House of Cards

392

A series of ritualistic murders of young children are straining Starsky and Hutch’s partnership. As tensions mount, with no witnesses or evidence to build a case, they seek help from a friend of Huggy’s whose belief system harkens to the Old Religion and Earth Mysticism. This brings back memories from Starsky’s past and dredges up Hutch’s deep seated skepticism. Can this actually provide real world clues before another child is sacrificed? And how will all this pressure affect the partners’ relationship?

 

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch slash zine, Code 7 #4 in 1987.

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Case No. 1912-5E Los Angeles County Coroner’s Report
May 27th, 1980 

This is the body of a Caucasian female child. Appears to be that of a child six years of age, height one hundred and four centimeters, weight thirty-four pounds. Death caused by massive blood loss and resulting shock. DOA. On examination, the extent of rigor and lividity suggest time of death to be approximately nine hours previous to discovery.

Cause of death—multiple lacerations inflicted with sharp-edged instrument to throat and thorax. Carotid artery and trachea both severed. Other incisions non-fatal. Bruising and lesions on wrists and ankles, together with fibers found, are suggestive of binding.

No evidence of sexual assault.

***

The scene held within the globe of the crystal, clear as a child’s toy, hazed and faded as the Mistress passed her hands across it.

“This touches us.” Her voice was low-toned and serious, and her consort nodded. “Indeed. There is disturbance. Imbalance. But does it threaten the Way? Are we to act or to let be?”

The crystal clouded once more, and the Mistress interpreted what was revealed. “The Horned Crown is worn by the Twice-Born. I see a winnowing basket heaped with grain. The Twice-Born and the child of the Harvest shall cone together and be as a weapon in our hands.”

“The Child of the Harvest could that be our Maiden?”

“Perhaps. But who wears the Twin-Horned Crown…?”

***

The May weather was like cotton-candy—enjoyable at first but tending to cloy after an unvaried diet of sticky-sweet pink spun-sugar floss—or, in this case, the cloudless blue and brilliant sun and temperatures climbing into the high eighties. It would have been acceptable, Hutch decided, if he was on a beach somewhere with nothing to do but swim and laze and work on his tan. But working in these conditions was shit-city.

“Aardvark,” said Starsky.

“Huh?” said Hutch, understandably.

“Twenty-four down. ‘Could be African for tough task.’ Eight letters.”

If I wish you’d quit that,” Hutch groused, looking at the vacant space on his crossword and seeing, rather to his annoyance, that it fit. He filled in the requisite letters.

“Quit what?” Starsky wanted to know, somewhat defensive.

“Reading over my shoulder, dammit.”

“Oh. That.” But he neither apologized nor denied the accusation. Hutch glanced across at him—the crease between the heavy dark brows was becoming a permanent fixture, together with the expression of brooding intensity on his partner’s features. Also, Starsky, who normally seemed able to ignore such minor inconveniences as heatwaves, was definitely acting oddly. As if the weather was finally getting to him.

He said so. “The weather’s getting to you.”

Eyes invisible behind dark glasses, Starsky shook his head. “Nope.”

“Well, something is.” There was no response. “You’re feeling okay, aren’t you?”

“Don’t mother-hen me, Hutch,” Starsky said with a hint of irritation. “If I wasn’t okay, I wouldn’t be here.”

Hutch had his doubts about that still. Okay, the Review Board had passed his partner fit, but the fact remained that Starsky had almost died. Had died, if you wanted to be precise. And sometimes, even now, Hutch almost wanted to pinch himself in case he was dreaming, and having his partner back was an incredibly convoluted form of wish-fulfillment. Starsky had doubts, too—he was sure of that. But Starsky wouldn’t talk about them.

Maybe that was what was troubling him. Or more likely it was their latest conundrum of a case.

“Want to talk about it?” he offered, carefully not looking at his partner.

“What’s to talk about? It’s sick. A six-year-old kid with her throat slit like a she-goat. Sick,” he repeated for emphasis.

“I’m not arguing.” Hutch finally gave up his attempt to concentrate on his crossword. “Aren’t you going to eat that?”

Starsky looked at the hamburger reposing in a nest of fries in its Styrofoam container, untouched. “I’m not hungry.”

After a day such as this one, begun at the morgue, then interviewing the girl’s distraught parents afterwards, Hutch hadn’t much of an appetite himself, so he bit back the suggestion that Starsky should eat something. Even if Starsky didn’t say he was nagging, the look would speak volumes. Or at least a good handful of pages. “So what do you want to do now?” he asked tentatively.

Starsky seemed to make a conscious effort to respond. “Back to Metro, I guess. There’ s not a lot more we can do right now. And there’s a stack of paperwork waiting.”

He didn’t sound any more enthusiastic about the prospect than Hutch felt.

“Sure. Uh— What about tonight?”

Starsky tossed the uneaten junk food into the litter-bin he’d parked beside, and started the engine. “What about it?”

“You want to join me for dinner? I may even spring for a bottle of wine.” But as soon as he spoke, Hutch knew that his ploy had been transparent.

“Raincheck?” Starsky’s mouth moved in a smile, but it was a mask for whatever lay behind it, and Hutch knew that his partner wasn’t ready to share yet. He resolved not to push it. Starsky would come around in his own time.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want,” he said, trying to sound unconcerned and knowing he was failing miserably.

Starsky merely nodded, easing the Torino out into traffic.

The city shimmered in the cotton-candy May afternoon. Cotton-candy, Hutch thought with sudden savagery. You can cover the world with cotton-candy, but there’s still shit underneath.

***

The adagio from the second movement of Mozart’s 21st Symphony rippled clear and crystalline as a mountain stream through the still, stifling evening air, its cool perfection at odds with the enervating heat. Skin and hair still damp from an attempt to gain some relief in a shower, Starsky sprawled naked across his bed, watching the hypnotic slow sweep of the overhead fan blades. He could feel the faint stir of air-currents over his skin. There had been a fan like that in the Willow World Bar, in Saigon. And in the hospital.

You can bury memories, but you can’t kill them, and every so often something—a sight, a sound, a scent—will trigger them to rise to the surface like a recurrent infection in a wound. Sometimes, if you ignore them, they sink back down. Sometimes the suppuration needs surgery, the clean cut of a scalpel opening it up to drain and heal. Until the next time.

The China-blonde pink and white prettiness of Stephanie Gordon, homicide victim, was overlaid like a palimpsest with another image. Only this child didn’t have a name that he knew. Oh, no doubt she was somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister once, but by the time he saw her she was so much butchered meat, her throat slit, lying like a discarded doll on the sidewalk.

And her body was booby-trapped.

The VC were experts in psychological warfare. No American soldier was going to ignore the body of a little girl. The enemy who sent children to toss grenades into crowded bars hadn’t scrupled to kill a little girl, a black-haired babysan with the delicacy of an almond blossom, to bait their trap. There were plenty more where she came from.

Of the four men in the immediate vicinity, two had been killed outright. Starsky had been one of the lucky ones. And he had watched the fan blade stir the tropic air as he lay in the hospital and wondered why and never got any answers that made sense.

I could tell you that, Hutch, and you’d know what’s bugging me, but I don’t know if you’d understand completely. To understand, you had to be there.

Ricardo Aquila had been there. He had understood as no one else had before or since.

Exactly what had brought them together, the Jewish boy from the New York back streets and the young warrior from a proud and ancient desert people, Starsky had never been sure. Hadn’t tried to analyze it too deeply, just accepted it as a fact of life and one thing to thank God for. The Chinese believed that if you saved someone’s life, you became responsible for them thereafter. But who had saved whose life became a moot point…. Maybe as superstition had it, three times was the charm. Three or three times three, or thirty times…. Hutch would understand that. In fact, Hutch and Ricardo would have understood each other very well, and not for the first time Starsky found himself wishing they could have met.

Ricardo was there for me in ‘Nam, and after. Hutch is there for me now. Between you—the two best friends I ever had—maybe you’d be able to straighten my head out.

You did it before, Ric. You and your people. Hutch hasn’t had to cope with anything like that yet. Not yet.

***

“Three kids in six months, same M.O.”

“Three out of how many? It’s hardly conclusive, Starsk.”

“It’s hardly the usual M.O.,” Starsky said stubbornly.

“It’s sick and it’s weird. Too much for coincidence.”

“Copy-cat.”

“The media haven’t reported all the details. Besides, the time-factor’s wrong. With copycat killings it’s within a few days or a few weeks—not months.”

Hutch shrugged. “Okay. So we tie two more killings in with this one—do we have anything more to go on?”

Pencil between his teeth, Starsky didn’t answer, merely stacked the three files together neatly. Hutch glanced at the names. Nina Salazar. Robert Dayton. And Stephanie Gordon. Suffer the little children….

“Huh?” Starsky queried around the pencil, and Hutch realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Uh, nothing. Anything beside the M.O. to link them?”

Starsky grunted. “Same age-group. All three probably snatched from playgrounds—different areas, though. No witnesses.”

“Like Stephanie, huh. One minute she was there, the next minute, gone. And nobody saw a friggin’ thing.”

“Nobody reported the Dayton kid missing at all. His aunt—guardian of record—said he was always wandering off. She wasn’t even particularly worried, until the body turned up and she was called in to make the ID.”

“Some people…” Hutch muttered.

“She had four of her own, all under ten,” Starsky said in a tone that held no reproof, only explanation. “Robert was her brother’s kid. He died in Vietnam, never even saw his son. The mother just dumped the boy and took off one day, never came back.”

Every picture tells a story. Hutch looked at the school photograph of the solemn-eyed child, complete with tousled hair, freckles, and teeth that would someday have helped payoff some orthodontist’s mortgage, and tried to fit the facts to what he saw. It didn’t work.

“Any word on the street?”

“Huggy’s working on it.” Starsky rubbed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets and yawned.

“So what time did you get to bed last night?” Hutch said, trying and failing to sound as if it wasn’t important.

“Ten-thirty, if you gotta know, and have I told you lately that you’re a nag?”

Hutch shrugged and gave a small grin. “Frequently. It’s just that you don’t look like you got much sleep. Company?”

“I wish.” Starsky chuckled. “Nope. Had some weird dreams.”

“Layoff the late-night mozzarella,” Hutch advised, relieved, and wondering if maybe he should take his own advice—his own dreams the previous night had been memorably unpleasant.

“It should be that easy. That invite to dinner still open?”

“Sure….”

***

Steak, and rice salad, washed down by a carafe of Paul Masson Rose wasn’t exactly haute cuisine, but it was quick and easy to fix and Starsky cleared his plate so Hutch counted the meal a success. It also gave them the opportunity to talk without the pressure of the job—to relax and think and begin to bounce ideas off each other.

Not that anything constructive came out of the evening exercise except the precious sense of companionship Hutch had come to cherish. As the evening darkened, so conversation waned, and when Hutch occupied himself with the welfare of his plants, Starsky switched the TV on to catch the news. The drone of the announcer’s voice detailing the nightly Cassandra-like catalogue of death, doom, and destruction, segued into an improbably cheerful commercial jingle, and Hutch waited for the inevitable comment and snort from Starsky. It didn’t come.

When Hutch wandered back into the living room, it was to find his partner sprawled feet up on the couch, TV control still clutched in one hand. He was almost asleep, only cracking one eye when Hutch took the control and switched off the set.

“I was watching that.”

“Sure you were.” Hutch fetched blanket and pillow. “Here. Get comfortable, huh? Only slobs sleep with their shoes on.”

With a grunt, Starsky performed a complex maneuver to rid his feet of sneakers without otherwise moving. Then he snuggled into the pillow, tugged the blanket more securely around his shoulders, and mumbled: “G’night….”

“Yeah,” said Hutch—and when he returned from his nightly ablutions, Starsky was an unmoving lump on the couch, only the dark curls showing above the hem of the blanket. “Goodnight, babe.” He cut the lights and padded to his own bed.

The dreams came in waves, horrors jolting him into consciousness for a few minutes before the next doze dropped him back into restless turmoil, and periods of deeper sleep were few and far between. When the worst one yet woke him, his own half-stifled moan of protest in his ears, he finally gave up the fight, rolled over and squinted at the clock face in the half-light. Three-thirty. But somehow it wasn’t so bad tonight, knowing that he wasn’t alone, even if his companion was a snoring, blanket-wrapped bundle on the couch. He smiled wryly, climbed out of bed, and sidled through the dark to the kitchen, easing the refrigerator door open, careful to make as little noise as possible.

Then the toilet flushed, the bathroom door opened, and Starsky was blinking at him. “Shit. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Hutch assured him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. That pink stuff goes right through me.”

“Didn’t notice you objecting earlier.” Hutch poured two glasses of milk, passed one over. “Unless you’d rather have an Alka-Seltzer?”

“Got any cookies?”

A pint of milk and a box of ginger cookies later, Hutch felt pleasantly relaxed. The ghost-flicker of the TV screen—Creature Features was screening the Revenge of the Lizard People—was largely ignored. Shoulder against shoulder on the couch, four feet sharing the coffee table, neither man found speech necessary until the credits rolled. Starsky gave a small sigh of pleasure and rolled his eyes towards Hutch. “Whaddya you wanna do now, Butch?”

Sleep was the furthest thing from Hutch’s mind. “How about a game of chess?”

“Last time I licked ya hollow.”

“That was last time.”

“Okay.” But as Hutch got up to fetch board and pieces, Starsky said, “If I didn’t wake you, what did?”

“Would you believe indigestion?”

“No.”

The quiet tone of Starsky’s voice invited confidences. Hutch set out the chessmen, feeling the shadowed eyes on him. “The usual thing,” he said. “Dreams.”

“Bad trip?”

“Like I said. The usual.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“What’s to talk about?”

“We’ve done this scene before,” Starsky said. The width of the chessboard between them was like a barrier, and barriers can be essential defenses—but there comes a time when barriers need to be breached.

“So you tell me what’s been bugging you, and I’ll tell you what’s been bugging me. Deal?”

Starsky snorted noncommittally. Then: “Deal,” he agreed. “Damn. Why is it suddenly so friggin’ difficult?”

Hutch could make a few educated guesses. “Because we’ve been through a hell of a lot this last year. Because things have changed whether or not we want to admit it.”

Because you can’t take friendship for granted. It has to be worked at, like anything else worthwhile. Because you’ve been somewhere I haven’t, partner—because you died and came back and I’m scared to reach out to you any more. Scared to want too much, need too much…

“You got that right. So—you want to start?”

“Truth or Consequences, huh? Someone’s killing kids and I want to get him before he kills more but there’s damn nothing to go on. I don’t want to see another dead child, Starsk, I have nightmares about the ones dead already we couldn’t prevent—and I know I’ll wake up one morning soon and there will be another.”

“Unless we get whoever it is first. ”

“Right.”

“Straightforward enough.” Starsky sat back, lacing fingers around one knee. “Mine’s kind of complicated. Last time I was this confused, I just got back from ‘Nam… guess even the reasons are similar. I wasn’t dead, and I didn’t know why, and I wasn’t sure what I had ahead of me.”

“Do any of us know that?” Hutch said softly.

“Guess not. But I was drifting—no anchors. Going nowhere. Until Ric came to New York to look me up. I told you about Ric.”

“Your Air Cav buddy. Yeah: chopper pilot, right?”

“Number one. He could make those hunks of metal dance.”

“And you spent time with his family.” Hutch was remembering odd snatches of information he’d been told at various times—on long stakeouts; over shared meals; during dark nights when the only solaces were the bottle and each other. He was suddenly irrationally jealous of the closeness the dead man had with his partner, and squashed the emotion firmly.

“Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about them. Maybe I should go visit sometime.”

“You said they helped you before.”

Starsky was silent for a moment. “They did more than that, babe. I think they stopped me going all the way crazy.”

(It was all there, waiting for memory to conjure it up. Sweetness of mountain air, clean and clear and fresh after the city-stink of New York and the tropic sweat of Vietnam. And silence—no street-noise, no cars; no jungle sounds, no gunfire. Only the windsong, and the high faint scream of a desert hawk, hunting.

For a time he hadn’t known what to do with the peace. Had lain awake nights, troubled by the lack of disturbance. But it took hold eventually. Time was different there. His was the only wristwatch in the mountain community, but what it told him became meaningless. The sun rises; it sets. Night follows day follows night. Around and around, like the circle dance of the rituals, and some part of himself that had been lost and wounded and afraid found rightness and ease in the settled rhythm of the Huichol life pattern.)

“Just halfway, huh?” Hutch smiled.

“Takes one to know one, partner.”

The conservatory windows were flushed with the peculiar radiance of false dawn as they turned their concentration to the game.

***

Huggy was even more oracular than normal when he called just before five the next afternoon.

“What say we kill two birds with one stone?” Starsky hissed at Hutch, hand over the mouthpiece. “Dinner at the Pits—my treat? Yeah, Hug—sometime after six? Okay—see ya.” He put the phone down.

“What’s he got?” Hutch wanted to know.

“You got me.” Starsky shrugged. “Talking in riddles again. Maybe he’ll make more sense when we see him.”

Hutch had doubts about that, and Huggy’s attitude didn’t reassure him any. Over burgers and salad and beers, he sat and gave them a very scanty description of a “group” of his friends who might be able to turn some information.

“A ‘group’?” Hutch probed.

“Either of you got any—religious affiliations?” Huggy said with a mixture of discretion and slight embarrassment.

“No,” said Hutch. And Starsky qualified it. “None that you don’t know about. Why, Hug?”

“This ‘group’ of yours—” Hutch’s intuition made a spontaneous leap, “—are you getting religion, Huggy?”

“Not ‘xactly.” Huggy was not put out. “But some folks might take it amiss, if you get my drift. ”

“To be honest—no.” Starsky was blunt.

“Okay, m’man. No sweat. We’re kind of non-denominational anyhow. You recall my Aunt Minnie?”

Starsky showed the whites of his eyes. “That’s it. I’ve heard enough. I’m not going to get mixed up with anymore of his weird hoodoo-voodoo relations, Hutch. I had my fill of jungle-juice and toad-bellies in aspic the last time.”

But Hutch didn’t move. “Yeah, we remember her. Why? Is she involved in this?”

“No, man. This ain’t voodoo. This is white magic. A coven.”

Hutch’s “…white…?” and Starsky’s “…coven…?” came together with Hutch’s “…as in witchcraft…?” as an afterthought.

Huggy beamed at them.

“Riiiiight…”

“I think that’s illegal,” Starsky muttered.

“It ain’t,” Huggy said.

“Certainly used to be,” Hutch agreed. “Ancestress of mine was supposed to be hanged at Salem for that kind of thing.”

“No shit?” Huggy was delighted. “And was she?”

“Nope. Got off on a technicality.”

“You never told me about that,” Starsky accused.

“You never asked. Hug, how come—I mean, we know the Bear’s always got his paws on the pulse, but how did you get mixed up in this?”

Huggy looked mildly affronted. “Hey, it’s in the blood, y’know. Like my—”

“Aunt Minnie,” Starsky finished with him in duet. “Sure, but this is the first time you’ve admitted an interest. You believe in any of that stuff?”

Huggy held up both hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, fellas, I’m taking the Fifth on that one, okay? Don’ wan’ my lady getting sore at me.”

Hutch raised an eyebrow at Starsky. “Melissa.”

Starsky nodded. “Should’ve guessed. That little lady wouldn’t have any difficulty persuading me into church, either.”

“You must be really smitten, Hug.”

Huggy waggled his eyebrows, grinned, and warbled a few bars of “That Old Black Magic.” “‘Ceptin’ this is white magic, you dig? She’s been teaching me all kinds of groovy stuff.”

“I’ll just bet she has,” Starsky agreed, waggling his eyebrows in return. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the Gordon case. This White Coven don’t go in for blood sacrifices, do they?”

“No way! But you never know what strange vibes they could pick up for you on the astral plains. An’ besides—there’s a guest speaker for the next meeting could be able to help you.”

Starsky seemed to have given up on the fight to retain any sense of logic. “Help us how?” he prompted, opting to go with the flow.

“She’s a seer.”

“A clairvoyant?” Hutch cut in.

“Like Collandra? Or that Peter Hurkos guy? That’s kind of hit-and-miss, isn’t it?”

“We struck lucky on the Haymes kidnapping.”

“Wouldn’t like to rely on that sort of luck too often,” Starsky said. “But—I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try?”

Hutch nodded agreement. “Can you set it up, Huggy? Where and when?”

“Don’t call us, will call you,” Huggy instructed, getting up from the table. “An’ since you’re here, you want another beer?”

***

Huggy’s introduction stood them in good stead at the meeting of the Coven—though the set-up seemed to owe more to EST or any of the consciousness-raising groups than to the occult. Hutch was unsure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this How-to-get-in-touch-with-your-Inner-Self encounter-group. Then again, he had the distinct impression that he and Starsky had missed something—something private, ritualistic. Everyone looked so—together.

“When do you think they get to dancing widdershins under the moon?” Hutch murmured sotto voce as he gazed at a piece of abstract art on the wall above the mantle-shelf.

“I think they already did, and we weren’t invited,” Starsky returned. He accepted a glass of wine from a smiling girl, and took a cupcake from the plate offered. “Classy place, huh?”

“White magic pays well, apparently.” Hutch raised his own glass. “Laying a few hexes—love potions—crystal gazing—”

“Always knew we were in the wrong job. You see Hug anywhere around?”

“Not since we got here. When do we get to meet this clairvoyant of his?”

Starsky glanced over his shoulder. “Talk of the of devil…”

Unaccustomedly elegant in a light grey three-piece suit, Huggy was escorting a tall slender woman in a green silk dress. She had the most amazingly corn-gold hair, braided into a coronal, and could have been anything between twenty-five and forty. She was also one of the most strikingly beautiful women Hutch could remember seeing in his life—beauty without blandness, strong and mature.

He became aware of the almost-instinctive jockeying for position maneuver Starsky was performing—and realized that she was equally aware of it, and amused. That realization was followed by an irrational surge of annoyance—where did she get off, laughing at them?—and his response to Huggy’s introduction was somewhat cool as a result. Starsky, on the other hand, was all charm.

“I’m delighted to meet you both, gentlemen,” she said, smiling. “Please call me Gaia, Mr. Hutchinson—” her handclasp was warm. “And Mr. Starsky—” Starsky seemed on the point of kissing her hand, but something stopped him, his eyes widening slightly. And her hand lingered in his, her eyes searching. Then: “I understand you would like my help.”

“That depends,” Hutch said stiffly. Her eyes, he noticed, were a vivid and startling green and he got the uncomfortable impression that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“I’ll leave you in good hands,” Huggy excused himself smoothly. “Gotta go mingle. See ya, fellahs.”

Starsky never even saw him go. He was still feeling the tingle of her fingers making contact with his, like a mild jolt of electricity—and that had never happened to him before. A sexual, sensual stimulation, sure, but that was different—not this abrupt buzz, gentle lightning, and a sense of recognition.

“We met before somewhere?” He had to ask it. His memory for faces was usually good, but he couldn’t remember where—or if—he had seen this woman before.

“I don’t think so.”

Hutch cut short the socializing. “Huggy tells us that you claim to be a clairvoyant.”

She didn’t even blink. “You must judge that for yourself. It isn’t so uncommon, even today—many people have moments of precognition. Your partner, for example.”

“Starsk?” Hutch was staring at him, and he felt an unaccustomed flush of unease at the scrutiny.

“Hey, I wouldn’t exactly say—”

“Call it what you please.” She shrugged. “But they are not pleasant memories, I think. It is not a comfortable gift.”

“Collandra said something like that. About it being like having TV in your head, no way to turn it off, no channel selector.”

“Yes. Like that. But like any skill, it can be trained. What exactly do you want to know?”

Plainly resisting an urge to say ‘you tell me,’ Hutch didn’t meet Starsky’s eyes. “We’re investigating a series of murders, and we think they may be linked. Any information you can give us—”

“Of course,” she said gracefully. “But you must excuse me now, gentlemen. I am a guest of the group, and must sing for my supper.” And she smiled.

Starsky, dazzled, smiled back. I know her. But, dammit, where and when? He was still trying to work it out as she began her clairvoyant session for the group, and her performance, if performance it was, made little impression on him. There were no theatrics, no dim lighting, none of the tricks used by fraudulent practitioners of the ‘occult.’ She was simply a sensitive woman using intuition and maybe something else to answer the questions put to her.

Hutch sat like a badly-stuffed buzzard at his side, and never ventured an opinion. Starsky did glance at him once. There was a deep frown on the fair brows, and under the moustache the wide mouth was set. It was obvious that he was determined to be unimpressed.

But the final event of the evening was destined to shake even Hutch’s composure. Before they quite knew what was happening, they had been drawn into a circle—Starsky between Gaia and a young girl, Hutch between her and Huggy.

“The circle is open, but unbroken,” Gaia said clearly, hand in hand with those on either side. “May the peace of the Goddess go in our hearts; merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again. Blessed be.” Then she turned to Starsky and kissed him, which was a surprise but nothing he couldn’t handle, and since it was expected he should pass the gesture on, he did so, watching mildly bemused to see her kiss Huggy, and the black man, with complete composure and seriousness, brushed Hutch’s cheek with his lips. Starsky could hardly wait to get his partner outside—Hutch’s taut stride told him just how irritated he was. Starsky didn’t give him a chance to explode.

“Some party, huh?”

“Bunch of weirdos—just who do they think they’re fooling with all that rigmarole?”

“Beats shabbes any day.” Starsky grinned, feeling unaccountably lightheaded. “I’m just glad I wasn’t standin’ next to you.”

“Huh?” Hutch stared at him. “Why?”

“‘Cause I’d never be able to keep a straight face.”

“What?”

“That thing on your upper lip. I’m ticklish.”

***

Archaic, primitive, colors childishly bright, the twenty-two pasteboard rectangles that comprised the Major Arcana lay in a neat squared-off pile on the black velvet: Gaia’s left hand covered the deck, sensing the vibration. “There is one Power,” she murmured to herself, “which is perfect truth, clarity, and mutual good…”

The first card she turned up was that of The Magician. Power controlled, force in balance—vision made reality, thought transmuted into action. There was a tingle in her fingertips as she traced the lineaments of the figure. Yes. As I thought, it is he.

***

Seated on Hutch’s couch, Starsky played with the condensation on his beer glass, channeling the moisture into a single flow, only half-hearing Hutch’s muttered tirade about charlatans, frauds, and con artists. Something had certainly hit the Blintz on a raw nerve, but Starsky wasn’t disposed to be sympathetic. Wonder what you’d have made of the Huichol ceremonies, partner? Would you have shrugged aside the mystery and magic as fakes and trickery? It’s not like you to dump on someone for their beliefs.

And that was the truth, he realized. Something else was bugging Hutch, not the coven meeting.

“She didn’t say she wouldn’t help us,” he pointed out.

Hutch, cut off in mid-flow, gave him a glare. “She never exactly said she would. Even if she could, which I doubt.”

“Hey.” Starsky put down his glass. “Hutch. Truth or Consequences. Remember?”

Hutch stared at him. Then: “Okay. Something about that set-up gave me the creeps. Especially her.”

“What specifically? She’s a beautiful lady.”

“I’m not disputing that.” Hutch paused, as if checking his own feelings for flaws. “Starsk. What she said about precognition. Have you ever—” He couldn’t finish.

Truth or consequences. “Yeah,” he said steadily. “But she’s right. They’re not pleasant memories.”

“You want to give me a for-instance?”

“When Callender came hunting for Roper—and Jake got infected and died…” Starsky found an echo of an old pain and fear tightening in his chest. “Somehow—I knew you were going to get sick.”

“The odds were good for either one of us getting sick,” Hutch said quietly. “Dammit, Starsk, I was scared you’d come down with it. That’s not precognition. Give me something that’d stand up in court, huh?”

“Not easy, Counsellor. What kind of proof do you want? Okay, you were scared too. But it wasn’t me who got that damn plague. Fifty-fifty, sure. I can’t give you chapter and verse—it isn’t something you can see, or touch…. Doesn’t even work ninety-nine percent of the time. Just—once in a while.”

“Which is too often, huh?”

“You got it.”

“She said it’s a skill that can be—trained.” Hutch hesitated again. “Starsk—what did she see when she looked at us?”

Starsky met the suddenly frightened blue gaze with a kind of fatalism. “You don’t really want to know that. Do you?” Those shadows on the wall had become tangible one bright May morning just a year ago, in the police parking lot. The specters of death and—more intolerable—separation, hovering closer now with each passing day, the chill breath on the back of the neck raising hackles and reeking of charnel-house decay… “Hutch, even if she could tell you—the year, the day, the how—would you want to know?”

Mute, Hutch shook his head.

“Me neither. We’re not immortal, either one of us, and we know that now, if we didn’t before. But if we let that start getting to us, we may as well quit tomorrow. You want to do that?”

A year ago, on a sunlit beach, he had watched as Hutch made just that decision—and had joined him in the futile, flamboyant gesture. At the time he hadn’t doubted the rightness of the decision, hadn’t even thought about it. It had been automatic. But he’d thought about it since.

Entreat me not to leave thee, or return from following after thee—for whither thou goest, I shall go… But hang on a little longer, babe…

Hutch shrugged. “‘We’ve been that route. I don’t think it’s in the cards.” He sat back, draining the last of the beer in his glass. “Not until we’ve cracked this one, anyway. Starsk—you want to stay over tonight?”

Starsky recognized the casual question for what it was.

“Sure. Only no chess, okay?”

The tired blond features lightened in a genuine grin.

“How about Monopoly?”

***

“Case No. 1603E, Los Angeles County Coroner’s Report June 13th, 1980.” Hutch stared at the buff-colored folder on his desk as if it were some venomous creature waiting to pounce. He didn’t want to look inside, knowing what he would read. Another Nina, or Robert, or Stephanie—another butchered innocent for whom “Serve and Protect” was an empty boast. The stuff of his nightmares had taken on flesh—and the really weird thing was that last night had been the first for weeks without nightmares.

So much for precognition.

Starsky halted beside him, then reached across and picked up the file, flipping it open. “Eduardo Luis Maradonna. Ten-years-old.”

“Same MO?”

“You need to ask?”

Hutch sat down, rested his head in his hands. “Damn.” For a moment, he felt Starsky’s hand resting on his shoulder. “Anything new we can go on?” It was a hopeless question, and he knew the answer.

“Uh-uh.” The phone buzzed, and Starsky picked it up. “Starsky. Oh, yeah.” He signed for Hutch to pick up the other telephone. The voice on the other end was female and conjured an image of wheat-blonde hair and green eyes.

“…I’ve discussed the problem with my group,” she was saying, “and I’d like to invite you to one of our meetings, Detective Starsky. I think you’d find it to your advantage.”

“Right now we need all the help we can get,” Starsky admitted. “Where and when?” She gave an address off Laurel Canyon, and Starsky raised an eyebrow at Hutch. “Okay. What time do you want us to be there?”

Hutch heard the hesitation. “Detective Starsky—the invitation was for you alone—”

“Sorry, lady, but I come in a package deal. You know, buy one, get one free. This week’s bargain offer?”

She laughed. “Two for the price of one—certainly an offer I can’t refuse. Very well, Detective. Shall we say six-thirty, on June 19th?”

“We’ll look forward to it,” Starsky said courteously, and as the line went dead, met Hutch’s gaze. “Hey. She may have something we can move on. Even a direction would be a help.”

“She’s hardly the usual run of snitch,” Hutch said thoughtfully, and Starsky grinned.

“You complainin’?”

“I was just wondering what she wants. What’ll she get out of it?”

“Maybe she just wants to do her duty as a civic-minded citizen. Maybe she likes cops with curly hair and blue eyes. You’re a cynic, Hutch.”

“We’ll see. If there’s one thing this job taught me, it’s that no one does anything for nothing.”

Except maybe partners, he amended silently, and wondered why he didn’t say so aloud.

“Like I said. A cynic.”

“A realist,” Hutch corrected automatically.

“In that case, it’s a good thing I’m a romantic, isn’t it? One realist in this partnership is enough.”

***

“Why June 19th?” Hutch queried aloud, and Starsky looked up from the pile of paperwork he was working on.

“What?”

“Why won’t she see us until the 19th? That’s three days yet.”

“Hell, I don’t know. But it gives us time to get some of this cleaned up.” He waved his pen at the littered desk. “Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork. Did you join up to push a pen? Huh?”

It was an old and well-aired grievance, and Hutch accorded it the attention it deserved, which was very little.

“Dobey’s getting antsy,” he commented, pulling another file towards him.

“Not surprising. Everyone screaming for the Department to crack this case before another kid gets killed—the Commissioner sweating over the media hostility… Nobody loves cops, babe, and whatever we do is wrong.”

“Now who’s the cynic?”

“Well, we’ve been busting our asses trying to turn something—anything—that’ll give us a lead. Do we get thanks? Do we, hell. And when we do get this psycho, we’ve just ‘done our job.'”

“You want a medal?” Hutch snapped.

Starsky gave a sudden grin. “Hey. I’m just sounding off. You should be used to that by now.” Then the grin widened into an expression of speculative anticipation. “Speaking of which—what have you done with it?”

Resisting an urge to cover a top lip denuded only that morning by decisive strokes of the razor, Hutch gave him a basilisk glare. “With what?” he queried pointedly, almost daring him to ask further.

The dare was taken up. “The fungus. The lip decoration. The moustache.” There was a definite twinkle of mischief in Starsky’s eye now. “I was just getting used to it,” he added in aggrieved complaint, “and you’ve gone and got rid of it.”

“I was only thinking of you, Starsk.” Hutch made a pretense of studying his paperwork.

“Huh?” Patent bewilderment.

Hutch mentally chalked himself one up. “Well, if we get another invite on the 19th, I’d hate for you to make an exhibition of yourself.”

“Say what?”

“If, God forbid, we get into another situation where Gaia plays that circle game, I didn’t want to be embarrassed by you getting a giggling fit.”

“Hutch—”

“You said you were ticklish, didn’t you?”

Starsky opened his mouth for a suitably ribald comeback to that, but he didn’t get a chance to voice it.

“Starsky! Hutchinson!” The familiar bellow from Dobey’s office raised both sets of eyebrows in an identical expression of long suffering.

“Here we go again.” Hutch sighed, levering himself to his feet. “‘Nothing to report, Captain.'”

“We can’t give him what we don’t have,” Starsk said philosophically. “Maybe in three more days we’ll get lucky. Huh?”

***

Punctuality was presumably not one of her guests’ virtues. Gaia smiled wryly at the clock and considered again the problem that faced her. With Detective Starsky there would be no difficulty—it was extremely rare to sense such a raw talent, particularly in one untrained. But he was of the Craft. His aura had told her that—somehow, in his past, he had made the choice and walked the Path. In him she had no doubt.

His partner was a horse of quite a different color. His aura had reflected his hostility and anger—dangerous emotions, both, and she had not been able to read him. That the bond between him and Starsky was so strong spoke well for him, but that alone was not enough. Involving him would surely be a hazard to the Group’s strength, a weak link they could not afford.

However, Starsky’s claim that they were a ‘package deal’ implied that he was unwilling to work without him. How to convince him, how to separate them—if they should be separated—all of these were unanswered questions.

Seated where she was on the sheltered patio, she heard them arrive long before they saw her. The car braked on the graveled drive, doors slammed, and a low-voiced imprecation, inaudible in content but clear as to context reached her ears. It broke off as they rounded the corner, with a “…nag, nag, nag…” from Starsky and “… if you ever bothered to think—” from Hutchinson. That was when she stood up, and they saw her.

“Sorry we’re late,” Starsky began.

There was blood on his left hand, and a snowy cuff of bandaging projecting from beneath his jacket sleeve.

“You’re hurt—?”

“S’nothing, but the Blintz here insisted on driving me down to the E.R. at Memorial. Which is why we’re late. It really is just a scratch—”

“—Which needed six stitches.” Hutchinson, apparently unhurt, looked if anything the more shaken of the two. It showed in his aura, but this time she saw a reason for it—the fear was a continuing thing, and it linked with the fierce hatred and anger towards anyone or anything that might hurt his partner. This protectiveness was a new element, at least in this intensity, but Starsky seemed aware of it, and tolerated it even while it irked him. What had triggered it? Not some trivial street-inflicted injury….

“Sit down, please,” she said, while the Inner Vision scanned the confused and troubled mind of the blond man. “Can I offer you some refreshment? Iced tea?” And as she held out the glass, touched his hand

                               terrored seconds
of panic firing after the disappearing black-and-white
recoil kicking his own voice screaming
“Starsky!” but no reply none and he sprinted back
to see Starsky lying crumpled beside the Torino
blood spilling sodden scarlet over breast and belly

massive damage the body can only withstand…
Starsky’s dying Hug better be something I can do
you better get over here Hutch not out of it yet
but I’ll be damned if he’s not alive

It was all there, encapsulated, the source of his pain and fear, and she absorbed it without a tremor in the instant of contact.

“With lemon. Thank you.” He took the glass, and she turned her attention to Starsky.

“How did it happen?” she asked, and he shrugged, grinning.

“Would you believe—”

“No, she wouldn’t,” Hutch cut in. “We cornered a pusher. He pulled a knife. Starsk decided it was his week to play hero.”

“Be fair, partner. You had the last one.”

“I didn’t screw it up, though, did I?”

The acrimonious surface of the exchange was a veneer that didn’t succeed in concealing the concern beneath. Her instincts were beginning to answer some of the questions. There was deep compassion here, and caring—not merely for one another—and trust.

“Can it, Hutchinson. The lady’s gonna get the wrong idea…” Blue eyes fixed on her. “You said you might be able to help us?”

“There is a possibility my group can give you some assistance, yes. But I need to know something more about the problem—?”

Telling what they knew didn’t take long. She listened attentively, reading more from their voices, intonations, from body language, than the words themselves.

“You suspect a cult-killer?” she asked quietly.

Starsky glanced at Hutch. “We don’t need another crazy like Manson,” he said. “But if it’s one murderer rather than a bunch of copycats… Well, it gives us a better chance. If we can get a lead.”

She reached for the polished ashwood box placed conveniently on the small table, and took the cards from their wrapping of silk. “You consider this a superstition, no doubt. But indulge me, please…. Take a card?”

She heard the barely-restrained snort from Hutchinson, and sensed Starsky’s unspoken plea to his partner to cooperate as he selected one of the cards, turning it face upmost. It was, as she knew it would be, The Magician.

But Hutchinson’s choice was not expected. The Fool was poised on the cliff’s edge, about to step out over the void, serenely confident.

So, I am answered. He is the outsider, the random factor, having no set place in the pattern yet encompassing all.

“Thank you.” She replaced the cards, sensing that neither man was aware of the meanings. That was unimportant as yet. Knowledge is gained at the appointed time—it cannot be hurried.

“If you don’t mind me asking—does that tell you anything?’ Starsky wanted to know.

“It confirms that you will both be welcome to attend our Coven.” She smiled at him. “Tomorrow evening, gentlemen—at nine? And, if you can, bring photographs of the children.”

***

“Weird,” Hutch said positively. “Card tricks, yet. And no sign of a lead. Starsk, this is a dead end.”

“I’m not sure.” Starsky was stubborn. “Anyhow—you got anything else to do tomorrow night?”

“You’re not suggesting we actually go, are you?” Hutch’s voice rose in disbelief.

“Yeah. Any reason why not?”

“How about a complete waste of time?”

Starsky paused with his hand on the car door. “Hutch. You said it yourself. We’re up a blind alley, no leads, no clues, nothing. Right now, I’m ready to give anything a try.”

“Come on, Starsk! You really think this bunch of bozos can tell us anything after they’ve cast the runes or called up their spirit guides or whatever?”

“Whatever.” Starsky opened the door, got behind the wheel. “You want a ride home, or are you planning to walk?”

Hutch opened his mouth to argue further, thought better of it, and got into the passenger seat. Plainly he had more to say on the subject, but Starsky did not feel disposed to be tolerant right now. It had been a rough, exhausting day, his head ached, the topical had worn off and the knife slash burned with a dull throbbing pain. He wanted to go home, take a shower, and fall into bed. He did not want a bitchy dissection of the day’s happenings or the patented Hutchinson rationalization of anything that didn’t happen to be up-front, straight-down-the-middle and See-Spot-Run simplistic.

Also he was disappointed that Gaia hadn’t been more forthcoming with her information. If there was any. Maybe she was spinning them a line, playing them along. But to gain what? He couldn’t fathom that out.

It was a question that occupied him through pizza and salad, a slice of cherry cheesecake, and two reels of “The Manions of America,” before he came back to one of his original answers. With a small wry grin, he reached for the phone, punched Hutch’s number, and when Hutch mumbled an approximate identification—sounding as if he had his mouth full—Starsky merely said: “I’ve cracked it. She’s got designs on my body.”

Hutch snorted. “Dream on.”

“We’ll find out, anyhow. Tomorrow night.”

“Better get some sleep, then. Who knows, she could turn you into a—”

“—Werewolf, baying at the moon?”

“—I was going to say, a newt.”

“How about a frog?”

“You don’t qualify.”

Starsky chuckled. “Green was never my color.” Then, more seriously: “Go along with me on this, Hutch. I’ve got a hunch it could pay off.”

“A hunch, huh?” A pause. “You should have said so before.”

Maybe I wouldn’t have had to say so before…

“Yeah, well, I’m saying so now.”

“Okay, partner,” Hutch said quietly. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

***

Sleep, with the aid of two of the prescription painkillers he’d been given by the hospital, came quickly, sinking him dolphin-deep in the warm womb-dark void. But he was not alone in the darkness—he knew that from the soundless pulsebeat, the faint drift of scented smoke, and the whispers of an ancient tongue he had more than half forgotten.

The Huichol were nominally Catholic, but their beliefs were older than the Conquistadors’ crucified God, rooted in the earth. Tio Thomaso, Ric’s mother’s brother, was mara’akame, and had taught Starsky the names. He could hear the old man’s voice, dry, rustling whisper in the flame-lit darkness inside the xiriki: Tatewari, Grandfather Fire; Tayaupa, Father Sun; Nakawe, First Grandmother; Xuturi Iwiekama, Mother of the Children. And Kauyumari, Sacred Deer Person, culture hero, intermediary between the mara’akame and the gods. His exploits—irreverent, clever, often hilarious—were recounted with unabashed delight, and he listened the way a child would, suspending disbelief.

It had been Thomaso who diagnosed the sickness in him, and who, in consultation with his gods, had prescribed the cure. As mara’akame, he was able to travel between worlds, to cure and restore straying souls, and his instincts were those of a true healer. Starsky’s soul was too deeply infected by the experience of Vietnam to be fully restored—the only way to effect a cure was for the spirit to die, to be drawn back to the beginnings to be cleansed and made new and reborn. Tio Thomasa had explained all this as carefully as he could, but it could not be said that his patient understood as fully as he might. He was, however, willing to go through with whatever ‘treatment’ Thomaso recommended. It couldn’t hurt, after all.

It didn’t. Thomaso’s herbal teas, laced with the sacred peyote, set Starsky free of rationality, let him drift with the ceremonies of death. They ‘buried’ him in the xiriki, shrouded in deerskin, and he lay and drowsed in the warm dark, hearing the sounds of mourning and lamentation outside as if they came from another world, and let their rhythmic chanting lull him into sleep.

So the tomb becomes the womb, and the spirit is reborn, the wheel coming full circle….

His waking was rebirth. Thomaso explained that Xuturi Iwiekama was his mother, and Kauyumari his Father, and he was their son, child of the gods, starting a new life. Whatever—the nightmares had quit, and he had found himself able to function again.

Over the intervening years, he had forgotten that time of peace—but the knowledge of it had always been there, a part of him, deep hidden until he had need of it. Like now. If he questioned, now, as he had then, his purpose in life, the answer would be the same—do the birds, the trees, the deer seek to know their reason for being? Surely a man, having greater wisdom, has greater faith. To fret out one’s soul seeking a ‘purpose’ in life is to waste that life. Better simply to be, to live each moment as fully as possible. And if anyone should know his purpose in life, a cop should.

The murmur of sounds, voiceless whispers, wove throughout his dreams.

***

“Forensics have come up with something else linking those four homicides,” Captain Dobey greeted them as they walked into the squadroom next morning.

“Yeah?” Starsky looked hopeful. “Something helpful?”

“Depends how big you like your haystacks,” Dobey grunted. ” See for yourselves. Pollen samples from each child’s hair—all consistent with grasses indigent to wild mountain country. Like the San Gabriels.”

“Terrific. Can’t they narrow it down any further than how many hundred square miles?” Hutch snapped.

“If they could, Hutchinson, they would have,” Dobey rapped back. “We’re all under pressure on this one. What about that informant of yours?”

“Zilch,” Hutch muttered, as Starsky said: “We’re still working on that angle.” They looked at each other. Starsky qualified: “It’s a delicate situation, Cap. We’re going to try again tonight.”

“Okay, Starsky. Keep me informed, right?”

“Gotcha, Cap.”

Hutch sat down at his desk, picking up the forensic report but not reading it. “Starsk.”

“Yeah.” Starsky straddled his chair, arms folded along the back.

“I’ve still got a bad feeling about this.”

“You want t’tell me why?” Starsky said quietly. “Always thought you kept an open mind, babe.”

“This whole thing—it’s superstition. This is 1980, not the Middle Ages.”

Starsky didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “Okay. I know where you’re comin’ from. Wasn’t so long ago I’d have said the same. But look at it another way—how many people read their horoscopes every morning? Everyone knows their birth sign. Look at the cash the fortune-tellers rake in. And the way alternative religions are flourishing. People need to believe in something. Maybe if enough people believe enough….” He trailed off with a small one-shoulder shrug.

“You’re saying it’s not superstition if people believe in it?”

“Faith-healing or positive thinking. Depends what label you put on it.”

“They’re hardly the same thing, Starsk.” Hutch sounded mildly offended by the idea.

“If it works, who the hell cares? That’s the bottom line, Hutch. And I don’t think we’ve given Gaia enough chances. I want to get this psycho—and I don’t honestly care what I have to do to get him.”

“I can’t argue with that.” But Hutch didn’t meet his eyes.

Starsky reached across and touched his shoulder. “So go with the flow, for once, huh?”

***

The wine glowed in the cut crystal like liquid amber, clear and light on the palate.

“I misjudged them both,” Gaia said softly. “But Hutchinson most of all. I do not know what he is, but he is vital to the enterprise.”

“Does he know that himself?” Her companion was as dark as she was blonde, with skin like polished mahogany, a close cap of hair like the fleece of a black lamb, and the looks of a Berber prince.

“His mind is closed. He does not know what he knows. But one thing is sure, Michael—without him we cannot act.”

“Then we must hope that he comes to the Coven!” Michael lifted his glass. “And wait for what the Goddess reveals.”

***

“Background on our hostess,” Hutch offered, as Starsky re-entered the squadroom. “Gabrielle Gaynor, aka Gaia, is one very wealthy lady.”

Starsky came to lean over his shoulder, looking at the sheaf of newspaper and magazine clippings Hutch had garnered.

“You don’t say. Sole heiress to the Gaynor estate, huh? You’ve been busy.”

“I called Sheila, down at the Trib office. She dug into their morgue for me—came up with this lot. Ms. Gaynor is heavily into ecology, conservation, and charity work. Apolitical. Squeaky-clean.”

“Known associates? Anyone we should know about before tonight?”

“Not a lot…. The only regular associate we’ve got a make on is Michael Hammond. He’s a Harvard graduate, listed as her legal consultant. Nothing on him—not even a parking ticket.”

“Whiter than white,” Starsky grunted. “So, you want t’grab something to eat?”

Hutch checked his watch. “We’ve got time to go down to the Pits, I guess.”

“Whatever.”

The evening was clear, freshening after the heat of the day, and Hutch drew a deep breath, relishing the lack of pollution for once. It wasn’t an evening for superstitious weirdness, it was an evening for walking on the beach enjoying the beauties of nature, relaxing—

“You know, there should be a moon tonight,” Starsky said.

“Figures.”

Starsky gave him a rather old-fashioned look. “Get in the car, willya.”

Something told Hutch that Starsky’s tolerance was close to its limits, so he swallowed the rest of his commentary. Maybe Starsky was feeling nervous, too.

Certainly, neither of them had much appetite for Huggy’s Special—in fact Hutch couldn’t even remember if it had been goulash or Texas chili, which was not so much a reflection on Huggy’s cuisine as on Hutch’s state of mind. Starsky was uncharacteristically silent throughout the meal, and he didn’t say much more during the journey out of the city.

Hutch found himself remembering a mélange of stories relating to witchcraft—from the sensationalism of Hollywood, to the scholarship of Joseph Campbell. He knew, rationally, that magic didn’t exist, that the “powers” the magic-workers claimed were aspects of the paranormal, extrasensory perception in theatrical fancy-dress to impress the credulous. Starsk was right in that people needed something to believe in. And Gaia and the other “witches” he’d met seemed pretty harmless on the whole. They didn’t seek to defraud or hurt anyone.

Also, the Constitution guaranteed Freedom of Worship.

Which meant that if they wanted to do weird things with chickens and goats—or was that voodoo?—the only people with the right to object were the SPCA. Not Ken Hutchinson, lapsed Episcopalian, college graduate, detective L.A.P.D.—and as leery about the unknown as the next man, especially when driving straight towards it.

The elegant house looked welcoming in the twilight, warm gold glowing from windows and the open door where Gaia waited to welcome her guests. There were maybe a dozen cars already parked on the drive or graveled approach—Starsky eased the Torino into the space between a Ford Mustang and a hibiscus bush, and still in silence they got out and walked up the steps. But it comforted Hutch to feel his partner at his shoulder in spite of their differing attitudes.

Their hostess was dressed in a full-length loose robe reminiscent of a caftan, unornamented creamy white. Her hair was loose down her back.

Golden witch, Hutch thought. Circe. If any woman could turn men into swine, lady, you could.

Her murmured greeting included them both, and she turned to introduce the man who stood at her shoulder. Hutch checked the identity off in his head. Michael Hammond. A tall, clean-cut young man, dressed like her in a long robe that contrasted starkly with his coloring. Also like her, he was barefoot—and Hutch just knew they were both naked under the robes.

“This way, gentlemen,” he said, smiling, and led them through the lobby to a small anteroom. “There’s no necessity for you to dress like us, but I thought you might feel less conspicuous.”

Two identical robes hung ready on the waiting racks—all the other hangers were already full of street clothes from the other guests. Without a word, Starsky shed his jacket, started on his shirt, and caught Hutch’s affronted gaze.

“Don’t just stand there, Hutch!”

“Hell, we don’t have to strip off, dammit!” Hutch protested.

“When in Rome,” Starsky quoted, straight-faced, and peeled off his jeans.

Hutch scowled, feeling his color rising. No way did he intend to be the odd man out in this situation—and if Starsky insisted on stripping, he’d strip. But he wouldn’t accede gracefully.

It didn’t help to notice, as he had one foot in and one out of his pants’ legs, that he was being watched by a sleek coffee-colored cat, perched like an Egyptian statuette on the window ledge.

“Christ, she’s got a familiar!”

Starsky shrugged into the robe and followed his gaze. “It’s just a cat, for chrissake.”

“That’s all you know,” Hutch said ominously, and reached for his own robe. It felt like a silk-cashmere mixture, smooth textured, and fell in heavy folds to his feet. It made him feel as if he belonged at a masquerade party. Or in Cabrillo State.

“You ready?”

Starsky, on the other hand, looked completely at ease, a figure out of another age, another reality. But the eyes were the same, and the small quirking smile, and Hutch was obscurely reassured.

“I guess so.”

“Okay, Cinderella—let’s go to the ball.”

Michael was waiting for them—Hutch sensed unspoken approval as he led them through the house to what might once have been a ballroom—it was large enough. But now it was furnished for a different dance. The walls were white, with velvet drapes in dark blue—the floor was polished wood, Persian rugs scattered jewel-bright over it, and there were low couches and floor cushions around the walls for seating. The center of the room was empty except for a small table, again covered with blue velvet, where Gaia was laying out her ritual altar. She looked up as they entered, and smiled.

“Now we are all met. Now we can begin. Brothers and sisters—” She made a summoning gesture to the other people in the room, and they moved forward to form a circle around the altar. Hutch counted them. Including Starsky and himself, they numbered fifteen—seven men, eight women. And the cat, he realized belatedly, as the animal stalked in, rubbing briefly against his leg, and took up a position beside the altar.

Gaia bent to stroke the beast, whispering an endearment, then, straightening, slipped her robe from her shoulders and lifted the long knife from the altar. The coveners linked hands—Hutch felt the hard grip of Starsky’s fingers and hung on like a lifeline. He felt as if he were in deep water—and about to go under.

Starsky, with Hutch on his left and a young auburn-haired woman on his right, was aware only peripherally of their presence. He had started out with an urge to giggle, unable to look at Hutch because he knew that his partner’s expression would shatter his self-control. Now his attention was held by the High Priestess as she began her invocation, saluting sky and earth. He could hear what she said, but behind her words were others, in an older tongue. The chalice carried by the woman at her side might be silver, but he had seen a clay vessel carried with just such reverence—the incense Michael carried was heavy with expensive resins, but memory supplied scents of wood-smoke and fragrant herbs….

“Hail, Guardians of the Watchtowers of the East, Powers of Air…” South, and the Powers of Fire… West, and Water… North, and Earth. The circle was complete. “We are between the worlds, beyond the bounds of time, where night and day, birth and death, joy and sorrow meet as one…”

Gaia returned to the center of the circle, raising her hands. “We are met in perfect love and perfect trust.”

He still felt as if he wanted to laugh aloud, but now somehow this joy ran too deep for laughter, welling up from a source inside him, filling him with incandescent delight. The world was a brilliantly beautiful place, and he was part of it, one with it, the circle becoming a dance without moving a step. His head was spinning, the room revolving, but without any nauseating dizziness.

God, I’m high. On something. Don’t know what. Whatever’s in that incense, maybe. Five gets you ten it’s illegal, and I don’t give a goddamn.

Someone was singing, a clear tenor, a lilting litany backed by a soft drum beat. (The mara’akame chanted magic names, fingers brushing sounds from the stretched deerskin drumhead.)

Seed sower… Lord of the Dance… stag and stallion… Guardian of the Gate… Dionysus, Osiris, Pan… (Kauyumari…)

hands clapping in rhythm, rhythm
building, voices lifting in breathless
summoning, ecstatic entreaty
Io evohe
He is here.

Awareness was a single singing strand that held him to earth, and a voice in his ear said clearly, “That’s our cue, son. We’re on.”

Hutch?

Starsky almost turned to look at his partner, sure that the voice had been his, even if it didn’t sound in the least like him, but he was already walking forward, without conscious volition, and it was easier to let whoever was pulling the strings get on with it, not wanting to risk a pratfall, which could happen if he fought it.

“Trust me. I know what we’re doing.”

Terrific. I’m glad somebody does.

Sloughed like the skin of a snake, the robe slithered around his feet and he stepped out of it, and the Goddess set the horned crown of his godhead in place, and kissed him.

Io evohe
He is here.

Life, twice given since his birth, was strong in him, potent and rejoicing, clear to Gaia’s Sight. He is here, but the pattern within the pattern was not yet complete. Dark blue eyes smiled at her, confident, knowing, and with secrets in them she could not read. Power was there, housed in living flesh as invited by the ritual.

Now it was a different song—rich earth turning under the plow, spearheads of grain swaying in summer wind, ripe and rich, long necks curving, consenting, for the harvesting blade. The planting and the reaping, all life encompassed between them, endlessly repeated with the wheeling seasons, always freely given, never stinted. The Child of the Harvest, fertile as the unplowed forest tracts—

But it was not Kore who moved forward, but a tall man with grain-gold hair and quiet dreaming eyes that were fastened on the Dark Twin.

In perfect love and perfect trust, the pattern was made complete.

The Magician and the Fool by Suzan Lovett

***

Hutch opened his eyes on an unfamiliar ceiling, in what became apparent as a totally unfamiliar room, luxuriously appointed but nonetheless unnerving. Also unnerving was the fact that he didn’t have a hangover, and somehow he felt he should.

Maybe I ought to arrest myself. He sat up, gingerly. Under the single sheet, he was naked. He didn’t remember either undressing himself or getting into bed. Correction—he and Starsky had left their street clothes in the changing room where they’d put on the robes. So where was Starsky?

Had he dreamed the coven? His memories were weird, to say the least. Starsky, naked in the torchlight, branching antlers seeming to grow from the jet curls. Gaia clad only in the cloak of wheat-gold hair, lifting a ceremonial sword on upraised palms. Kore, with the braided coronal of ears of corn, crowning him with a similar wreath…

There were spiky gleanings of corn caught in his hair now, pricking his scalp and the nape of his neck. He combed his fingers through, dislodging some of the grains.

Christ, was I drunk last night? They could have been burning anything in that incense. Then there was the sacramental wine. And probably Magic Brownies for dessert, for all he knew. He’d certainly ingested some kind of illegal substance, but whatever it was, he’d never experienced anything like it. Not even a headache.

However, there was one pressing physical problem—he needed the john. He didn’t have to wander around naked while tracking it down—his clothes were there, neatly folded, on the chest beneath the window. As he dressed, he glanced out—extensive and well-tended gardens, a curving graveled drive, and the Torino parked next to a hibiscus in riotous full flower.

Some things can be absurdly reassuring. Hutch’s self-confidence regained its normal level, and he opened the door—to be met by an identical door swinging open, and an inquisitive dark-curled head peered at him, wariness lightening into a grin.

“How y’doin’, babe?” Starsky stage-whispered.

“Don’t ask,” Hutch said, in more normal tones. “Where’s the john?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Joint exploration discovered the bathroom, and further investigation brought them to a wide stairway that led down to the entrance hall.

“It’s like the Marie Celeste,” Starsky said. “Not a soul in sight. Spooky.”

“Nothing surprises me about this place,” Hutch said fervently, and almost jumped out of his skin when a discreet cough sounded behind him.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the ageless individual in white mess-jacket spoke with a mellifluous English accent. “‘The Mistress expresses her apologies for her absence, and hopes you will stay for breakfast.”

“Miss Gaynor isn’t here?” Starsky recovered first.

“A previous engagement, sir. The dining room is this way.”

Georgian silverware and Waterford crystal, Hutch noticed, and China that was possibly Royal Doulton—he couldn’t be sure without checking the mark—bore a breakfast of sumptuous excellence.

Starsky gave a small moan of appreciation. “Do you believe this?”

Hutch sat down, unfolded his napkin with a practiced flick of the wrist, and helped himself to orange juice from the frosted pitcher. “Believe it,” he said. “If I’m dreaming, I’m going to enjoy it.”

They were almost replete, finishing the coffee, when the butler or majordomo or whatever he was reappeared like the genie from the bottle, this time with a 9×5 white envelope on a silver tray. “The mistress asked that you be given this, sir….”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, and at his nod took the envelope and slipped it into his jacket pocket, and five minutes later they were out in the bright June sunshine.

“Half past nine,” Starsky said, checking his watch. “Want t’go in to Metro?”

“I guess.” As Starsky unlocked the door of the Torino, Hutch slit the envelope. “Starsk.” The contents slithered into his hand as he got into the passenger seat. The four photographs borrowed from the files, together with a slip of paper bearing a series of letters and numbers.

“Social Security number?” Starsky queried, peering at it. “Combination to a safety deposit box?”

“Map reference,” Hutch said. “I think.”

“Yeah?” Starsky sounded skeptical.

“Wouldn’t place money on it, but that’s the logical suggestion.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Spock. Let’s go check it out, huh?”

Things were happening too fast for Hutch’ s present state of mind—he felt as if he was riding a rollercoaster, and he had a desperate urge to hit the brakes. “Hold it,” he said. “Just—hold up a minute, willya? If it is a map reference, what does it tell us? Where the murderer lives? Where the last body was discovered? Or—God help us—where the next one will be? Starsk, I’m about up to here with Delphic utterances. This isn’t policework, or anything close. Last night—whatever happened last night—” He was about to say it had been a waste of time, but somehow he couldn’t.

“What happened last night is something we have to talk about, but not right now. Dobey’s gonna be wanting blood for breakfast if we don’t show soon.”

Their captain wasn’t particularly pleased by their late arrival, and was only marginally mollified by the map reference. He echoed Hutch’s query as Starsky hunted for the relevant chunk of real estate.

“Just what does it tell us?”

“Dunno, Cap. But it’s here, in the San Gabriels. Wild country.”

‘Who owns it?” Hutch was looking over his shoulder. “That’s not Park Commission land.” Starsky nodded and picked up the phone. “Not that this is getting us anywhere.”

“What other leads do we have?” Starsky wanted to know.

“This is a lead?” Dobey snorted.

“It’s all we got, Cap,” Starsky said absently, waiting for the answer to his question to R&I.

“And you’ve still got this hunch?” Hutch said.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor about it.”

Starsky was scribbling something on his notepad, and with a grunt of triumph, he put the phone down, grinning. “Maybe we should do just that, Hutch. That land is privately owned. Doctor Seth Morgan, a British national—conservation nut, bought up this chunk of God’s Country as a kind of private nature preserve.”

“Go check it out.” Dobey hauled himself to his feet. “If you need a warrant, call in. But bluff it out if you can—I’m not sure a judge is going to go for your reasons as yet.”

***

Dr. Seth Morgan didn’t demand a warrant. He was very cooperative when the two detectives arrived at his estate with their somewhat unorthodox query. But then, in more than one way, he had expected them.

“Of course, gentlemen, whatever help you require can be provided. The area you wish to investigate is part of my nature reserve.”

“So we understand,” the blond detective said. “But we have reason to believe that there have been incidents of criminal trespass in these parts.”

“On my estate?” One elegant dark eyebrow rose. “Security here, as you will have noticed, is tight—”

“Yes, sir.” This from the dark one. “Electronic surveillance can protect the house, and your dog patrol has the immediate area sewn up, but you have a lot of acreage out here. Could be there’s a weak point there somewhere.”

“I see… It is essential to maintain my reserve with as little human interference as possible. You’ll wish to check out the suspect area? My helicopter and pilot are at your disposal.”

He accepted their expressions of thanks, and courteously made his farewells. The helicopter would fly them to the spot, would land if they wished—they would find nothing, of course.

But not because there was nothing to find.

Morgan smiled to himself in self-congratulation.

***

“Nothing,” Starsky spat. “Friggin’ nothing! Place doesn’t look like anyone’s been there in centuries. Except for the wildlife.” He balanced stork-like leaning on the car door to squint at the sole of one sneaker. “Willya look at what I stepped in?”

“Do I have to? I’ve been smelling it for long enough.”

“I hate wilderness, Hutch, I keep tellin’ you. It’s dangerous. Poison oak, poison ivy, snakes, bears…”

“What do you think about Dr. Morgan?”

“I wouldn’t go to him with a hangnail. Why?”

“He’s not a medical doctor, dummy. Doctor of Philosophy. It’s just he didn’t strike me as—real. Not kosher.”

“Say what?” Starsky paused in the act of wiping the detritus from his shoe with a wad of newspaper.

“Like he’s wearing a mask. I don’t know. Maybe it was the eyes…” They had been instantly unsettling, light hazel, almost yellow in color, seeming unblinking, their stare fixing their victim like a specimen pinned to a board.

“Vincent Price. On a good day,” Starsky said. “With a touch of Olivier. Suave.”

“A poser,” Hutch agreed. “Or maybe just a common or garden variety psycho.”

Starsky gave him a straight look. “You really don’t like him. What is it with you, Hutch? Gaia, Hammond, and now Dr. Morgan—you’re getting paranoid, partner.”

“Paranoid, huh. So maybe I’ve got a hunch.”

“Paranoid,” Starsky said with certainty.

“How come you get hunches, while I’m just paranoid?” Hutch demanded, irritated.

“I call ’em like I see ’em, babe.” Starsky drew the sting with his grin. “You gonna get Dobey on the wire, or shall I?”

“We’ve got nothing to tell him.”

“Right. But break it to him gently, huh?”

“What then?”

“Then we log off and have that talk.”

***

The sky was darkening with lowering slate-colored clouds by the time the Torino pulled up outside Venice Place, and Hutch’s mood hadn’t lifted. It was definitely time for a heart-to-heart. Long past time, in fact. His partner’s surly silence increased Starsky’s feeling of edginess, and he slammed the door with unintended and unnecessary violence, splintering the waiting peace of the apartment.

Hutch glared at him. “Will you please—?”

“C’mon. Let’s get it out in the open, okay?” Starsky faced him, hands thrust into jacket pockets, stance unthinkingly belligerent.

“You want to talk?” Hutch shot back. “Okay. Let’s talk manipulation. Let’s talk wild goose chase. Let’s talk pseudo-psychic bullshit—”

“What happened last night wasn’t bullshit.” Taken aback, Starsky was on the defensive. Outside a sudden clattering of rain against the window heralded the advent of the storm.

“It was drug-induced bullshit,” Hutch flared. “As for that map reference—Starsky, we’ve let those dilettantes lead us by the nose right from the word go! What’re they up to? How do they fit into this? Maybe this is some kind of elaborate smokescreen to keep us off-balance and on the wrong track. Or more likely we’ve let ourselves be sidetracked by a bunch of too-much-money-and-time socialites out for kicks. As for what happened last night—what did happen last night?”

“Don’t you know?” Starsky said, voice level, quiet.

“Apart from the fact that we were stoned and took part in some kind of freaky charade, no. Or, dammit, I wouldn’t be asking!”

Starsky’s eyes never left his face, even when the room was briefly and garishly illuminated by a flash of lightning accompanied by a crack of thunder that rattled the window. “Hutch, when was the last time you went to church?”

“What?” Hutch queried blankly. Then: “What? What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

“Whenever it was,” Starsky went on doggedly, “did it ever feel as right as that?”

“Are you crazy?” Hutch gave a shocked squawk. “Since when did any regular church slip joy-juice in the sacraments?”

“Peyote,” Starsky said, cutting Hutch off in mid-sentence. “The Huichol use peyote.” He walked forward into the silence. “For them it is a sacrament. The months I was with them, Hutch, I learned a lot. I learned—to think like them. Their beliefs, their way of life—it made sense. More than anything else did or had done for years. I told you how ‘Nam had left my head fucked up—I told you they helped me. That was how.”

“With peyote?” Hutch said, voice acid with something close to disgust.

“Not just that.” Starsky held his temper in check. “It’s part of their religion, like I said. But it was the whole of their religion—I don’t know how to explain it. They don’t confine their worship to one day a week, it’s part of everything they are. And while I was there, with them, it was part of me. That’s how it was last night—oh, they use different words, different ceremonies, but it felt the same. That’s why I trust Gaia. I know where they’re coming from. And—if you’d let yourself—so do you.”

For a heartbeat Hutch couldn’t speak, just shook his head slowly, denying, rejecting. Then, in a kind of desperation: “Starsky, whether or not you want to call it smashed out of your skull or a religious experience, what has it got to do with mutilated and murdered children? And tracking down the murderers?”

“That’s why they need us. We’re the cops. They’ll give us all the help they can to get the job done and prevent any more deaths.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes,” Starsky said with total conviction. “Hutch, there are a lot of shitty things in this world, evil in every sense of the word—but there are a lot of good things, too. The other side fights dirty, always has, but that don’t mean they’re gonna win. We’re on the side of the angels,” he went on with a shrug and quirking smile, “and somebody has to be looking out for us.”

“You really believe that?” Out of the shock and disbelief came the pain of an old wound re-opened. “In spite of everything?”

“Maybe because of everything.” Gentle, understanding. “We’re still here, aren’t we?”

“But for how long?” It was a grieving whisper, raw fear and hurt, straight from the heart.

“As long as it takes, babe.”

Hutch looked into deep blue eyes. “I’m scared,” he said simply, able to admit it at last, astonished at how easy it finally was. “Of death. Your death. Again.”

Hands on his shoulders, gripping hard. And again, compassion and complete understanding. “I know,” Starsky said quietly. “I know that, Hutch. But we’ll do okay, partner. Me and thee, right? Like always.”

Strength freely offered, support and confidence and comradeship that were so integral to his life…. He found he was able to smile, to return the firm hand-clasp. “Right,” he said. “Like always.”

Maybe, just maybe, it was true.

***

(Once again the Mistress consulted the
oracle of the cards, turning one after
another. Past, present, future—
influences and emotions, goal
and ultimate outcome….)

The storm had passed, leaving the air cool and fresh-tasting. Hutch took several deep breaths savoring it like wine. The residue of the downpour was draining off the slope of the conservatory roof, the streams slackening to large heavy droplets that fell splat onto the slabs below in a broken rhythm.

Starsky came to join him in the greenhouse, still with that veneer of confidence that was almost complacency. Hutch glanced across at him, suddenly aware of the tension in the air between them—a kind of electricity, he thought vaguely. Probably left over from the storm. Starsky seemed incredibly vital, vibrant with some unnamed energy, leashed, held in check, like caged lightning, and like magnetic attraction, he held Hutch’s gaze as he moved.

(The Magician’s hands are still, his
eyes deep with mysteries. He is Power
Controlled, perfect harmony, force in
balance. It is his will alone, his mastery
of arcane lore, that holds the spinning
globes in their dance above his head.
He is vision made reality, thought put
into action.)

The sun was trying to break through the thinning clouds, the run-off of drops slowing to a monotonous slow rhythm like the beat of a tenor drum. Starsky’s pulse seemed to move in synch with it, as it had in the stately measure at the coven; as, long ago, the Huichol mara’akame had palmed healing and peace from the drumhead.

Hutch was misting the African violet—Starsky felt a surge of love fill him, spreading out to encompass and embrace the whole of creation.

“Hey,” he said, wanting to vocalize the feeling but knowing words would only vaguely express it. “I love you, partner.”

He got a mildly startled look and a smile. “Yeah, and I love you, too. Bring that dracaena over here, willya? Needs repotting.”

(The Fool’s innocence is not lack of
knowledge but compounded of all wisdom.
And in his wisdom he is serene and
unafraid as he faces his horizons and
steps out over the abyss, for he knows
he will not fall.)

The brush of fingertips as Starsky handed the plant pot over was an abrupt electric jolt, so sudden and unexpected that Hutch gasped, losing hold of the earthenware but not noticing the spill of peat and shards of pot as it shattered. His eyes had locked with Starsky’s, reading his own confusion and bewilderment there, but knowing also a mutual acceptance of what was to be.

“What’s happening?” someone breathed.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

Hands traced a gentle exploring path over shoulders and back, the pulse beat, drum beat, louder and more insistent. Starsky had seen Hutch’s blond head crowned with ears of corn, symbol of the god who dies and is reborn in endless cycle. Hutch’s fingers brushed through his curls as if seeking the horned god-head the Mistress had placed there.

That which we are, and have been, and will be again…

“We can stop this right now,” Hutch was saying, his voice unsteady, but an unslaked yearning was in his touch.

“Can we? ‘M not so sure about that, babe. But do you want to stop?”

“No. God, no.”

“Me neither.”

The sun finally claimed victory over the scudding clouds, and the moist greenery-scented air of the conservatory was suddenly flooded with light.

(Magician and Fool, by their placing,
encompass all between them. The
beginning and the end, first and last,
fated to complete the circle. The
dance moved them together in its
measure, and at the wonder of their
meeting, cloaked them in shimmering
gold…)

The Mistress smiled as she turned the card face upward. The Lovers made their ageless commitment under the smiling sun. “Fiat,” she whispered.

The Lovers by Suzan Lovett

***

Morgan watched the storm thrash over the city, secure in his mountain eyrie. Below in the rain-whipped streets, the people scurried for shelter, some irritated, some awed, some frightened by the primeval forces raging above them. Little people, seen from this height, with petty grievances and hatreds and wrong-doing, few even realizing what Power their negative·emotions fed… But he knew. Knew and actively served the Dark Master who in return supplied him with all he desired.

Now—now the Master had put his seal on one specific subject, and it was for his servant to bring the beast to the sacrifice. This was no lamb, feeble and helpless, but a man grown—and marked, for eyes that could see, as Harvest Lord, Corn King. So be it. The King would die, the Harvest Lord be harvested, his blood given to the Dark in unholy communion. And Morgan’s reward would be power undreamed-of.

But the trap must be baited. The police were fools, and the victim would need encouragement to take the lure and come to the appointed place.

Morgan had no qualms. As before, all would be arranged—and it would not go other than smoothly….

***

The air was warm still from the departed sun, moist, and to move was like swimming in syrup, almost too much trouble. Languid, lethargic, Hutch lay in drowsy peace, too limb-heavy and peaceful to stir.

“Hey,” came a velvety whisper, breath light against his throat. “Did I ever tell you what a terrific lover I got?”

“Don’t think you ever did,” Hutch said lazily. “Terrific, huh?”

“Yeah, and quit fishing for compliments. Willya move over? You got all the bed.”

“It’s my bed.”

This was so indisputably true that Starsky had no answer. Not verbally, at least. Fingers dug suddenly into the region of the seventh rib and had the desired effect—Hutch yelped and squirmed away, and skin peeled stickily from naked skin. A soft chuckle from his partner told of victory in the dispute, but Hutch didn’t care. There were no losers in this game, anyway, because Starsky wriggled closer, settling himself more comfortably. Hutch could feel the strong steady pulsebeat matching with his own in perfect synchronization, the rise and fall of silky-pelted chest, pressure of thigh against thigh. Nothing had ever felt so good, so natural. Partners, friends, lovers… That was the way it had to be, inevitable, unavoidable. He smiled in the darkness, content.

“You sleepy?” came: from the man beside him.

“Not really. You?”

“No. Wanna talk?”

If Starsky had suggested walking naked down Wilshire or hanging headfirst out of the window and whistling Dixie, Hutch thought he might have agreed, so merely talking was an easy alternative. “Sure,” he said equably.

“You’re not gonna try to analyze this?” Starsky wanted to know, warily.

“Analyze what?” Hutch was aware that he was starting to sound like a moronic mynah bird, but didn’t care about that either.

“Whatever. Just I don’t want any—rationalizing right now. If you know what I mean.”

“Only thing I’m questioning,” Hutch murmured into the comfortable silence, “is why this never happened before. But that’s not important.”

“—?—” Not even vocalized, the sound was bewildered.

Hutch chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong. This is important. Right now it’s the only thing that’s important. The whys and wherefores—”

“—don’t matter a goddamn.” Starsky gave a sigh of pure contentment, and Hutch echoed it. Everything—the weight of Starsky’s head on his shoulder, the silky tickle of curls, even the rasp of stubble against his skin—was the way it should be. Odd, because they’d slept together before—or at least shared a bed, as any two friends can—but never before had he been so aware of his partner’s presence, as if they shared a skin. He felt that he could almost tune in on Starsky’s thoughts…

“Uh-huh. An’ I know what you’re thinking, too,” came the drowsy mutter.

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” He stroked idly down from shoulder to wrist of the arm that lay possessively across his chest, felt the downy growth erect as Starsky shivered. “You got goosebumps, lover.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

As neither wanted to move, getting the quilt over them took a little time, but finally Hutch got it in place, sealing them against the evening chill, secure in the warmth, drifting, dreaming…

“Starsk?”

“Um?”

“We haven’t dreamed all this, have we?”

A pause. “You want me to pinch you to make sure?”

Hutch found that irresistibly funny. “I’m not into S&M, Starsk.”

“Me neither,” Starsky agreed. “Okay. Will this do instead?”

Warm lips brushed his, fingers cupping his jaw to hold him for the leisurely length of the kiss.

“I think I may have to be convinced some more,” Hutch said when he got his breath back. And even in the darkness, he knew there was a grin on Starsky’s face.

***

The shrilling of the phone sliced into sleep like a power-saw, and Hutch groped for the instrument without opening his eyes. ‘”Yeah,” he grunted, sensing Starsky come awake beside him.

“Hutchinson?” Dobey’s voice, raw with tension.

“Yeah, Cap—Cap? It’s four-thirty in the morning!” It came out in an aggrieved squawk as the bedside lamp was switched on and he saw the face of the alarm.

“You think I don’t know that?” Dobey said heavily. “We need you in here, Hutch. And Starsky. Right away.”

Hutch gestured for Starsky to share the earpiece. “What’s come down, Cap?” he asked.

“Trouble. We had word an hour ago that the daughter of Martin Ryan was discovered to be missing.”

“Ryan the City Councilor?”

“Right. She’s just seven-years-old, Hutch.”

“Christ…” Hutch rubbed one hand over his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Captain. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

“Make it fast,” Dobey said, and as Hutch put the phone down, Starsky’s hand squeezed his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said softly.

Fifteen minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed, they were ready to leave—but Hutch paused momentarily on the threshold.

“Starsk—”

Again, the steadying grip on his shoulder, the confidence and understanding in the dark blue eyes. “It’s gonna be okay, Hutch.”

How could he explain what he felt? That the apartment was a haven, an enclave of warmth and love and safety, that he was almost afraid to step outside and face a world that offered danger and hostility?

“It’ll still be here when we come back, babe,” Starsky said.

“Promise?” The untimely awakening, giving no time to adjust or re-examine what had happened between them, had left him unsure—his only reality the man beside him, anchor and keystone of his life and all he held dear. That hasn’t changed…

“I promise. We can’t leave it behind, Hutch—it’s part of us now. Whatever happens.” And without self-consciousness, he reached up to cup Hutch’s face as he had before. Whatever happens, lover.”

The fear was still there—always would be, he knew that now. But he could cope with it. The weight was shared; and there was no place for doubt, not anymore.

***

The squadroom was seething, which at this early hour was unusual but to be expected in the circumstances. Dobey, looking as if he’d slept in his clothes, was bludgeoning order out of chaos, and his temper was on a short fuse.

“I just got rid of Martin Ryan,” he announced to his newly-arrived detectives. “The man’s been alternating demands for action with threats of what he’ll do to this department if one hair on that kid’s head is out of place when she’s found.”

“Understandable,” Hutch said. “When did she disappear, Cap?”

“Sometime after nine last night. Her parents were out at an official function, didn’t get home until three—when her mother looked in to check on her, the kid was gone. The nanny didn’t know anything, none of the other staff know anything—I’ve got statements coming from all of them.”

“Ryan’s got money. Could be a ransom snatch.” Hutch wasn’t looking at Starsky.

“Could be. But the M.O. is a carbon copy of the other recent child-disappearances. Your tip didn’t turn anything suspicious, I take it?”

“No,” Starsky spoke for the first time. “Reasonable suspicion we don’t have. But something’s wrong about that set-up. What d’you want us to do, Captain?”

“Run down these names.” Dobey handed over a list. “Known associates of the Ryan household staff. Any dubious connections, pull ’em in. I’m praying this is a ransom-kidnapping,” he went on heavily, “because that way we have a chance. But first, I want you to check the kid’s room. Forensic and Crime Lab are down there already. I just want to be certain they don’t miss anything.”

It was a vain hope, as Hutch had expected—there was nothing to find. Only the evidence of a young child’s abduction—rumpled bedding, coverlet printed with nursery-tale animals—abandoned bunny slippers—favorite bear.

Starsky picked the toy up, frowning. “If only it could talk, huh?” The Forensic crew were packing their equipment.

“Yeah… Forced entry?”

“Through the window, looks like. No one heard anything. Good luck, Sergeant.”

“Thanks,” Starsky said absently.

Hutch watched him quarter the room like a hound questing an elusive scent, long fingers moving in the bear’s plush fur. “Got anything?” he asked finally, and both knew it was not physical evidence he was querying.

Starsky shook his head. “Only a bad feeling. Hutch—this may sound crazy—”

“—but—”

“—what if we didn’t find anything at Morgan’s place because we weren’t meant to find anything?”

“Like the pilot of that helicopter didn’t take us to the right place?”

“Right. Were you checking? I sure as hell wasn’t.”

Hutch sat down on the edge of the bed. “So Gaia’s reference could check out, if we got back there—”

“—and I’ll make you any odds you like that’s where the kid is.”

Hutch considered. “Starsk, I wouldn’t trust Seth Morgan as far as I could spit a rat. But we can’t walk in and call him a liar to his face.”

“Maybe not.” Gently, Starsky placed the bear back on the pillow. “But there are other ways.”

“Without a warrant?”

“We’d never get a warrant. Not without reasonable cause—”

“Which we haven’t got—”

Blue met blue, and the empathic spark was as tangible as static discharge. “Who do we know in Traffic—”

“—who owes us? Vanderberg and Farrell,” Hutch supplied, getting to his feet. Starsky was already out the door, and Hutch was on his heels by the time he’d reached the car, “If we can track them down.”

“You work on that,” Starsky said. “I’m going to see Gaia.”

***

By the time they met up again, it was almost four in the afternoon. Starsky trailed Hutch to the Pits, discovering him deep in conversation with the two traffic cops, Vanderberg and Farrell.

“Hi.” Starsky pulled up a chair. “How y’doing, guys?”

“Fine,” said Farrell, a trifle sourly, “until this weirdo partner of yours turned up with this crack-brained scheme—”

“—for getting all four of us booted off the force so fast our collective asses would blister,” Vanderberg finished the complaint, but with a wide Cheshire Cat grin splitting his freckles. “Damn, I like it!”

“You would, you’re as crazy as he is,” his partner accused, taking a morose pull at his beer.

Starsky, who knew Farrell’s Boy Scout veneer was just that, glanced at Hutch. “Want to fill me in on the details?” he said easily.

“So long as your uniform still fits, we’re okay,” Hutch said.

“Terrific.” Starsky annexed Hutch’s beer. “Does your uniform still fit, is the question, Okay, fellahs—when do you log off?”

“Seven, ” Vanderberg said. “‘We’re on split shifts. We can—uh—borrow what you need, meet you wherever you say.”

“Make it eight, then, where we discussed. You get set up; we’ll catch up with you.” Hutch repossessed his glass and drained it.

“Gotcha. C’mon, Van, our Code Seven ran out five minutes ago.” The two traffic cops got to their feet. “See ya at eight.”

Starsky signaled Huggy for two more beers, and edged his chair next to Hutch. “Nice going, lover,” he said softly.

“Thanks. You saw Gaia? Get what you wanted?”

Starsky gave a small, tight smile. “Yeah. She knows what we’re doing, and why, and she’ll give us all the back-up she can.”

“I won’t ask what that means.”

“Good, because I’m not sure what it means myself. Thanks, Hug.”

Huggy folded himself into one of the vacated chairs. “How’s it goin’, fuzzy friends?”

“Ask us tomorrow,” Starsky said.

“Ah-huh. Okay. Never let it be said that the Bear is less than lightning on the uptake. Big showdown comin’ up?”

“Details at eleven,” Hutch said firmly. “Believe me, Huggy, if this works out, we’ll give you the exclusive story.”

“You got a deal.” The wide mouth flexed into a grin. “Well, like they say on Broadway—break a leg.”

“You too, Hug.” Starsky raised his glass in salute.

***

The dark blue uniform had been hanging in the back of Starsky’s closet for seven years, but it still fit him—certainly better than Hutch’s, which was both too narrow across the shoulders and not wide enough in the waist and hips. Starsky cast an eye over the somewhat strained fabric and shook his head solemnly. “Told ya you should have stuck with the health food, babe.”

“I think possibly you’re right. For once.” Hutch avoided looking in the mirror. “Christ, Starsk—were we ever this young?”

“Brings back memories, huh?” Starsky grinned at him.

“Right. And remembering some of the stunts you pulled, it’s still a wonder to me how you ever made detective.”

Starsky gave a hoot of derision. “This from the guy who only made it into the squad after I’d been there for six months! Like I’ve said before, I taught you everything you know—” and was ambushed by Hutch’s grin and the unexpected velvet in his voice.

“And then some,” Hutch said softly. “You’re blushing.”

“You’re a bastard, Hutchinson.” But he couldn’t keep his feelings from showing in his eyes, and didn’t care. “I’ll get you for that.”

“Yeah. I’ll look forward to it.”

It was an hour’s drive to their rendezvous, on the approach road to the Morgan estate, and as promised Vanderberg and Farrell had set everything up, from the road block and police warning signs to the parked black-and-white, lights blinking. Hutch pulled off the road beside the official vehicle, and Starsky got out, grinning.

“Beautiful. Just beautiful…”

“Glad you like it,” Farrell said. “If we don’t get this lot back by change-of-watch, we’re all for the high jump.”

“Soon as the bait’s taken we’re away, and you can strike the set, so to speak.” Hutch climbed out of the car.

“Well, thanks for that. But how do you know whoever-it-is is gonna take the bait?”

Good question, Hutch conceded. They didn’t know.

“Trust me,” said Starsky, with a brilliant smile.

The first car to pull up was a Cadillac being driven by a regal redhead, with two other people, male and female, in the back seat. Vanderberg went into the rehearsed spiel about fugitive bank robbers, examined proffered IDs with spurious interest, and, catching Starsky’s eye, waved them through.

“Not your style, Starsk?” Farrell enquired, snidely.

“As a matter of fact, I was after something in chartreuse…” Which was so unexpected that Farrell gaped and Hutch choked on laughter. “Also with a trunk large enough for two extra passengers.”

“Gotcha.” Vanderberg’s grin flashed again. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

“Probably only just thought of it,” his partner said, but there was a glint of grudging admiration in his eyes.

“Sure. Ad lib policework is what we’re best at.” There was a kind of repressed energy about Starsky, a fierce brilliance—Hutch wondered vaguely if anyone else could see it, sense it—that wildfire aura, burning like St. Elmo’s Fire with no fuel but itself.

Rationally, he knew that he was still flying on a euphoric high—it occurred to him to wonder when he was going to come down. Or even if. Or even if he wanted to. Not that anyone could exist for long in that intoxicating, rarefied atmosphere. He didn’t need to ask if Starsky was feeling the same way. This was something he couldn’t rationalize. Nothing in his life had prepared him for what had happened between them, for the heightened empathy, true dualism. The possibility had always been there, he acknowledged, a seed lying dormant. Something had brought that seed to full flowering—maybe later they would be granted the leisure to reflect, examine, explore—for now, like surfers on the crest of a wave, they would ride it out.

“Looks like your ride’s on its way.”

It was a dark blue Mercedes, already slowing as the driver saw the barricades. Vanderberg stepped out into the road, hand raised.

“Here we go…”

The driver was alone. He was asked to step out of the car while Vanderberg checked license and registration and Farrell prowled around. “Would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

It took ten seconds to “check” the trunk, then Farrell closed it, with a thumbs-up sign. “Thank you, sir. Sorry to have delayed you…”

***

In Gaia’s ritual room, the coven sat in silence, eyes closed, deep in meditation. Answering the Mistress’ summons, they made ready to begin the ceremony—to cast the circle, and raise the cone of power for Gaia’s direction. Sandalwood and bay laurel scented the air, sprigs of rowan and holly lay on the altar.

I have been with you from the beginning
Hail Artemis, Diana, Selene: Lady of the Moon, grant us your protection.
Hail Maat, Daughter of Truth: Athena, Shield of Justice: Nemesis, implacable defender and huntress.
Jupiter, Zeus, Dagda, god of justice and judgement: Osiris, dead and reborn, judge of souls…
We call on you, we ask your aid
Be here now.

***

Technology served the Master as he willed, and it was fitting that it should. He had no need of the broomstick of legend to carry him to his place of ritual—the helicopter carried him over the wooded slopes to the hilltop altar. Only those of his staff who followed in his path were there as yet—the members of his coven were yet to arrive. The victim, too, was not yet there. But he was on his way. Seth Morgan knew that. The trap had been baited with an enticement he could not refuse—and at the appointed time, he would come to the sacrifice…

***

It was a tight fit for two in the trunk of the Mercedes, and Starsky had an insane urge to laugh. For sure, if they hadn’t been intimates before, they would be before the ride was ended. He could feel the weight of Hutch’s body pressed against him as it had been in the act of love, though with serge and linen separating flesh from flesh. Strands of fine hair, invisible in the semi-dark, tickled his cheek.

I love you, he said silently. Whatever happens, understand that. Whatever happens…

He was aware that they were approaching danger—maybe a more tangible and real danger than either of them had known before. But both of them knew Evil existed—had seen it in many of its forms, fair and foul. And long ago they had both pledged to fight Evil wherever they found it, without prejudice. This—whatever lay ahead—was only another skirmish in that battle.

Once before they had tangled with what the sensationalist press liked to call “Black” magic—but Pine Lake coveners had been amateurs out for kicks. From what Gaia had told him, and his own intuition, he knew this was more serious, far more deadly.

So why the bubble of laughter that lodged in his chest?

(So the sword sings in the warrior’s
hand, fulfilling its purpose, its
reason for being.)

The car was slowing, coming to a halt. A door opened, was slammed closed. Starsky held his breath. There was no reason for the driver to check the trunk but if he did find it unlocked… Footsteps crunched on the gravel—receded.

“Starsk,” Hutch said softly. “What about the dogs?”

“He’s expecting visitors; they’re gonna be locked up.”

“Oh. Right.” Hutch squirmed around to lift the trunk lid a fraction. “All clear. Let’s go.”

The shadows were already long, dusk falling rapidly. From the trunk, they slipped into the cover of greenery bordering the drive, and from there to the environs of the house. There was no need to speak—even more than usual, they were able to communicate without words, a look or gesture serving to express all that was necessary. The place seemed quiet, almost deserted—a window ajar at the rear on one wing gave access to what appeared to be staff quarters. Also deserted. Which was downright weird.

“So where is everybody?” Hutch whispered.

“Gone to the party,” Starsky suggested grimly. He was stalking the corridors like a great cat, predatory and silent.

“Which is where?”

“That map reference, at a guess. Wanna play Boy Scout and go tracking in the woods?”

“If we tag along after one of the guests, we might find it faster.”

“Good thinking, Robin.”

Hutch pantomimed a bow. There was a murmur of voices ahead, behind a closed door—Starsky sidled up and listened. “Jackpot,” he mouthed. They waited—voices faded, doors slammed, and Starsky eased the door open. “Like I said—jackpot. Pick out your Bat-Cape, partner.”

The robes were monkish, hooded and cowled, dark rust red in color. Enveloped in the voluminous folds they had anonymity, but it wasn’t without foreboding that Starsky stepped out into the open, seeing two other similarly-dressed figures disappear into the trees that fringed the expanse of lawn. But no one challenged. No one challenged at all.

***

Gaia’s coven linked hands, drew breath, and voices began a wordless chant punctuated by names of Power, a soft murmur at first, a vibration like the purr of a cat crooning to her kittens. Imperceptibly it grew, rose, lifting strophe antistrophe as voice answered voice, and sound sparked around the circle, spinning, dancing… Surf on the sea shore, surging; wind soughing in the topmost branches of the trees in a gathering storm; the rushing roar of a forest fire, deep-throated rumble of earth slip, unstoppable. The elemental forces, called upon, fed their strength into the cone of Power.

***

The path was narrow but clear enough, trodden by many feet, and the air smelled moistly of crushed greenery. It was full dusk now, and the shadowy figures threading the maze of trees were barely visible. But Starsky didn’t need to see where he was going, Hutch thought. For someone who professed to hate nature in the raw, he was rather surprisingly at home here in this forest, moving silently and surely over unseen, uneven ground. But equally, he himself knew instinctively which direction to take, as if an inner compass operated to keep him on course.

The path had been climbing steadily, with many twists and turns—twice Starsky left the track and cut directly through the undergrowth to intercept the trail at another point. Hutch didn’t question, simply followed his lead, trusting to Starsky’s instinct.

And finally, there was movement ahead, and voices, a low murmurous undertone and a reddish flicker of light. Starsky halted, ducking into cover, and Hutch crouched beside him. By delicate, noiseless parting of the foliage, they gained a view of the hilltop.

Figures passed and bypassed a large bonfire, building it up and bringing more fuel for it. A little beyond, hard to see past the glare of the flames, others seemed to be preparing an altar. And, closest to the trees, was their quarry—a small figure between two others, not robed like them, but dressed in bunny-printed pajamas, blonde hair ties in bunches.

“Caroline Ryan.” Hutch’s whisper.

“You bet. Only two with her.” Starsky’s grin flashed white in the darkness. “You wanna be Bing Crosby this time, or Bob Hope?”

Hutch chuckled softly. “We gonna play pat-a-cake?”

“Ten out of ten, Mr. Hutchinson.”

They separated, moving forward in a flanking action, keeping to the densest shadows. Hutch didn’t need to see his partner—he still felt that weird heightened empathy—so he knew to the instant when Starsky’s forearms clamped across the man’s throat from behind, tightening to cut off both voice and air in a chokehold. In the same moment, he hooked his own arm around his victim’s neck, dragging back and down. Both guards were in a limp heap beneath the trees within seconds. Starsky snatched the child up and dived back for cover, but that was when things went wrong. Hutch saw heads turn their way, saw figures moving towards them. There was no more time for subtlety.

“Run for it, Starsk!” he yelled, backing and reaching for his gun. “I’ll hold ’em—”

The reassuring bulk of a tree was hard against his shoulder blades, his aim steady, and he saw them pause, holding him at bay as hounds circle a stag. Well, he could take six of them before they could get to him, and he didn’t think even this bunch was that crazy. He was right, but not in the way he thought.

The tall figure of Seth Morgan moved through the crowd, and they parted before him. Hutch shifted aim fractionally.

“Okay, Mister—you’re under arrest—”

Seth Morgan laughed. “Such braggadocio, Detective! But no, I am afraid not. Pull the trigger, if you can.”

The golden eyes fixed him unblinking—and like a rabbit with a snake, he couldn’t look away. Nor could he pull the trigger—a deadly numbness invaded hands and fingers, running ice through all his veins. There was suddenly an arctic chill to the summer night. Still smiling, Seth Morgan walked forward and took the Colt Python from Hutch’s unresisting hands.

***

Starsky’s chest was a hot tangle of pain as he fought for breath, the strain of running with the child in his arms finally making itself felt. But his headlong flight had carried them deeper into the forest, and downhill was easier, if more treacherous. The little girl’s arms were tight around his neck, her face pressed to his shoulder—she hadn’t made a sound.

Wheezing as his lungs worked for air, he fetched up against a tree and leaned there momentarily, waiting for the spangled darkness in front of his eyes to clear. There was no sound of pursuit, which was good.

There was no sound at all, which was bad.

Hutch?

No coherent response, only frozen fear.

Oh dear God. Hutch?

The child stirred, perplexed maybe by his sudden stillness, and he set her on her feet, hunkering down to look at her eye to eye. “You okay, kid?”

She nodded solemnly. There were tearstains on her cheeks, but her eyes were dry now. “Are you a policeman?”

Starsky had forgotten the uniform under his robe. “Yeah.”

“Are you going to take the bad men to jail?”

“That’s the idea, honey. But I gotta catch ’em first. Do you think you can keep running downhill until you get out of the trees?”

“I’m a Girl Scout,” she said. “An’ I’m not scared of the dark.”

“That’s terrific. First phone you see, call the police, tell ’em who you are and that we need back-up. You got that?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded again.

“Good girl. Fast as you can, huh? An’ don’t stop for anybody!”

She set off, small amid the trees, and he spared her only a glance before turning uphill once more. There was no question in his mind about the priorities—Hutch needed him. The child would be okay.

The climb back was tougher this time. And he didn’t even make it as far as the grove, because they were waiting for him. He never even knew what hit him. Consciousness blanked out

(We are between the worlds
beyond the bounds of time)

and an insistent voice was nagging at him, dragging him from the deep pit of non-being, forcing him back to awareness. He was face down in some loose substance that rustled when he moved and felt brittle and dry. There was a smell of rotting vegetation and earth. His head felt as if it had been split open, and he could feel a sticky wetness trickling over his skin.

(C’mon, son. Get your ass in gear.)

Starsky, eyes firmly shut, moaned under his breath, but the voice continued.

(Quit goofing off, boy. You got work to do.)

“I’m hurt,” Starsky told it. If he moved, his brains would fall out, he was sure of that. “I got a concussion for godssake—”

(Stuff the excuses and move it!)

“I’m sick, dammit!”

(You’ll be sicker if you don’t haul ass!)

It seemed there was only one way to shut the voice up. Somehow, Starsky got both hands under him and pushed, which got him to his knees, encouraged by the importunate harassing voice. Movement aggravated the pain in his head to the point of nausea, but his tormentor stung him to his feet.

(Now move out, son.)

He was at the bottom of a steep gully, floored with leaves and debris, walls dry and crumbling but with tree roots offering some hand- and footholds, and he dragged himself up inch by clawed inch. The pain in his head didn’t recede, but the effort of the climb at least took his mind from it.

Must’ve jumped me. Why didn’t they finish me off?

He didn’t know what was keeping him on his feet, didn’t know where he was going, but someone was plainly in the driving seat so he let whoever it was get on with it.

His gun was gone—lost in his fall—but he wasn’t allowed to go back for it.

(You won’t need that.)

(Within the circle, energy was building
swirling in a vortex deosil, sunwise,
spiraling up into a cone, fed by the
chant of the coveners.
Io! Evohe! Io! Evohe!
The spinning glow, luminous wheel,
pulsed upward, all color and none, at
the peak of its strength, Gaia, holding
the visualization of it in her
mind, drew a deep breath, seeking in
the void for Starsky, to see through
his eyes…)

The hilltop was washed in flamelight, drenching everything in the scarlet of blood, but Starsky saw only one thing—Hutch arched back over the altar-stone, Seth standing over him, knife raised as his voice rose insanely, about to plunge it into the bared chest…

(“Now! Gaia cried, and the cone was
an arrow loosed from the bow—)

—Starsky was running forward, but it was if unseen hands lifted him, as if he were carried by some invisible whirlwind (somehow, Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore) through the shocked frozen worshipers to spring at Morgan, cutting off the mad chant in mid-word and wrenching the knife from his hand. Instinct and training took over, then, although “Police! Freeze!” doesn’t have quite the same impact when backed by a .38 caliber butcher-knife. But the dark influence Morgan had summoned collapsed like a souffle in a cold draft, and in the confusion Starsky hauled Hutch up, cuting the cords that held wrist and ankle.

“Let’s go, babe—”

It was less of a sprint for freedom than a stagger, but they made it into the trees, running blindly downhill, needing only to get away, to put as much distance as possible between them and the murdering coven on the hilltop before the pursuit. There would be a pursuit, they were both certain of that.

“You remember what you said about him being just your common-or-garden variety psycho?” Starsky panted once. “You wanna run that by me again?”

“So I was wrong. So sue me.”

(Gaia’s coven were drained, their
collective energies spent in the breaking
of Morgan’s power. “We can do no more.
What is needed now, you must find in
yourselves. And may the Lord and the
Lady protect and watch over you.”)

“Now where do we go?” Hutch gasped, as they broke from the trees at the base of a sheer cliff.

Starsky lurched to a halt, staring at the scene. “Up,” he said concisely.

Hutch looked at him—blood and dirt and sweat streaked his face, the robe and shirt beneath, ripped. He knew he probably didn’t look much better himself. “Spiderman I’m not,” he pointed out.

“Me neither. C’mon.”

And there was a path, Hutch saw as he got closer—no, not a path, a narrow shelf maybe six inches wide—and he followed Starsky with the implicit trust of one who had no choice.

It was not the best of ideas. The ledge widened into a jutting overhang some fifty feet up, and petered out.

“Oh, shit…” said Starsky, which was an understatement in the circumstances. No way up—and no way back down unless they wanted to be guests-of-honor at Morgan’s party. They were quite effectively treed—and, exposed against the rockface, perfect sitting targets.

Hutch closed his eyes briefly, swallowing the bitter bile of fear and exhaustion that rose in his throat. Somebody—Somewhere—do something?

Starsky’s shoulder was hard against his, and he felt his partner shudder abruptly, as if he’d been goosed.

Hutch looked at him. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah—I don’t know…” It was difficult to gauge expression. Starsky shook his head as if to rid himself of some torment, hands coming up to press over his eye sockets. “I don’t—” And he swayed on his feet.

“Starsk?” Hutch reached out to steady him, but in that moment Starsky seamed to recover, pulling himself upright.

“They’re coming,” he said, and the voice didn’t sound like his—nor was the laugh Starsky’s, or the stance, head thrown back, arms lifted. The laughter rang out, and found an echo (but where did the echo come from? Hutch wondered fleetingly) that raised the hair on his nape, and suddenly there was a breeze brushing past his face, a breeze that strengthened into a wind that caught Starsky’s robe and streamed it like a banner, combing through Hutch’s hair like chill fingers. With the wind came a chant, half song, half ululation, and the voice that was not Starsky’s soared into a paean.

Hutch caught his breath, and his partner held out a hand to him, and he was looking into eyes that weren’t Starsky’s either, full of ancient wisdom and compassion, and dancing with sheer delight. Energy sparked between them, fingertip to fingertip, and was answered by the silent flare of summer lightning, illuminating Starsky’s face, painted by blood and dirt into a tribal mask.

Now, brother, said the voice without words—and the wind was gone as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind a breathless stillness.

Joshua of old had halted the sun in
the sky to win victory.
Kauyumari called on the spirit of
the Land itself

What did the pursuers see, as they faltered in the chase? What did they hear? The distant thunder like a myriad pounding hooves, the groan and scream as the fabric of the earth itself was strained and rent apart—and before them, a shadowy and insubstantial figure, gigantic, primeval, branching antlers crowning the proud head, the tines goring the sky, terrible in his wrath as he stamped on the earth and the earth trembled and gaped to swallow them.

The Earth Moved by Suzan Lovett

***

The calm was transient, like the peace that comes after love, or the respite from pain, and Hutch clung to it while it lasted, burying his consciousness in its folds even as they shredded and frayed at the advent of reality. There had been one moment when he had felt the power fill him, flow through him, when he and Starsky had been channels for—something—but it had crested with the quake, and by the time he recovered his senses it was gone, leaving him empty, drained, weak.

Starsky was still out cold. Whatever—whoever—had possessed him was gone. Hutch sat up, gingerly, and eased Starsky’s head and shoulders onto his lap. The short summer night was almost over, the sky paling with pre-dawn, and the toneless half-light made the unconscious face a ghost-study in monochrome. The pulse at the base of the throat beat steadily and reassuringly under his hand.

“Well, the earth moved, okay,” Hutch said aloud, hearing his voice harsh with dust and cracking with fatigue. “Some party trick, partner.” His finger s quested through the matted dark curls, touching the blood-crusted contusions as if the caress could heal, feeling illogically angry at the whatever who had used them both like puppets, leaving them to suffer the after-effects of the night’s violence, as if they were no more than the oak tree that grounds the lightning bolt. Hutch had seen the scorched, blasted remains of such trees. He and Starsk—they ‘d been lucky, no more than slightly singed… “We’re alive, by God. We made it.”

Starsky moved slightly, head pressing back, brow creasing, and his eyes flickered, opened. Blue, and blank, wandering and vacant as a newborn…

“Christ, Starsk—” It was a sob.

Starsky blinked, gaze firming, clearing, and he looked up at Hutch for a long moment before he spoke, a croaking whisper. “You look like shit.”

“You’re not exactly an oil painting yourself,” Hutch told him, half-laughing, lightheaded with relief. “But you’ll do for me, lover.”

Starsky chuckled, and winced. “I think my skull’s split…”

“Pleading a headache isn’t going to work,” Hutch said, lifting one of the lean, dirty hands to his lips. “Christ, Starsk—we made it…”

He could feel himself shaking, adrenalin kickback taking its toll, and any minute now he was probably going to bawl like a baby, but it wasn’t important, none of it was important. Only the fact that they had gone up against the odds and beaten them again, and come through.

“Hutch,” said Starsky. “How are we gonna get home?”

The answer to that question lifted over the skyline, bulbous body under the rotor blades sporting the familiar livery of the California Highway Patrol.

***

“You awake, partner?”

Starsky cracked one eye open a slit. The blond head peering around the door was followed by wide shoulders, and Hutch eased himself stealthily into the room.

“I am now,” Starsky said pointedly. “You gonna bust me outta here or do I go stir crazy?”

“C’mon, it’s only another twenty-four hours. How do y’feel?”

“Terrific, if the Indy .500 will just let up.” He pushed himself up in bed. “Concussion, that’s all. Willya tell me what’s been happening, for God’s sake? No one even wants t’ talk to me—”

“Take it easy,” Hutch counselled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Okay. We can thank Vanderberg and Farrell for getting us the back-up we didn’t ask for and didn’t know we’d need—Van says he couldn’t rest easy after they dumped the stuff back at their station and so they started cruising the perimeter road. That’s how they picked up the Ryan kid, and when they heard her story, they called in the big guns. Then the quake hit before anything could happen, and the Rescue teams moved in.”

“And? Besides letting us hitch a ride out?”

“They found four of Morgan’s party guests alive. Three more dead. Morgan and the rest—” Hutch shook his head. “The four are going to answer charges of accessory to murder, looks like. What we’ve got to do, Starsk, is work out what our story is. Which is why I’m here. I’m playing the bewildered innocent act, but I don’t know how much longer Dobey’ll swallow it.”

“Can hardly tell ’em the truth,” Starsky agreed. “Or we’d end up in the rubber room at Cabrillo State.”

“Right. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life cutting out paper dolls or wearing the canvas blazers with the wraparound arms.”

“So?”

“So what?”

Starsky sighed. “So what do you want us to say? We got a tip-off, followed it up, got the kid away—and then the quake hit. Simple as ABC.”

That won a snort from Hutch. “They’ll love that. The quake has the experts tearing their hair already. Since there’s no recorded fault line in the area of the epicenter, they’re talking underground subsidence or a natural gas explosion.”

“So long as they’re happy. Is the kid all right?”

“Fine. Shook up some, but she’s a tough cookie.” He looked down at his hand, linked with Starsky’s on the blanket. “She says the Lady showed her the way out of the forest!”

A smile twitched at the corner of Starsky’s mouth. “Yeah. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Starsk, I don’t think there’s anything that can surprise me anymore.”

“Wait ’til I get out of here, and we’ll see about that,” Starsky promised, with a Groucho Marx leer, which ambushed Hutch into a blush. “Gotcha,” said Starsky smugly.

“That’s something else we have to think about—”

“Hutch, you’re the thinker. I’m the doer.” Then, forestalling Hutch’s protest, “Okay. Whatever you want. So long as you don’t suggest we forget the whole thing. You weren’t going to suggest that?”

“I love you, dammit!” Hutch’s voice rose.

“That makes it mutual I guess.” Starsky grinned. “So you don’t haveta shout, lover.” His fingers tightened on Hutch’s. “Yeah, we’ll talk about it. Later. But nothing changes. Me’n’thee.”

“You got it.” Throwing caution to the winds, Hutch leaned to kiss him.

“And another thing,” Starsky said softly. “Gaia. We owe her one. More than one. Don’t know if there’s any way we can pay her back, but I want to go see her. At least say thanks.”

“We’ve got a lot to thank her for.”

“No more hassle? No more ‘pseudo-psychic bullshit’—?”

“That was before.”

Their eyes met, and there was no more need for words.

***

The Mistress and her Consort shared their loving cup, invoking The Goddess in her aspects of Aphrodite, Astarte, Ishtar, Isis.

“They fought in the vanguard of our battle, and through them, we are victorious. How shall they be rewarded?”

“Are they not already rewarded?” Gaia smiled. “They have glimpsed part of the Mystery, and that may not be forgotten or set aside.”

“Then it is not yet finished?”

“No, beloved, it is not.”

(For behold, all acts of love and
pleasure are My rituals.
Let there be beauty and strength,

power and compassion,

honor and humility,

mirth and reverence

within you…

For behold, I have been with you
from the beginning, and I am that
which is attained at the end
of desire.)

 

Author’s note: Thanks and appreciation to those who helped with this story—with advice (JLN), with research (JC), with inspiration (CRF) and with listening ears and general encouragement—(CVP, KH). Thanks, too, to Karen for editing and choosing it for CODE SEVEN—and to Suzan for the artwork. I’m not saying that the story wouldn’t have been written without them—but it would have taken a hell of a lot longer!