest stop at the side of a wooded road. There was a picnic table, a trash can and a small stream a few feet deeper into the woods. He wearily pulled the Cutlass in next to the table and just sat for a minute. The pain was bad. He didn’t think he could even move. He tried to calculate just how much agony he would have to endure to reach over to the back seat to get his pills and if he would pass out with the effort.

Slowly, he allowed himself to fall over onto his right side on the front seat. He cranked the passenger window down with his right hand then lay there wheezing from the effort. A few minutes later, he pulled himself upright again by grabbing the steering wheel with his right hand. He looked out the dirty windshield at the sun sparkling on the ripples of water in the stream. It looked inviting. A slight breeze came in through the passenger window, bringing with it the stench of garbage from the nearby trash can. He turned his head to see flies and wasps having a party at the trash can. At least somebody’s havin’ fun. He glanced down at the clock in the dash and sighed. Only 2:15. I wonder what Hutch is doin’ right now?

The next breeze brought the odor of his own body to his nostrils and he crinkled his face in disgust. Pain or no pain, he thought, I’m gettin’ a bath. He peeled off his shirt then kicked off his sneakers in the car. He had to stand up to get out of his jeans. First, he looked both ways up and down the secluded road. No one had passed by in five minutes or more. He slowly got out of the car. Mentally crossing his fingers, he dropped his jeans and underwear to his ankles, then stepped out of them. As quickly as he could, he made his way down the slight slope to the stream.

This would definitely count as indecent exposure, he chuckled to himself. The memory of the old woman in the park popped into his mind and the smile drained away. Inevitably, the memory of Hutch’s gossip about him afterwards in the squad room followed. Suddenly, his heart hurt worse than his arm.

He made a quick job of washing up in the cold water. He allowed himself a few minutes to air dry hidden behind the car then went to the trunk to get some fresh clothes. He chose a pair of dark jeans and a white t-shirt. He didn’t bother with underwear. He’d only brought three pair and he’d already used two. One clean pair should be kept for an emergency, he thought. He grabbed a clean pair of white socks and sat in the open doorway of the car on the driver’s side. After kicking off as much loose dirt as possible from his feet, he leaned forward to pull on a sock. The pain in his shoulder sent him rocketing backwards onto the seat.

“Fuck!” he screamed. Hot daggers dug into his shoulder and chest. He tried to sit up, desperate to get the pills in the back seat, but each time he tried the pain escalated. After seven agonizing minutes, he passed out.

Eighty-seven miles away, Hutch gulped the rest of the last beer and passed out on the cushioned lounge chair.

***

Starsky awoke with a groan an hour later. If any cars had passed by, none of them had bothered to stop. I’m at a rest stop. I guess they figured I was restin’, he reasoned. Carefully, he forced himself to sit up. Dizziness instantly assailed him. He sat very still and took deep breaths until it passed. Ever so slowly, he got out of the car and pushed forward the front seat. He reached for the salvation sitting nestled in the comforter and brought it out, hugging it close to his chest. Easing back into the car, he closed the door and shook out five tablets.

For the first time in days, he actually looked at the pills in his hand. Somewhere in his mind, alarm bells went off. He consciously shut off the switch. He just didn’t care anymore. He popped the pills in his mouth and managed to get them down. Twenty minutes later, the car was in drive and he was on his way again.

At 8:10 that night, he found himself cruising through the main street of a small, dull town. The only lights on the street were the street lamps, traffic lights and neon from a small bar on one of the corners. He headed for the neon.

As he approached the front door of the small establishment, he sized the place up. Not too loud, not too crowded, menu in the window . . . it served his needs perfectly. He shuffled inside and took an empty seat at a small table by the front window.

A waitress appeared promptly. “How ya doing, sweetie. Our soup tonight is minestrone. Special is chicken parm. Start ya off with a drink?”

Starsky looked up at the tall, slim blonde in a short, red dress uniform with a white apron. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, leaving her face fully exposed. Her skin was smooth and youthful, but her eyes told a different story. She could have been anywhere from twenty to forty years old. “Beer,” he replied with a slight smile.

“Any special kind? We’ve got . . . .”

Starsky held up a hand to stop her. “Anything on tap would be nice, thanks.”

She nodded and whirled away. A few minutes later she returned with a cold mug of amber comfort. “Ready to order?”

“Uh, sure. I’ll have that soup you mentioned.” He didn’t feel the least bit hungry, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, either. Hutch’s voice threatened to pop into his head to berate him for not taking better care of himself, but he pushed it away. He gazed out the window while waiting for his soup. The street was deserted. He glanced down at his watch to check the time and found a bare wrist. T’riffic. Suddenly, a strong wave of depression overwhelmed him. Lost my friend, lost my job, lost my mind, and now I lost my watch. Maybe that means my time’s run out, he thought darkly. Got nowhere to go, nothing to do, no future . . . . He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table.

The waitress found him that way when she returned. “Here’s your soup. You okay, sweetie? Need some aspirin or something?”

He dropped his hands and fiddled with the soup spoon, avoiding eye contact. “Nay, I’ll be okay. Just need to eat, ‘s all.”

A couple at another table signaled to her. “Well, you just call me if you need anything, you hear?” She hustled away.

He smiled slightly and nodded as he dipped the spoon into the soup bowl. He looked around at the other patrons of the bar while he waited for the soup to cool and wondered. Did they have friends? Wives or husbands at home, wondering where they were and why they weren’t with them? Were they single, looking for someone to make their lives worthwhile?

He ate the first spoonful without looking. He didn’t really notice any taste. The second spoonful caught his attention and he inspected the ingredients. Beans, noodles, bits of beef . . . the longer he stared, the more the beans looked like little rat livers, the noodles snot, and the hunks of beef . . . The spoon clattered back into the bowl and he pushed it away before the nausea could claim him.

“Something wrong with the soup?” the waitress inquired as she walked past with a tray for the other table.

“Not as hungry as I thought. How ‘bout another beer instead?” The words came out automatically. She took away the soup, brought him a beer, and all was right with the world again.

Halfway through his third beer, he noticed that a very pretty woman at the bar was being bothered by a very ugly man. His cop instincts kicked in. He pushed out of the chair and made his way over to the bar.

“Shoos me,” he said in the most official voice he could muster. “Is this guy botherin’ you?”

The woman nodded.

“Beat it,” the ugly one growled.

“How’s about you beat it, fella? She ain’t innerested.”

“Yeah? Well then how come she’s going home with me?” the guy sneered. He grabbed the woman’s arm and she gasped.

“Hey!” That was all Starsky could get out before the guy backhanded him and knocked him on his ass. Starsky shook his head and struggled to his feet, a bit more sober. As the guy got up off the stool and took a step toward him, Starsky pulled back his jacket to reveal his gun. “Assaulting a police officer ain’t too smart. You wanna walk, or shall I take you in?”

The guy stopped, snorted a small laugh then turned to leave. “You ain’t worth the trouble,” he mumbled to no one in particular.

The petite young woman got off the bar stool and went over to Starsky. She thanked him profusely for saving her from the goon. Then she noticed he had a split lip and was very unsteady on his feet. She took him outside for some air.

Trying desperately to cling to his façade of bravado, he offered to walk her to her car. She said she had taken a cab. Being the gentleman he was, he offered to take her home. By the time they reached the Cutlass, the woman knew he was in no shape to drive.

“I’ll tell you what. For rescuing a damsel in distress, how about if I drive you home? Then I can call a taxi from your place.”

“I don’t live in this town.”

“Oh. I’ll drop you off wherever you’re staying.”

Starsky tried to waggle his eyebrows. “You tryin’ to pick me up, schweetheart?”

She smiled and the sparse illumination from the street light danced in her brown eyes. “Trying to drop you off is more like it,” she chuckled. Her gaze settled on the blanket and pillow in the backseat. She took a good look at the man. He obviously hadn’t shaved in several days and there were dark circles under his eyes. Her mind made up, she settled him into the passenger seat and strapped him in with the seatbelt. Then she got in the driver’s side and held out her right hand. “Keys?”

Starsky just sighed, fished them out of his pocket and handed them over. He just didn’t care what happened next.

“My name is Jennifer Keen. My friends call me Jenny.”

“Dave Starsky. My friends call me Starsky.”

She laughed. “Your friends call you by your last name?”

He just smiled.

“Listen, I don’t want you to think I go around picking up guys and driving them around . . . .”

She was interrupted by a soft snore from the slumped figure that leaned against the passenger side window.

She turned the Cutlass around in the empty street and headed for her home. You’re doing it again, Jenny though. One of these days, your good Samaritan act is going to blow up in your face. She glanced over at the sleeping man. Lines of pain were etched around his eyes, even in sleep. She could actually feel her nurturing instinct kick in. Throughout her life, she had always been able to judge people immediately by how they ‘felt.’ She thought of it as women’s intuition. She had never been wrong. This guy definitely felt like a good person.

Jenny had a hard time getting the man out of the car when she got back to her house, a brick rancher which sat two hundred feet back from the secluded street on six acres of land. Juggling the keys in one hand and keeping the cop standing with the other was quite a feat, but they made it inside and to the couch before they both collapsed.

“You kidnappin’ me?” he gasped, jarred fully awake.

“Nope”

“Oh. Tits a shame,” he giggled.

She giggled back. “I have a guest room and hardly ever have any guests. I thought you might like to sleep in a real bed for a change, instead of in the backseat of your car.”

Starsky blushed and looked down at his hands. “I’m onna special signing . . . assigning . . . ah, shit.”

“Assignment?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

“Well, you have the night off. The guest room has its own bathroom with a shower. Think you can manage to stand up long enough to get a shower before getting into a clean bed?”

He nodded his head, still looking at his hands, but made no effort to move.

“How about a cup of coffee before your shower?” she offered.

“That’d be great,” he said with a small smile. He looked up and met her concerned brown eyes.

Jenny almost gasped out loud. Instinctively, she reached out for his right hand. He tried to pull away, but didn’t really want to. It felt good to be touched. He immediately dropped his gaze to the hand that remained on his lap.

The pain she had seen in the man’s blue eyes had pierced her heart. The hand she held was shaking. She said quietly, “I’ve heard it said that it’s a lot easier to talk to strangers when something’s bothering you. I’ve also been told that I’m a good listener.”

For a long moment, they sat there silently. Then a sob welled up from the depths of Starsky’s soul.

“Please tell me,” she coaxed. And he did, for the next hour and a half. And she listened and tried not to cry.

When the story of his recent shooting and his failing friendship finally wound down to the present, she carefully pulled him up from the couch and led him into the guest room. She helped him out of his jacket and asked him to undo his holster. The jacket and holster were both hung over the back of a chair in the bedroom. She started to turn down the sheets for him, but he insisted on getting a shower first.

She told him there were towels in the bathroom in the linen closet and gave him a quick rundown of where an extra toothbrush and toiletries could be found under the sink. As he closed the bathroom door, he looked at her. There was a smile on his lips, but there was a void in his deep blue eyes that made her shiver.

As soon as he was inside, he popped eight Demerol and washed them down with water from the sink.

As she turned to leave the room, she paused next to the chair. Something told her that the jacket and gun would be better off in the other room. She took them into the kitchen and put them on the back of a chair. She found herself turning around halfway to her bedroom and headed back to the kitchen. She carefully removed the gun from the holster and figured out how to pop out the clip. The clip was then stashed in one of the kitchen cabinets behind the cereal. She put the gun back in the holster then hurried to her bedroom. She didn’t know how she was going to explain her actions to the stranger in her guest room, but she was willing to worry about that tomorrow.

It was late and her own fatigue was beginning to catch up with her. Jenny changed into an oversized t-shirt and crawled under the blanket. For a few minutes, she stared up at the ceiling and wondered about how crazy her actions had been that night. Finally, she reached over to turn off the light on the nightstand. A sound from the other room froze her hand in mid reach. After living alone for so long, every sound in the house was known to her. She heard the loose board in the living room on the way to the kitchen creak. A few seconds later, it creaked again. Her guest had gone to the kitchen, then right back to his room.

Her heart started to pound in her chest as her intuition once again guided her actions. She threw back the covers then padded down the hallway in her bare feet to the guest room door. Listening carefully, she heard the snaps on the holster being undone. Without another thought, she pushed open the door.

Standing before her was the man she had brought home, naked except for a towel around his waste, holding his gun in his hand. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t make a sound. Slowly, he tore his gaze away from the gun and looked up at her.

“Get out.”

She stood framed in the doorway, not moving, barely breathing.

“GET OUT!” he screamed, straightening his left arm to aim the gun at her.

Jenny’s whole body startled badly at the screamed command. Suddenly, a calmness came over her. Boldy, she walked into the room and closed the door behind her. She leaned back against it.

Different expressions flashed across the detective’s face; disbelief, anger, embarrassment. The clenching and unclenching of his jaws could be seen clear across the room.

Jenny took a step forward. “Starsky, give me the gun, okay?”

He lowered his arm. Keeping his eyes on hers, he raised his left arm again so that the gun’s muzzle was pushed against his left temple.

“Oh, no. Honey, please!” she pleaded, her composure broken. “You don’t have to do this! Please, give me the gun and we’ll talk it out. I promise things will get better.”

Starsky’s bottom lip started to quiver. He said icily, “You can stay an’ watch if ya want, but I wouldn’t suggest it.”

Jenny took a half step closer. “Please, let’s talk this out . . . .”

“Shoulda stayed dead,” he whispered to himself. A heartbeat later, he pulled the trigger.

Time stopped. The seconds after the click of the trigger stretched on. Jenny let out a startled gasp. Starsky scrunched his eyes shut, waiting for the explosion, for the bullet to penetrate his scull. When time started up again, he blinked his eyes open, confused.

Missfired! his tormented mind screamed. He pulled the trigger again. And again. There were no explosions. He dropped the gun to chest level and stared at it in disbelief.  Then he looked up at Jenny’s face. It wasn’t hard to see by the look on her face that she had done something to his gun. With a loud growl, he heaved the gun with all his might at the wall to the left of her.

The pain that ripped through his chest sent him to his knees. Damaged muscles that had already been complaining from lack of exercise, stress and sleeping in a cramped back seat had reached their limit. The sudden forceful movement tore at the fragile tissue beneath the scars left from the bullet wounds.

On his knees in agonizing pain, Starsky started to beat his right fist against the floor. “No, no, NO! I can’t do nothin’ right!” he cried. He sobbed uncontrollably, shaking with fatigue and pain. “I shoulda stayed dead!” The pills he’d taken in the bathroom joined forces with the alcohol already in his blood and claimed the rest of his reserves. His eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out on the floor.

Jenny stood rooted to the spot. She shook badly, panted for air, and struggled for all she was worth to pull herself together. She tried to take a step forward and found herself slowly dropping to her knees. She crawled the remaining few feet to the man who had just tried to kill himself in her guest room.

Call an ambulance. That’s what’s next, she thought disjointedly. She pushed herself up slowly from the floor and went over to the phone on the nightstand. She picked up the receiver and took a long, deep breath to steady herself.

“Don’t.”

Jenny jumped so badly that she dropped the handset.  The source of the muffled word was lying motionless on the floor, his face turned toward her, his eyes halfway open.

“Peaz,” he said, trying to form words with his face pressed against the carpet. “Don’t call am’lance. No hospital.”

“Yeah, right,” She said with a small laugh. She grabbed up the handset then reached down to dial.

Starsky struggled painfully up onto his right elbow. “Listen. I just pulled a muscle. That’s all,” he ground out. “Please. I’m a cop. I . . . I can’t . . .” His eyes filled with tears and his throat closed off, preventing any further words.

Jenny slowly cradled the receiver and went over to him. “I’m not saying I won’t call,” she warned as she knelt next to him. “but I’ll hold off for now. It’s almost one in the morning. I’m too tired to think.” She raised a hand to her temple and rubbed it in a circular motion. She put her other arm around the back of her guest. “Do you think you can make it to the bed?” She saw the gruesome scars on his back and her eyes widened.

Starsky nodded and began to painfully get to his hands and knees. With a great deal of help from Jenny, he made it to his feet. Three steps later, the towel fell from his hips, but neither of them noticed. Two more steps and he was in the bed, lying on his right side. She saw the matching scars that decorating his chest just before they disappeared under the blankets the man clutched up to his chin.

Pushing her fingers through her disheveled brown hair, Jenny looked down at him sadly. “I’m starting to think it would have been easier to go home with that brute at the bar,” she joked half-heartedly.

The man in the bed was shaking and her stupid joke seemed to make him feel even worse. He squeezed his eyes shut and the tears came again. He tried to pull the blanket up over his head.

Jenny pretended not to notice his tears. “You look cold,” she said as she switched off the light. She left the bedroom door open so that light from the other room would spill into the guest room. Then she crossed to the other side of the bed and got under the covers. Everything else about this night is crazy, why stop now? she mused as she cuddled up to the shivering stranger in the bed. No, not a stranger. Another human being in pain. In need. Someone who had put himself in danger to help her when she was in trouble at the bar. Propping herself up on one elbow, she carefully reached over to stroke his hair.

“Shh,” she whispered into his ear. “Everything is going to be alright. Tomorrow, you’ll feel much, much better.”

A sob escaped the broken man. Her own eyes clouded with fresh tears.

“Clear your mind, sweetie. You’re just exhausted, that’s all. You just need a good night’s sleep. Rest.” She kept up the quiet dialogue until she felt his breathing even out. Five more minutes and she was sure he was asleep. Ever so carefully, she slithered out from under the blankets.  Sleep for her was a long way off.

She started by gathering all his clothes from the bathroom floor. She took them out to the living room and dropped them on the couch. Grabbing his jeans, she started pulling everything out of the pockets and dropped the contents onto the daily newspaper lying on the coffee table. Keys, gum in a mangled wrapper, a wad of money, the pop top from a can of soda, his badge case, a tiny key, handcuffs and a little black book. Bingo.

The first page of the little black book was all she needed to see. Next to the neatly typed ‘In case of emergency call:’ was scrawled a name and a number. The name was legible, but even if it hadn’t been, she had just spent the better part of her evening hearing the name over and over. Grabbing the cuffs, she returned to the guest room and secured her sleeping guest’s right wrist to the bed post.

She took the small black book into her bedroom and closed the door.  Her alarm clock read 1:40 AM. Taking a deep breath to gather her courage, she dialed the number.

***

Hutch awoke with a shiver. Stars filled the darkened sky above him and empty beer bottles were strewn all over the deck around his lounge chair. He sat up slowly and rubbed his arms to warm them. The unfair treatment he had heaped upon his best friend immediately threatened to come to the forefront in his mind, but he kicked and pushed at it until it went back into the recesses of his thoughts. He couldn’t look at it. It choked him, stole his breath. Later. Can’t deal now. He’s just sulking. God, my head hurts! Later, I’ll think about this later.

He pushed open the sliding glass doors and staggered into the dark living room. After turning on all the lights, he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Nothing looked even remotely appetizing. The only thing left to drink was iced tea or orange juice. Grabbing a cup from the drain board, he filled it with the last of the iced tea and got half a glass. Half empty or half full? He swallowed against the lump in his throat then headed for the TV. He needed a distraction, fast.

He watched parts of a movie. Switched channels during a commercial and got caught up in a basketball game. Switched again. And again. Made it through the eleven o’clock news. Started in on another movie. This one he watched, more or less, until he found himself dozing. Reluctantly, he switched off his only company and stood. His back complained of hours sitting in the same position on the couch, but he ignored it. No aspirin for you, he admonished. We deserve the pain.

On the way to his room, he paused by Starsky’s open bedroom door. Breathing heavily, Hutch backed away from the room. “What have I done?” he gasped out loud.

He went to his room and sat on the edge of the bed. He grabbed a pillow, clutched it to his chest and began to rock back and forth. “I’m such a jerk. So stupid,” he muttered to himself. Dread and foreboding were palpable now, actually making his stomach cramp. He wondered if he was being psychosomatic or just psycho. Fear for his friend’s safety, defeat, guilt, embarrassment all met in his chest and tightened it until he had to pant to breathe.

The phone on the nightstand rang.

His arm shot to the receiver and picked it up before his mind even acknowledged the ring. “Hello?” he answered anxiously.

Jenny hesitated, not expecting an answer so quickly at 1:40 in the morning.

Hutch held his breath. He prayed with all his strength that the next sound he would hear would be his partner’s voice.

“Um, is this Hutch?” a female voice asked.

Deflated, Hutch said automatically, “This is Hutchinson.” He squinted at the alarm clock. “Who is this?”

“I’m calling for your partner,” the voice said.

Hutch bolted up from the bed like his ass had springs. “Starsky? Where is he? Is he ok? Why isn’t he on the phone? WHO IS THIS?!”

“If you’ll just calm down . . . .”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN?!” Hutch shouted. “Lady, if you only knew . . . .” his voice broke and he had to stop.

“My name is Jennifer Keen,” she said quickly. “Your partner is here, in my home, and he’s not on the phone because he’s cuffed to the bed. He doesn’t know I’m calling you.”

“Look, Miss Keen,” Her words finally registered in his mind. “Cuffed to the bed?” The knot in his stomach clenched hard and he had to stop.

“Please, call me Jenny. Detective Hutchinson, we need to talk.”

Hutch eased himself onto the edge of the bed. “Jenny, please, just tell me he’s okay,” Hutch said in a strangled voice.

Jenny bit her lip. Before making the call, she had planned on reading this guy the riot act for treating his friend so badly that he had actually tried to take his own life. But now he sounded as lost and wounded as the man sleeping in the other room. “He’s sleeping right now,” she started out vaguely, “but he’s had one hell of a rough day. A rough few days, from the looks of him.”

Hutch absently rubbed at the painful fist of tension in his stomach. “Is . . . is he hurt?”

“He may have pulled a muscle in his back.”

A muscle. That’s not so bad. “Other than that, he’s not hurt?”

“No.”

Hutch’s temper flared. “Why the hell is he cuffed to your bed?”

“Not my bed. The guest room bed. Listen . . . .” she pleaded.

“I’m listening,” the blond said in a deadly voice.

“Physically, I think he’s okay. Emotionally, however,” she paused, not sure how to continue. “We talked for a few hours. About what’s been going on between the two of you.”

“Yeah,” Hutch answered contritely, “he’s mad a me. He has a right to be.”

Jenny gave a short laugh. “You have no idea.”

Hutch grimaced. He knew his partner’s temper. A pulled muscle? He may have torn her place up a bit. “Listen, if he broke anything of yours, I’ll pay for it. Don’t worry.”

Jenny’s eyes unexpectedly filled up. The events of the night were catching up to her and for a moment she couldn’t speak. If only it were that easy. Replacing some broken furniture.

“Jenny? Are you still there?” He leaned closer to the edge of the bed, panicked that the call may have been disconnected.

“Yes,” she said in a shaky voice. She covered the mouthpiece, took a deep breath and continued with a little more control. “Starsky didn’t break anything. But you did. You’ve pretty much broken his heart.” She knew it was melodramatic, but she had to get in at least a little dig for the treatment this man had been doling out.

Hutch blanched. A punch to the jaw. He deserved it. “Please tell me where my partner is,” he begged.

“I will,” she assured him. “But first . . . .”

Hutch was on his feet, propelled by fear and the urgent need to see his partner. “No! Now. Tell me now. I want your address and your phone number.”

“Look . . . .”

He cut her off, “No, YOU look, lady. I want to know where he is and I want to know now.”

Jenny clenched her jaws. “He did mention that you could be somewhat of a jackass,” she hissed, hanging up the phone.

Hutch realized the mistake he’d made just before he heard the click, then the dial tone. Don’t antagonize the people we need. “No! Hello? HELLO?” He held the receiver at arms length and stared at it. A second later, he crossed to the table and cradled the receiver. For the next few minutes, he stared at the phone, willing it to ring with every fiber of his being.

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples. She thought about calling the hospital. She was no professional. She shouldn’t be dealing with this. Why did I bring this guy home in the first place? My incessant need to help people. One of these days, it’s going to be the death of me.

She allowed herself to fall back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling again. If she called for an ambulance, they’d think it was a bit excessive for a pulled muscle. But she new Starsky would never let her drive him there. And if she did tell them about his suicide attempt . . . she imagined that would pretty much end the man’s career as a cop.

No, there was only one person who could really fix this. The one who had broken Starsky in the first place. She picked up the black book and redialed the number.

Hutch forced himself to let it ring one full ring before he grabbed the receiver. “I’m sorry! Jenny, I’m so sorry. Please, I’m j-just upset. Please don’t hang up again!” He snatched up the base of the phone with two fingers and carried it with him as he paced.

“Ok, Hutch,” she said firmly. “I’m going to give this to you straight and to the point. I’m too tired and too stressed out to go through any more verbal battles, so just be quiet and listen. When I’m done, I’ll give you my damned address and phone number. Okay?”

“Yes.” Hutch pressed his lips together, determined not to say anything to lose the only contact he had with his partner.

“Good.” Jenny took a deep breath to steady herself. “The way I see it, you’re the one responsible for your partner’s current state, so you’re the only one with a chance of fixing it.” She started with the bar and her rescue from the ugly patron and continued through the long talk she’d had with Starsky. She breathlessly finished with him agreeing to spend the night in the guest room.

“I just couldn’t let him sleep in the backseat of his car another night. So he went into the guest room bathroom to shower. He had a funny look on his face as he closed the door. You know, the kind of look that gives you goose bumps. Anyway, without really thinking about it much, I took his holster and his jacket out into the kitchen.”

Hutch stopped pacing and leaned against the wall. One hand pressed the phone hard against his ear while the other hand rubbed at the fierce cramping in his stomach. “Go on,” he urged.

“It was late. I was exhausted. I got dressed for bed and was just reaching to shut off the light when I heard him go into the kitchen and back to his room. I got up and hurried to the guest room. When I opened the door, he was standing there with the gun in his hand.”

Hutch’s hand went from his stomach to his mouth.

Tears sprang to Jenny’s eyes, even though she had resolved to remain in control of her emotions. “At first, he pointed the gun at me and ordered me out of the room. But I wouldn’t go. I kept asking him for the gun as I tried to get a little closer to him. Then he . . . he . . . .” Her voice hitched and she had to stop for a moment. She swallowed hard then cleared her throat. “He stopped aiming the gun at me and aimed it at himself.”

“Oh, God,” Hutch breathed into the phone.

“I kept talking to him, begging him to give me the gun,” Jenny was crying now, all reserves finally spent. “He . . . he said, ‘I should have stayed dead’ and then . . . then he pulled the trigger.”

Hutch’s legs gave out and he found himself on his knees. “No. NO! You said he was okay!”

“Yes! I had taken the clip out of the gun when I moved it to the kitchen.”

Hutch moaned, “Christ! You could have t-told me that before!”

“I’m sorry! You’re right. I’m sorry.” Jenny wiped at her running nose with a tissue from the box on the nightstand. “After the gun didn’t go off, he looked really surprised. He pulled the trigger two more times, then he figured out it wasn’t loaded. He got really mad and threw the gun at the wall. That’s how he pulled the muscle in his back. Or his shoulder. I can’t tell. It hurt him a lot, though, because he passed out.”

Hutch sat down on the floor and dragged his free hand down his face, trying to process what he’d just heard and trying not to accept it at the same time.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah,” he answered in a broken voice. He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump there. “W-why . . . you said he’s there, sleeping. Didn’t you c-call an ambulance?”

“I started to, but he woke up and begged me not to. He didn’t want to lose his job.”

“Lose his job?! Fucking idiot!” Hutch’s face screwed up and he finally lost his battle to keep the tears at bay. Brokenly, he said, “He could have lost his fucking life! Who cares about the job?!”

“He does,” Jenny said. She glanced at the clock. It read 2:17. “Listen. You’re upset and in no condition to drive . . . .”

“No. No way! I’m coming . . . .”

“Will you just hold on a minute? I have your address here in this book I got out of your partner’s jeans.  I’m calling a cab and having you brought here.”

“What?! That’s ridiculous. I have a car, I can drive . . . .”

“Look, I’m not asking for your permission. I’m too tired to fight. The only one who can heal Starsky is you, and I’m not going to be responsible for having you wrap yourself around a pole on the way over here because you’re too tired and upset to drive. Besides, when you leave here, you can drive him home. You shouldn’t leave in separate cars.”

“I don’t like it,” Hutch growled.

“I didn’t think you would,” she smiled bleakly. “Take it or leave it. I’ll call a taxi service in Bay City and have them to your place as soon as I can. Grab some clothes for your friend. The stuff he was wearing could walk away on its own and I’m just too tired to do a load of laundry.”

Cop instincts kicked in. “So, should I come alone and unarmed?” he asked snidely.

“Bring whoever you think could help the two of you through this,” Jenny said tiredly. “I know cops go everywhere with their guns but keep it away from Starsky. And when you get here, be quiet.”

Reassured, Hutch nodded. “Okay. I’ll look for the cab. Jenny?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He took her address and phone number then gently cradled the phone.

***

Within a half hour, a Bay City cab pulled up in front of the house. Hutch had thrown a few things into a gym bag and almost forgot to lock the door behind him in his haste to get to the cab. He realized after five minutes on the road that he’d forgotten to let anyone know where he was going. He almost instructed the cab driver to radio in to Parker, but after giving it another moment’s thought, he was too ashamed of what he’d done to his partner to share what had happened with anyone just yet.

Just as it seemed like he would explode out of his seat with impatience, the cab pulled up in front of a rancher with its front porch light on. Starsky’s car was nowhere in sight. “You sure this is the right place?” he asked the cabbie.

“Yep.” The man held out a hand for his fare.

Hutch paid the man, grabbed his gym bag then strode to the front door.

Jenny greeted him at the door with a finger to her lips, reminding him to be quiet. The man wasn’t what she’d expected. Starsky had described his features accurately, but this wasn’t the vibrant man of his stories. This guy didn’t seem so tall with stooped shoulders. His hair was disheveled, as were his clothes, and the circles under his eyes accentuated the anguish rippling in the pools of his eyes. She cringed with empathy. Stepping aside, she ushered him in. She offered her hand, which Hutch took gently in his. “It’s good to meet you,” she said sincerely.

Hutch quirked an attempt at a smile and nodded. “You, too.” His eyes darted around the room, partly to survey the area, mostly to avoid her scrutinizing gaze. When he did steal a glance at her, he saw red-rimmed eyes and smeared mascara that was almost all wiped away.

She took the bag from him and laid it next to the couch. Then she took his coat and put it on the hook inside the coat closet. With raised eyebrows and an outstretched hand, she silently asked him for his holster. He didn’t hesitate. He took it off and it joined his jacket in the closet.

“Listen . . . it’s late. You look as exhausted as your friend. Please, don’t wake him. The two of you need some rest before you can hope to have a coherent conversation.”

Hutch just nodded.

“Why don’t you just go in there and get some sleep.” She motioned toward the partially opened guest room door with her head.

“Okay,” he said in a grateful voice. He headed toward the guest room and hesitated in the doorway with his hand on the cool wood panel of the door.  His breath quickened and his heartbeat began to pound in his ears. After a moment, he went inside and closed the door.

Jenny had left the bathroom light on and the door open a bit so that her guest’s friend could find the bed without turning on the overhead light. Hutch could see the dark outline of his friend in the bed, could hear his steady breathing. He knelt beside the bed for a moment, his eyes drinking in the sight of him. Starsky’s face was gaunt and pale in the dim light from the open bathroom door. Several days’ growth of dark beard contrasted harshly with the pallor of his skin.

Safe. Sleeping. Not missing, not kidnapped, not tortured . . . Hutch’s bottom lip started to quiver. No, he was being tortured, from the inside out. And Hutch was his tormentor. He pulled the cuff key from his pocket and removed the handcuffs from his sleeping friend’s wrist. He rubbed at the skin lightly, brushing away the red marks left by the metal.

Hutch stood with quivering legs and shuffled toward the bathroom. After relieving himself, he went to the sink to wash his hands. He felt dirty from his guilt, but no amount of soap and water eased the feeling. He finished by splashing water on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror but didn’t recognize the man in the reflection.

As he reached for a towel, he noticed something on the sink. A pill bottle, almost hidden behind a tissue box. He picked it up, already knowing what it was, and popped off the top. What he saw made him gasp. Anger propelled him out of the bathroom and across the small bedroom with a few long strides. He flicked on the lamp next to the bed.

“Starsky!” he said loudly. “Starsky, wake up!”

Jenny had just gotten herself a glass of water and closed her bedroom door behind her when she heard him. She banged the glass down onto the dresser, causing water to slosh out onto the wooden surface. She marched down the hall and threw open the guest room door without even knocking. “Didn’t I ask you NOT to wake him?” she demanded. “Didn’t you say you though it was a good . . . .”

He stopped her with a look and held up the pill bottle. He shook it, rattling the meager contents. “Did you know about these?”

“No! Are they his?”

“Yeah, they’re his alright. Starsky! Wake the hell up!”

“W-what’s wrong?” Jenny asked, dreading the answer. “Why are you waking him?”

Hutch pushed an agitated hand through his hair. “This is Demerol. A pain pill. He started taking them a few weeks ago. Shit!” He put his hand on the lump in the blanket that was Starsky’s hip and gave it a push. “This bottle held sixty tablets. He’s only supposed to take one before going to bed. There are four pills left. Starsky!”

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s left shoulder and gave him a good shake. The resulting stab of pain that rocketed through the sleeping man’s shoulder and chest brought him around with a cry of pain. Moaning, he rolled over onto his back. Unfocused eyes stared up at the ceiling, unseeing. Immediately, his eyelids started to droop.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Hutch said, lightly slapping his friend’s cheeks.

Blue eyes with huge pupils blinked open. Starsky tried to focus, but it felt like his head was encased in plastic wrap. Sound was distorted and the annoying figure tapping his face was just a wobbly silhouette. “Le’ me ‘lone,” he mumbled, swatting ineffectively at the hand. Suddenly, the room tilted dangerously as he was lifted to a sitting position. His stomach lurched upward then settled back into place.

“Jenny, do you have any peroxide?” Hutch’s eyes were riveted on the teetering man perched on the edge of the bed as he tossed the question over his shoulder.

“Um, yes. In my bathroom.”

“Get it. And bring an empty glass,” Hutch instructed. He put his right hand behind Starsky’s neck to steady him. “Come on, pal. We need to make a trip to the john.” He grabbed his partner’s right wrist with his left hand and pulled.

Now the wobbly blur in front of him was pulling at him. Starsky felt sick, faint, hot, frightened – and not in the mood to be forced to go anywhere.

***

Panic blossomed in Starsky’s chest and he struck out with his left hand. His fist connected solidly with his antagonist’s jaw. As soon as the wave of adrenaline ebbed, he screamed out at the pain the punch caused his left shoulder then slipped off the bed to the floor. He cradled his left arm to his chest and gasped, trying desperately to collect himself in order to escape.

Hutch never expected the punch. It landed him flat on his back on the floor. White spots swam in his vision as the pain exploded in his cheek and mouth. Dazed, he could do little more than lay there and groan.

Starsky pulled himself up using the bed as support. He squinted his eyes and searched the room for his clothes. He spotted the gym bag on the seat of the chair and made his way shakily over to it. The first thing he found was a pair of briefs which he struggled into using only his right hand.  Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm.

“Hey . . . .”

Not one to go down without a fight, he kneed the man in the groin.

Hutch went down hard.

Starsky abandoned the gym bag and stumbled to the door. He leaned against it for a moment and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts and vision. His body trembled from head to toe. A sense of terrible foreboding permeated his mind, and he broke out in a cold sweat. He fumbled with the doorknob for a moment, then succeeded in throwing the door open. The light from the hallway blinded him for a second and he staggered into a wall. It took all his resolve not to succumb to the weakness in his legs and slide down the wall to the floor.

His vision cleared long enough for him to make out the front door. He headed toward it, traversing the slanting floor the best he could. A feminine voice stopped him as he reached the portal.

“Starsky? Dave? Where are you going?”

Someone else was trying to stop him. The woman held something in her hands, a brown bottle of something . . . poison? Not again. Not while I can still move. He pushed himself away from the door jamb and ran into the night.

“Hutch!” Jenny called. She dashed into the guest room where she found him curled up on the floor, moaning. Blood streamed from a cut in his lip.

“Star . . . .”

“He ran out the front door. What happened?” She shoved the bottle of peroxide and the glass onto the dresser and kneeled by his side.

Hutch gritted his teeth against the pain in his groin and managed to get onto his hands and knees. “Paybacks for that one,” he mumbled to himself. He looked at Jenny, his eyes bright with pain and panic. “H-help me up,” he said, grasping her hand with his. Once on his feet, he steadied himself then took a tentative step. Shards of sharp pain lanced through his groin. He took another step, then another, and found that the need to find his partner was stronger than the pain. He made his way to the open front door and leaned heavily on the door frame for a moment.

“Wait here,” he said then tumbled out into the darkness. A steady rain soaked him in seconds. “Wonderful,” he groused, squinting into the darkness. “STARSKY! Where the hell are you?”

Someone called his name. He was cold and wet, barefoot and miserable. His head was pounding and his stomach had started to cramp. He groped forward a step at a time, blinded by the rain. Behind him, he could see a man’s outline in the porch light. The man called his name again. Something in his stomach twisted at the sound and a wave of dizziness assaulted him. Both hands went out in front of him to catch his balance, but his feet were already tangled and the hard asphalt rushed up to meet his face.

Hutch could just barely make out his partner’s nearly naked form in the limits of the front porch light’s illumination. As he left the driveway and his feet hit blacktop, he saw Starsky crumple to the ground. “STARSK!”

His long legs brought him to his partner’s side in a short sprint. Skidding to a halt, he dropped to his knees and gently turned his partner onto his back. “Wake up, buddy,” he shouted over the downpour of rain. “Come on, Starsk. This is no place to nap. Let’s go inside before we drown.” Oblivious to his own pain, the rain mixed with the blood from his split lip and turned the collar of his yellow shirt to rust.

The cold rain pelted down, making Hutch shiver as he bent over his friend. He patted the unconscious man’s cheeks, even shook the left arm to evoke a pain response, but the pale face below him remained unresponsive. “Starsk, come on. You’re s-scaring me. Wake up!” A few seconds more of prodding without results and Hutch was on his feet with Starsky across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Slowly, he made his way back to the beckoning porch light.

“Oh, God,” Jenny gasped when they came through the door.

Hutch didn’t pause. He went right to the guest room and gently laid Starsky on the carpet near the bathroom.  “Towels,” he requested, resuming his efforts to awaken his unconscious friend.

By the time Jenny came back from the bathroom with a handful of towels, Starsky was coming around. Hutch grabbed both of his hands in his and held tight.

“What . . . .” Starsky’s eyes blinked rapidly as his head turned from side to side.

Satisfied that his partner wasn’t going to punch him, Hutch let go with one hand. He leaned over, reached up to the top of the dresser and grabbed the bottle of pills there.

“Starsky,” he said, holding the bottle in his partner’s line of vision. “Your pain pills. How many did you take? Huh? How many, buddy?” He shook the container to get his attention.

One trembling hand rose up slowly toward the bottle. “M’ pills,” Starsky slurred. “Need one.”

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight. How many, Starsk.” He threw the pill bottle aside and turned his friend’s face toward him, locking eyes. “How many?”

“What?”

“Pills. How many pain pills did you take tonight?”

Hutch could see clarity return to the blue eyes held in his gaze, just for a few seconds, but long enough to see confusion turn into embarrassed guilt.

“Took a couple,” Starsky slurred, trying to turn his face away.

Hutch held firm. “How many is a couple?”

“Dunno. Four, maybe?”

“And you had a few beers at the bar earlier tonight?”

“Deer is deer, even if there’s lots of ‘em, so lots of beers would be beer, right?” Starsky giggled.

Hutch clenched his jaws. “What were you trying to do, kill . . . .” he swallowed the rest of the question, the words souring on his tongue. “Get up. Come on, I’ll help you,” he said quietly. He got behind him and put a hand under each armpit.

“Where we goin’?”

“Bathroom,” Hutch grunted.

“Waffor?”

Hutch ignored him and turned to Jenny. “Bring the peroxide and the glass, please.” With a great deal of effort, he managed to get Starsky into the bathroom. Hutch stripped off his friend’s soaked underwear, tossed a dry towel over his privates then sat him on the floor in front of the toilet with his back leaning against the tub.

“’s cold!” Starsky complained, arching his back away from the porcelain tub. Rain still dripped from his thick curls. “Did I just take a shower?”

Hutch towel dried his friend’s hair a bit then quickly wiped the moisture from his limbs and torso. He ignored his own dripping clothes that clutched him in a cold, wet embrace. He took the brown bottle and the glass from Jenny and mixed a cocktail of peroxide and water at the sink. “Sit up, Starsk. I want you to drink this.”

The dark haired man rubbed thoughtfully at the beard on his chin. “Am I growin’ a beard?” he asked.

“Starsky, concentrate,” Hutch said, stooping down to his level. “I need you to drink this.” He reached behind him and lifted the toilet seat.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Starsky said, narrowing his eyes at the glass. “I know what that is.” He tried to cross his arms over his chest in defiance but winced when his left arm refused to obey the command. “I ain’t drinking peroxide.  It’ll make me puke.”

Hutch tried hard to remain patient. “That’s the idea, dummy. Here.” He held out the half-full glass.

Starsky pushed his lips together tightly and turned his head.

Quickly reaching his limit, Hutch pushed his fingers through his wet hair. “Listen up,” he said sternly. He grabbed Starsky’s chin with his free hand and not-so-gently turned his face toward him. “You took some pills tonight, Starsk. I don’t know how many, but more than one was too many. And you were drinking. Now, you can either drink this and get them out my way, or I’ll take you to the hospital and they’ll pump your stomach.”

Starsky swallowed hard. Slowly, his right hand came up and took the glass. He took one sip and gagged.

“Drink it,” Hutch said sternly.

Starsky took a deep breath, then chugged the contents of the glass. Within seconds, he was scrambling toward the toilet.

Jenny knew a cue to leave when she saw one. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said meekly. “Call me if you need me.”

Hutch never heard her. He was concentrating on keeping a hand on his friend’s forehead so that he didn’t pitch forward into the toilet as he heaved. Foul-smelling liquid was forcefully expelled from the depths of Starsky’s gut, but no food. Nothing solid. Hutch couldn’t tell if it had been too long since the pills were taken for this to do any good. Anxious doubts that he was making the wrong decision by not taking Starsky to the hospital screamed in his mind. Words like overdose or attempted suicide kept him from grabbing the phone and ending his friend’s career. But was he ending his life instead?

Five minute of emptying his stomach contents turned into violent dry heaves that left Starsky breathless. “I hate you!” he panted out, wrapping his good arm around his waist as the spasms turned him inside out.

The words punched through Hutch’s consciousness and blocked out all other thoughts. He felt as though someone had just given him an electric shock. He blinked rapidly for a moment then nodded his head slightly. I’d hate me, too, he agreed silently. The awful treatment he’d given his partner over the past month played through his mind. Numbly, he kept a hand on his friend’s back and tried to steady him through his ordeal.

When it was finally over, Starsky laid back against the cold tub, gasping for air. Sweat soaked his body as completely as the rain had. His eyes were closed tightly and his skin was a lighter shade of pale.

“Let’s get you into bed,” Hutch said woodenly. After a great deal of strain on his back and frayed emotions, Hutch managed to get Starsky standing. “Just a few steps and you’ll be under the covers,” he promised.

Hutch helped his friend get situated in the bed then went to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. He let the tap run for a few minutes to get cold and leaned wearily against the sink with his eyes closed. He was way past his own limit and he knew it. He took the glass back to the bedroom and put it on the nightstand. Starsky appeared to be sound asleep.

Hutch wandered out to the living room and sat down heavily on the couch. He leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees and put his face into his opened hands.

“Is he asleep?”

The timid voice almost made him jump out of his skin. He lowered his hands and looked blearily up at Jenny. Her face was drawn with concern. It had been a rough night for all of them. “Yeah,” was all he could manage.

Jenny knelt down on the carpet in front of Hutch’s knees. “He’ll be okay. He just needs to sleep it off.” She hesitantly laid a hand on his knee, unsure how to ease the man’s pain. As she watched, the blond began to crumble.

Hutch could feel the crash coming, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. At this point, it was beyond his control. His eyes filled until the pretty girl in front of him blurred into an impressionistic watercolor. He could feel the shaking start in his core. It built up and branched out through his limbs. The first sob broke free of his tight throat and the dam broke.

***

Jenny leaned forward and gathered him toward her. In response, Hutch parted his knees to allow her closer, then threw his arms around her neck and hugged her fiercely to his chest. He clung to her as he cried, his whole body spasming with each wrenching sob.

“It’s okay,” she soothed. “Let it out.” She stroked his damp blond hair with her hand. “Just let it out. Everything is going to be alright.” Unconsciously, she started to rock him slightly.

Hutch cried until no more tears would come, then actually felt his body shutting down. He could no longer think, reason or talk. His eyes closed of their own accord, and he leaned heavily on Jenny’s shoulders.

She gently disentangled herself from his arms and pushed him back onto the couch. He was still wearing rain-soaked clothing and she knew he would catch cold if he didn’t get out of them and get warm soon.

“Hey,” she said quietly as she began to unbutton his shirt. “Don’t get the wrong idea, but I’ve got to get you out of these clothes and into a warm bed.”

Hutch’s eyes opened to slits and he smirked, grimacing as it pulled on his split lip. “Best offer I’ve had in a long time,” he mumbled.

She pulled him forward and managed to get the shirt off him. Then she took off his shoes and socks. “I think we’d better do the rest in there,” she said, motioning toward the guest room with a tilt of her head. With a grunt, she pulled him to his feet. “Steady, now,” she coached, steering him toward the darkened room. She brought him around the opposite side of the bed from his sleeping friend. “Stand right there for just a second.” She dashed over to the gym bag and brought it to him. “I hope you brought an extra pair of underwear,” she whispered.

Hutch stepped out of his jeans as he reached into the bottom of the bag. His hand came out with a pair of boxers and he grinned slightly. He raised his eyebrows at her.

Jenny blushed in the dark. She turned her back to give the man enough time to change out of his damp underwear into the clean boxers. When he tapped her on the shoulders, she turned and helped him under the covers.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, scooping up his dirty clothes. She dumped them on the linoleum floor in the kitchen on her way to the sink where she filled a glass with water. She grabbed the aspirin bottle from the cabinet and shook three pills into her palm then headed back to the bedroom.

“Here,” she said, finding his hand in the dark. “Aspirin.” She handed him the glass of water.

Hutch took the aspirin without argument. His lip was swollen and sore, his head was pounding and Starsky’s knee had done a number on his family jewels. He drained most of the water then fell back against the pillow.

Jenny had disappeared while he took the aspirin. Now she was back, unscrewing the lid to some sort of jar in her hand. “One more thing, then you can sleep.” She dipped a Q-tip into the jar of Vaseline and pulled out a small gob. She applied it gently to the crack on Hutch’s lip. “Try not to lick that,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Now you can get some sleep.”

“Can’t sleep,” Hutch complained, fighting his fatigue. “Don’t know how many pills he took. Maybe I was too late?” he said, scrunching his forehead into ripples of concern. “Gotta make sure he keeps breathin’,” he slurred, even as his eyes closed of their own accord. In less than fifteen seconds, he was sound asleep.

Jenny pulled the covers up to his chin. Then she crossed to the opposite side of the bed to check on his sleeping partner. With a hand on his chest, she monitored his breathing and his heart rate. It seemed normal to her. A huge yawn brought tears to her tired, burning eyes. “Just keep breathing,” she whispered.

Unable to be of any further use, she trudged back to the couch, leaving the guest room door wide open. She shut off all the lights except the dim bulb above the stove. She grabbed the folded afghan off the window seat on her way to the couch. Snuggling up to the throw pillow on the dry end of the sofa, she pulled the afghan around her and was asleep in seconds.

Four hours later, the living room was flooded with light. The morning sun streamed through the front bay windows. The light awakened Jenny and she wearily rose from the couch. Trudging to her bedroom with eyes half closed, she took a shower. She did a quick job on her hair and make-up, threw on a blue t-shirt and jeans, then trudged back to the kitchen.

One of her favorite kitchen appliances was the coffee percolator she’d bought three years before. She filled it to its capacity with water, carefully measured out the coffee then plugged it in to brew. Mechanically, she pulled some eggs, milk and butter from the fridge and made a large batch of scrambled eggs. Heating the oven to two hundred degrees, she put a lid on the pan of eggs and shoved it in the oven to keep warm. Then she toasted eight slices of bread and put them in the oven, too. At least when the guys woke up, they’d have something to eat.

Jenny made her way back to the couch under the afghan, shivering from the morning chill. Moments later, she fell back to sleep.

The guest room window was on Starsky’s side of the room. The light eventually roused him from his slumber and he slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on his right side with his left arm tucked close to his body. He could hear quiet snoring behind him on the bed. His head was pounding and the sunlight was making it worse. Thoughts flitted through his muddled mind, never resting long enough for him to make sense of where he was or why he was there.

Hutch sensed something different and opened his eyes, instantly awake. Starsky’s breathing had changed. “Starsk? You awake?” he asked in a raspy voice.

The dark-haired detective tried to turn over to face his partner, forgetting the injury to his left shoulder. He ended up on his back with a cry of pain, his eyes scrunched shut and his teeth ground together against the agony.

“You really did a number on yourself,” Hutch said sympathetically, leaning up on one elbow.

Starsky glanced over at him. Hutch’s bottom lip was swollen and bruised with a visible split. He cringed. “What happened to your lip?” He brought his right hand up to his forehead, trying to stop the room from spinning.

Hutch looked down. “I guess I walked into a fist,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.

Starsky looked utterly baffled. Then memories of the night before came flooding back. His face flushed crimson and he groaned. He turned away despite the pain the movement caused him.

Hutch saw the change in his friend’s eyes and knew he had remembered. At a loss for words, he reached out and laid his left hand on Starsky’s left shoulder. Starsky pulled away.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Hurts.”

Hutch nodded. A moment passed with no further communication between the two. Hutch threw the covers back and got out of bed, gingerly walking to the bathroom. His genitals were swollen and painful. After the trauma of relieving himself, he thought about going back to bed. He had no idea what time they had all fallen asleep the night before, but however long it had been didn’t seem long enough.

Starsky closed his eyes tightly and turned his face further into the pillow as Hutch approached. The events of the night before flashed back in vivid memories. The gun. The pills. Hutch showing up. His mind put together that the man he thought was attacking him had actually been Hutch. That meant the fat lip was from his fist. He remembered kneeing him in the groin and winced sympathetically.

Hutch tried to be as nonchalant as he could as he limped back to bed. He crawled back under the covers, careful not to shake the bed too much. He kept as close to the edge of the bed as possible, giving Starsky as much room as he could.

Starsky’s body tensed. He was ashamed of his actions the night before and miserable from the pain. Having Hutch lying in the same bed made him feel claustrophobic, so he decided to take his turn in the bathroom. Slowly, he got himself into a sitting position. He hugged his left arm to his chest and pressed his lips together to trap the moan that was working its way up his throat.

Hutch bit his tongue. He knew he was on very thin ice with his partner and had to give him as much space as possible. He also wanted to watch him like a hawk to be sure he wasn’t going to hurt himself. As his partner sat on the edge of the bed, gathering his wits and his strength to go for a simple trip to the john, Hutch looked at his bare back. The dark pink scars from the gunshot wounds nine months earlier stood in stark contrast to Starsky’s pale skin. Already underweight from his ordeal, Starsky now looked like he had dropped at least another ten pounds. His ribs were easily visible as his partner sat breathing heavily against his pain.

Holding his left arm tightly to his chest, Starsky rose slowly from the bed. He stood for a moment and waited for the room to settle down, then took a tentative step forward. That went well, so he carefully made his way to the open bathroom door across the room. He looked around briefly for something to cover his nakedness, but lost interest quickly as the urge to relieve himself became intense. Three quarters of the way there, his stomach suddenly cramped, doubling him over. Nausea bubbled up his throat and he dashed the rest of the way into the bathroom, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet.

Hutch got quickly out of the bed and ran to the bathroom but stopped in the doorway. After Starsky’s pronouncement the night before about hating him, he wasn’t sure if his comfort was welcomed. Agonizing with his friend, the blond stood in the doorway as Starsky dry heaved.

Each spasm seemed to rip the brunette’s stomach apart. The pain from his shoulder blossomed across his chest, reaching down to join the painful cramps in his stomach. He dry heaved over and over until it felt as though his internal organs would soon leave by way of his mouth. The pain finally merged altogether, and he lost control of his bladder during a particularly violent upheaval. He moaned with pain and embarrassment. When the spasms finally subsided, he was left drenched with sweat on his hands and knees on the cold bathroom floor.

Regardless of how Starsky felt about him, Hutch could no longer watch from the doorway. Without a word, he helped Starsky to stand and handed him a towel to wrap around his waist. Knowing there was no way his friend had the strength for a shower, Hutch quickly mopped up the urine from the floor with another towel, then sat Starsky down on the closed toilet seat. Retrieving a washcloth from the linen closet next to the sink, he wet the cloth with warm water and added just a bit of soap. Without meeting Starsky’s eyes, he handed him the washcloth and put a clean towel on the edge of the sink. Then he left the room.

Starsky accepted the washcloth with a trembling hand. After Hutch left the room, he let the soiled towel from around his waist fall to the floor. He cleaned himself up the best he could, then dried off. He wrapped a clean towel around his waist and slowly left the bathroom. That lady sure is going to have lots of laundry, he thought. He had no choice but to leave the washcloth and towels where they fell on the floor. Some house guest.

He was surprised but relieved to find that the bedroom empty. As he reached to pull back the covers to get into the bed, his gaze fell upon a deep gash in the wall near the guest room door. Where I threw my gun, he remembered. A sudden wave of dizziness overwhelmed him and he pushed the memories away until later. Much, much later. He dropped the towel to the floor and got into the still-warm bed, pulling the covers up to his waist.

He was suddenly hot. Perspiration beaded on his upper lip. He spied the glass of water on the nightstand. He managed to sit up enough to get down a few gulps, then replaced the glass and fell back onto the pillow. A few seconds later, a sharp pain stitched through his stomach. Oh, not again, he thought, dreading another trip to the bathroom. The pain came again, more intense this time, but without any nausea. I guess I should be thankful for small . . . .

“Argh!” His thoughts were cut short by an intense, stabbing pain in his gut. He turned onto his right side, both arms wrapped around his middle. His stomach felt as if he had eaten glass. The sharp, splintering pains were constant now, punctuated every few minutes by excruciating spasms that felt like he was being stabbed with a dull knife.

Hutch was leaning against the kitchen counter sipping coffee when he heard Starsky’s cry of pain and ran to the guest room.  He rushed to the fetal form. “Starsky! What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Thanks,” he wheezed, “for the peroxide. Ungh!” Starsky folded in on himself until he was a tight ball. Perspiration soaked the sheets around him and his taught muscles began to tremble. The tremble became a quake. Over the course of only a few minutes, tremors wracked his body from head to toe. He moaned in misery.

Guilt coursed through Hutch’s arms and legs like an electric shock. The peroxide cocktail he’d given Starsky was an old standby when one of them had too much to drink. Neither of them had reacted this violently before. But neither of them had had pain meds in their systems at the time, either. Fearing an adverse drug interaction, Hutch knew he had to have his friend checked out medically.

“Starsk, I’m taking you to the hospital,” he announced.

“No fucking way, Hutchinson,” the curly haired man grated out. “I’m not goin’ to the hospital. No way, no how.”

A thought sprang to Hutch’s mind. “Jace! How about if I call him?” Jace was a friend of theirs and a doctor.  He had helped them numerous times in the past. Without waiting for permission from his ailing partner, Hutch hurried from the room.

“Jenny, can I use your phone?”

“Of course.” She glanced up at the kitchen wall clock. It was 10:30. “I was wondering when you were going to call in.”

“Call in?” Hutch looked at her, perplexed.

“It’s Monday. You have to call in sick or something, don’t you?”

“Oh, shit,” Hutch exclaimed, open palming his forehead. “Dobey probably has an APB out on the two of us!”

“Um, maybe you’d like to use the phone in my bedroom,” Jenny offered. “More privacy.”

Hutch nodded and went directly to the back bedroom. He called Dobey, who read him the riot act parts one through three. Then he told his boss he would be out for a few more days. He was as vague as possible about Starsky’s condition and begged for a chance to explain more fully in person. Dobey demanded the address and phone number and promised him he’d have that chance very soon.

Hutch paused a moment to collect himself after speaking with Dobey, then called Jace. His friend said Bay City was unusually healthy that day, they were fully staffed and he’d have no trouble getting away. He wondered at the address out in the woods. Hutch told him Starsky had injured his left shoulder, possibly one of the sutures. When Jace questioned why they didn’t just go to the hospital, Hutch begged off explanations until he got there in person.

Almost two hours later, there was a knock on the door.

“Jace! It’s so good to see you!” Hutch greeted his long time friend with a short hug.

“I’d like to say the same, Ken, but the truth is, you look like shit!” Jace said. “What have you boys gotten into this time?” The tall, dark-haired young doctor stepped inside and immediately noticed Jennifer. “Hi!” He raised an eyebrow at Hutch.

“This is Jenny, a friend,” he said quickly. His mind was screaming to get back in to check on Starsky. “Jenny, this is Jace.” Self-consciously, Hutch smoothed his hair. “H-he’s in here,” Hutch said, right to business.

Jace walked through the guest room door and honed in on the huddled figure in the middle of the bed. A muffled groan slipped between the covers. Jace pulled them back and gasped.

“Dave!” He swallowed hard, trying to gather his composure. The man before him didn’t look much like his friend. This man was painfully thin, pale and had a week’s growth of beard. Sunken eyes peered out from behind dark circles. “Hey, man,” he said with more control. “Ken says you may have messed up your shoulder. How about if I take a look?”

The tremors were so bad that Starsky’s teeth were chattering. When the covers were pulled back, he expected to see Hutch or Jenny. Not Jace. He looked up past Jace’s left shoulder at the blond standing nervously a few feet away. “’s nothin’,” Starsky muttered. Another wave of pain crushed through his abdomen and his face crumpled.

“I see we have more going on here than a shoulder injury,” Jace said. “Where else do you have pain, Dave? Your stomach?” He tried unsuccessfully to pull Starsky out of his fetal ball. “C’mon, big guy. I can’t check you out if all I can see is that curly mop of yours.” He called over his shoulder to Hutch, “How about some light?”

Hutch immediately flicked on the switch for the overhead light.

Starsky pulled the covers over his head.

Jace rolled his eyes. “Ok, let’s start at the top and work our way down, shall we? Dave, I need you to lay flat on your back for a minute so I can check your shoulder.”

“No.” Starsky peeked out from under the blanket and fixed his partner with an icy stare. Traitor. You told Jace about last night? How could you! Bastard.

Hutch had no trouble reading his friend’s look and shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

Jace noticed the glare. He turned around to look at Hutch who just shrugged once and took a step back. Seeing he would be getting no back up, Jace yanked the blankets down to his patient’s waist. He managed not to react to the protruding ribs on the lean frame, but just barely. He leaned in close and spoke in a soft voice. “Listen, Dave. The way I see it, you have two choices. One, you can cooperate, I can check you out then I can get back to work. Two, I can admit you to a hospital.”

The curly head slowly turned to face the young doctor. “No hospital,” he croaked. He did the best he could to roll onto his back with Jace’s help. The cramping pains in his stomach were relentless and the movement added shoulder and chest pain to the mix. “Fuck!”

Normally, Jace would have had a good retort to that one, but the condition of his friend drained away all humor. He knew enough not to ask too many questions – when you’re friends with cops, especially those who work undercover, you learn quickly that what you do know can hurt you. Even so, anger was building inside the doctor at what he was seeing. He pinched the skin on the top of Starsky’s hand. It slowly returned to normal.

“He’s severely dehydrated,” Jace said over his shoulder to Hutch in a tight voice. “Doesn’t look like he’s eaten much lately, either.” The only answer was silence. He rummaged through his medical bag. “Dave, I’m going to have to check out your shoulder, especially the area of scarring from the bullet wound.” He took out a needle and a small bottle. “I’ll give you a shot to cut the pain while I examine . . . .”

“No!” Hutch walked up and put a staying hand on Jace’s shoulder.

Jace turned to face the blond, his jaw slack with puzzlement. “What?”

“Uh, n-no pain m-meds, Jace,” Hutch stuttered. “He, uh, he just had a pain pill not too long ago.”

Jace studied the blond’s face and tried to catalogue the expression. Guilt, fear, exhaustion . . . but not confusion. “Ok. No problem. When did he have the last dose and what was it?”

“Uh, Demerol. He had a pill this morning.”

“Demerol,” Jace repeated. He nodded his head. “Fine. I can still give him half the dose . . . .”

“No,” Hutch said quietly, defeated.

“Hutch,” Starsky growled a warning from the bed and sent his message with a glare.

Hutch ignored him. “Jace, can I talk to you in the other room for a minute?”

“I wish you would.” He snatched up his bag and stood to follow Hutch. “You,” he pointed to the man lying spread eagle in the bed. “Don’t go anywhere.” He grabbed a handful of covers and threw them over his patient to keep him warm.

***

Jenny jumped up from her seat at the kitchen table when she saw the men emerge from the guest room. She quickly poured two cups of coffee and sat them on the table. The cream and sugar were already there, waiting.

Hutch dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. His tormented mind cleared just slightly when the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee reached his nose and he smiled wanly up at the girl who had opened her home to him and his partner. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

Jace pulled out the chair next to Hutch and angled it to face him. He dropped his bag on the table next to him. “Talk to me, Ken.”

Hutch leaned forward and pushed the fingers of both hands through his hair, resting his forehead in his palms. He stared at the cup of black liquid beneath him as he tried desperately to organize his thoughts. Until that moment, he had been successfully pushing back the events of the night before in order to function. Now, sitting still, the conversation with Jenny came back to him in a vivid flashback.  e pulled the trigger . . . .

A drop of liquid fell into the coffee, breaking the still surface. Then another, and another. Hutch’s shoulders began to shake. Everything caught up to him at that moment and the fortifications he had just rebuilt around himself all came tumbling down.

Jace was on his feet in an instant. He pulled Hutch up from his chair and led him to the couch. He forced Hutch back onto the throw pillows and pulled the man’s long legs up to rest on the cushions. Jenny hovered behind them, her eyes wide with concern.

“Miss, uh,”

“Jenny,” she supplied.

“Jenny. Please get me a washcloth dampened with cool water.”

She ran to her bathroom then returned thirty seconds later. Jace smiled up at her as he accepted the cloth, but the smile drained quickly from his face as his gaze fell upon his blond friend.

Hutch had his left arm across his eyes and his face turned toward the back of the couch, trying to hide from the enormity of his feelings. His arm was pulled down from his face, and he felt something cool cover his burning eyes. Even so, the tears still came. He could hear Jace talking to him, asking the woman questions, but he just couldn’t pull himself together.

Jace gave up trying to get anything out of the human wreck in front of him and looked up at the woman he’d just met. “I’ve got one cranky, hostile patient in the other room,” he said to her, “and an emotional mess out here. That leaves you as my only source of answers to this situation.” He stood, took her by the hand, and led her toward the kitchen.

Hutch listened in a daze as Jenny recounted the events of the past twenty-four hours to the physician. She seemed to remember every detail and conveyed it vividly. It sounded so ugly, hearing the situation from a stranger. Hell, it is ugly, he thought forlornly.

“And now you’re here,” Jenny said, finishing her tale of woe with a shaky voice. The room fell silent.

Jace sat for a moment and stared at his hands resting on the tabletop, fingers laced together. He had worked the trauma unit at the hospital enough years to handle a lot of information in a little time, but these were his friends. He had to work hard to push the emotions back while he worked on getting the duo stabilized. Pushing away from the table, he stood slowly and walked over to Hutch.

Hutch turned his covered eyes toward his friend and silently pleaded for clemency. Jace must think I’m such a bastard. This is all my fault. He pulled the washcloth from his face with his right hand and let it drop to the floor. Then he covered his eyes again with his left arm, trying to hide his face in shame.

Jace closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, then plowed ahead as he released it. “Ken,” he asked gently. “when was the last time you ate?” All he got was a slight shrug from one shoulder. “That’s what I thought. I’m sure you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a while either.” He didn’t expect an answer. “I have an extra IV in the trunk of my car. It’ll at lease hydrate you. Hang tight and I’ll go get it. Then I’ll give you a sedative and you can get some sleep. We’ll worry about food later.”

Hutch bolted upright on the sofa. “Wait a minute! I don’t need an IV and I don’t want a sedative! You can’t . . . .”

It was the reaction he was hoping for. Jace got down close and pointed a finger in Hutch’s face. He said sternly, “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, detective.” He stood to his full height and crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Of course, if you agree to eat and drink something and get some rest . . . .”

“Okay! Okay, fine. You win.” Hutch swung his long legs over the side of the couch to the floor. He scrubbed the remaining moisture from his face with the front of his sweatshirt and stood on wobbly legs.  “Geez, I called you to help Starsky, not me,” he grumbled.

“Same difference.” Jace suppressed a smile and called to Jenny in the kitchen. “Do you think you could fix our friend here a tall glass of water and some soup?”

“I’ve got scrambled eggs and toast already made,” Jenny offered.

“Perfect.” Jace settled Hutch at the kitchen table. “Sit there. Eat, drink, then go lie down. I’m going in to check Dave. I’m locking the door behind me. Got it?”

“Lock the door? But . . . .”

“But nothing. You’ll be eating or sleeping. I’m quite capable of handling a routine exam on my own.” With that, he grabbed his medical bag and headed for the guest room.  Besides, I don’t think Dave wants to see you right now, he thought sadly. He paused in the doorway to square his shoulders. He knew he had his work cut out for him with this one. Sighing with resignation, he closed the door behind him and locked it.

“Hey, Dave. Look who’s back. You’re favorite physician!”

Nothing.

Jace grabbed the covers and slowly pulled them down. Starsky was huddled in the middle of the bed, cradling his stomach while he rocked slightly. Gritting his teeth to keep his emotions carefully locked away, Jace settled himself on the edge of the bed.

“C’mon, Dave. I’ve got to check you out. Straighten out for me.” He laid his right hand on Starsky’s right arm then gently and steadily pulled him onto his back. The detective hissed in pain and grabbed harder at his stomach but allowed himself to be turned over.

“That’s great, Dave. Take a minute to let the pain settle a bit.” He reached inside his bag and pulled out a syringe. “I’m going to give you a shot of Novocain in your shoulder to numb the pain a bit.”

Starsky just scrunched his eyes tighter. The shot was given so quickly that he barely noticed the prick. A few seconds later, the pain in his shoulder lessened a bit. The pain in his chest near the scar, however, did not. Nor did the cramping spasms in his stomach.

“So,” Jace said conversationally, “what happened to your shoulder?”

No response.

“Did you fall?”

Nothing.

“Get into a fight?”

Starsky turned his head away.

“Throw your gun as hard as you could against the wall?”

The detective’s head snapped back around so fast that the perspiration flew from the ends of his curls. “Wha . . . .?” Then his eyes narrowed and glimmered with anger. So, buddy, you sold me out all the way, huh?

Jace had had plenty of practice reading Starsky’s facial expressions over the years. “The girl told me,” he supplied. “She filled in all the blanks. You know, the facts that either you or your partner should have supplied?” He quirked an expectant eyebrow at his patient.

Starsky swallowed hard. Even the pain was momentarily forgotten in the wake of the wave of shame that washed over him. He slowly turned his face away and closed his eyes.

Jace patted him on the leg. “You can be sure that we’ll talk about that later,” he assured him. “but for now, you’re in piss poor shape and I need to do something about it.” He took Starsky’s right hand and placed it at the edge of the bed. “Hold on. Tight. I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

Starsky didn’t need any prompting to grip the side of the bed. As soon as Jace’s fingers brushed against the scar at the top left of his chest, his hand clenched the sheets. Although the doctor pressed as gently as he could, the pain was unbearable. Starsky cried out.

Seconds later, someone was at the door, wrestling with the locked doorknob. “Ken, everything is fine. Remember what I said.” The doorknob was abruptly released. “Dave, I know this hurts. I’m almost done. I just have to make sure the underlying sutures are alright.” He prodded for only fifteen seconds more, but it felt like forever to the pain wracked man in the bed.

“Good news,” Jace said when he finished. “Everything seems to be ok with your wound. You probably pulled a muscle. I hope. Without taking an x-ray, it’s impossible to know for sure.”

Starsky’s right hand released the side of the bed to clutch at his stomach. He arched his back and pushed his head into the pillow.

“Dave, I know about the pills.”

Starsky heard him through the pain. He felt utterly humiliated.

“What you’re feeling is withdrawal from the drug.”

Withdrawal? His mind immediately conjured images of Hutch coming down off heroin. He shook his head from side to side, refusing to accept that he had done this to himself. “I . . . how can it . . . ?” His pain intensified ten fold, but not from the withdrawal. Hot tears filled his eyes, and he cried out in frustration and anguish. Shoulda stayed dead!

“Listen to me, Dave. I know you feel like shit right now, but you have to remember that it’s not forever. You’ll get through this and be fine. No lasting effects.”

The thin form on the bed began to jerk with sobs.

Jace reached into the bottom of his case and took out a plastic bag filled with clear fluid and some tubing. He hung the bag on the bed post. “I need to get you hydrated,” he said, taking the trembling right hand into his own. He inserted a needle into the vein in the back of Starsky’s hand then taped it in place. “You leave that in,” he warned. “If you take it out, it’s straight to the hospital. Got it?”

Starsky nodded slightly.

Jace let his touch linger on the skeletal hand beneath his. “Withdrawal from Demerol is pretty nasty, Dave.” He paused to be sure his patient was listening. “I can’t give you anything for the abdominal cramps you’re experiencing. They will lessen in intensity and frequency, but you’ll have to ride them out.”

“Sucks.”

“Yes, it does. I’m sorry you have to go through it,” Jace sympathized.

But it’s your own stupid fault, Starsky thought bitterly. Go ahead and say it.

“It happens more often than you think,” Jace said, knowing how his friend’s mind worked. “Pain meds are the easiest to get hooked on. After the first few doses, your body builds up a tolerance for them and you need more to do the same job. Before you know it, you’re dependent on them and taking way more than you should. I see it a lot.”

Stormy blue eyes turned gratefully toward his friend. “’m sorry,” he whispered.

Jace patted his arm. “Don’t waste your strength being sorry. Use it to get better.”

“How long?”

“How long will the withdrawal last?”

Starsky nodded.

“A week. Maybe two.”

Starsky’s eyes flew open wide. “T-that long?”

The doctor nodded sadly. “Aside from muscle cramping, you’ll have the chills, the sweats, tremors, anxiety . . . and depression. Dave, you can’t do this alone. Do you hear me? Especially if you’re not going into the hospital.”

Tears filled his eyes again and Starsky hated himself for his lack of emotional control. “Hutch . . . I can’t . . . he doesn’t,” he broke off with a hitch.

“He doesn’t what? Care about you?”

Starsky nodded once. Much to his surprise, Jace snorted a laugh at his response.

“You idiot! No one cares for you more than Hutch does!”

“Used to.”

“Look, I’ve heard the condensed version of the story. Has it ever occurred to you that Ken might be terrified for your safety now that you’re back on the streets? C’mon, Dave. You know Ken! Whenever he’s worried about something, he bites off the nearest head.”

Unconvinced, Starsky blinked, sending tears streaking down his gaunt cheeks to be lost in the stubble of his beard.

“Ken knows how much being back on the streets means to you. The last thing he wants to do is tell you how afraid he is. Some of that fear rebounds back from him in the form of anger.”

“A lot.”

“Ok, a lot rebounds. Ken’s a pretty intense guy.” He saw Starsky shiver and brought the covers up to cover his shoulders. “Have you taken a good look at him since he’s been here? He’s barely slept or eaten since you left. He’s one straw short of a basket case.”

“Jus’ feels guilty,” Starsky mumbled.

“Stop being an ass, Dave,” Jace said, getting up. “He’s made some mistakes in the past couple of months. I think you can say the same, can’t you?”

Starsky blushed and turned his head away.

He glanced at his watch. “I’m going to go make sure your partner is in one piece then I’ve got to get back to work. For heaven’s sake, both of you get off your goddam high horses and help each other, will you?” he said angrily.

As soon as Jace left the guest room, Hutch started to push off the couch where he had been pretending to rest.  Jace got there before he was upright and pushed him back down. He squirmed his way onto the edge of the couch.

“How . . . how is he?” Hutch stammered.

Jace pulled his lips into a tense, thin line. “It isn’t pretty.”

***

Hutch slept soundly the rest of the afternoon, finally succumbing to threats and cajoling from Jace to take a sedative. As he snored softly in Jenny’s bedroom, the young woman sat vigil in the guest room. She did her best to comfort the man who groaned and whimpered in the bed. He alternately shivered with cold then kicked off the blankets, drenched in sweat. She made him sip water as often as she could and removed the IV when the bag was empty. By the time evening approached, she was exhausted.

“Shift change?” a soft voice asked from the doorway.

She stood and arched her aching back. “Sleep well?”

“Too long,” the blond answered guiltily. He crossed to the bed to check on his partner. “How is he?”

“Resting quietly.” She didn’t feel it was necessary to recount the hours that the poor man had just spent in wretched agony. “I’m starving. I have some vegetable soup in the fridge. Want some?”

Hutch’s stomach growled loudly at the mention of food. He chuckled. “I guess I do.”

She smiled wearily and walked away.

Hutch looked after her for a long moment. In the trauma since the phone call the night before, he hadn’t stopped to really consider her part in this. He turned on his cop radar, searching for something out of place, something dubious beneath the surface of her kindness. Nothing turned up. A deep feeling of gratitude toward this strange woman swelled in his heart.

A short time later, she poked her head through the doorway. “Soup’s ready. Come on in. He’ll be okay alone for a few minutes.”

Alone. Hutch paused. He’d left his partner so alone, even when he’d been sitting right beside him. Alone, when he’d needed me the most.

Jenny crossed the space between them and took his hand. “Come on. It’s getting cold.” She pulled lightly, coaxing him from the chair next to the bed. Reluctantly, the blond gave in and she led him to the kitchen table.

She placed a steaming bowl of soup before him along with some fresh bread and butter. They ate in silence for a few minutes, each of them needing nourishment more than conversation. Finally, Jenny broke the silence. “Hutch?”

He raised his eyes from the soup and looked at her.

“Your doctor friend told us that Starsky is going to be . . . recovering . . . for about a week. If you like, you’re both welcome to stay here and use the guest room.

Hutch swallowed hard and put down his spoon. “Jenny.” He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I can’t begin to thank you for what you’ve already done.”

She smiled and squeezed the large hand that held hers. “I’m glad I was able to help.”

It finally occurred to him that it was late Monday afternoon and he hadn’t noticed her use the phone all day. “Um, did you call out sick today?”

She chuckled. “I’m a freelance photographer. I work out of my home. I make my own hours.”

Hutch smiled, relieved that he hadn’t caused her even more trouble. “Must be nice,” he smirked.

“It is. Lots of hard work, but very rewarding. So, will you be staying?”

Hutch thought about trying to get Starsky home in his present condition. Thought about the phone calls and visitors that would stop by to see how his partner was doing and what was going on. Above all else, he wanted to keep his friend’s withdrawal a secret. “I . . . I don’t feel like we could possibly impose beyond what we have already, but to tell you the truth – I would really appreciate it if we could take you up on your offer.”

“Done.” She stood and cleared her place. “Would you like more soup?”

“I’ll find a way to repay you, I swear.”

“For the soup?” she chuckled.

Hutch’s face colored. “You know, for everything.”

“Friendship holds no debt,” she said, smiling.

The phrase brought instant tears to his eyes. He blinked quickly and looked down at his empty soup bowl. It sure as hell does, he thought somberly. He made a silent pledge to somehow pay back both this uniquely kind young woman and his best friend in the other room. Especially his best friend and partner to whom he owed everything he cherished in life.