Murder Ward

2.8K

One undercover cop, one medical student, both over their heads in the madness of Cabrillo State.

 

Originally published in 2010, by Flamingo and Keri T. in the zine, Timeless 3.

---

 

“Hey, Hutchinson.”

Reluctantly, Hutch slowed down and let Ron Switeck catch up with him. The orderly wasn’t one of Hutch’s favorite people, but Hutch tried to remember the manners his mother had taught him.

“Yes.” Hutch continued walking toward the locker room. Ingrained manners indicated he be polite, but he didn’t have to be friendly.

“Dr. Matwick wants you front and center. We got a new looney comin’ into the boobyhatch today.”

Hutch ignored Switeck’s derogatory references to Cabrillo Mental Institution and its patients. He kept his head down as he worked the combination on his locker, hiding his disdain from his fellow orderly. “I haven’t even clocked in yet.”

“Yeah, well, the new guy supposed to start today never showed. That means you’re still low man on the totem pole. Tough luck, Hutchinson.” Switeck’s tone was devoid of sympathy.

Hutch heaved a mental sigh of resignation as he hung up his leather jacket in his locker. He had known the working conditions were lousy at Cabrillo when he applied for the job, but he had taken it nonetheless. He wanted the experience. Just a few months short of finishing his medical degree and entering residency, he had begun to question just what discipline he wanted to follow. He had already seen the very best the mental health field had to offer and, in the short time he had been at Cabrillo, he had certainly been introduced to the worst.

“Besides, it’s a survivor.” Switeck, standing in front of his locker a few feet away, cast a sneering glance at Hutch. “Right up your alley, huh?”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Hutch once again ignored the innuendo. Whether Matwick had broken the rules of professional ethics and revealed the information, or Switeck had just taken an unauthorized peek into Hutch’s personnel file didn’t matter to Hutch. Hutch wasn’t ashamed of his past. It made him the man he was today, something this dim-witted lout would never understand.

Hutch turned a sweetly innocent smile on Switeck. “Do we have a file?” He shrugged into one of the utilitarian white smocks all of the orderlies wore.

Switeck turned back to his locker, his expression sour as he reached for his jacket. “You gotta be joking,” he said sullenly. “Comin’ from County, and you know what they’re like for paperwork.”

Hutch closed the door of his locker and spun the dial on the combination lock, satisfied to have spoiled Switeck’s fun. “So all we know is he’s…he?” His tone turned the pronoun into a question to which he received a shrug in reply. “…she, or it, is a suicide survivor?”

“Yup,” Switeck grumbled, closing his locker with a clang. “You two oughta get along real good.” The sneer was back on his face and the innuendo in his tone.

Hutch almost laughed in the man’s face. Obviously, Switeck was too dumb to realize when he was beating a dead horse. Still, Hutch had had more than enough of Switeck’s ugly mug. Verbal fencing with a man he disliked so much was no way to start his shift.

“Have a nice day,” Hutch said in that sweet tone he knew infuriated Switeck and left the locker room. He walked further along the drab corridor to what was laughingly called the staff lounge. As if a coffee machine and a few styrofoam cups could make an almost bare room a lounge. Here, Hutch clocked in and poured the first cup of work day coffee. Cup in hand, he turned to leave the room and discovered that he had been followed.

“Something else?” Hutch asked Switeck reluctantly, alerted by the expression of expectant malice on the orderly’s face that more harassment was coming.

“Just thought you’d like to know your little sweetie was discharged yesterday.”

“Sweetie?”

“Cathy. One of your little harem,” Switeck elaborated with a sneer. “Don’t know how the hell you get ’em all eating out of your hand, Hutchinson. Must be that bleeding heart act of yours, huh? They just can’t wait to spread─”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Hutch snarled, stung and unable to conceal it, even though he knew he was playing right into Switeck’s sick game.

“Come on, Hutchinson. Drop the innocent act. You can fool the loons, but not me.” Switeck’s expression became even uglier as he leered. “But don’t you worry. The way Cathy looked at you all gooey-eyed, she’ll be back. Swallow some pills or cut up her wrists again to get back here. Meantime, I’m sure the new looney will put out for you.”

Hutch clamped his jaws tight. If he opened his mouth, he would only stutter. He wasn’t going to give this ape the satisfaction of seeing him incoherent with fury. Defending himself to a mind as narrow as Switeck’s would be a waste of his breath. He counted to ten, schooled his face into an unrevealing mask, and then started walking toward the door, willing Switeck to have the sense to get out of his way.

No such luck.

“Nothin’ to say, smartie pants?” Switeck taunted, holding his ground, his bulk filling the doorway.

“You need to clean the filth out of your mind, Switeck,” Hutch said, in complete control now, meeting Switeck’s glare with the haughty ice his upbringing had taught him. “But I seriously doubt there’s a mop big enough to do the job. And I’ve got better things to do with my time. Like checking in our new patient. Now, get out of my way, or you can explain to Matwick why I haven’t reported for duty.”

To Hutch’s surprise, Switeck stepped back, clearing the doorway and letting him exit without further argument.

Still furious, Hutch chose to take the stairs to the third floor instead of the elevator. He took his time, dismissing Switeck from his immediate thoughts, but filing away his unfounded accusation. He would have to keep an eye on Switeck in the future to determine whether this was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

~*~*~

As he expected, Hutch found Dr. Matwick, the administrator and only licensed psychiatrist at Cabrillo, in his office. Hutch had quickly learned that the doctor seldom ventured far from the third floor.

“Dr. Matwick. You wanted to see me,” Hutch said after he had knocked and been given permission to enter. Hutch’s opinion of Matwick was that the doctor was the next best thing to useless, but common politeness dictated he offer respect to the title, if not to the man holding it.

“Ah, yes, Hutchinson. I assume you’ve heard we have a new patient arriving today?” Dr. Matwick asked. His question was followed by a grunt of effort as he pushed his round body out of his chair and moved around the desk to the shelf that held a cage full of mice.

“Yes. But that’s all I’ve heard,” Hutch said, keeping his gaze away from the mice. He wasn’t sure why, but the captive animals gave him the creeps. Maybe his unease was caused by the simple fact that the animals didn’t belong in the administrator’s office. “Man or woman?”

“Man,” Matwick muttered absently. In contrast, he appeared fascinated by the mice, his dark eyes fixed hypnotically on them. “Suicide attempt. He’s restrained.”

“Doctor….”

Matwick waved a vague hand in Hutch’s direction to halt the protest. “I know you don’t like seeing them restrained, but until we get the file… Well, we have a duty to protect the other patients and the staff.”

Silence fell as Matwick offered a bit of cheese to one of the mice, thereby instituting a rodent riot as the others fought for a share of the treat. Growing impatient, Hutch cleared his throat loudly in hopes of catching the doctor’s attention and holding it long enough to confirm his assignment and instructions.

“Is there something else?” Matwick asked, his expression somewhat more animated as he watched the mice fight.

“Do you want me to stay with him today?” Hutch asked, hoping the doctor would agree to allow him the extra time with the new patient.

“I don’t know… Well, I suppose that would be all right,” Matwick replied, gaze still focused on the cage.  “You know, Hutchinson, it really is a shame you never finished your degree. You’d be so much more use to me….”

Hutch flinched. Matwick always made it sound as if he had dropped out rather than still being in the midst of his studies. Hutch had serious doubts he was going to be able to work in the mental health field. He had discovered he was far too empathic to these lost souls. But the truth was, if he had finished his degree already, he certainly wouldn’t be working here for this man. “Do we even know his name?”

“It’s County, you know.”

Sometimes, Hutch thought if he heard that excuse one more time, he would scream. County’s inefficiency might be a fact of life they had to live with, but it was also a cop out. “If that’s all…?”

“Just see what you can do with him, Hutchinson. Use your discretion. I’ll see him in a few days when he’s had a chance to settle down and we have the file,” Matwick dismissed him.

A few days, Hutch also knew, could easily stretch to weeks. Somehow, the doctor’s schedule was always full, although it also seemed he treated only a few patients personally. Hutch wanted to believe that administrative duties kept the doctor too busy to practice his profession, but suspected the sad fact was that Matwick was basically lazy.

“Yes, sir,” Hutch agreed and beat a hasty retreat before the doctor could change his mind. It might only be a symptom of Matwick’s disinterest in his patients, but the instructions to use his own discretion gave Hutch a freer hand than his position would normally entitle him to. He wouldn’t hesitate to use that power for his charge’s welfare.

Stopping at the nurse’s station to request that County be called for an approximate time of arrival, Hutch discovered that the ambulance from the hospital had already arrived. He hurried to the bay and stepped through the outside door in time to see the white box van pull up. He acknowledged Nurse Bycroft with a nod and a small smile, and stood waiting impatiently for the engine to stop and the two-man crew to open the doors.

The metal panels were barely open before Hutch was climbing into the back and settling on the jump seat beside the figure strapped to a stretcher. The ritual always angered the ambulance crew, but Hutch didn’t care. Every time he checked in a new patient, he climbed into the back of the ambulance and spent a few minutes with them before the clinical admission procedure began. He remembered how terrified he had been himself and hoped that this small bit of human contact made a difference.

Hutch scooped up the transfer order and scanned it, looking no further than the man’s name before he handed it out the door to Bycroft. “Mr. Starsky,” he said, leaning closer but being careful not to loom over the helpless man. “I’m Ken Hutchinson, Mr. Starsky. You’re at Cabrillo Mental Institution. Did they tell you at County that you were coming here?”

No response.

Hutch pushed the ambulance doors wider so he could see the patient more clearly in the sunlight. “Mr. Starsky,” he said again, then forgot what he was going to say as he found himself caught in the gaze of the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen. Beautiful, but sad and haunted, although it was difficult to interpret emotions when the face remained so blandly indifferent.

Hutch laid a hand on the patient’s bound shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Starsky. I’m not going to leave you alone,” he promised with no clear idea of why he said it. He only knew that he felt some sort of immediate connection that he had to express. “You can trust me to take care of you.”

The dark-fringed lids closed tiredly, sealing Hutch out.

“Come on, Hutchinson,” the ambulance driver complained. “You know we can’t tie up the van all day. Get him outta there. Bycroft’s already signed for him.”

Controlling his temper with difficulty, Hutch refrained from snapping out a reply. He kept his demeanor calm and his attention focused on his patient. After unbuckling the straps that held the man to the stretcher, Hutch slipped an arm under the bound shoulders and helped the man to stand, taking the majority of his weight until he had found his balance. Half bent over to accommodate the low roof and deprived of the use of his hands by the straightjacket, Starsky would likely have tumbled from the van without Hutch’s strength to steady him.

“Put the step down,” Hutch snapped. “For Christ’s sake, Ryker. How do you expect him to get down?”

There was dumb rebellion on Ryker’s face, but he nevertheless obeyed the order.

“That’s it. I’ve got you,” Hutch coaxed his patient as, at his prodding, the bound man maneuvered down the two steps to ground level. Once he was sure his charge was safely on the cement, Hutch jumped down beside him. He put a gentle hand on the man’s arm to steer him toward Nurse Bycroft while Hutch turned aside for a moment.

Furious, but making a supreme effort not to explode, Hutch aimed a rigid finger at the attendant. “You’re a real gem of a human being, you know that, Ryker? Just overflowing with the milk of human kindness.”

“Just not a bleeding heart like you, Hutchinson. I bet you tuck all these looney birds into bed at night and read ’em a bed time story,” Ryker shot back with a glare. He slammed the collapsible steps back into the rest and double slammed the doors of the van.

Uninterested in Ryker’s theatrics, Hutch turned his attention back to Starsky, assisting Bycroft as she settled the lethargic patient into a wheelchair.

With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, the woman held out the chart. “Not much here, Ken. County does it again.”

Hutch waved the useless paperwork away. “See if you can chase the file down for me will you please, Nancy. I’m going to–”

“I know,” Bycroft interrupted with an affectionate smile, and Hutch was struck anew by how the expression changed her face. To the rest of the staff, Nancy Bycroft was a formidable dragon lady, and the reputation was well deserved. Right from the first day Hutch had come to work at Cabrillo, however, the head nurse had seemed to take a liking to him, and Hutch rather liked her in return.

“You always do,” Bycroft said and held the door open. She signaled for Hutch and the new patient to precede her. “Room twelve is all ready for Mr. Starsky.”

Pushing the wheelchair along the corridor, Hutch smiled at the residents they passed, trying to divert their attention as they stared with open curiosity at the new arrival. When he saw the way Starsky flinched from the appraisals, Hutch stepped up his pace, and they arrived at room twelve without incident. Making an arbitrary decision, Hutch pulled up outside the door and helped the other man struggle out of the chair. Sometimes, the little things proved to be the most important–like entering what could be your home for months to come under your own steam.

Starsky allowed himself be led to the middle of the room and then just stood there, making no effort to look around and obviously simply not caring what happened to him.

“Mr. Starsky?” Hutch prompted from where he had gone to stand by the window. He was so inured to the bars by now that he seldom noticed them. But he saw them today, memories of the time when he had been the one caged ghosting through his mind for a moment before he dismissed them back into the past. “You have a nice view here. Would you like to see?”

Slowly, as if the muscles of his neck no longer functioned properly, the dark head of curls turned until Hutch once again found himself caught and held fast by the deep blue gaze. He fought a nearly overpowering instinct to wrap the other man in his arms and shelter him from all the demons that plagued him. It was a totally inappropriate reaction, and one that Hutch, for all his empathy, had never experienced before. For the time being, Hutch did his best to ignore this further proof that this was not the career for him and focused on Starsky. He laid a hand on the bound shoulder and, feeling the shuddering that quaked through the slim body, steered him gently to the bed.

“It’s all right, you know,” Hutch assured him, speaking softly. “No one here is going to hurt you. We’re here to help you get well again. You will get well again, you know, Mr. Starsky. Every single person who works here wants you to be yourself again, and we’re going to do everything we can to help you make it.”

Losing track of what he was saying, knowing he was lying in any case, Hutch just continued murmuring the reassurances. He was rewarded when the trembling beneath his hand lessened and then disappeared completely. He smiled encouragingly into those incredible eyes, feeling himself rewarded when the lids didn’t close to block him out.

“That’s it,” Hutch murmured.

He felt the muscles under his hand flex against the constriction of the jacket. His half-bent, half-crouched position becoming a strain, Hutch carefully eased down until he was seated on the bed, watching closely for any signs of alarm on the blank features. The long face remained unresponsive, and Hutch gave a mental sigh, reminding himself that impatience had no place here.

“I’m going to stay right here with you and help you get settled,” he assured Starsky, but there was no reaction. He looked around the room for inspiration, finding little in the austere furnishings. “We’ll need to get you some things until your family can bring you your own.”

There was a flicker of something in the eyes at that, but Hutch, in his ignorance of this man, couldn’t begin to interpret what it meant. Nonetheless, he chose to exercise some of the discretion Matwick had given him. “I’ll bet you’d be a whole lot more comfortable without this jacket.”

That brought another flash of emotion to the eyes, even if the face refused to register anything, and this emotion was easier to understand. Hope.

“Do you know why they put this on you at County? They thought you might try to hurt yourself again.” Hutch paused to see if there was any reaction. Sometimes, a suicide attempt was nothing more than a cry for help, and as long as that help was within sight, the chances of another attempt decreased. Now Hutch found himself cursing County. If he had the file… But he didn’t, so he would have to trust his own instincts. “Or someone else.”

That did elicit a response. Not much, just one short, sharp shake of the dark head, but it was more of an effort to communicate than Starsky had made up to now. Hutch chose to interpret it as a positive sign.

“If I take this off, will you promise to let me try to help you? Please?” Hutch asked, trying to invest his voice with sincerity and yet not apply emotional pressure that could drive Starsky even further into himself.

The weary eyes studied Hutch for a long time before the head moved again, nodding this time. Just once, and then coming to rest with chin on chest as if the simple movement had sapped all of Starsky’s strength.

Hutch reached for the fastenings and began to loosen them. A soft whimper escaped Starsky as Hutch finally eased the canvas away and tossed it to the floor. Returning his hands to his patient, Hutch gently massaged the muscles that had been restrained too long, valiantly trying to avoid transferring his own distress to the patient through his touch. God, but he hated those things.

“Better now?” he asked as he worked his way down the stiff arms. “Okay now? Why don’t you just lie down? Rest a while, then I’ll show you around a bit.”

Still moving carefully, Hutch helped Starsky to stretch out on the bed. “I’m just going to go and get you some things. Clean clothes. A comb. That kind of thing. I’ll be right back.”

Starsky went on staring at the ceiling, leaving Hutch wondering if he had even been heard. He picked up the straight jacket and started to leave, but only made it as far as the door before one word stopped him in his tracks.

“Hutch.”

Hutch turned and took a couple of steps back toward the bed. The voice had been so husky, probably from lack of use, that Hutch couldn’t be sure exactly what had been said.

“What?” he asked softly.

For a minute or two it looked like nothing more would be forthcoming, then just as Hutch began to leave again, “Hutch? Your name is Hutch?” Starsky whispered.

It was raspy and halting, but it was an entire sentence. Hutch tried very hard not to let elation overwhelm him, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about this man, some kind of connection that had formed the moment their eyes met in the van. It wasn’t logical, and it was likely as dangerous to him as it was to Starsky, but Hutch couldn’t deny its existence, or the effect it had on him.

“Hutchinson,” he corrected gently. “But Hutch will do just fine.” It was, after all, the name by which Hutch thought of himself. To his family, he was Kenneth, but his few friends had always called him Hutch. Illogical as it might be, it seemed to Hutch some kind of positive omen that Starsky had chosen to call him that as well.

When nothing further was forthcoming, Hutch returned to the door, looking back once more at Starsky before he slipped out to accomplish his errands. He hesitated outside the door, wondering just how far he could push his luck, then reluctantly locked it.

*~*~*

Starsky heard the lock being set after the orderly closed the door behind him and rolled over to stare at the window. Locks on the doors and bars on the windows. What the hell had he gotten himself into, he wondered, as he curled up and tucked his hands, which were still tingling from being strapped inside the straightjacket, down between his thighs. Now, when it was far too late, he wished he had had the brains to keep his big mouth shut.

“Forget it, Starsky,” Captain Dobey told him as he slapped closed the file on the desk in front of him, bringing a meaty palm down on the inches-thick folder with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

“But, Cap–” Starsky tried to protest, but was cut off mid-word.

“But Captain nothing. If you think for one minute I’m going to let you go undercover in a nut house with absolutely no backup–” Dobey thundered.

“You approved the operation,” Starsky reminded him hastily as Dobey paused to draw breath.

“That was before your partner tripped down his own front steps and sprained his ankle. I was willing to go along with you going in as a patient, even though I didn’t like how vulnerable it made you, when Hill was going to be there as an orderly to back you up. But on your own? That I can’t sanction,” Dobey decreed with finality. He picked up the file and tried to hand it across the desk to Starsky.

Starsky folded his arms over his chest, refusing to take the manila folder. “Come on, Captain. Have you even read the file?”

“Enough to know you could find yourself at the mercy of a murderous staff with no way to even call for help. If there is something going on out there and your cover is blown, what are you going to do? Ask to use the telephone?” Dobey paused, but this time pointed a silencing finger at Starsky. “Not to mention that a few of the patients themselves could prove damned lethal, too.”

“I know the risks going in, but the patients who have no choice about going there don’t. There have been six suspicious deaths at Cabrillo State in less than four months,” Starsky reminded him.

“I gave you and Hill the case, remember, Starsky?” Dobey said. “It’s at least a two man operation. It can wait a couple of weeks until Hill is back on his feet.”

Starsky sat forward in his chair, both hands gripping the edge of the desk. “But everything is set up to go now. You know that last body that came out of there? She was only eighteen years old. Heart attack the death certificate said, just like all the rest. You’re too good a cop to believe in coincidences like that, and so am I. People are dying at Cabrillo State, Captain. People who have no way to protect themselves, and nobody to do it for them.”

Starsky paused to study his superior. From his experience working with the captain, he was able to see that Dobey was wavering, and Starsky didn’t hesitate to go for the jugular. “We could wait a couple of weeks until Billy’s back in action. Sure we could. Can you live with it if more young, healthy, heart attack victims come outta that hell hole in the meantime? I know I couldn’t.”

That last argument had knocked Dobey’s pins out from under him, and he had agreed to let Starsky go into Cabrillo State alone for one week. Starsky had always known that one day his glib tongue was going to talk him into big trouble. Locked in like one of the criminals he hunted, no backup, and not even the reassuring presence of his Beretta under his arm, Starsky was afraid that day had come.

The only bright spot of the morning had been Hutch, and Starsky wondered now whether the beautiful blond with the worldly-wise eyes and the gentle hands would return as he said he would. Starsky grimaced as he remembered that the man who had been so kind might well be a murderer, or at the very least, an accessory. This was no time to be letting his balls do his thinking for him. Hutch might have the face of an angel, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have the soul of a devil.

Forcing himself to put aside his fear, Starsky uncurled and rolled out of the bed. Moving to the window, he looked out, using his view of the parkland and parking lot to mentally place his location on the site plans of the institute he had memorized. Hearing Hutch ask the nurse to chase down the file hadn’t been music to Starsky’s ears. Another snafu so early in the operation wasn’t promising. He wasn’t going to be doing a lot of investigating while locked up, and whether it would prove to be a good thing or bad, Hutch seemed to be in charge of him. The orderly would determine the amount of freedom Starsky would enjoy. Starsky was going to have to convince this Hutch quickly that he could be trusted outside his room. And, given his role as suicidal, withdrawn and depressive, he was going to have to do it without his charm or his glib tongue.

“One of these days, I’m gonna learn to listen to Dobey,” Starsky muttered as he heard noises out in the hall followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock on his door.

Schooling his features into a blank mask, rounding his shoulders and slumping dejectedly, he turned and waited for the door to open.

*~*~*

Hutch was encouraged when he found Starsky standing by the window rather than lying on the bed. It wasn’t much, but it was more independent action than he had expected, and he smiled approvingly as he crossed the room and laid a stack of clothing and the toiletries he carried on the bed.

“I thought you might like a chance to clean up. How does a shower and some clean clothes before lunch sound?” Hutch stayed where he was as he spoke, squinting against the bright sunlight coming through the window. He couldn’t see Starsky’s expression, if any, but before he took this patient out of the room, he had a couple of judgment calls to make. Taking the unprompted initiative Starsky had shown in leaving the bed and the few words he had spoken as a sign Starsky wasn’t as completely withdrawn as Hutch had feared, he decided on a straight forward approach.

“We need to talk about a couple of things first. Will you come and sit down for a minute?” Hutch asked, indicating the bed with a wave of his hand.

Starsky offered no reply, but after a few moments, he did as requested and perched on the side of the bed, turned slightly to face Hutch who stood on the other side.

“We don’t have your file from County yet, so I really don’t know anything about you. The rules say you have to stay in your room until I know more.” Hutch paused as a shudder passed through the patient. “But if I knew you wouldn’t try to hurt yourself again, or anyone else, then you could come out with me. You could have a shower and some lunch, and I could show you around.”

The bowed head with its mass of matted, dirty curls slowly lifted.

“What do you think? Think you could promise to stay with me?” Hutch asked gently.

“P… promise,” Starsky replied, the deep voice still sounding rusty and uncertain.

It was a risk, but Hutch was willing to take it. He seldom had to depend on his people instincts, but just couldn’t seem to put them aside where this man was concerned. It was that illogical feeling of connection again that he couldn’t ignore no matter how much he tried. Trust supposedly had to be earned, and yet Hutch trusted this man’s promise as if they had been friends for years. He nodded decisively, picked up a change of clothes from the stack on the bed and handed them over. “Come on then. Let’s go.”

Obediently, Starsky climbed slowly to his feet and followed Hutch, hesitating on the threshold when the door was opened.

Hutch stepped boldly out into the corridor and held out his hand. “It’s okay,” he reassured his patient, remembering how Starsky had shrunk from the stares of his fellow inmates. “It’s not very exciting around here, you know. You’re new and everybody is just a little curious. No one will hurt you.”

Cautiously, both hands clutching the bundle of clothing to his chest, Starsky stepped out into the corridor. Hutch took his arm in a deliberately light grip and steered him toward the shower room at the end of the hall. Once inside, he was relieved to find they had the facility to themselves. If other staff members had been present, Hutch would have been forced to keep the patient under his eye at all times, but since they were alone, he was free to offer Starsky a bit of privacy.

The shower facilities were every bit as utilitarian as the rest of Cabrillo. The change room where they stood now had two wooden benches and some wooden knobs on the wall for hanging clothes. There wasn’t even a mirror since mirrors could be broken and the pieces used as weapons. The shower room was off to the left. It was a cold concrete square with six showerheads and no dividers or curtains of any kind.

“I’m going to wait here. You take these.” Hutch handed over the soap and bottle of shampoo he held and took the bundle of clothes. “You can have your shower and then come out here and get dressed. Okay?”

Again offering no verbal response, Starsky did as he was told.

Hutch hung the jeans and t-shirt he had found in the lost and found on a wooden knob, then placed the unopened package of new briefs and socks on the bench along with the hospital slippers. He wasn’t sure the clothes would fit well, but at least they were clean. These clothes, and the other items Hutch had left in the room, would have to do until Starsky’s family delivered some clothing and other personal items.

He sat down on the bench, listening to the weak hiss of the shower spray, easily catching the sounds when the paper was ripped off the new bar of soap and, a few minutes later, when the plastic shampoo bottle hit the floor. He jumped up when he heard the muted thump, then remembered that there was no shelf in the bare room to set the bottle on, and decided to give his patient a few more minutes before he intruded. He was just about to check on Starsky when he heard the shower go off. Again he waited and was rewarded for his patience and trust when Starsky appeared, dripping wet, soap and shampoo in hand.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch said, jumping to his feet and retrieving a towel from the stack on the end of the bench. “I forgot to give you a towel.”

Starsky had stopped just inside the changing room and Hutch crossed to him. He could see the other man shivering and guessed the air in the concrete room must feel cold after the heat of the shower. He took the items Starsky held and gave him the towel, realizing when he saw fat droplets of water dripping off the soaked curls, that one towel wasn’t going to be enough.

“You dry yourself and I’ll get another towel for your hair.”

Once again, Hutch received obedience to his directions, but the dark head remained bowed and what he could see of the face expressionless. If Starsky was taking pleasure in being clean, or was uncomfortable in his nakedness, he wasn’t showing either emotion.

While the patient dried and dressed, Hutch watched him. He tried not to openly stare, but allowed his gaze to assess the exposed body. Surprisingly, Starsky seemed to be in excellent physical condition, with good muscle tone and a healthy glow to his skin. It was obvious that whatever had prompted Starsky’s suicide attempt, it must have been a fairly recent catalyst rather than the result of a long depression.

Hutch also noticed that the clothes he had chosen were at least a size too small, the t-shirt clinging to the broad shoulders and stretching over the well-muscled chest, while the jeans molded buttocks and thighs as if they were painted on. Hutch realized that his inspection had become rather more personal than professional and forced his mind back along clinical paths. He knew people as withdrawn as Starsky usually ate poorly and exercised less, so it was likely that the clothes would soon be too large.

Hutch smiled his approval when Starsky was dressed. “Doesn’t that feel better?” he asked, but received only the lack of response that was quickly becoming familiar.

Noting the tangled curls, Hutch dug a comb out of his pocket and held it out to Starsky, but his offer was ignored. Deciding not to push too far, too fast, he slid the comb back into his smock and signaled Starsky to follow him. More silent acquiescence met his direction as Starsky shuffled forward in the flimsy slippers.

“It’s almost lunch time. Are you hungry?” he asked. The silence, had Hutch not had both professional and personal experience with it, could easily become maddening. He reached back into his own memory, recalling how terrifying everything had seemed at first at the Andrew Residence. And he had had the advantage of being in a private institution where money could buy the best of care. Here at Cabrillo, everything was in short supply. Including patience and compassion, Hutch thought, when he saw the other orderlies and nurses herding men and women into the dining room for lunch as if the unfortunate patients were cattle on their way to market.

Hutch sat Starsky in a sunny place by the window at the end of one of the long tables, filled a lunch tray, and brought it to the table. He slid the tray in front of his charge, but wasn’t surprised when Starsky turned his head to look out the window, completely ignoring the food.

“I know it isn’t exactly gourmet cooking,” Hutch apologized for the unappetizing combination of beans and franks, and some sort of mushy green vegetable that sat in lumps on the plastic plate. “But you need to eat something.”

The blue eyes came around to meet his briefly then moved on, scanning slowly around the room, stopping occasionally, but Hutch wasn’t able to tell what had caught Starsky’s attention. Eventually, the gaze returned to the view outside the window.

Hutch sighed, then tried one more strategy. “It’s okay to eat dessert first, if you want.” He nudged the bowl of chocolate pudding forward. Sometimes, all an empty belly really needed was those first couple of bites, and then it would start making its own demands of a lethargic mind. Besides, there had to be at least a little milk in the treat somewhere.

Slowly, Starsky picked up the plastic spoon and dipped it into the pudding, transferring one, then two, then a third bite to his mouth. There was no evident enjoyment on Starsky’s face, but for now Hutch was happy to settle for obedience. He sighed again, this time in relief.

“Hey,” grumbled the patient seated next to them. The bald giant of a man pointed an accusing finger at Starsky. “He’s not supposed to have dessert first. How come I gotta eat this slop…” A spoon sank into the sticky mass of beans. “…and he don’t? I want my pudding first, too.”

Hutch laid a calming hand on the big man’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Bo. Nobody ever said you couldn’t have your dessert first, too. It’s your lunch, and you can eat it any way you want to.”

“I can?” Bo asked, childlike wonder sitting awkwardly on his hard man features.

“Of course you can. Isn’t that right, Mr. Starsky?” Hutch tried an appeal to his silent charge. “It would be okay if Bo wants to have his pudding first like you, wouldn’t it?”

To Hutch’s surprise, Starsky raised his head, making eye contact with Bo and nodding in agreement.

Bo grabbed up his bowl of pudding and the spoon.

“Of course, I always thought it was better to save the best for last.” Hutch was so grateful he didn’t have to eat the food the patients were served. Even brown bagging a cold lunch was better than what the budget at Cabrillo State allowed for meals.

Bo’s bowl of pudding was quickly returned to his tray, along with several others that had been snatched up along the table. Smiling to himself, Hutch returned his attention to Starsky and swore he saw just the slightest up turning of the grim-set lips before the mop of dark curls obscured his view. Had Starsky really smiled? Hutch couldn’t be sure. If he had, however, it was certainly a hopeful sign that the patient wasn’t completely immersed in his own world and Hutch might be able to draw him out eventually.

“How about just a few more spoonfuls,” Hutch coaxed when he realized that Starsky’s left hand was resting on the table, the spoon still gripped in his fingers.

There was the familiar pause and then the hand began to move again, mechanically transferring pudding from bowl to mouth. When the bowl was empty, Hutch nudged the plastic cup forward. “It’s not the best coffee in the world, but it’s warm.”

This time there was no hesitation. The fingers of both of Starsky’s hands wrapped around the cup as if seeking its warmth before the cup was lifted. Content to have coaxed some nourishment into his patient, Hutch decided to quit while he was ahead. He had an apple in his own lunch. Maybe he would be able to convince Starsky to eat it before the end of shift.

Hutch waited patiently while Starsky sipped his coffee, mentally preparing the chart entry he would make before he left for the day. He could brief the afternoon shift personally before leaving, but all he could do was hope that the rest of the staff might actually read the information he would provide about his observations and the fact that Starsky needed to be prompted to eat. It was his day off tomorrow, and he had classes both tonight and all the next day, and he was already worried how the newcomer would fare in his absence.

“All done?” he asked when Starsky put down his empty cup. “We can have a look around now if you like.”

Moving more like an octogenarian than a man who couldn’t be older than his mid-twenties, Starsky rose to his feet. He stood passively until Hutch came around the end of the table to lead him out of the dining room and directly into the activity room. They had lingered a while over Starsky’s coffee, so most of the patients had already moved to this room, settling into preferred activities. As he had upon exiting his room, Starsky hesitated in the doorway.

Hutch gave him a moment and then prompted, “Would you like to go in? See what there is to do and maybe meet some of the other patients?” he asked, taking it as a no when Starsky turned his head away. “Okay. I’ll just show you around.”

Hutch wrapped his hand around Starsky’s arm to steer him away from the activity room and into the corridor, releasing his grip when Starsky seemed to understand that he was to follow. He had felt tension in the flesh beneath his hand, but wasn’t sure if Starsky was reacting to the touch of a stranger or if it was more simply fear of the situation he found himself in. His instincts kept insisting that Starsky welcomed contact from him, but again, Hutch didn’t trust those instincts not to contain more than a grain or two of selfish motivation.

“This is the charge desk,” Hutch explained to Starsky when they reached the floor’s main desk. He smiled a hello at Bycroft, the only nurse present at the moment, and then turned to Starsky. “If you need anything, there’s usually a nurse on the desk, so you can come here.” He swallowed down his frustration when Starsky didn’t react and forced a smile. “You remember Nurse Bycroft?” he asked, letting his eyes beg Bycroft for her cooperation.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Starsky.” Bycroft’s greeting was more formal and stiff than Hutch had hoped for.

It didn’t matter in any case, because Starsky hardly seemed to notice her, his attention drifting further along the corridor.

“Uhm, Ken, if you have a minute,” Bycroft said, a pointing finger indicating a previously unnoticed occupant of the station. Another patient, a young woman, was curled up and almost hidden by the shelf she huddled under. “Barbara tried to give her a bath this morning. She’s been under there ever since.”

“Tina?” Hutch asked, shaking his head at the familiar scenario.

“Tina,” Bycroft confirmed.

“Would you wait here for me for just a minute?” Hutch asked Starsky, hoping for some clear sign of obedience. If he didn’t get it, he would have to lock Starsky in his room before he could help the frightened girl.

“Yes,” Starsky answered immediately, leaving Hutch wondering again if Starsky was far more aware than he appeared.

Hutch tucked the observation away for later consideration and then moved around the high counter.

“Careful,” Bycroft warned. “She bit Barbara. Drew blood.”

Noting the warning, but not letting it unduly influence him, Hutch hunkered down beside the reluctant bather. “Tina.” He kept his voice soft but firm, a tone most of the patients responded to. “You can’t keep doing this every week.”

“Don’t wanna bath,” Tina responded, her face still tucked into her knees, but her tone belligerent enough that Hutch didn’t need to see her expression. “Drowned in a former life. I know I did.”

Hutch wanted to curse. Didn’t anyone ever read the notes on the chart? He had documented Tina’s phobia, and yet every week the nurse on duty insisted on trying to force her into the tub.

“I’ll remind them that you have to shower,” Hutch promised the girl as he had been forced to promise every week.

“You did. They don’t lissen. They wanna drown me,” Tina insisted, her face still hidden.

Hutch reached out a cautious hand and gently petted the girl’s short, dirty hair. Tina responded as she always did, pressing her head into his fingers. Touch starved, like so many of the patients, perhaps like Starsky as well. Maybe Hutch shouldn’t have withdrawn his contact. He almost turned his head to look at Starsky before he realized what he was doing and caught himself.

“No one wants to drown you,” Hutch reassured the girl, forcing his attention to remain on his current patient and to forget Starsky for the moment. “I’ll remind them again, I promise.”

“Why can’t you do it?” Tina demanded, lifting her head and skewering Hutch with a demanding green glare.

“You know that wouldn’t be right,” Hutch reminded her. “I’m a man.”

“You sure are,” Tina declared and giggled. “A pretty man. You could bath me if you want.”

Hutch felt himself blushing and levered to his feet, offering his hand down to help the girl from her hiding place. “Now don’t be naughty,” he admonished her gently.

Apparently mollified, Tina allowed herself to be handed off to Bycroft who led her away while Hutch retrieved her chart to make yet another note. As he scribbled the notation, Hutch felt as if he was being watched and glanced up, meeting Starsky’s eyes. Their gazes held the way they had in the van, then Starsky abruptly turned his head. But not before Hutch had seen the animation in the blue eyes and usually blank features. Speculation? Surely not. The word indicated an intent, perhaps a sinister intent, that Hutch truly believed Starsky was incapable of. Curiosity, perhaps, which would be a good sign. Hutch dismissed his original interpretation, making a mental note to watch more closely for other hopeful signs while he continued the tour.

*~*~*

Near the end of his shift, Hutch climbed the stairs to the third floor. He knew it was probably useless, a fool’s errand at best, but he had to try to get Matwick to take some interest in Starsky. Maybe it was just his completely irrational feeling of connection with the new patient, but Hutch couldn’t stand the thought of Starsky hanging around in limbo waiting for a file that might never come.

Hutch knocked on the office door and when there was no answer pushed it open. “Dr. Matwick?” he said before he realized that the doctor was laying tipped back in his chair, feet on the desk, sound asleep.

Disgusted, Hutch pulled the door closed and knocked harder, feeling a petty satisfaction when he heard a muted crash through the door.

“I hope you fell out of your chair, you lazy bastard,” Hutch muttered and knocked on the door again before bolding opening it and entering the doctor’s private domain.

“Hutchinson. What do you want?” The doctor hadn’t yet regained his composure, looking flustered and still half-asleep.

“I thought you wanted me to report to you before I left for the day.” Hutch was counting on Matwick being too distracted during their morning conversation to know if Hutch was lying.

“Report what?” Matwick asked sourly.

“The new patient from County.”

Matwick tugged at the bottom of his jacket and then sat down at his desk, making a show of tidying the few files that sat on its surface. “Yes, of course.” He glared at Hutch. “Well, what are you waiting for? Report.”

Hutch reminded himself to keep a tight rein on his temper for Starsky’s sake.

“Surely you’ve been able to make some observation if you spent the entire day with….”

“Starsky. His name is Starsky. He’s a suicide survivor.” In the worst way possible, Hutch wanted to add “remember” but bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do Starsky any good to antagonize Matwick.

“Yes, yes. I remember. Came in from County. No file.” A sudden intent interest brightened Matwick’s chubby face. “Is he violent?”

“Quite the opposite,” Hutch said, and saw the momentary interest fade. “He’s very withdrawn. Hardly speaks, but I really think─”

“Yes, yes. A very sad case, I’m sure. But there’s very little sense in me seeing the man if I don’t have his file. It would hardly be cost effective for me to spend my very limited time repeating work done by the staff at County.”

Maybe Matwick’s time wouldn’t be so limited if he spent less of it playing with his mice and napping. Hutch longed to throw the accusation at Matwick but again restrained himself. “If you could just see him for─”

“I will, Hutchinson, of course. As soon as the file has arrived. Now if that is all, you may return to your duties.”

That wasn’t all, not by a long shot, but Hutch recognized that he was wasting his time. If Matwick was so determined to see Starsky’s file before he saw the patient, then the best thing Hutch could do was find the damned file. Even if he had to go to County and chase it down himself. Maybe then this lazy, incompetent, sorry excuse for a doctor would have no more excuses to neglect his duty.

“Thank you, Dr. Matwick,” Hutch ground out between clenched teeth and stalked out of the office. It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to slam the door behind him.

~*~*~

As soon as Starsky heard the door lock behind him, he made a slow, shuffling inspection of his room, looking for bugs. The electronic variety. When he found none, he gratefully lifted his head, groaning as he rubbed the back of his neck. Despite the weeks he had spent preparing for his role, it still gave him a pain in the neck.

Restlessly, Starsky prowled the room as he reviewed his progress for the day. Pretty pitiful. Little more than physical pictures to go with the blue prints he had memorized, and faces to go with the names of the staff.

Already, the operation had two strikes against it. No partner and no file. If he was being honest, Starsky would have to say three strikes. Hutch’s apparent kindness might be an advantage Starsky could use, but his immediate attraction to the handsome blond was, at the very least, a distraction Starsky could do without.

Hutch had been kind and thoughtful during their tour, but after catching Starsky staring at him at the nurse’s station, those china blue eyes had been more watchful. Under many other circumstances, Starsky would have welcomed the  attention of such a good looking man, but he feared that all it meant now was that he had somehow blown his cover already, or at the very least, piqued some instinct or curiosity in Hutch.

Three strikes and you’re out?

Starsky wasn’t going to accept defeat that easily. What he needed was a way out of this room. He was damned good with a lock pick, but had had no way to smuggle one in with him. He would have to make an opportunity to look for one when he was let out for dinner.

Right on cue, Starsky’s hungry stomach let out a protesting growl. He was starved and very tempted to devour the apple Hutch had left for him, but made himself wait. If no one remembered to make him eat dinner, that apple would have to get him through the night.

Stopping beside the window, Starsky spotted Hutch striding across the parking lot. As he watched, Hutch climbed into a large, battered Galaxy and, a few moments later, drove away. Despite common sense, despite cop’s suspicion, Starsky couldn’t help feeling that he had just become a little bit more vulnerable.

*~*~*

Hutch finished the last notation for the reading assignment for his next class and closed his notebook. After collecting the rest of his books and his jacket, he made his way down to the floor of the lecture hall. It was eleven o’clock, and he had been up since five this morning for his shift at Cabrillo. He was bone tired, but reminded himself wryly that this must be good training for residency.

“Ken. Wait a minute, and I’ll walk with you.”

Hutch stopped beside the lectern, watching as Dr. Philip Tucker stuffed his notes into his briefcase. Dr. Tucker was a noted psychiatrist, and Hutch had been lucky to get into this class. In fact, he hadn’t hesitated to use his family connections to ensure a place. Although he was almost certain he intended to become a physician rather than a psychiatrist, Hutch believed in a well-rounded education.

“So, have I managed to convince you that delving into the mysteries of the mind would be an interesting way to spend your career, or are you determined to waste your talents lancing boils and nursing cranky gallbladders?” Tucker asked, stepping down to floor level.

The two men left the lecture hall and walked along the empty corridors, heading for the parking lot.

“You make it sound like a good choice, Phil,” Hutch admitted. “But working out at Cabrillo State makes me want to run for cover.”

“Leave it to you to find the absolutely worst place in the state to form an opinion,” Tucker complained.

“I’ve already seen the very best Minnesota had to offer,” Hutch admitted candidly, shrugging as he added, “I thought I needed a balanced view.”

“There’s always private practice, research departments in major hospitals, consultant work,” Tucker countered, nodding his thanks as Hutch held the outside door open for him.

“Speaking of consulting, you do some pro bono work at County, don’t you?” Hutch asked. He dug in his pocket for his car keys as they crossed the parking lot.

“Yes. I was in there twice last week, as a matter of fact,” Tucker agreed.

Hutch knew it was unusual for someone of Tucker’s stature to consult in a hospital like County, but like his habit of mentoring promising but struggling students, it was part of Tucker’s overall rather quirky character. It was also one of the reasons Hutch didn’t hesitate to ask for a favor now.

“We had a new patient come in this morning. A suicide survivor named Starsky. As usual, the file didn’t arrive with him, which leaves me working in the dark.”

“You working in the dark?” Tucker echoed. ‘What about… damn… What’s his name?”

“Matwick,” Hutch replied, but offered only a shrug of his shoulders to explain his superior’s lack of involvement. Although he didn’t feel he owed Matwick any particular loyalty, neither did Hutch want to sound like a complainer who just couldn’t cut it.

Tucker snorted in disgust. “That man’s a disgrace to the profession. But what else can you expect for what Cabrillo can afford to pay?”

Hutch let that observation slip by as well, choosing to keep the conversation on topic. “I wondered if you might have seen him, or heard of him.” He hoped Tucker might be able to give him even a hint of how to help Starsky.

“Starsky? No, I don’t think so,” Tucker said after a few moment’s thought. “The only suicide I was involved with was a guy who drank a bottle of Draino and then changed his mind. The doctors figure it will probably be weeks before he can even talk.”

“No, that couldn’t be Starsky. He hasn’t got a mark on him,” Hutch said, remembering the fine, fit body he had seen in the shower this morning and then hurriedly forcing the image from his mind.

“Probably pills then,” Tucker concluded. “Or the gas pipe. Or….”

Hutch held up a hand to halt the morbid flow. There were all kinds of ways to end your own life, and it wasn’t until he was admitted to the Andrew Residence that he had learned how unimaginative his own attempt had been. The pills he had swallowed might have killed him eventually, if they hadn’t made him so dog sick first.

“I’m at County again tomorrow. I can ask if you like. See if someone can work up a flash of efficiency and get the file off to you,” Tucker offered.

They were standing beside Hutch’s car now, and he bent to unlock the door. “I’d appreciate it, Phil. I have classes all day tomorrow, including…” he grimaced. “…an autopsy, but I could call your office.”

“Okay. I should be back in the office by four.” Tucker patted the roof of the battered Galaxy as Hutch climbed into the driver’s seat. “You know, I could do a whole paper on why a man of your means drives a car like this.”

“Please, Phil, I’ve had enough psychoanalysis to last a lifetime,” Hutch reminded the instructor who had become a friend, if not a close one. “I drive this car because all the other students drive beat up wrecks just like it.”

“And you wear a five-hundred dollar leather jacket because…?” Tucker trailed off with a teasing smile.

“Because my mother gave it to me for Christmas,” Hutch replied promptly and closed the door. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine coughed to life. “I’ll call you tomorrow. And thanks again.”

*~*~*

“If you ain’t gonna eat that, can I have it?” Bo asked, his hand already inching toward Starsky’s pasta-covered plate.

Despite the protests of his empty belly, Starsky didn’t object to the theft. Jackson, the black orderly who had replaced Hutch, obviously didn’t know Starsky had to be prompted to eat, and Starsky had to stay in character. Just another example of the sacrifices he made for his job.

Impatiently, Starsky waited until the other patients had eaten and began leaving the table. He got to his feet and inserted himself in the general exodus, hoping to be overlooked by the busy Jackson. He needed time to find an improvised lock pick.

He got ten minutes. Long enough to discover that there were no needles in the sewing baskets, and not even brushes with the jars of paint. Hoping for a hairpin, he wandered over to the women’s section, but lifting his head for a quick scan, he didn’t see any promising prospects.

“Come on, you.”

Starsky nearly jumped as a firm grip latched onto his upper arm. It looked as if Jackson was more on the ball than Starsky had expected. Either that or he had made himself conspicuous by crossing the flimsy partition that segregated males and females.

“You’re not supposed to be out of your room unsupervised, and I haven’t got time to keep an eye on you right now,” Jackson grumbled as he towed Starsky along to his room.

Starsky didn’t resist, but did hang back in the doorway of his room, wondering if the same hesitant or fearful act might work on Jackson the way it did on Hutch. No such luck. A firm hand in the middle of his back propelled him into the room.

“If I get a chance later, I’ll come back and bring you out. Maybe you can watch TV for an hour,” Jackson said, but obviously not expecting a reply, closed the door before Starsky could decide whether to offer his thanks.

Jackson must have forgotten his promise, leaving Starsky to prowl his room and deal with his impatience the best he could. He finally gave in to his growling stomach and ate the apple Hutch left him, then prowled the room some more.

He froze when the room suddenly went dark, his frustration hitting all new heights. Lights out. Even the lights in the corridors would be dimmed. Perfect for a little clandestine reconnaissance, if only Starsky wasn’t locked up tighter than the Bank of America!

Knowing there would be bed checks, Starsky fumbled around in the dresser for the pajamas Hutch had provided and changed clothes in the dark. He hadn’t worn pajamas since his mother had shipped him out west after his father was killed, but he wore them willingly now. He wasn’t safe in his own room. He was in a strange environment where several unknown somebodies had a key to his door. As illogical as it sounded, the pajamas almost felt like a suit of armor.

Curling up on the bed, fully expecting to be staring into the dark shadows for most of the night, Starsky was surprised to feel himself beginning to drift off to sleep. He guessed it was true what they say, that nothing tired you out like doing nothing.

*~*~*

Starsky wasn’t impressed by the orderly who came to get him for breakfast. Dauber looked more like he ought to be bouncing rowdy drunks into the street than keeping order in a mental institution. He herded Starsky along to the dining room, gave him a shove and a grunt, and then disappeared.

Resigning himself to more fasting, Starsky took a seat beside Bo and watched enviously while the other patients ate.

“What the hell? You done already?” Dauber grumbled from behind Starsky.

“Never got nothin’,” Bo rumbled around a mouthful of toast, and even though Bo definitely wasn’t his type, Starsky could have kissed the man in gratitude.

He added the nurse, who was busy mopping up spilled milk further down the table, to the list of kisses he owed when she added, “That’s Hutchinson’s new pet. He has to be fed.”

“What the hell is this, nursery school?” Dauber demanded.

“Just get him a tray and tell him to eat. Maybe that will do the trick,” the nurse suggested.

“I’ll tell him some stories about forced feedings,” Dauber threatened as he walked away. “Maybe that’ll make him pick up his spoon.”

In a few minutes, a tray was plunked down in front of Starsky and a hard finger poked into his shoulder.

“Eat,” Dauber commanded, and when Starsky didn’t immediately comply, both the order and the poke were repeated. “I said eat.”

More than ready to be obedient, Starsky picked up his plastic spoon and did as he was told. The toast was soggy, the eggs runny, and the coffee barely lukewarm. It wasn’t the all American breakfast of cold pizza and root beer, but Starsky had never tasted anything so good in his life.

Starsky ate as quickly as he could and hurried into the activity room. None of the staff seemed to be interested in him, but as Starsky started his lock pick search, he saw he had attracted some unwanted attention. Four male patients, one of whom was the ex-boxer he owed a kiss, stood together watching him. After looking around quickly, a shifty-looking character with slicked back hair and a long trench coat, sidled up to Starsky.

“If ya don’t draw no attention to yourself, nobody’ll remember ya ain’t supposed to be outta lock up yet,” the man muttered through barely moving lips. “Ya can join us. Ya play poker, doncha? Just keep yer head down and yer nose clean and follow us.” Shifty started to move away and then shuffled close again. “And let Victor win. He don’t like to lose.”

Hoping the man knew what he was talking about, Starsky followed along, joining them at a table in the activity room.

“I’m Freddy,” shifty said, producing a worn deck of cards from one of the pockets of his trench coat. He pointed at the human mountain next to him. “This is Bo.” The pointing finger moved to the next man at the table. “This is Weeze.” The finger moved on to the last stranger. “And this is Victor.”

Starsky nodded acknowledgement of the introductions but kept his mouth shut and a wary eye on the doorway, expecting the end of his freedom to appear at any moment. He chafed at the delay to his search, but hoped he might obtain some information from his new companions.

“I knew ya was a smart one the minute I laid eyes on ya,” Freddy confided in a stage whisper, nodding sagely toward the doorway. “Yeah, you’re a smart cookie, keepin’ an eye peeled for Dauber. He’s a mean one. As soon shiv ya as look at ya.” Freddy paused to collect agreeing nods from around the table.

“Kramer and Switeck, too,” Bo added in his rumbling base. “Big as me and twice as ugly, both of ’em.”

“Nobody’s uglier than you, Bo,” Wheeze said, though in Starsky’s opinion, he was no great beauty himself, and no great shakes in the brain department, poking fun at a man the size of Bo.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Victor put in his gloomy two cents worth. “They walk in darkness, dealing death’s─”

“Never mind the poetry,” Freddy cut in. “Kramer ain’t been on since you come in, but you’ll know him when you see him. Could be Dauber’s twin brother, only dumber. Just keep clear of ’em, Starsky, and you’ll be okay. Jackson’s okay and so’s Smith and most of the others.”

Starsky filed away the information greedily. It might mean success or failure, or even life or death, for him in the next few days. “Hutchinson?” he dared to ask in a husky whisper.

“Prince of a guy,” Freddy said promptly, giving Starsky a poke in the ribs with his elbow and a conspiratorial wink. “But ya already figured that out yourself. He ain’t been here long, and he’s too good to hang around this dump all his natural born life, but he’ll do ya right if ya keep your nose clean.”

It might only be the ravings of a delusional maniac, but the information came as a relief to Starsky. He just hoped it was true.

“Ya play, doncha?” Freddy asked, beginning to deal out his worn cards.

That was Starsky’s signal to exit stage right. He couldn’t break cover by showing interest in the game, and he had to find a damned lock pick while he had the chance. Just as he was about to make his excuses, however, Nurse Bycroft lumbered up to them with her rolling medication cart.

“You’re not supposed to be out,” Bycroft said when she saw Starsky.

“Cheese it. The jig is up,” Freddy hissed, and without moving an inch, Starsky’s newfound friends managed to distance themselves from him.

Bycroft called over Dauber. “Take Starsky back to room twelve. He only came in yesterday, and we don’t have the file from County yet.”

Starsky wanted to resist when his arm was grabbed and he was pulled to his feet, but even if he had been willing to blow his cover completely, the nurse’s next statement quelled his budding rebellion.

“Let me know if he gives you any trouble, and I’ll give him a sedative.”

Fuming silently, Starsky went along peaceably.

*~*~*

Hutch drummed his fingers against the glass wall of the phone booth as he waited for Dr. Tucker to pick up the phone. He had just finished observing an autopsy and had a two hour break before his evening lecture began. He had missed lunch, which had turned out to be a blessing, and hoped his queasy stomach would settle soon so he could eat before his class began.

“Hello. Ken?”

“Hi, Phil. Did you find out anything about Starsky at County today?” Hutch asked into the phone.

“Yes. He came in last Wednesday. Looks like he swallowed a bottle of painkillers. Treated and confined in the psych ward until he was transferred out to you yesterday,” Tucker confirmed.

“He was in a jacket when he arrived. Was he violent?” Hutch asked the most pertinent question.

“I don’t think so. I talked to Franklin, the intake in the ER, and he didn’t say anything about violent or aggressive behavior,” Tucker reported.

“So why the jacket?” Hutch wondered.

“SOP?” Tucker suggested. “County is pretty short staffed, too. If they didn’t have someone to stand a suicide watch, they’d probably stick him in a jacket. Couldn’t hurt himself that way.”

Not for the first time, Hutch gave silent thanks for his family’s fortune. It had saved him from places like County and Cabrillo during the lowest point of his life. “I don’t suppose there’s anything in the file,” he said with little hope. “Background? Occupation? Next of kin?”

“I don’t have the file. I told records to route it to you. But I do remember Franklin mentioning that he’s a cop. Next of kin is his superior. Uhm… Captain Dobey, I think the name was. Down in Metro division. You should have the file in the morning.”

“Thanks, Phil. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. See you in class next week.”

Hutch hung up the phone. He smiled politely at the girl waiting her turn as he left the booth but didn’t really see her.

“A cop,” he muttered to himself as he made his way to the campus cafeteria. That certainly accounted for the generally good physical condition, but it was also puzzling. Police officers had a pretty high suicide rate compared to most other professions, but the vast majority of cops who chose to take their own lives usually shot themselves. It was an efficient and damned near foolproof way to kill yourself, especially when the necessary weapon was so conveniently available. To Hutch, the fact that Starsky had chosen a much less efficient methodology cried out that the man didn’t really want to die. He was looking for help.

He didn’t know exactly how he was going to get Starsky the help he needed, but he was damned if he was going to stand by and let Starsky fall through the cracks.

*~*~*

Nobody even came for Starsky for lunch, so by dinnertime he was ready to take a bite out of the tray, never mind the stew on it. He was hungry and so claustrophobic from being locked in for the day, it took a conscious effort to shuffle along slowly to the dining room and then to sit as if uninterested before Jackson remembered to prompt him to eat. He took each bite slowly, savoring the lousy food as only the truly hungry can, and then joined in the general exodus for the activity room.

The puppy dog pleading expression in his eyes didn’t have to be faked when Jackson waylaid him at the door.

“Oh, all right,” the black man relented. “Go ahead and watch TV for a while. But don’t get into any trouble, you hear.”

Starsky watched television for a half hour, noticing that Jackson stuck his head into the room twice during the rerun of the Beverly Hillbillies to check on him. He wondered how long the orderly’s generous impulse would last and decided he better see if he could find something to get himself out of his room while he had the chance.

Giving up his chair in front to the television, Starsky slowly made his way around the room. He stopped at each and every table, even the ones that held only half-completed jigsaw puzzles, and gave each one a thorough visual inspection. He didn’t dare paw through the boxes of art and craft supplies, knowing too much interest would be suspicious.

“Are you going to draw us a pretty picture?”

Starsky slanted a look to his left where the feminine voice had come from and saw a nurse. A comparatively young nurse, whose long hair was held in a bun at the back of her head by hairpins, one of which was slipping almost out of her hair. The woman smiled at him, and Starsky wished he could smile back. Without undue modesty, he knew he had a smile that most women, and more than a few men, fell for every time. When he had seduction on his mind, it was one of his most useful assets. The other was his eyes, and he employed them now to their best advantage. Lifting his head, he widened his eyes for a moment, attracting attention to their deep blue color and then let his lids drop shyly, knowing his long, thick lashes would spread over his cheeks in a dark fan.

The nurse responded exactly as Starsky hoped she would. “Oh my, you are the pretty one, aren’t you?”

Suppressing a smirk, but grateful for the woman’s lack of professionalism, Starsky lifted his lids and gave her another blast. While her attention was focused on his face, Starsky raised his hand and carefully plucked the dangling pin from her hair, palming it and blessing a certain character named Colley who had taught him everything he knew about the fine art of pick-pocketing. He ended the movement with a gentle touch to her hair to camouflage his thievery.

“And a flirt, too,” the nurse concluded.

“I wouldn’t get too close to that one if I were you, Julie,” Jackson warned from the doorway. “Nobody knows anything about him yet.”

The nurse backed off a few steps as Jackson advanced. The orderly didn’t have to tell Starsky that his freedom was about to be curtailed. He curled his fingers around the bit of metal and went along quietly.

*~*~*

It nearly drove him nuts, but Starsky waited until Jackson made his last bed check before the end of his shift to try out his improvised lock pick. It wasn’t going to be easy in the dark, but he was confident in his abilities. Like his lessons in pick-pocketing, Starsky had chosen the best of the best to tutor him in opening doors that other people preferred remained closed.

Easing out of bed when all noise in the corridor had faded, Starsky moved toward the door and hunkered down while he straightened out the pin. Working entirely by feel, he found the doorknob and then the key slot. He inserted the tip of the pin into the small opening and patiently worked the tiny bit of metal. Just as he heard the soft click that announced success, the pin was shoved back into his fingers and out of his grip by pressure from the other side, and a thump vibrated the door.

“What the fuck?” a muffled voice complained.

Thinking the exact same question, Starsky didn’t wait to hear more or search for his improvised pick. Leaping up out of his crouch, he dove for the bed, scrambling under the covers just as the opening door let a shaft of dim light into the room.

Starsky blinked as the intruder’s flashlight passed over his face, pretending sleepy confusion. He squinted, but couldn’t see the face behind the glare, just the outline of the white clad body. From the size of him, Starsky assumed this had to be one of the orderlies Freddy had warned him about.

“So this is Hutchinson’s new little pet, huh?” The rhetorical question was accompanied by a hand that reached down and snatched Starsky’s blanket back.

Flat on his back, helpless for fear of blowing his cover, Starsky remained silent but his whole body tensed instinctively, his muscles preparing to put up a spirited defense to whatever the stranger intended. Those intentions were made clear when the same hand that had stripped away the bedding clamped down on his upper thigh and the heavy body landed on the side of the mattress. The hand groped roughly toward his groin, and Starsky reached down to push it away.

“Uh, uh, uh, dummy. If you can put out for fancy pants Hutchinson, you can put out for me, too.”

Before Starsky could twist away, the heavy body was on top of him, pressing him hard into the mattress while a hand groped at the waist of his pajama bottoms. Starsky heaved upward, trying to dislodge the bigger man, but received only a hard slap above his ear for his trouble.

The blow stunned him, but despite the ringing in his ears, Starsky continued to struggle, getting out half a shout before the big hand covered his mouth. He bit the palm.

“You little bastard,” the orderly growled, bringing back his hand for another blow.

Starsky braced for it, but it never landed. The heavy body suddenly lifted off him and scrambled for the door while a strident alarm battled for dominance over the ringing in Starsky’s ears. The door opened and he caught a glimpse of the man.

“I’ll be back,” the brutish orderly threatened before slamming the door behind him.

Starsky sprang out of the bed and over to the door, but even in his haste, the orderly had remembered to lock it. Shaking as much with fury as fear, Starsky dropped to his knees, both hands outstretched as he searched for his lock pick in the dark. Starsky didn’t have a name for the bastard yet, but his would-be rapist had just gone to the top of Starsky’s suspect list.

*~*~*

Hutch sat at the table in his green house, a day’s worth of class notes spread out in front of him. He was supposed to be studying, but couldn’t keep his mind on his purpose. Try as he might, he couldn’t keep it from wandering all the way out to room twelve at Cabrillo.

He had had the same problem during classes today, especially after he had talked to Phil Tucker. Hutch had already been intrigued by Starsky, and the small amount of new information Tucker had given him hadn’t lessened that fascination at all. Starsky was an enigma who wouldn’t get out of Hutch’s head. His symptoms were almost textbook perfect. Too perfect, perhaps, when combined with the anomalies Hutch had noticed. Hutch had never had a suspicious nature, but there was something about Starsky that aroused his suspicions.

Unfortunately, Hutch had to admit that his suspicions weren’t the only thing Starsky aroused. That Starsky’s mental state wasn’t the only reason the new patient wouldn’t stay out of his mind.

With a sigh, Hutch forced himself to concentrate on the autopsy notes he had taken, hoping the nausea he had felt during the ME’s rather brutal dissection might return and quiet the excited little quiver Hutch felt in his belly every time he thought of Starsky. Camouflage it at least, so that Hutch could pretend it didn’t exist. That his interest was purely professional. That it was only empathy fueling that interest.

“Damn,” Hutch muttered when he realized he was doing it again. He pushed up from the table, tried to stretch the kinks out of his tired muscles, and then wandered into the kitchen. He got himself a beer from the icebox and returned to the greenhouse, but didn’t sit back down. He stood gazing through the window while his mind again took a crow’s flight back to Cabrillo.

Was Starsky all right? Had someone read Hutch’s chart notes and remembered to coax him to eat? Was he sleeping, or lying awake, staring at the bars on his window in despair?

With another muttered curse, Hutch went back to his chair, determined to put Starsky out of his mind. He had to. If this personal, inappropriate fascination continued, Hutch was going to have to cut off all contact. He couldn’t take the chance that, inexperienced as he was, he might take advantage of his position of trust. Unfortunately, though Hutch knew that he cared too much, there wasn’t anyone at Cabrillo who was likely to care at all.

*~*~*

Starsky wriggled out from under the bed with the improvised lock pick in his hand. What had been impossible to locate in the dark had been relatively simple to find in the light of day. Hearing voices out in the hall, he hurried to hide the pick under his pajamas in the dresser and brushed the dust from under the bed off his clothes.

When the door opened to reveal Dauber, Starsky didn’t find it a stretch to simply shuffle after the man down to the dining room or to pretend a lack of appetite and fatigue. He was so tired, he could hardly keep his eyes open. He had lain awake all night waiting for the orderly to return. Even if it blew his cover, Starsky wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s victim. Whoever the bastard was, he was going to have to work for a piece of Starsky’s ass.

“Eat,” Dauber ordered with a poke to Starsky’s shoulder.

Starsky picked up the spoon and ate, not particularly caring what he put in his mouth, just wishing he could put his head down and grab an uninterrupted forty winks.

“Psst.”

Starsky turned his head toward the hiss and found Freddy sitting beside him. Today, he had added a battered fedora to his Sam Spade disguise.

“You okay?” Freddy asked, looking around beneath the brim of the hat. “I got the room next to yours. Heard Switeck in there last night. It was me snuck out and pulled the fire alarm.”

Switeck. Now Starsky had a name for the bastard. If Switeck was assaulting patients in their beds, it wasn’t too far a stretch of the imagination that he might be involved in murdering them as well.

Starsky allowed his gratitude to show on his face for a moment. “Thanks,” he murmured, his voice husky from lack of use. “You’re not locked up at night?” he dared to ask.

“Nah, just new ones like you. Besides, us gumshoes gotta stick together,” Freddy whispered.

Starsky couldn’t keep the surprise off his face, but still had the presence of mind to drop his head fast.

“Yeah, I know the look. I’m on a case myself, you know,” Freddy added.

Wondering what the hell agency they were crossing wires with, Starsky scrambled for some sort of reply. “How long?” he finally muttered.

“Lemme see,” Freddy mumbled, pushing unappetizing food around on his plate. “Yeah, been on the case three years now. Gonna break it any day, you know. Matwick’s wife’ll pay big bucks for proof he’s boffing Bycroft.”

Starsky sagged with relief, and had to concentrate furiously on his bad coffee to keep from laughing. He forgot his humor when a chair suddenly scraped over the floor and went banging back onto its side.

“Oh, yeah?” shouted the chair’s former occupant, on his feet and leaning threateningly over his neighbor.

“Yeah,” confirmed the neighbor, scrambling up and getting in the first swing.

Between one blink of the eye and the next, the room exploded into pandemonium. Starsky jumped to his feet with the rest of the patients, his head whipping around as he tried to assess the situation. If he couldn’t defuse it, he had to at least try to protect the weakest patients. Wading into a riot would blow the hell out of his cover, but there was no way he could pretend disinterest if he could prevent someone from getting their head bashed in.

Poised to throw himself into the melee, Starsky hesitated as one voice rose above the clamor.

“Na, na, na, na, na. You can’t get me!”

The taunt came straight out of the schoolyard and was all the more incongruous for the bass voice that shouted it. Bo, thumbs in his ears, fingers waving, and wearing a grin the size of the Golden Gate Bridge, ducked as a burnt toast missile sailed over his head. “Missed me! Missed me!”

Not the school yard, the school cafeteria. Starsky realized that the riot was nothing more than a food fight. Every combatant sported the splattering hits of runny scrambled eggs, but they also wore smiles of pure delight. Even Victor was grinning as he snuck up on Wheeze and dumped a glass of milk on his head.

The orderlies also apparently recognized the non-lethal nature of the action because they were keeping out of it. They stood back against the walls, mostly out of the line of fire, letting their charges blow off steam until they ran out of ammunition.

Starsky spotted Freddy and a few of the other patients hunkered down behind an overturned table and decided to join them. There was no sense blowing his cover over a little adolescent nonsense.

“Glad ya got the sense to keep your head down, kid.” Freddy shuffled over to make room for Starsky. “Don’t need to give the heat a reason.”

Starsky couldn’t have agreed more. He squatted down behind the table to watch the show.

The fun ended abruptly, however, when Bycroft stalked into the room. “What in the world? Dauber! Jackson! Don’t just stand there. Control these─” Her command ended abruptly when a sausage link hit her in the mouth. Her face went an alarming shade of red and she retreated.

Her bellowing appearance lit a fire under the orderlies and cowed the patients, however, and by the time she returned with her medication cart, a semblance of order had been restored.

“Lock down today!” Bycroft shouted. “Sedatives all around and everybody in their rooms until dinner.”

A chorus of aggrieved voices of non-combatants rose, but before Starsky could decide whether to voice his own objections, his arms were seized and he was dragged over to the hypodermic-wielding head nurse. Despite his struggles, in a moment, he felt the sharp bite of the needle in his arm. Forgetting his cover, he bellowed his offended innocence along with the rest of the patients as he was dragged down the corridor and unceremoniously shoved into his room. He barely made it to the bed before the sedative took effect and his legs seemed to disappear.

“Looks like I’m gonna get my forty winks after all,” he slurred into the pillow as darkness closed in around him.

*~*~*

When Starsky woke up, the afternoon sun was shining fiercely through his window right into his eyes. It took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t the light that had wakened him, but a sound. The sound of his door opening. Fighting drug-addled wits, he rolled over and saw a nurse setting a tray on his dresser.

“Dinner,” she announced and departed as abruptly as she had appeared.

“Dinner?” Starsky mumbled, struggling up to sit on the side of the bed. “What happened to lunch?”

Getting legs under him that had a disconcerting tendency to wobble, Starsky staggered over to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. Drying his face on the t-shirt he pulled over his head, he stretched, trying to work out the kinks and clear his foggy brain. He moved over to the dresser, lifted the lid on the plate and dropped it again. Still nauseated from the sedative, he wouldn’t have to fake a lack of appetite tonight.

“Three days and all I’ve accomplished is to get myself almost raped and shot full of drugs,” he grumbled as he began to pace. He needed to clear the last of the sedative out of his system. If Switeck returned tonight, although the bastard had no way of knowing it, he was going to have one thoroughly pissed off cop to deal with. If he didn’t, so much the better. It was well past time Starsky got the hell out of this room and started doing his job.

*~*~*

Hutch was surprised to find Nancy Bycroft just coming off duty as he came on at 11:00 p.m.

“I thought you were on day shift,” he said as he led the way to the staff lounge. For him, it would be the first cup of work-night coffee; for her it would be one for the road.

“Barbara called in sick. Seems her bite is infected,” Bycroft explained as she poured them both cups from the almost depleted pot. “You look tired. Did you have classes all day?”

“Uh-huh.” Hutch savored the first hot, bitter sip of the strong brew. “And all day yesterday and the night before.”

“I don’t know why you ever took this job,” Bycroft said, amending herself when Hutch just shrugged. “Yes, I do. You’re in a big hurry to make a difference.”

Hutch felt a betraying blush creep onto his face.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of night you’re going to be in for. We had a riot this morning and the whole second floor has been in lockdown all day,” Bycroft reported.

“What happened?”

Bycroft lifted her hands in a who-knows gesture. “Conflicting stories. I ordered sedatives all around. It’s been quiet since.”

“You didn’t sedate Starsky?” Hutch snapped. “For pity’s sake, Nancy, the man is lethargic enough without being pumped full of drugs.” Nancy Bycroft had been decent enough to him since he had arrived, but Hutch had to admit that she was part of the problem around here. She was too quick with a hypo as far as he was concerned, and he suspected it was based mostly on fear. Bycroft was afraid of her patients. That was often apparent even through the tough demeanor she displayed. He had wondered more than once why she stayed here.

Giving himself a minute to calm down, Hutch went to the coffee machine and topped up his cup. “By the way,” he said, his back to the nurse. “Phil Tucker found Starsky’s file at County and had it sent over. Did it arrive this morning?”

“No. Their delivery van broke down. It will probably come in tomorrow,” Bycroft said, her voice sounding weary.

“Doesn’t matter. He said there wasn’t much in it, except the name of Starsky’s superior. I made an appointment with him for tomorrow afternoon,” Hutch said, turning back to face his colleague.

“Superior?” Bycroft echoed.

“Yes. Starsky’s a cop out of Metro–”

Hutch jumped back as the cup in Bycroft’s hands slipped through her fingers, the black coffee splattering between them. He sidestepped the puddle and went to the woman who had turned as white as her uniform.

“Nancy, are you all right?” He put an arm around her shoulders and tried to lead her to a chair.

Bycroft shrugged him off, grabbed up a handful of paper towels and knelt to mop up the mess she had made.

“Never mind that. I’ll clean it up.” Hutch tried to bring her to her feet but was shrugged off again, this time more violently. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bycroft insisted, getting back to her feet. “I’m just tired. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. I shouldn’t be doing double shifts, that’s all. All I need is a good night’s sleep.” She had picked up her coat and was fumbling into it, once again evading Hutch’s touch when he tried to help her. “I’m all right, I said,” she snarled, and Hutch backed off.

“At least let me walk you to your car,” Hutch offered. He had never seen the head nurse this rattled no matter what happened.

“In case you’ve forgotten, you’re on duty,” Bycroft snapped. She marched to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Bewildered, Hutch finished cleaning up the spilled coffee, then went out into the ward. He had work to do and then he wanted to check on Starsky. If the man had been sleeping all day, maybe there was a chance that they could spend some time talking. Until the file arrived, Matwick wouldn’t be bothered, and maybe not even then, so it was going to be up to Hutch to do what he could.

*~*~*

Hutch opened the door to Starsky’s room and, shielding the flashlight with his hand, played the beam over the empty bed. Adrenaline giving him a kick in the chest, he pushed the door wider and scanned the room with the light’s full beam. He sighed in relief when he spotted the missing patient in the chair near the window. He flicked the beam away, but not before seeing the anxious expression on Starsky’s face. He stepped clear of the doorway and pointed the flashlight to the floor, moving slowly into the room.

“It’s only me.” He offered the reassurance as he approached, but was dismayed to see no lessening of the anxiety on the handsome face. “You know I’m not going to hurt you, don’t you?”

“H-Hutch?”

Hutch stopped within a few feet of the frightened patient, aiming the flashlight to illuminate his own face. “Yes, it’s me.” He heard a soft sigh in the darkness and dared to come close enough to hunker down beside the chair. “Why are you sitting up? You should be in bed.”

Damning the lack of light robbing him of a clear view of Starsky’s expression, Hutch tentatively laid his fingers on the hand gripping the armrest and felt the muscles tighten even further. “I guess today was pretty scary, huh? All the noise and then being locked in your room all day,” he ventured a guess.

Starsky made an inarticulate sound that might have been agreement or disagreement.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me,” Hutch apologized sincerely.

There was a second sound that Hutch thought might be a choked back sob, but he wasn’t sure. He did feel the fingers under his relax and risked curling his hand around them, offering a reassuring squeeze. He was encouraged when Starsky didn’t pull away.

“You should lie down, David,” he suggested gently. “I know the sedative made you sleep all day, but that isn’t real sleep.”

To his surprise, Hutch received cooperation when he tugged gently on the hand in his. Smoothly, he straightened as Starsky came up out of the chair, slowly coaxing the other man to lie down on the bed. He retained his gentle grip as he perched on the side of the bed, feeling the hand tense again.

“I wish you could tell me what’s wrong,” he whispered.

“Switeck.”

Hutch jumped and twisted to face the door where a trench-coated figure stood, the brim of his fedora shadowing his face. “Freddy, what are you doing out of your room?” he asked, but Freddy just disappeared silently. Jumping to his feet, Hutch hurried to the door and out into the corridor, seeing Freddy slip into the room next door.

Shaking his head, Hutch returned to Starsky. Freddy knew he wasn’t supposed to be out of his room at night and it wasn’t like the docile, if delusional, patient to disobey. At least not so openly. Placing his flashlight so that it would illuminate Starsky’s face but not blind him, Hutch studied the still features, trying to puzzle out the mystery.

“Do you know what Freddy meant about Switeck?” he asked.  He thought he saw a flicker of response, but couldn’t be sure.

Hutch had spent an hour after the disturbing scene with Bycroft reviewing patient charts. Although his interest had been mostly in the riot that had broken out at breakfast, he remembered now that Switeck, despite it being his day off, had been in the night before covering for the new orderly who had never shown up. The memory brought a disturbing suspicion to Hutch’s mind.

“Did Switeck hurt you?” he asked, suspicion hardening into certainty when Starsky turned his face away.

“That son of a bitch,” Hutch growled and felt the body on the bed shrink away from him. He reached out and patted the arm closest to him. “It’s all right. I’m here now. I won’t let anybody hurt you,” he crooned, fighting hard to keep his fury out of his voice. He should have known. If he had listened to his instincts, he would have known. His own dislike of the brutish orderly, added to the fear many of the patients showed toward Switeck, should have painted a crystal clear picture.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Hutch asked. When Starsky shook his head, he remembered that there had been a false fire alarm the night before. Switeck must have been interrupted.

“Tomorrow?”

“Or tomorrow, either. I’ll take care of Switeck,” Hutch promised. He didn’t expect Matwick to be of any help, so he would take care of the problem himself. Although it wasn’t a talent he used often, was actually one he was more than a little ashamed of, Hutch could be intimidating when he needed to be.

He forced himself to bury his anger, push it away and focus on the man whose trust he felt he had betrayed. There had to be some way to reach this tortured soul, to help him tap into the sorrow overwhelming him and purge it. Without some knowledge, some hint of what could have sunk Starsky into such a deep pit of despair, however, Hutch was helpless. Hopefully, his interview with Captain Dobey tomorrow would at least give him a place to start.

“See, you are tired,” he said with a smile as Starsky yawned hard enough to unhinge his jaw. It was probably the lingering effects of the drug, as well as the likelihood that Starsky hadn’t slept well the night before.

He pulled the covers up to the other man’s shoulders, tucking him in as tenderly as a mother would her child. “You can sleep tonight. I promise you that no one will open your door but me.”

The blue eyes closed obediently, and Hutch smiled again as he rose from the bed and went to the door. “Good night,” he whispered, closed and locked the door.

The held back fury returned as he moved quietly down the corridor checking on the other patients, but he nursed it jealously. When Switeck showed up in the morning to relieve him, Hutch wanted to be waiting with a full head of righteous indignation at his disposal.

*~*~*

Starsky let himself doze. After a full day of drug-induced sleep, he knew he would wake up when Hutch returned to check on him. The clock was ticking. The dawn would bring the start of the fourth day of the seven that Dobey had allowed him, and he had accomplished exactly nothing.

Starsky waited until Hutch checked on him three times. Without a watch, Starsky could only guess, but he was almost certain that the orderly was sticking to a precise hourly schedule. It also appeared that after checking on him, Hutch left the corridor immediately, returning to whatever duties occupied him the rest of the time. Given the man’s apparent devotion to duty, Starsky harbored no illusions that, between checks, the handsome blond sat somewhere with his feet up and dozed. He just wasn’t the type.

Listening until the sound of Hutch’s footsteps disappeared, Starsky rolled out of bed and quietly retrieved the lock pick from the dresser drawer. In a moment, he had the door open. After checking that the corridor was clear, he left the safety of his room, closing the door silently behind him.

Starsky had to get up to the third floor where the office and treatment rooms were. The elevator worked only with a key, but as far as he could see, the stairwells weren’t connected to any alarms. Prepared to make a dash back to his room if he was wrong, Starsky eased open the stairwell door. Silence. Relieved that something finally seemed to be going his way, Starsky stepped through the door and pulled it closed behind him.

Conscious of the minutes ticking away on his mental clock, Starsky hurried up the stairs, checked what he could see of the corridor through the glass window in the door, then eased the heavy steel open just enough for a quick look around. It was even darker up here, but at the moment, the shadows were his friends and Starsky moved out into them.

Starsky turned left and crept silently along the corridor, passing closed doors until he came to one labeled treatment room. He tried the knob, and when it wouldn’t turn, dropped to his knees, reaching for the lock pick. But the slot where the key should go had been blocked. That meant that it must adjoin one or both of the two rooms on either side. The one on the right was to a supply closet, so Starsky went on to the next one on the left and hit the jackpot.

Dr. Leon Matwick the nameplate read. Crouching in the dark, Starsky went to work on the lock, acutely aware of the passing minutes. Too many of those minutes were used up before there was a muted click and the knob turned in his hand. He eased the door open and slipped into the dark room.

Starsky wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but it seemed to him to be common sense that, whatever was going on here, the man in charge would have to be involved. He hurried to the desk, quickly searching through drawers that revealed nothing but office supplies until he came to one holding hanging folders.

Taking the risk of turning on the desk lamp, Starsky thumbed through the folders tabbed with unfamiliar names until he hit one he knew. Dauber, J.

Personnel files.

“Pay dirt,” Starsky mumbled and quickly searched the file but found little of interest beyond the fact that all of Dauber’s previous work experience seemed to be in bars. Kramer, L. revealed as little.

Disappointed, Starsky skipped over the bulk of the files until he found Switeck’s. This file made for a little more interesting speed reading. Seven previous employments, all as an orderly at various hospitals and institutions. Seven dismissals, all for assaults on patients.

It was enough information to arouse and confirm Starsky’s suspicions, but they were just pieces of the puzzle. Starsky needed more before he could figure out if they were part of the central picture or only background. Four more files, pulled at random, showed nothing suspicious.

Starsky’s time sense alerted him that his window of opportunity was closing fast, but he had one more file he had to check. Hoping he was going to find just another background piece to the puzzle, Starsky pulled Hutch’s file.

Twenty-six. Unmarried. A short work history easily explained by the many years Hutch had spent in furthering his education. Starsky’s eyes skidded to a stop as they reached the personal history, riveted by a single paragraph. Institutionalized for six months after a suicide attempt. The words seemed to leap off the page at him.

“Jesus Christ!” Starsky exclaimed, forgetting the case, forgetting where he was, forgetting to whisper.

A high pitched squeak nearly made him jump out of his skin. Starsky stood up and spun toward the sound. A cage full of mice? What the hell?

Despite the double shock, Starsky knew his time was up. Quickly, he returned Hutch’s file to the drawer, closed it and turned off the lamp. Moving carefully in the dark, he left the office, retraced his steps to the stairwell, and entered it. Halfway to the second floor, he heard a door below open.

“I’ll be right back, Mildred. I’m just going to check on Starsky.”

Starsky froze for a second at the sound of Hutch’s voice echoing up the stairwell from below, then scrambled down the remaining stairs, blessing his bare feet that let him move silently and praying he wouldn’t trip.

Throwing caution to the wind, he didn’t bother to check the corridor before opening the door far enough to slip through and then hurried back to his room. With his heart pounding, Starsky jumped into bed and pulled up the blanket. He buried his face in the pillow and tried to bring his racing breathing down to the quiet rhythm of a sleeper. When he heard the door open, he pressed deeper into the thin pillow.

On his previous checks, Hutch had merely stood at the door for a moment and then left. This time–of course this time, Starsky groused silently–he came into the room and right up to the bed.

“David, are you all right?”

Thinking fast, Starsky moaned softly and wriggled as if caught in the throes of a nightmare. He felt a hand settle on his shoulder and jerked, pretending to be suddenly wakened. Thrashing around to face Hutch, he hoped that if the orderly could see his sweaty condition, it would be taken as a result of the dream.

“David? What’s the matter? Did you have a bad dream?” Hutch whispered just as Starsky hoped he would. “Would you like me to stay with you a while?”

With adrenaline pumping through his system in waves, Starsky waffled long enough that Hutch took the decision from him, sitting down on the side of the bed and gathering up his hand.

“You’re shaking like a leaf in a gale,” Hutch whispered with concern in his voice.

Concern. Care. Kindness. Starsky had seen all of those qualities in Hutch from their first meeting. They had set up a grudge match between his instincts and his training that had been more of a distraction than Starsky could afford. Learning that Hutch had tried to commit suicide and then gone on to become this strong, compassionate man was trying to tip the balance in instinct’s favor. Hutch had too much heart, and a tendency to wear it in his eyes and his manner, for it to be all an act.

“You’re so frightened. I wish you could tell me why. Wish I could make you feel safe,” Hutch murmured, his fingers encircling Starsky’s in a gentle but firm grip.

Indecision and frustration were taking their toll on Starsky. This wasn’t his first dangerous undercover assignment, but his lack of progress along with the relentless tick, tick, tick of the clock in his head were shattering his ability to focus. Yes, he was scared. Scared of being caged, of failing, of taking that one mis-step that would blow his cover and land him on a slab. For this one demoralizing moment, he was scared to death, and comfort was so close at hand it was almost beyond his strength not to reach for it, if only for a few seconds while he gathered his courage.

Then the initiative to reject or accept was taken from him when Hutch released his hand and found a grip on his shoulders. Caught fast in big hands whose strength came as a shock, Starsky found himself pulled up in the bed and drawn into an embrace more comforting than the reassuring weight of a fully loaded gun in his hand. Despite himself, for a moment he drank it in, absorbing the warmth of the big body he was held to and the compassion in the hands that cradled his head against a broad shoulder and stroked soothingly up his spine.

It didn’t last long, maybe twenty of the nearly silent ticks of the watch Hutch wore on his wrist, but while it did, Starsky let it possess him and recharge his emotional battery, rebuild his courage.

Until the innocence of it vanished. When the feel of the fine, strong body pressed to him imprinted less virtuous sensations, and the clean, masculine aroma invaded his senses, Starsky remembered who he was then and why he was here. A cop, on the trail of a serial killer or killers. The hands that cradled him with such gentleness might belong to a murderer; the strength that was even now causing his partial erection to beat a demanding tattoo at his groin might have been used to force the life from six helpless patients. The killer he had been sent here to bring to justice might even now be holding him, ensnaring his senses with his masculine allure. Starsky couldn’t afford to forget that. Not even for one second, let alone the many he had allowed Hutch’s spell to disarm him.

“No,” Starsky protested, fumbling to bring his hands up between them and put an end to the too pleasant embrace. He was angry with Hutch for tempting him away from the professional detachment he needed so desperately to see him through this assignment, but furious with himself for allowing a pretty face and gentle manner to be such a temptation.

He was released immediately and, even though Hutch didn’t leave the bed and Starsky could hardly see the expression on the handsome face, a tangible space grew between them, a safe zone that allowed Starsky to regain the professional calm he never should have lost.

“I’m sorry,” Hutch apologized. “I know it isn’t very comforting to be comforted by a stranger.”

Damn. Starsky held on to detachment with both hands. There was so much truth in that statement, and now Starsky knew that Hutch had walked the hard path of pain to find it. In any other time or place, Starsky knew he would respond to the chord of understanding Hutch had plucked in him. But not here. Not now. Silently, he turned his face away.

“I understand,” Hutch said, rising from the bed and moving back to the door. “You try to go back to sleep. If you need me, just bang on the door. I’ll stay close, just in case,” he promised and left.

As soon as he was sure Hutch had left the area, Starsky jumped out of bed and paced to the window. Staring through the bars, he forced himself to put Hutch onto the back burner of his brain and consider the other puzzle pieces he had discovered tonight.

Switeck. He had already been number one on Starsky’s suspect list, and the violent history only made him more viable.

Switeck, Dauber, and Kramer. A possibly deadly trio. Any one of them capable of killing, but none of them, as far as Starsky knew, possessing the brains to cover it up. Or the power. Matwick had signed the death certificates, so Matwick had to be involved.

“But why? Goddammit, why?” Starsky growled, giving the bars a slap with his open palms. “Blackmail? What the hell could they have that he’d want?”

Realizing what he was doing, Starsky shook his head ruefully. This place had him talking to himself.

The theory wouldn’t hold water in any case because none of the murdered patients had shown any signs of violence. Autopsies had all concluded heart failure as the cause of death, but the ME hadn’t been able to pinpoint the cause of the heart failure. Starsky had only connected the deaths because there had been so many in so short a time.

Which put Starsky back at square one.

He had to get back into Matwick’s office. But he wasn’t going to be doing that tonight. Not with Hutch hovering so close.

Frustrated but resigned, Starsky returned to his bed. At least with Hutch holding the key to his door instead of Switeck, he didn’t have to worry about being raped in his sleep. If anything, considering his response to the innocently-offered embrace, it was Hutch who should be doing the worrying.

*~*~*

Hutch was waiting in the men’s locker room when Switeck arrived for his day shift. With his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket to keep them from giving in to the anger that had been simmering all night, Hutch wasted no time in making his position clear.

“I found out last night that you’ve been abusing the patients. You’re not going to get away with it, Switeck,” Hutch challenged before the other man even reached his locker.

Switeck looked taken aback for a moment, then smirked as he moved to his locker and turned to work the combination lock. “So your new little pet can talk after all, eh, Hutchinson? Whatsamatter, you don’t like sharing?”

Through force of will alone, Hutch kept his hands in his pockets, reminding himself that violence would get him nowhere when dealing with someone like Switeck. “You’re a pervert and a bully,” he said mildly. “And you may have been getting away with it up to now, but no more,” he promised.

“Who died and left you in charge, pretty boy? Matwick runs this place, and he isn’t gonna believe you over me in a month of Sundays,” Switeck challenged.

The confidence of his opponent shook Hutch’s certainty for a moment, but he quickly regrouped. Matwick might be the head of this facility, but in reality, he was just another cog in the machinery. Any such machine, Hutch had learned as a child, could be brought to a grinding to a halt by the proper application of money and influence. Hutch, if he needed it, had an abundance of both at his disposal.

“If you lay one hand on Starsky, or any other patient, that is not absolutely necessary to perform your duties, I will personally see to it that you land in the unemployment lines, if not jail,” Hutch stated with the same unequivocal calm he had seen his father employ hundreds of times.

“Are you threatening me?” Switeck growled, pulling himself up to his full height, trying to intimidate Hutch with his size the way he did the helpless patients entrusted into his care.

Hutch laughed at him “You can’t frighten me, Switeck. And, no, I’m not threatening you. I hear even so much as a whisper about you, and you won’t work in this state again. That’s a promise, you bastard.” It was a vow, and Hutch made it looking straight into Switeck’s eyes. He held the furious gaze until Switeck finally had to look away.

“I’m not takin’ orders from you,” Switeck blustered, slammed the locker door, and stalked out of the room.

Hutch took a few moments to make sure his temper was firmly under control and then left the locker room himself. He made it only a few feet down the corridor before he was waylaid by Nancy Bycroft.

“Ken, I have to see you before you leave,” the nurse, looking both exhausted and terrified, insisted. She clutched a manila folder in a white knuckled grip as she led Hutch into the staff lounge.

“Nancy, what’s…?” Hutch began, but Bycroft waved him to silence.

“You were due on the charge desk five minutes ago,” Bycroft snapped at the nurse who was pouring a cup of coffee. The tone of her voice sent the other woman hurrying out of the room.

As soon as they were alone, Bycroft shoved the folder into Hutch’s hands. “That arrived this morning from County. It’s the Starsky file. I don’t care what you do with it, keep it, burn it, or throw it in the ocean, but whatever you do, don’t let Matwick see it.”

“Matwick?” Hutch echoed in confusion. “Nancy, I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand. All you need to do is look after Starsky yourself,” Bycroft insisted.

“You know I can’t do that,” Hutch protested. “I’m not a qualified–”

Bycroft’s grip on his arm interrupted Hutch. She squeezed hard enough to bruise and shook him a little. “If you never get your degree, you’ll still be more qualified than…”  The nurse bit her lip over the comparison and then went on. “Just do what I tell you. I… I can’t explain right now, Ken. Please. You’ve just got to trust me. If you really do care what happens to Mr. Starsky, then you have to take care of him yourself.”

“Okay. For now,” Hutch said soothingly, just to calm the poor woman down. She was so agitated, he was afraid she might give herself a stroke. “But you know I can’t do it forever. Starsky needs help that I don’t have the training to give him.”

“And you know he won’t get it from Matwick,” Bycroft insisted. “The only person in this place who has a chance of prote… reaching him is you.”

Hutch sighed and ran a hand back through his hair. He was tired and drained and wanted nothing more than to go home and fall into bed. He was certainly too tired to argue with a distraught woman who obviously wasn’t going to tell him any more than she wanted him to know. “All right, Nancy, I’ll think about it, but I want you to do something for me in return.”

“What?” Bycroft asked suspiciously.

“Keep an eye on Switeck. I have reason to believe he’s been abusing the patients. You knew?” he demanded when he saw the guilty expression on Bycroft’s face.

“Suspected,” the nurse defended her non-action. “What can I do? I’m fifty years old, Ken. What chance do you think I’d have of finding another job if it came down to a power struggle and he won?”

“How do you live with yourself?” Hutch asked harshly, knowing he couldn’t look in his own mirror if he turned his back on his duty to the patients in his care.

“That’s none of your business,” Bycroft snapped.

Hutch held up his hands. There was no sense alienating her when he needed her. “You’re right. And I’m not asking you to confront him. Just let me know. I’ll take care of it, and I won’t involve you.”

“And you’ll look after Starsky?”

“Yes,” Hutch agreed against his better judgment. He wasn’t sure, after the way Starsky had rejected him last night, if he might not have blown what little chance he had of reaching the withdrawn man. Hutch had been cursing himself for his impulsive offer of physical comfort all night. He knew better, not only from his studies, but from personal experience, that trust came hard. He had tried to rush it, and though his desire to comfort had been genuine enough, he feared that it had also been selfish, and Starsky had sensed that. But the alternatives were few. It was him or Matwick, and now it appeared that, for whatever reason Bycroft refused to reveal, Matwick was also a poor if not impossible alternative. All he could do, Hutch decided as he left the lounge, was to do his best for the man entrusted to his care.

*~*~*

Starsky was already up and dressed when the orderly unlocked his door in the morning. He had a shopping list of things to accomplish today, including getting back into Matwick’s office. But first, he had to somehow avoid being locked up in his room. If he could keep his freedom. If he could find out the doctor’s schedule. If his luck would just change for the better. If, if, if. Acutely aware that his time was running out, Starsky had to make a concerted effort to disguise his eagerness when the orderly freed him for breakfast.

“Yer sprung,” Freddy whispered to Starsky the moment he sat down beside the other patient at the dining table.

“Sprung?” Starsky echoed through barely moving lips, hiding his consternation. Had Dobey decided to abort the operation completely? Was he even now somewhere in the building securing Starsky’s release?

“Yeah. I overheard Bycroft telling Jackson that you ain’t in lock up no more. Hutchinson sprung ya as of this morning.” Freddy turned his attention to his meal.

Now maybe, thanks to Hutch, Lady Luck would quit throwing spitballs his way. Starsky mentally rubbed his hands together, anticipating an opportunity to make some real progress.

“Gotta keep your nose clean,” Freddy advised, talking out of the side of his mouth, keeping a wary eye on the orderlies and nurses as they circulated. “Eat already. Ya don’t want the heat breathin’ down your neck.”

Willing to follow good advice when he heard it, whatever the source, Starsky ate everything on his tray, giving it his full attention even when Switeck came to hover over him for several uncomfortable minutes.

“Bastard,” Freddy pronounced judgment on the orderly when Switeck moved out of earshot. “Hutchinson get the message last night?”

Starsky nodded. Freddy was another person at Cabrillo to whom Starsky owed a kiss. He had no idea how he would have communicated his complaint against the orderly to Hutch without Freddy’s timely intervention. Not being able to talk was becoming a bigger handicap all the time. If he ever found himself in a similar situation in the future, God forbid, he resolved to give himself the persona of a man who couldn’t shut up.

“Thanks,” he muttered to Freddy.

“Thought so,” Freddy concluded with obvious pride. “Hutchinson’s a smart cookie. Too smart for this dump. And Switeck’s goin’ around this morning lookin’ like somebody pissed on his gardenias. Don’t improve his ugly mug any, if ya ask me.”

Starsky had to pretend to choke on his coffee to cover up his laughter. Freddy might be a brick or two short of a full load, but he sure had a way with words. Freddy’s next sotto voce statement banished his humor.

“Now you’re sprung, we can really get our teeth into this case. Time’s been wastin’ while I been coolin’ my heels waitin’ for ya to get outta lock up, partner.”

Partner? Obviously what Lady Luck giveth, she could also snatch right back. Whether Freddy had figured out Starsky’s true purpose or his delusion had just expanded to include a partner didn’t matter. What it meant was that Starsky had just acquired a crazy shadow. One as likely to draw attention as to deflect it.

Starsky’s fears proved to be well founded. Everywhere he went, Freddy went with him, and the other man didn’t hesitate to inform staff member or patient alike, that they were on a case.

The last straw fell on the back of Starsky’s patience when Freddy dragged him up to Bycroft at the charge desk.

“Yes, Freddy. What is it?” The nurse shared a frown equally between Starsky and Freddy.

“Just givin’ ya a head’s up, sister,” Freddy told her, sneering as he cocked his thumb at Starsky. “Now my partner’s sprung, it ain’t gonna take no time for us to get the dirt on ya. Better get outta town before Matwick’s wife gets wind of your dirty little secret.”

Starsky cringed mentally as the nurse’s eyes bore into him, but kept his expression blank. He was relieved when Bycroft’s glare moved on to Freddy.

“Dr. Matwick doesn’t have a wife,” Bycroft told Freddy, her voice icy with disdain. “But perhaps it’s time he increased your medication.”

There was sheer panic on Freddy’s face for a moment, then his confidence returned. “Your days are─”

Starsky latched onto Freddy’s arm and hustled him back to the activity room.

“Whadya do that for? I had her on the run.”

Starsky sighed silently. Obviously, he had to come up with some kind of distraction for the determined gumshoe. It was either that, or hit him on the head and lock him in a supply closet.

With a soft hiss, Starsky attracted Freddy’s attention and nodded significantly toward an unoccupied table in the corner of the activity room. He ambled over and sat at the table, keeping his gaze on his folded hands as he tried to signal with a twitch of his head that Freddy should sit beside him.

“Rides,” he whispered cryptically when Freddy finally got the message and slid onto the chair next to him.

“Rides?” Freddy echoed, also whispering and looking around constantly to ensure their privacy.

Starsky put a hand on Freddy’s arm to bring the wandering gaze to him. He nodded his head toward the window in front of them. When Freddy didn’t seem to catch on, Starsky nodded again, more pointedly, and the other man turned his head to look through the window at the parking lot beyond. Understanding lit his face.

“Rides,” Freddy confirmed. “Matwick and Bycroft?”

“Everybody. Make, model, plate.” Starsky tried to sound mysterious enough to catch Freddy’s interest.

“Every… Ah. I get ya. You ain’t allowed outside yet. Ya need me to get the skinny,” Freddy said, sounding delighted with his assignment.

Starsky nodded in relief. He tapped his forehead and winked.

“Keep it in my head?”

Another nod and a finger across his lips.

“Mum’s the word,” Freddy confirmed and slunk away.

Starsky rolled his eyes, taking a minute to submerge his frustration and make sure his mask of non-expression was back in place. Bycroft was firmly stationed at the charge desk, so Starsky had to content himself with wandering the activity area, eavesdropping on the patients’ conversations until his opportunity presented itself.

It did give him a chance to watch Swietck and the patients’ wary fear whenever the orderly approached them. The bastard appeared to be on his best behavior today, however, and Starsky concluded that Hutch must have followed through on his promise. One more brick in the growing pile of evidence that Hutch was exactly what he appeared to be. Stubbornly, Starsky refused to allow himself to eliminate the blond orderly as a suspect even though he knew that if he didn’t find the man so attractive, he would have dismissed the possibility by now. Reverse prejudice it might be, but in his present situation, Starsky couldn’t afford to give his trust too easily.

Lunch time finally came and with it the opportunity Starsky had been waiting for. With the staff rounding up patients and herding them into the dining room, the nurse’s station would be deserted. Keeping to his shambling wander, though he longed to break into a run, Starsky sidled around the perimeter of the room until he came to the doorway into the corridor and slipped around it.

The corridor was empty and he shuffled along a bit more quickly until the nurse’s station came into view. It was deserted. Ducking around the counter, Starsky scanned the various piles of paper on the desk. Patient charts, supply requisitions, memos, and daily reports were quickly reviewed then dismissed. At last, his search yielded results of a sort when he found the staff schedule. It wasn’t a nice convenient appointment book, but the fact that Matwick’s name appeared under the day shift designation was something.

“Hey. What are you doing back there?”

Without so much as a missed beat, Starsky pointed at the vase of half-dead flowers standing conveniently close to the schedule.

“Pretty,” he pronounced gravely, then looked up from beneath the veil of his lashes. He thought he recognized the voice. It was the same nurse from whom he had stolen the hairpin.

“Come on out of there before you get into trouble,” Julie said, but her tone was tolerant rather than commanding.

Obediently, Starsky shuffled out from behind the counter and allowed himself to be led to the dining room, already planning his next move. If Matwick was on day shift, that meant he should be leaving at 3:00 o’clock. By 3:30, Starsky would make an attempt to get up to the third floor and, if the coast was clear, repeat his break and enter of the doctor’s office.

Freddy gave Starsky a conspiratorial wink when he slid his tray onto the table and sat down beside him. “Make, model and plate,” he mumbled, tapping his temple.

Starsky nodded his understanding and concentrated on eating after Jackson reminded him.

It was after 1:00 before lunch was over and Starsky realized he had a couple of hours to kill. Not anxious to attract attention to himself, he accepted the offer of a paperback novel from Freddy and followed the other man back to his room to get it. Freddy handed him the novel–The Big Sleep–but, when Starsky reached to take it, Freddy used their mutual grip to draw Starsky toward the window.

“Blue Vega,” Freddy muttered.

“Matwick?” Starsky asked hopefully, realizing that his make-work distraction might actually give him some useful information.

“Bycroft,” Freddy corrected. “The big cheese drives a late model Olds. Brown. JMJ 438.”

Starsky nodded. “Good work,” he said, meaning it. However, if Freddy had completed the task, then he was likely to become a pain in the ass again. Perhaps a little more of the same type of work would keep Freddy occupied for a few more hours. “Afternoons?”

“Yeah, I’ll be on the job,” Freddy confirmed and released his grip on the novel.

Starsky went back to his room. Leaving the door open to keep an eye on the traffic in the corridor, he sat in the chair beside the window and opened the novel, pretending to read.

Time crawled by, taking Starsky’s patience with it, until the afternoon shift began to arrive. Growing more anxious by the minute, Starsky watched the departing day shift, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw a short, heavy man he assumed must be Matwick get into the car Freddy had indicated and drive away. Time for him to go into action.

The corridor was clear when Starsky went out into it and he slipped through the door into the stairwell and bounded up the stairs. He checked the window, then eased the door open far enough to stick his head out, stepping boldly into the corridor when he found it empty.

Hoping the clerical staff all worked day shift, Starsky hurried to Matwick’s office. He used his pick to open the door and hurried into the room. He went straight for the filing cabinet and began rifling through the files inside. The first three drawers contained patient files that all appeared to be current.

Excitement gave Starsky a kick in the chest when he realized the fourth drawer was locked. Working on the theory that you only locked up what you wanted to hide, Starsky knelt, picked the lock and slid the last drawer out. More files, but none of them were labeled with patient names. The first six were titled with only a single digit, one through six, while the rest of the files had handwritten labels consisting of a combination of numbers and letters.

Pulling the first numbered file pumped another shot of adrenaline through Starsky’s veins, and he quickly checked the next five. These were the files for the patients whose deaths had brought Starsky to Cabrillo. He scanned them, searching for something, anything, that would give him a lead, but if there was something incriminating, he couldn’t see it. Repeated entries referring to “treatment”, “compound”, and “regime” aroused his suspicions, but they were hardly a smoking gun.

More frustrated than ever, Starsky turned his attention to the files titled with a combination of numbers and letters. There was something about those combinations that twigged Starsky’s memory, but he couldn’t quite place what or where from. He only knew that the sight of them caused a feeling of remembered frustration. Prompted by that feeling alone, he plucked one of the files from the middle of the drawer and flipped it open.

Chemistry. No wonder he was remembering frustration. The only thing Starsky remembered from chem class was that H2O meant water.

What he held in his hands might well be the key to the cause of six deaths. Or it might be nothing more than Matwick’s secret family recipe for moonshine. If Billy Hill were here, he would know. But Starsky’s partner was sitting on his ass at home with his injured ankle propped up and probably a beer in hand to take the edge off his pain.

Frustrated once again, Starsky shoved the files back in the drawer and stood with hands on hips, scanning the office. He had already checked the desk, and other than the cage of mice, there was nothing more in the office for him to search. Unless he wanted to start interrogating the mice, he might as well get his ass back to his room and quit risking discovery for nothing.

Starsky made it back to his room without incident. He stretched out on the bed and tried to make some sense of the pieces of the puzzle he had found so far. Every instinct he owned was telling him he was close, and any cop working under cover was a fool if he didn’t listen to his instincts. Matwick had something to hide, and Starsky was certain it had something to do with those damned files with their frustrating chemical notes. As far as Starsky was concerned, they might as well be written in Chinese characters, he had so little hope of deciphering their meaning. What he needed was someone to whom such compounds were a second language, someone with a little alphabet soup after his name. Or–the light bulb that went on in his brain at that moment made Starsky squint–someone working to get those meaningful little letters. Someone like Hutch.

“That’s right, asshole,” Starsky chastised himself “Why not ask a possible suspect to reveal the whole plot for you. Just ask pretty please, and I’m sure he’ll spill his guts.”

He truly must be getting desperate. Maybe Hutch was or wasn’t all he appeared to be. What was certain was that Starsky needed help, and Hutch likely had the technical expertise to provide that help. All he had to do was figure out some way to get Hutch to offer that expertise.

*~*~*

Harold Dobey sat at his desk and took long, deep breaths. In the past, he had been a pretty good undercover cop, but that was a long time ago. Dobey was no longer so certain of his acting ability, and that ability could prove crucial to the safety of one of his officers.

Dobey was pinch hitting, and he didn’t like it one bit. The call from Dr. Hutchinson had given him no option but to agree to a meeting. It had been a calculated risk, putting so little information into the cover file, and even riskier to include the truth that Starsky was a cop but they had little choice. A few of the perps Starsky had collared had ended up in the mental health system, and they couldn’t take the chance one of them might be incarcerated at Cabrillo. Murphy could be a real bastard that way.

Dobey and Starsky had cobbled together a thin history in case it was needed, and after Hutchinson’s call yesterday Dobey had pulled the case evidence to back it up. He had briefly considered claiming ignorance, suggesting Starsky’s present mental state was a personal matter, but had dismissed the idea. Hutchinson hadn’t sounded like a man willing to accept easy answers or evasions, and Dobey certainly couldn’t afford to have the man sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. It might only be professional curiosity, but Dobey had to satisfy it. The buck had to stop with Dobey if Starsky’s cover was going to hold.

With 20/20 hindsight, Dobey wished he had never agreed to this operation. Wished he had listened to his own common sense instead of Starsky’s glib tongue. Perhaps he had just grown complacent with Starsky and Hill’s repeated success in bringing seemingly hopeless cases to a satisfactory end, even if it was too often by the skin of their teeth.

He had delayed as long as he could. Dobey straightened the small stack of files on the desk, then pushed himself to his feet, hoping he was ready to deliver a credible performance.

*~*~*

Hutch fidgeted impatiently as he waited for Captain Dobey. When he had called the captain, the man had seemed amicable enough to meeting with him, but after waiting half an hour, staring at the closed door of Dobey’s office, Hutch was beginning to think he had made a mistake in coming here. Just as he was about to ask one of the other officers what the delay was, the door to the captain’s office opened and an older, heavy set, black man appeared.

He spotted Hutch and came forward, the formidable frown on his face lightening to a more welcoming expression. He stuck out a meaty paw. “Dr. Hutchinson? I’m Captain Dobey.”

Hutch struggled to his feet, juggling the file he carried to his left hand. “Y-yes. That’s me. I mean, I’m Hutchinson. I’m not a…” he stammered as he shook hands with the other man.

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Hutchinson. Come in.” Dobey led the way into his office. “Take a seat,” He closed the door behind them and then lumbered to the chair behind his desk. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“That’s–”

“You said you wanted to talk to me about Dave Starsky.” The chubby features settled into an expression of sorrow. “Damn shame. I’ve pulled the file on the case that I think drove Dave to… what he did.”

Hutch winced mentally at the euphemism but kept his own counsel. He knew a lot of people had trouble with the subject of suicide, especially when it involved people they cared about. It was, of course, only an assumption, and perhaps and incorrect one, that Dobey cared about Starsky in any personal way. As far as Hutch knew, their relationship was strictly professional. Before Hutch could try to discover which it was, however, he had to correct Dobey’s misconception. “Captain Dobey, I’m not a doctor,” he explained bluntly.

Dobey frowned, both hands folding protectively over the small stack of files in front of him, and suspicion replacing his open friendliness. “Then who are you?”

“I’m an orderly at Cabrillo, Captain Dobey. I’ve been taking care of Mr. Starsky since he was transferred from County.”

“But what about his doctor?” Dobey demanded with more heat than it seemed to Hutch was called for.

Hutch hesitated, resisting the temptation to squirm beneath the captain’s penetrating glare. It was so hard to explain to outsiders the facts of life in a place like Cabrillo, but if he hoped to gain Dobey’s help, he had to try. “You know that Cabrillo is a State facility….”

Dobey held up a hand, some of the suspicion leaving his face. “Let me guess, Mr. Hutchinson. Too many patients, not enough doctors.”

Hutch nodded, grateful that he wouldn’t have to find a way to try to explain the facility’s shortcomings without revealing his own feelings of disgust.

“It’s the same here. Too many criminals. Too many victims. Not enough cops,” Dobey agreed, his expression becoming dour as he continued. “That’s why Dave’s loss is even harder to take. He was one of the best.”

“I could get official permission from Dr. Matwick if you want,” Hutch offered, hoping Dobey wouldn’t agree that that was the best course of action, remembering the panic that had possessed the usually unflappable Nurse Bycroft.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Dobey said after a brief hesitation. “If you’re the one taking care of Dave, then I guess you’re the one I should be talking to.”

Hutch breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Captain,” he said, hoping it was a good sign that Dobey used his subordinate’s given name. He hoped it indicated some sort of personal relationship between the two men that might help Hutch uncover the reason Starsky would want to end his life.

“As I said, I’ve pulled the files,” Dobey said before Hutch could begin to question him, apparently eager to help. He patted the stack under his hand. “I’d give them to you, but, uhm, it’s not really allowed. Not without a court order, you understand.”

“I understand, of course,” Hutch agreed. “But if you think it has some bearing on Mr. Starsky’s condition, you could….”

“Give you the abridged version? All right.” Dobey leaned his bulk back, making himself more comfortable, much to the squeaking and creaking protests of his chair.

“It started when Starsky responded to a 2/11 call. That’s a robbery in progress,” Dobey began the story. “He shot a perpetrator who turned out to be a sixteen year old kid. That hit Dave real hard, but he was exonerated of all wrongdoing at a public hearing, and, I found out later, even made peace with the boy’s mother. Went right to the woman’s house and talked to her.” Dobey slanted a hard look at his guest. “Do you have any idea the guts that took, Mr. Hutchinson? That’s the kind of man Dave Starsky is.”

To Hutch, that didn’t sound like the kind of man to give up. “Not the kind of man who could kill himself, you mean? Maybe the thought of killing a child….”

“Who knows what goes on in another man’s mind, but he seemed okay,” Dobey insisted. “He felt bad, but he knew he’d done the only thing he could do. He was protecting his own life and the lives of innocent bystanders.”

“Then why do you feel this particular case might have any significance?” Hutch asked, feeling suddenly as if he was being set up. He tried to dismiss the feeling, reminding himself that, as far as he knew, Dobey had no reason to lie to him, but there was something unsettling in the way Dobey watched him so intently as if he was gauging how his tale was being received.

“It doesn’t end there,” Dobey said as if he had been cued, his hand once again settling on the files, his thumb ruffling their edges. “If it had, you wouldn’t know Dave Starsky and I wouldn’t be missing one of my best men. There was a man named Prudholm. Starsky arrested his son a couple of years ago, and the boy died in prison. Prudholm knew Loni Craig, the boy Starsky shot during the robbery. After Starsky was cleared, Prudholm started making threats. Not against Starsky, but against other cops, although I believe he would have killed Starsky in the end. First he killed Dan Tinker. Shot him. Then he killed Jack Forest with a bomb. All the time he was making calls here, taunting Starsky and telling him if he didn’t resign, another cop would die.”

“Why didn’t he resign?” Hutch asked, immersed in the story, letting it build for him some kind of picture of the man who he felt was depending on him for his sanity, but still unable to shake off the feeling Dobey was reading from some kind of script.

Dobey closed his eyes and a flicker of pain crossed his face, then cleared. He opened his eyes and the guilt ridden dark gaze met Hutch’s. “Because I wouldn’t let him, Mr. Hutchinson. If we give in to that kind of blackmail, there would be anarchy in Bay City.”

“I see,” Hutch murmured. “So Detective Starsky blamed himself for the deaths of his brother officers?”

“Of course he did,” Dobey replied forcefully. “Dave Starsky is one of the most… Well, yes, he did, but he was handling it. Doing his job. Working to find Prudholm. Then….”

Hutch watched as the older man scrubbed at his face with both hands, assumedly overcome by the memory, but it seemed to Hutch that the dark eyes didn’t reflect the same distress as Dobey’s expression.

“Then Prudholm made one last call. Threatened to kill a cop’s family this time. Starsky convinced Prudholm to meet him and Starsky went in alone. Starsky took Prudholm alive. He wounded him, but he didn’t kill him.” There was another long pause as if Dobey wanted to give Hutch time to absorb the importance of that detail. “Everybody thought it was over, and Prudholm let us think it. Never said a goddamned word, but he’d had it all set up before he met Starsky.”

“Set what up?” Hutch asked, again feeling as if he was being led down a primrose path, but still unable to think of any reason Dobey might want to deceive him.

“A car bomb,” Dobey revealed grimly. “Officer Richardson’s wife and three children.”

The story was a horrifying one, and certainly reason enough for Starsky’s current state of mind. Reason enough, or too much? Hutch had to admit that he didn’t have the experience to judge, and had no choice at the moment but to assume that Dobey was telling him the truth.

“Is there anything else you need to know?” Dobey asked when Hutch offered no comment.

Hutch forced himself to dismiss his suspicions and try to gain as much information as this man could provide. “Does Detective Starsky have any family?”

“Mother and brother. Both in New York,” Dobey responded promptly.

Not much chance of help there. They were too far away. “What about his partner?” Hutch asked hopefully. He understood that partners, men who often relied upon each other for their lives and knew each other very well, were usually intensely loyal to each other.

Dobey shrugged. “Sometimes, Mr. Hutchinson, partners are like brothers. Even closer, because you spend so much of your time with them. Count on them for your life. But, sometimes, partners are just partners. They work well together on the streets, but the connection just doesn’t go beyond the work day. Starsky and Hill are like that. They do their jobs, and they do them well, but there’s never been more than a professional relationship between them. Hill’s already been assigned another partner and seems perfectly content.”

“What about some of the other officers? Would they be inter–” Hutch didn’t bother to complete the suggestion when he saw Dobey shaking his head.

For the first time, Dobey couldn’t seem to meet his visitor’s eyes. “I will. And my wife. She thinks the world of him.”

“And the others?” Hutch asked, a terrible suspicion dawning. “They blame him, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Dobey admitted, and underneath the jowls his jaw firmed. “You can’t tell another man what to think. That’s not what this country is about.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can,” Hutch said quietly, getting to his feet. For a moment, he considered asking to read the files, then decided that he already had the gist of them, and the facts weren’t as important in any case as how Starsky perceived them. “But if his fellow officers are blaming him, I guess it’s not that surprising that he’s blaming himself.” He held out a hand. “Thank you for your time, Captain Dobey.”

Dobey also rose and accepted the handshake. “When can I see him?” he asked. “And there are a few others….”

“Any time you want during regular visiting hours.” Hutch paused, wondering how to warn the man without discouraging him completely.

“Is there something I need to know?” Dobey asked.

“It’s just that, at this point, Detective Starsky is very withdrawn. He might not….”

Dobey shrugged beefy shoulders. “I went to see him at County. I know what to expect.” Hutch held out his hand and Dobey shook it. “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Captain Dobey.”

“Dave Starsky’s a fine officer and he’s been a good friend to me and my family. If there’s anything I can do, you let me know. And those aren’t just empty words.”

Oddly, as Hutch left the captain’s office, he had the distinct feeling that Dobey’s last statement was the first absolute truth he had spoken during the interview.

*~*~*

Dobey sank back into his chair as the door closed behind Hutch and buried his face in both hands. It was nothing Hutchinson had said or done, but Dobey knew he had blown it. He never should have agreed to the meeting though it had given him a chance to assess the man who seemed to be in charge of Starsky. Dobey’s intuition told him Hutchinson was exactly what he appeared to be and he hoped that Starsky had come to the same conclusion. The sympathetic orderly could prove to be a critical ally if the situation turned nasty.

Lifting his head, Dobey brought both hands down on his desk with a resounding thump. He never should have agreed to let Starsky go in alone, and being unable to even communicate with him was damned frustrating. He was tempted to pull the plug on the assignment right now, but hesitated. Starsky was fiercely committed to this case, and from years of experience, Dobey knew that Starsky could be worse than a dog with a bone.

At least Dobey knew Starsky was still alive. He would give his stubborn detective his seven days, but not one minute longer.

*~*~*

Starsky wasn’t at all pleased to see Switeck at dinner. The bastard had picked a hell of a night to work a double. The irony of it was he was probably covering a shift that Starsky’s partner was supposed to work.

Starsky was just going to have to take his chances. He hadn’t figured out a way to get Hutch to help him, but he had a back up plan of sorts. He had to break into Matwick’s office again and get his hands on one of those files. It was illegal seizure, and the file wouldn’t be admissible in court, but if Starsky could get it out to Dobey, it might give the captain a lead. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to get the file out, but he was confident he would come up with something when he had it.

Waiting until the building went quiet was torture, but Starsky forced himself to do it. Opening his door when he judged enough time had passed, he headed straight for the stairwell. He got only as far as the supply closet when a muffled cry froze him in his tracks. The cry was repeated, followed by the voice of a man that Starsky recognized immediately. Switeck.

“Shut the fuck up, you little bitch, or I’ll give ya a bath.”

Despite the door between them, Starsky heard the threat clear as a bell. That had to be Tina in there.

For a split second, Starsky hesitated, caught on the horns of a dilemma. Did he intervene and risk blowing his cover, or did he preserve it and let the young woman be assaulted? For Starsky, there really was no choice.

Starsky grabbed the handle of the door, but it was locked. Raising his fist, he pounded on the door, and when there was no immediate response, he backed up a few steps and threw himself at it. The door rattled but held. Before Starsky could try again, the door was flung open and a furious Switeck came boiling. Grabbing Switeck by the wrist, Starsky pulled with all of his strength, pivoting to put himself between victim and attacker as Switeck stumbled forward.

“Go,” Starsky snapped over his shoulder at Tina and was relieved when she obeyed immediately, running as if all the hounds of hell were on her heels.

Fleetingly, Starsky wondered if she would alert some other staff member to come rescue her rescuer, or if she would be too afraid. Assuming he was on his own, Starsky released Switeck and backed away, still keeping himself between Switeck and the fleeing girl.

“If it ain’t the dummy,” Switeck sneered. “What are you doing out of your room? Get back there. Go on. Do what you’re told.”

Starsky would have loved to do exactly as he was told. He didn’t want to fight out here in the corridor and blow his cover to kingdom come, but he couldn’t take the chance that Switeck would go after Tina again.

“No,” Starsky said simply.

Switeck, however, didn’t appear to be too picky over his choice of victim. “You wanna be a hero, you stupid piece of shit. You can take her place.” He grabbed Starsky’s arm and started towing him toward his room.

Starsky didn’t resist, hoping Switeck would assume he had another easy victim at his mercy. When Switeck got him back to his room, that element of surprise was going to be Starsky’s only chance of survival.

Then a new hope appeared like a shiny white knight on a charger as they came to a junction of intersecting corridors.

Hutch. China blue eyes took in the situation in a moment and fury darkened the handsome face like a sudden storm brewing in a clear summer sky. “What the hell is going on here?” he snarled in a tone that demanded answers and warned that they better be fast and good.

Starsky stumbled back a few steps when Switeck suddenly released him, barely catching his balance to avoid crashing to the floor.

“David, go to your room,” Hutch commanded, his tone deceptively gentle, his eyes never leaving his co­worker. “I’ll be along in a while.”

Starsky hesitated, wanting to tell Hutch about Tina, but recognized that his savior already had his hands full. He eyed the comparative builds of the two men, reluctant to leave the slim Hutch to deal with the heavy, brutal Switeck. For a brief moment, Hutch’s eyes met his, and Starsky’s fear slipped away. Switeck might be bigger, but Starsky suddenly had no worries that Hutch wouldn’t be able to handle him. Hutch was so full of righteous fury that Starsky had no doubt he could tear the whole building down brick by brick if he wanted to.

Starsky shuffled off down the corridor, wishing he could be a fly on the wall for the coming confrontation.

*~*~*

“Locker room,” Hutch waited until Starsky began to shuffle away before barking the command at Switeck. He saw defiance growing on Switeck’s brutish face and snapped, “Now.”

He wasn’t surprised when Switeck, after only a moment’s hesitation, obeyed. It had been his experience that bullies seldom had the nerve to stand up to real resistance. Born both too pretty and privileged, Hutch had learned how to deal with such boys, and a bully seldom left his mean spirited ways behind him as he aged. He usually just got meaner.

Switeck had regained his belligerence by the time they gained the comparative privacy of the locker room. He turned on Hutch as the door closed behind them. “Who the fuck─”

“Get your things. You’re leaving.” Hutch cut across the other man’s bluster.

“My shift isn’t over,” Switeck protested.

“Your employment is over,” Hutch corrected him. “I warned you that if you ever laid a hand on another patient, I’d throw you out.”

“You and whose army?” Switeck growled predictably, moving in on Hutch, his bulk meant to be threatening.

Hutch wasn’t intimidated. Maybe he should be. He really was no match for the much heavier man. But Hutch was far too angry to care. “Just me, Switeck. And if you ever want to work again, you’ll shut your mouth right now and leave before I decide to bring official charges.”

“Charges? Who’s gonna testify against me?” Switeck swung a beefy arm to indicate the building as a whole and its occupants in general. “These loonies? Your little pet, Starsky? Fuck, he don’t even talk.”

Hutch advanced, poking Switeck forcefully in the chest until the bigger man retreated a step or two. “You know all it takes is the accusation. Nobody ever remembers who was cleared and who wasn’t.”

Switeck’s face took on the sly cunning of a cornered rat. “I could turn it on you. What happens to all your fancy plans to be a doctor then, pretty boy?”

Hutch laughed. “You’re right, I am pretty,” he agreed amiably, then let his expression hardened. “I’m also rich. Born rich. The kind of money that makes people call me ‘sir.'” He yanked at the collar of his jacket. “This costs more than you’d earn in a month. My family has more money to waste than you’ll make in your entire lifetime.” Hutch paused, ramming his rigid finger into Switeck’s chest again. “Tell me, you stupid bastard, who do you think they’ll believe?”

Switeck suddenly deflated, stripping away the illusion of strength and revealing the powerlessness of an overgrown, schoolyard bully running to fat.

Making the most of the momentary weakness, Hutch repeated his command. “Get out, Switeck, before I call the police.”

Switeck turned to his locker then, working the combination lock with shaking lingers. Hutch didn’t try to fool himself that the trembling was caused by fear. Switeck was furious and the danger that he would erupt into violence was still very real. Surreptitiously, Hutch slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around his keys. If Switeck did attack him, he was going to need some kind of an edge.

When Switeck had emptied out his locker, Hutch held out his hand. “Keys.” He braced for an attack, knowing this could prompt the violence he had so far avoided. To a man like Switeck, his keys were a symbol of the power he held over his helpless charges.

Watching, waiting, hoping for compliance but expecting rebellion, Hutch pulled his fist from his pocket, letting Switeck see the end of each key that extended between his fingers beyond his closed fist. The standoff lasted ten of the longest seconds of Hutch’s life, then Switeck suddenly surrendered.

Hutch caught the keys Switeck threw at him and stepped back, one quick nod of his head indicating the door. “Let’s go.”

Hutch put his back into the corner of the elevator as they rode down to the first floor, placing himself to the right and slightly behind the other man when they exited. If he had to use his improvised weapon, he wanted to put as much momentum as possible behind his swing. He had no doubt that he would only get one chance. He pivoted and brought his arm back as Switeck swung around to face him when they reached the outside door.

“You haven’t seen the last of me,” Switeck threatened. “Matwick’s gonna hear about this, then you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“Matwick?” Hutch echoed with a snort of disgust, letting his arm drop back to his side but remaining alert. “The man’s a lazy, incompetent fool.”

“Matwick’s smarter than you’ll ever be. The stuff he’s working on will–” Switeck shut up abruptly.

‘Will what?” Hutch asked, Switeck’s guilty expression alerting him. This wasn’t just the bluster of an idiot with an IQ smaller than his shoe size; this was the bragging of a genuinely stupid man who had just let slip a secret.

Switeck shook his head, refusing to say any more. Without further protest, he pushed his way out the door, throwing a last glare over his shoulder at Hutch.

Hutch grabbed the handle and pulled the door closed, ensuring it was locked before turning and sagging against it. He had never thought of himself as a brave man, and he wasn’t inclined to categorize himself that way now. He had been terrified, if he was honest, but his fury and his need to protect Starsky had been greater than his fear. He was damned lucky he hadn’t been beaten to a pulp. With reaction beginning to set in, Hutch pushed shakily away from the door and headed for the elevator.

*~*~*

Starsky sat waiting impatiently in the chair by the window. When he saw Switeck pull out of the parking lot, he mentally began counting off the minutes. If Hutch didn’t show up at his door in five minutes, he was going to go looking for him. He was worried about Tina. Though she hadn’t appeared to be seriously, physically injured, Starsky was concerned for her state of mind. He could imagine her cowering in her room, terrified of every sound she heard in case it might be her attacker returning to finish what he started.

Starsky had reached only three minutes and twenty-two seconds when the door of his room opened to reveal his savior. He was still trying to hold onto that last, lingering trace of suspicion, but it was sliding through his mental fingers fast.

Hutch hesitated at the door. “David? Are you all right?”

“Hutch?” Starsky said softly.

Only when he had been acknowledged did Hutch step across the threshold. “Are you all right?” he repeated.

“Tina?” Starsky said, wondering how much he could say and still maintain his cover.

“Tina?” Hutch asked, coming close enough to squat down beside the chair Starsky sat in.

Starsky turned his face away. “Switeck.”

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore,” Hutch reassured him. “He’s gone, and he won’t be coming back.”

Starsky shook his head in frustration. It was obvious that he was going to have to talk more to get his message across, but he felt it was important enough to risk blowing his cover. “Switeck hurt Tina.”

“Oh, my God. I’ll be back,” Hutch promised and rushed out the door.

Starsky watched him go, satisfied to have done right by Switeck’s victim and wondering if he dared go about his own business now. How long would Hutch be gone? Would he care for Tina himself? Of course he would. Starsky had seen how much compassion Hutch felt for her.

“Christ, Starsky, you’ll be nominating him for sainthood next,” he grumbled to himself.

But Starsky couldn’t deny the fact that he had made up his mind about Hutch. Hutch was a white knight if Starsky had ever met one, and white knights didn’t trample the downtrodden beneath the hooves of their chargers. At least, not on purpose. The only question in Starsky’s mind now was how he could make the best use of Hutch–as unsuspecting dupe or fully informed, temporary partner.

The first option, both for the sake of the case and Hutch’s safety, was preferable, but Starsky sensed that Hutch was too damned smart for that. That left a temporary partnership. An option with its own hurdles to jump, not the least of which was to convince Hutch that Starsky hadn’t gone from withdrawn suicide survivor to delusional paranoia in the space of an hour.  Starsky could just as easily find himself back in a straightjacket if he couldn’t convince Hutch that, up to now, Starsky had simply been playing a role.

“Flip a coin,” Starsky muttered as he left the chair and moved to stand beside the window. But his decision was already made. Time was running out. Another day or two without some kind of contact and Dobey would pull the plug on the whole operation. His back to the wall, Starsky tried to decide how best to present his proposal of partnership when Hutch returned.

*~*~*

“How is she?” The afternoon charge nurse, Karen Shaw, asked when Hutch returned to the nursing station.

“She’s okay.” Hutch had stayed with Tina, trying to soothe her fears, until she had fallen asleep. Now he was anxious to check on Starsky again.

Karen handed over the incident report for Hutch to sign. “Maybe it’ll teach her to stay in her room after lights out.”

Hutch winced at the callousness, but he kept his opinion to himself. Karen Shaw had been at Cabrillo a long time, and Hutch was beginning to understand what that could do to a person. Whatever ideals you might bring with you through the door couldn’t withstand the general apathy, the lack of true success, and the conditions imposed by monetary restraints. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to tolerate it much longer himself. If it wasn’t for Starsky, he would consider quitting right now. Starsky’s actions tonight, reaching out from his withdrawn state to rescue his fellow patient, gave Hutch hope that there was a spirit behind those sad eyes that deserved a second chance. If Hutch quit now, who else would care enough to try to reach that spirit?

Hutch signed the report and handed it back. “Can you brief night shift for me? I want to look in on Starsky before I leave.”

“Yeah, sure,” Karen agreed, and Hutch knew she was relishing the opportunity to be the one to report the incident to her colleagues. Switeck had been universally disliked by staff and patients alike, and the circumstances of his departure was a juicy piece of gossip.

Striding along the dim corridor to Starsky’s room, Hutch tried to put the ugly incident out of his mind and mentally reviewed what he had learned from Dobey this afternoon. He hadn’t been scheduled to work until afternoon shift the next day, but had been too impatient to wait that long to talk to Starsky. He blessed whatever had prompted him–his own impatience or simple serendipity─to come here tonight.

Hutch switched on his flashlight before he eased open the door to room twelve, but kept the beam aimed at the floor. “David?” he whispered into the darkness.

“Over here.”

Hutch had found Starsky with the flashlight and closed the door behind him before the anomalies struck him. Caught in the beam of the flashlight, Starsky hadn’t flinched, but continued to lean against the wall beside the window. It wasn’t the position, but the stance that raised the short hairs on the back of Hutch’s neck and stopped him two steps into the room. Although the shoulder-propped, hands-in-jeans-pockets posture was casual enough, there was a sudden coiled alertness in every line of Starsky that was totally at odds with his usual demeanor. His head was up and his eyes narrowed against the light. The handsome features were taut and expectant, and it wasn’t fear Hutch saw in that face. The voice that had directed him to Starsky’s location had been as far removed from the hesitant, husky tone as it could be and still come from the same throat.

Despite instinctive caution, the changes drew Hutch, and his feet carried him even with the foot of the bed before that caution reasserted itself. As he watched, familiar features that he was so used to seeing blank and unresponsive, rearranged themselves into a wry smile.

“Come in, Mr. Hutchinson,” Starsky invited, one hand sweeping an expansive gesture that left Hutch feeling like poor Alice being invited into Wonderland. “I’m afraid I have a…surprise for you.”

Stubbornly, Hutch stood his ground. “Who are you?” he whispered, certain that this wasn’t the same man he had left trembling in this room a short time ago. However, he realized with one of those unexplainable leaps of logic that occasionally visited, this might well be the man who had challenged Switeck in defense of a fellow patient.

“Detective David Starsky. Metro division, homicide,” Starsky introduced himself.

Clinical possibilities immediately lined themselves up for consideration and Hutch hesitated, shining the flashlight beam over Starsky’s face again, seeking some trace of the patient who had consumed most of his waking thoughts since Hutch had first laid eyes on him. Attempted rape as shock therapy, he wondered inanely. “I… I know that,” he ventured cautiously. “I had a meeting with Captain Dobey today. He told me about… ah… Prudholm.

Starsky nodded as if Hutch had said exactly what he had been expecting to hear. “And about Lonnie Craig, and Dan Tinker?” he summarized, cocking his head expectantly.

“Yes,” Hutch confirmed. “And the Richardson family.”

“Richardson?” Starsky echoed, then gave a short bark of unamused laughter. “Sounds like Dobey decided to get a little creative. Did you believe him?”

Hutch hesitated, the suspicion that had haunted him during the interview with Dobey raising its head again. “Not…entirely,” he admitted cautiously.

“Then maybe it wouldn’t be too hard for you to believe that I’m not really a patient,” Starsky suggested, a slight lift in his voice adding a question mark to the statement. “I’m here working undercover.”

“Undercover?” Hutch echoed, delusional paranoia adding itself to the growing list of possible explanations forming in his head.

“Undercover,” Starsky repeated firmly. He pushed away from the wall, his casually crossed arms dropping to his sides and a sudden readiness to his stance backing Hutch away a step before a hand was held up to halt the retreat. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. Remember you said that to me? I believed you then, even if it didn’t look like it. I couldn’t trust you then, but I am now. Trusting you with my life. Can you…trust me the same way? Just for a few minutes. Just long enough to hear me out.” He leaned back against the wall, his hands held out in supplication before he let them fall again, the palms of both hands flattened against the plaster.

“All…all right. I’ll trust you,” Hutch agreed hesitantly and saw some of the tension leave the taut features. Belatedly realizing that he was still shining the flashlight directly into the blue eyes, he lowered it a little, but kept it trained on Starsky. He had to be out of his mind to continue standing here without calling for assistance. The little training he had been given when he took the job at Cabrillo warned him to get his vulnerable ass out of there, while all his instincts urged him to move closer to Starsky. The internal war held him in place.

“Thanks,” Starsky acknowledge the consideration, loosing that tense, unamused laughter again. “I know you probably think I’m…uh… crazy, but I’m not. At least no crazier than I need to be to let myself be committed, without back-up, to a place like this.”

“Why…why would you do that?” Hutch asked, reminding himself that it wouldn’t be too long before night shift made a bed check.

“Because people have been dying here, Hutch,” Starsky said, the tone of his voice once again adding layers to a simple statement, turning it into an appeal for belief. “I know you haven’t been here long, probably not long enough to know, but six patients have died in less than four months. Six apparently physically healthy people–of heart attacks.”

“Six?” Hutch echoed. “I know of one,” he admitted, remembering the young woman who had been barely eighteen years old.

“Sarah Walsh,” Starsky provided the name he couldn’t possibly have known unless his claim was true. “She was the last one, but there were five more before her. I’m here to try to find out why. Do you believe me, Hutch? I swear I’m not delusional.”

Starsky looked about the furthest thing from delusional that Hutch could imagine. He did wonder about himself, however, when he felt Starsky’s hand on his arm. Mesmerized by Starsky’s passionate appeal, he had allowed a patient exhibiting a sudden alarming change in behavior to come close enough to touch him. Hutch stepped back abruptly, swinging the flashlight beam back up into Starsky’s face as if it could shield him from this too persuasive stranger.

Starsky spread his hands in a non-threatening gesture, but his face retained its animation. There was a lively intelligence in that face that Hutch remembered witnessing break briefly through the emotionless mask several times.

“Do you believe me?” Starsky asked again, then went on before Hutch could reply. “If you need proof, call Dobey. His home number is 555-6772. Tell him I told you to call. Tell him ‘my Torino ain’t no striped tomato’ and he’ll know I trust you.” Starsky’s eyes searched his face desperately. “Damn it, Hutch, do you believe me or not?”

“Yes,” Hutch replied very simply because, despite every reason in the world he had not to believe Starsky, he did.

“Why?” For the first time since Hutch had entered the room, Starsky seemed less than completely sure of himself. “Just because I said call Dobey?”

“I…” Hutch hesitated because his reasons for belief were still arranging themselves in his mind.

“Is it because of what I did tonight?” Starsky continued, an irrepressible curiosity in his voice and in his eyes.

Why? Hutch noticed how Starsky’s face was even more attractive with its new animation, and realized he was still holding the flashlight beam directly on that face. He lowered it a little, suddenly afraid that his reasons had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with his balls. He had been attracted to Starsky from the moment their eyes had met, and Hutch hurried to lay out his reasons now, as much to reassure himself that he had some basis for trust as to explain to Starsky.

“Partly, but…” Hutch hesitated again as all the puzzle pieces finally fell into a recognizable pattern, the memories of things he had observed reassuring him that he wasn’t only following where his cock wanted to lead him. “Your act was good, almost too textbook perfect, but you slipped,” he continued. “You were too willing to make eye contact, with me and with some of the other patients.” Hutch paused again as he felt himself blushing and was glad he was the one holding the flashlight. “You’re in too good physical condition.”

For a moment, there was offended disappointment on Starsky’s face, but it quickly gave way to a rueful smile. “I thought I did a better job than that.”

“It wasn’t just you. To be honest, it was my meeting with your captain this afternoon,” Hutch admitted. “I kept getting the feeling he was lying, that he was uncomfortable, but a lot of people feel that way when someone they know tries to kill themselves.”

Starsky cocked his head to the side, his eyes probing at Hutch. “You’d make a pretty good cop, Hutch. You’re observant.” The compliment was offered sincerely.

Once again, Hutch found himself captivated by the difference expression made in Starsky’s face and hurried into speech to distract himself “You said you needed my help,” he reminded Starsky, remembering only as he spoke that he didn’t have to distract himself because Starsky was no longer a helpless patient in his care.

“Do you mind if we sit down?” Starsky suggested. “This could take a while.” He didn’t wait for Hutch’s reply but dragged the room’s single chair to the bedside, then plunked down cross-legged on the mattress.

After a moment, Hutch followed. He sat in the chair and then laid the flashlight on the bedside table so it illuminated them both, realizing that he had already committed himself to helping Starsky. The commitment to do whatever he could for his patient had transferred itself, almost without hesitation, to this vital new incarnation of the same man. There was no question in his mind that he would help, only if he could help.

“In the past four months, there have been six deaths here. Every single one of those deaths was attributed to heart attack. People who shouldn’t have been having heart attacks,” Starsky began to explain his presence.

“There’s only been one since I’ve been here,” Hutch interrupted. “Sarah Walsh. I didn’t really have anything to do with her. Dr. Matwick was treating her himself, and she died a few days after I started here. Dr. Matwick said she had a congenital heart defect, and I had no reason to doubt him.”

“Matwick, huh?” Starsky muttered. “I figured he would have to be involved.”

“Matwick?” Hutch interrupted. “You think Matwick killed these patients?”

“I don’t know enough yet to know who did it, but my gut tells me he has to be in it up to his eyeballs. Do you know him well?”

“Obviously not.” Hutch felt sick to his stomach, appalled that he could have been so wrong. “You think he’s capable of murder, but I thought he was just lazy and incompetent. So much for my powers of observation.”

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself,” Starsky advised. “You haven’t been here long enough and had no reason to be suspicious. But there has to be a reason you have such a low opinion of him.”

“It’s the way he acts. He spends all his time in his office. Hardly ever comes down to the wards. His schedule is always full, but he never shows any interest in the patients unless…” Hutch hesitated as a horrifying conclusion began to form.

“Unless what?” Starsky leaned forward, his hand settling on Hutch’s arm.

To Hutch, it felt like the only warm place on his body was where Starsky’s hand lay. The rest of him had gone icy cold. “Unless they’re violent. Sarah Walsh was admitted because of a violent attack on another student. My God, David. I tried so hard to get him to see you.”

“Easy,” Starsky murmured, his hand tightening. “You okay?”

Hutch worked to control himself and after a moment he straightened, dislodging Starsky’s hand. If he had any doubts at all, they were gone now. “Yes, I’m okay now. But do you have any proof? Anything besides what your ‘gut’ tells you?”

“I, uh, did a little reconnoitering in Matwick’s office and found some files in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. But I couldn’t interpret what I found. I flunked chemistry,” Starsky confessed ruefully. “That’s what I need you for. If I get one of those files out of Matwick’s office, could you tell me what they mean?”

“You’re going to break into Dr. Matwick’s office? Again?” Hutch exclaimed, appalled by the risks Starsky had already taken. If he had been caught… “I know this isn’t exactly my area of expertise, but wouldn’t it make more sense for me to just read the files in Matwick’s office?” he suggested impulsively, realizing belatedly that he was still trying to protect Starsky. “It seems like an illogical risk to steal something that might turn out to be useless,” he added in response to Starsky’s surprised expression.

“Illogical, huh?” Starsky echoed with amusement. “Well, thank you, Mr. Spock, but you’re a civilian. I don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks. Matwick might be the big cheese around here, but my gut tells me he can’t be in this all alone.”

“Switeck and Bycroft,” Hutch murmured, realizing that the nurse’s behavior and Switeck’s little slip were more reasons he had accepted Starsky’s claims when he had every reason in the world not to.

“What? What about them?” Starsky asked eagerly.

“Tonight when I was… escorting Switeck out of the building, he let slip something about Matwick working on something, and Nancy Bycroft has been a bundle of nerves ever since I told her you’re a policeman,” Hutch explained, feeling adrenaline pumping into his veins and recognizing that he was intrigued by the mystery and excited at the prospect of helping Starsky solve it.

“I knew it! That bastard is… Shit!” Starsky exclaimed, jumping up off the bed. “You threw him out of here, and he’s going to run straight to Matwick. He’ll spook the bastard. I have to get my hands on–”

“Wait,” Hutch insisted, leaving the chair and putting a restraining hand on Starsky’s ann. “It’s still more logical if I do it. I have the run of this place.”

Starsky shook his head stubbornly, but didn’t try to break Hutch’s hold on him. “You’re supposed to have left by now, and it’s not your job.”

“But I’ll know if I find something incriminating,” Hutch insisted.

“Would you know if it’s enough proof to convict?” Starsky shook his head. “It won’t do any good just to make Matwick suspicious.”

“Didn’t you bring one of those little cameras?” Hutch asked, feeling very foolish when Starsky gave him a disgusted look.

“Oh, yeah. One of those miniature jobs tucked into my straightjacket. I’m a cop, not James Bond,” he complained sarcastically, then shook his head again. “Listen, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you taking unnecessary risks. Dobey will have me directing traffic for the next ten years if I let a civilian get hurt.”

“Just knowing about you and not reporting to someone puts me at risk,” Hutch insisted stubbornly. “Either I’m helping you, or I’m not.”

Starsky’s struggle with his conscience paraded across his face until he finally reluctantly agreed. “Damn, I wish I didn’t have to do this, but you’re right,” he conceded grudgingly, walking with Hutch toward the door.

“It’s the files in the bottom drawer of Matwick’s filing cabinet that you want me to read?” Hutch asked, standing with his hand on the door knob, the consequences of his impulsive offer catching up with him, setting up a nervous churning in his belly.

“Yes,” Starsky confirmed, but he grabbed Hutch’s arm before he could open the door. “You sure you want to do this, Hutch?”

No longer certain at all, Hutch just nodded and pulled open the door, hearing Starsky’s worried whisper just before it closed behind him.

“Damn it, you be careful.”

*~*~*

Hutch almost gave himself away within minutes of leaving Starsky’s room when, at the third floor landing, he nearly stepped out into the corridor without thinking to check if the coast was clear. It was only the sound of one of the Latino cleaning staff singing to herself when Hutch had barely cracked the door that reminded him of the need for stealth. Fortunately, the woman’s back was to the stairs, and she didn’t seem to notice as she bent to lock the door of the room she had just exited.

With his heart pounding in his chest, Hutch sank back against the closed door, another problem presenting itself. Even if he could get to Matwick’s office undetected, he had no key. Then he remembered the heavy ring of keys he had taken from Switeck. If Switeck was really only another orderly, there was no reason for him to have a key to Matwick’s office, but if he was a co-conspirator….

Hutch dug both sets of keys from his pocket, did a visual comparison, and discovered there was an extra key on Switeck’s set. Hutch peeked through the door window. The corridor was empty now, so he eased open the door, and hurried to Matwick’s office.

Hutch didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he almost dropped the keys. He clenched his teeth and focused on working the unmatched key into the slot without dropping the whole set.

“Thank God,” he murmured under his breath when he heard the lock give and felt the knob turn under his hand. He slipped into the pitch black office and closed the door behind him, leaning back against it and taking a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. After a moment, he looked for the file cabinet, but nothing seemed familiar in this dense, waiting darkness.

Cautiously, Hutch moved away from the door, shuffling forward in the dark with his hands held out in front of him like a blind man in an unfamiliar environment. Predictably, he couldn’t get his bearings until his shin connected painfully with an obstruction and his hip quickly followed with a painful smack. Hutch cursed himself for an idiot when his hand came down to rub the sting out of his hip and encountered the lump of his flashlight in his pocket.

“Hell of a spy I’d make,” he muttered in disgust as he pulled the light from his pocket and turned it on. The obstruction he had collided with was Matwick’s desk, and a swing of the flashlight revealed the cabinet. Hutch hurried to it and crouched. The bottom drawer, he quickly discovered, was locked.

“How the hell─” Hutch’s whisper was cut short by the ping that announced the arrival of the elevator. He jumped to his feet and hurried back to the door in time to hear the cleaning lady greet Dr. Matwick.

Hide!  Hutch looked around frantically, but the only place a man his size could hide was under the desk. If Matwick happened to sit behind that desk, he would find himself with a living, breathing footrest.

He was trapped, with no way out, and no way to plausibly explain his presence. In desperation, Hutch swung the beam of the flashlight around the room, hoping for some previously unnoticed cubby hole. The light reflected off glass. The door to the treatment room stood slightly ajar. Hurriedly, Hutch scurried through the door and found there were as few options for concealing himself in this room. A single gurney, wall cabinets and a table offered little refuge. When Hutch heard the office door open, he turned off the flashlight and tucked himself behind the treatment room door.

From his precarious vantage point, Hutch watched Matwick enter the office, flick on the overhead light, and stalk straight to the black filing cabinet. Hutch clenched his fists in frustration as Matwick unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled it out. In a moment, the files Starsky had sent Hutch to read were being scooped out of the drawer and dumped into a briefcase Matwick had open beside him. The drawer was slid in quietly and the briefcase closed with a barely audible double click. A few moments later, Matwick had laboriously hauled himself to his feet and left the office.

Hutch stepped from his hiding place, realizing as he moved back into Matwick’s office that his whole body was trembling now, in fear at the close call and, more so, in frustration for having failed Starsky. Hutch had no doubt the evidence Starsky so desperately needed and had risked putting his trust and his life in Hutch’s hands for, had just walked out the door with Matwick.

*~*~*

Starsky was well on his way to wearing a track in the floor between the door of his room and the barred window. It felt as if he had been pacing the same miserable stretch of tile for most of his adult life, though he knew Hutch had only left him fifteen or so minutes ago.

If anything happened to Hutch, Dobey was going to hang Starsky out to dry. If anything happened to Hutch, Dobey wouldn’t have a chance to punish Starsky because Starsky would resign. He must have been out of his mind to let Hutch talk him into this. Hutch’s logic hadn’t even been that good. In fact, it had holes in it Starsky could have driven the Torino through. And he would have, too, if the arguments had come from Hill or anyone else. Starsky hadn’t been thinking with his brains, however. He had had trouble from the minute he laid eyes on Hutch keeping his mind on the job and it might cost Hutch his life.

If Hutch made it back, safe and sound, whether he had found anything incriminating or not, Starsky vowed he wouldn’t put him at risk again. Standing at the window, looking out through the bars, Starsky was reminded of what a terrifyingly brutal word “if” could be. If Hill hadn’t sprained his ankle. If Starsky hadn’t interfered with Switeck’s assault tonight. If Hutch hadn’t been here when he wasn’t supposed to be on shift.

Somehow, with everything else that had gone wrong on this assignment, Starsky wasn’t surprised to see Matwick’s brown Olds pull into the parking lot.

“Oh, fuck.” Starsky hurried to his door. He had to warn Hutch. He pulled open the door, saw Jackson, his back to Starsky, two doors down, and let the door sigh soundlessly closed again.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Starsky hissed while he leapt for the single bed, diving under the covers and pulling them up to his chin. He turned his back toward the door, hoping that Jackson would be satisfied to just shine his light through the small observation window.

Starsky saw the room get lighter and froze, breath held as he watched that beam track around his room, almost feeling its curious touch on his shoulders and back. About a second before Starsky was ready to scream from the tension, the light disappeared, signaling Jackson had moved on to the next room.

Throwing back the blanket, Starsky rolled from the bed, hit the floor running, and rushed to the door, mentally urging Jackson to hurry. As if he had heard the silent plea, Jackson paused only a cursory second or two at the other doors and left the corridor. It was one of the longest minutes of Starsky’s entire life.

Relieved to finally be able to take action, Starsky opened his door and stepped out at the exact moment the door to the stairs opened and Hutch, looking frightened and frazzled, ran into the corridor.

Starsky grabbed Hutch’s arm as the orderly reached him, pivoting to bring them both into his room and pushing Hutch’s back up against the wall beside the closing door. Without direction from his brain, and before he himself knew what he intended, Starsky was kissing Hutch, his mouth grinding against the soft, vulnerable lips while his arms held on tight enough to subdue any struggle.

It only slowly occurred to Starsky, as the mouth against his opened and the body within his arms seemed to melt into his embrace, that Hutch wasn’t fighting him. There was no offended struggle for freedom or coy rejection, just the sweet surrender of the lips against his and the body in his arms. The response gentled some of the violent urgency out of Starsky, softening his kiss into a tender apology. His hands found the wide, white-clad shoulders and stroked down both arms, encouraging them to encircle him to complete the embrace.

The austere room and the bars on the windows, inmates and jailors alike, all disappeared within that kiss, duty and obligation held at bay for a few moments by the electric connection that possessed them. It was sheer insanity, but Starsky knew immediately that he would gladly drown in this man’s kiss for the rest of his life.

Eventually Hutch ended the kiss, the arms that had held Starsky so close pushing him away the bare minimum necessary to part their lips.

“Do I need to apologize?” Starsky asked despite the arms that held him, the kiss that had stolen his heart, and the hard proof of Hutch’s desire pressed into his belly.

“Hell, no,” Hutch reassured him, his voice so husky Starsky almost didn’t recognize it. He felt the soft touch of Hutch’s fingers on his lips while Hutch continued his confession. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Yeah?” Starsky asked, tightening his embrace. “Right in the van, huh?” he teased.

“Yes,” Hutch confessed seriously. “Even though I knew it was wrong, the worst sort of betrayal of a helpless patient in my care, I couldn’t help the way I felt about you.”

The shame in the deep voice touched Starsky. He laid his head on Hutch’s shoulder and held him tighter. “But you did resist. And now you know I’m not a patient. Maybe you knew it all along.” He turned his head, brushed his lips blindly against Hutch’s face and felt beard stubble. “Wanna do it again?”

He didn’t have to ask twice, his invitation accepted by Hutch with flattering haste. But the lips that had previously yielded to his were in control of this second probing kiss, and Starsky was only too happy to surrender to them. Again the passion rising between them seemed to fade the background around them until Hutch began to move restlessly.

“Christ,” Starsky murmured, laying his spinning head on Hutch’s shoulder again, feeling the frantic beating of Hutch’s heart throbbing in his own chest. He was so close to losing it completely, to dragging Hutch over to that stupid narrow cot and ravishing him, or to dropping to his knees right here and….

“Christ,” Starsky repeated, this time through gritted teeth as he struggled to control his aching need.

“Shh,” Hutch hushed him, the hands that had been clinging to Starsky now moving in soothing circles on his back. For a moment, the position flashed Starsky back to the night before when Hutch had held him for compassion’s sake and given him, if only for a moment or two, relief from the fear and stress of the undercover work.

“S’okay,” Starsky murmured as he pulled away. He was careful to stay within the circle of Hutch’s arms, but separated their bodies, easing the temptation to continue this, here and now, to its inevitable conclusion. “But I can’t say much for our timing.”

“I guess we better hold that thought.” Though his voice was ruefully wistful, Hutch’s arms did relax, creating yet another inch or two of safe zone between them.

“The things I do for this job,” Starsky grumbled, then forced himself to drop his arms to his sides, to step back, one pace, then two, and then a third. He didn’t want Hutch any less the more distance he put between them, but he was able to tuck that desire away and, after an extra moment or two, remember why he was here and Hutch’s mission. “What happened? I saw Matwick.”

“I failed,” Hutch admitted with such disappointment in his voice that Starsky almost embraced him again. “The drawer was locked, and before I could figure out how to get into it, Matwick arrived and cleaned all the files out. He took them with him.”

“Damn. How could I have been so stupid? I knew the drawer was locked.” It was just more proof that Starsky wasn’t thinking clearly. If he didn’t smarten up, he was going to blow the assignment and get them both killed. He walked away, going to stand beside the window, trying to put some distance between himself and temptation. “So we still don’t know if all that alphabet soup meant anything. Four days here, and I’m back to fucking square one.”

“I’m sorry,” Hutch’s contrite apology came out of the darkness. “If I’d just gotten in there faster–”

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself,” Starsky interrupted, turning back to Hutch, once again having to use a healthy dose of willpower to keep his mind on the case. “It was my job, not yours. But if those files were the evidence I need and Matwick has split with them, and if Switeck was his accomplice and he’s gone for good… Shit! All I’ve got is a load of ifs.”

“Maybe not,” Hutch said eagerly, joining Starsky at the window, the lights from the parking lot illuminating his animated face.

“What do you mean?” Starsky asked. He evaded the hand Hutch held out to him, not because he didn’t want to connect, but because he feared it would re-ignite the desire between them. Hutch had been a distraction all along, but with the taste of his kisses so fresh on Starsky’s tongue, the beautiful blond was now a temptation that whispered constantly in his brain.

“Sorry,” Hutch muttered, dropping his hand to his side and stepping back.

“Don’t,” Starsky growled, establishing the connection he had rejected, grabbing Hutch’s arm and giving him a shake. “You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for. But if I’m gonna ‘hold that thought,'” he explained, letting his fingers stroke the smooth flesh under them for a moment and then, with a regretful sigh, forcing himself to break the contact. “Now, tell me what you meant by maybe not.”

“Nancy Bycroft,” Hutch explained. “She’s been acting strangely ever since I told her you’re a police officer. When your file arrived from County, she gave it to me and insisted I take care of you myself.”

“Did she say why?” Starsky asked, trying to fit this new piece into a puzzle that was still too far from complete for him to begin to guess at the overall picture.

“Not really,” Hutch admitted. “She was just very upset and insisted I’d take better care of you than Matwick would.”

“She was right about that, Hutch.” Starsky resisted the impulse to connect again, trying to close his ears to Hutch’s siren song. “Maybe it would be worth revealing my cover to–”

“No!” Hutch rejected the idea loudly. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, hurrying to explain his outburst. “A couple of days ago, I would have trusted her, but not since you arrived. She’s been acting too strangely. But I could go to her home tonight, see if I can get her to tell me what’s going on. Why she’s so frightened.”

“No way, Hutch,” Starsky rejected in his turn. “I never should have let you go up to Matwick’s office in the first place. I shouldn’t have put you at risk like that once, and I’m not going to do it a second time.”

“Nancy and I have become friends and she’s been upset. It wouldn’t be strange if I were to go and offer her my help.” Hutch’s argument sounded all too plausible.

There was a voice in Starsky’s head, the dispassionate voice of a trained cop that Starsky didn’t want to hear. There had to be some other way. “It’s too damned dangerous.”

“Do you have any other options?”

“Goddamn,” Starsky whispered, because Hutch was right. He had even fewer options now than he had when he had allowed Hutch to search Matwick’s office.

“I’ll be careful,” Hutch promised, moving closer to Starsky and then hesitating as if uncertain of his welcome.

“You fucking better be,” Starsky warned in a Doberman growl, making sure that the hand he slid into Hutch’s hair was a gentle contrast to his tone as it drew Hutch into a deep, deep kiss. “Hold that thought,” he whispered when he released the man who had so suddenly become his temporary partner and so much more. “And make damn sure you bring it back to me.”

*~*~*

It was very late by the time Hutch arrived at Nancy Bycroft’s apartment building, but he could see that her lights were still on. A guilty conscience, if that was Bycroft’s ailment, didn’t usually allow for a good night’s sleep. Hutch could sympathize in a way; he had spent enough sleepless nights trying to avoid his own demons until he had finally learned to face them head on. Usually. He had certainly done a good job of evading his attraction to Starsky, sticking labels all over it that wouldn’t have misled a child.

It was out in the open now, but Hutch wasn’t exactly free to follow his attraction wherever it might lead.  “Hold that thought” they had agreed, but Hutch was finding he had to put it under lock and key, the way he had tried to before Starsky had revealed his undercover role, if he wasn’t going to fail a second time. Hutch couldn’t fail again. If what Starsky suspected was true, and Matwick was on the alert, Starsky’s already dangerous assignment was becoming more potentially lethal by the hour.

Hutch climbed the stairs to the third floor and knocked on Bycroft’s door. After a few moments, he heard the click of the lock and the door was opened as far as the safety chain would allow, revealing the head nurse. No one would mistake her for a dragon lady now. She looked old and vulnerable in her worn robe and slippers, her face puffy and her eyes shot with telltale red.

“Ken. What on Earth are you doing here at this time of night?” Bycroft asked, one hand pulling the edges of her robe together under her chin and holding them there in a white-knuckled grip. “It’s after midnight.”

“I know that, Nancy, but I was hoping to talk to you.” Hutch touched the edge of the door lightly. “Do I have to stand out here in the hall, or are you going to invite me in?”

“Oh, uh. Of course. Just a minute. I’ll let you in,” Bycroft agreed with obvious reluctance.

The door closed and Hutch heard the rattle of the security chain. The door didn’t re-open immediately and, after a moment, Hutch turned the knob and pushed, opening the door just as Bycroft closed one directly opposite, but not before Hutch glimpsed a bed with suitcases laid open on it. He didn’t comment, just pretended he hadn’t seen as he followed Bycroft to her small living room.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Ken?” Bycroft offered. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything stronger, I don’t drink.”

“No, I’m fine,” Hutch rejected her hospitality. He sat down on the sofa, and patted the cushion beside him. “Come and sit down, Nancy, please. I want to talk to you.”

Again with obvious reluctance, Bycroft obeyed, perching nervously on the cushion. Hutch began to reach out, intending to pat her hand, but let his hand fall back into his lap when she flinched away.

“What did you want, Ken?” Bycroft asked, shuffling back on the sofa until she was pressed into the corner. “I do have early shift tomorrow and so do you, I believe,” she said with weak bravado.

Hutch ignored the reference to their professional relationship. “Nancy, I know we haven’t known each other very long, but you’ve been kind to me since I came to Cabriilo, and I’ve grown fond of you. That’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Fond of me?” Bycroft echoed as if she could hardly credit such an occurrence.

“Fond enough to be worried about you,” Hutch said, only exaggerating the truth, not outright lying, because he was genuinely fond of the woman. And seeing her like this, with her formidable outer shell stripped away, he also pitied her though he was careful to keep any hint of that emotion out of his voice and expression.

“You haven’t been yourself for the past few days,” Hutch continued when Bycroft didn’t comment. “Not since I told you David Starsky is a police officer.” He was watching closely for her reaction, but didn’t need to be an eagle-eyed observer to see her flinch and the way the color leached out of her face.

“I told you to just take care–” Bycroft began, trying to rise from the sofa, but Hutch caught her hands in both of his. To his surprise, Bycroft didn’t try to escape, allowing herself to be restrained while the head of iron gray curls bowed before his probing gaze.

“Nancy,” Hutch felt the trembling in her hands and sensed he wouldn’t be able to hold her here long. “Tonight I threw Switeck out of Cabrillo for assaulting a patient. He let slip that he was involved in something with Dr. Matwick that–”

“Let me go.” Bycroft tugged at Hutch’s hands, but her attempt to escape was feeble. It was as if she already knew escape was futile, that despite the half-packed suitcases, she had nowhere to go.

Hutch released his restraining grip, but left his hands covering hers, patting gently as he continued. “Are you involved in something with them, Nancy? Are you in over your head and don’t know how to get out? Maybe I could help.”

Surprise and hope took turns trying to strip a few years from Bycroft’s tired face before resignation piled those years and more back on in creases and chiseled crevices. “I’ve been over my head for so long now, I drowned a long time ago.”

“Over your head,” Hutch murmured, studying her face before a dozen different little incidents came together in his mind. “Head over heels?” he ventured, remembering how her grim face would brighten whenever Matwick was around.

Bycroft closed her eyes, hiding the pain in them. “Twenty years,” she murmured the confession with tired resignation.

“Why are you so frightened?” Hutch whispered, afraid that if he spoke in a normal tone it might shatter the spell that had coaxed her into trusting him with her secrets.

“Because, because it’s gone too far,” Bycroft whispered. “A long time ago, back east, it went too far and he promised me it would be different here. He promised.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding. “He promised and I believed him because, by then, I had already spent my youth and the little bit of beauty I had on him.”

“I understand,” Hutch offered his sympathy, trying not to flinch as the hands under his turned and gripped his fingers, squeezing with all of the woman’s considerable strength. “But you want it to stop, don’t you, Nancy? That’s why you told me to look after Starsky.”

“It’s gotten out of hand, Ken,” Bycroft admitted. “Again. At first, it seemed to help, the drugs he developed, but then–”

“What drugs? Why?” Hutch interrupted.

“I don’t know,” Bycroft confessed. “All I know is that he began his research based on the Van Cleave experiments.”

Hutch recalled the lecture he had attended devoted to Van Cleave’s work. “But his theories that violent behavior could be chemically controlled were proven inconclusive. His funding was withdrawn.”

“But Leon knew Van Cleave was right. He’s expanded on the theory. Developed different drugs. And they work on the most violent cases.” There was more animation in Bycroft now, a pitiful eagerness to believe that was painful for Hutch to see. “Three or four treatments, and if they survive, their violent tendencies are completely eradicated.”

“If they survive?” Hutch was horrified by the implications and his sympathy for Bycroft disappeared. Helpless human beings, without rights or advocates, at the mercy of Matwick’s drug experimentations. He couldn’t understand how Bycroft, a trained nurse, had lived with herself for so long.

“Some… don’t.” Bycroft’s eyes narrowed to hardened, uncaring glass, then filled unexpectedly with tears. “I don’t understand why, but the drug killed some of them. Induced heart attacks. Leon said they must have had weak hearts, genetic defects and would have died…” The feeble excuses faded as Bycroft looked down at their joined hands. One finger at a time, she released her grip, as if she hated to lose the support but knew herself unworthy.

“Sarah was only eighteen years old.” Hutch tried to keep the censure from his voice. It wasn’t his place to play judge and jury; he was here to get as much information as he could to help Starsky put an end to this madness. “How does he pick his victims?”

Bycroft flinched, then shrugged. “By their histories of violence usually. Sometimes by their behavior after they arrive at Cabrillo. If they show violent tendencies like fighting with the other patients or the staff.”

“Those are the only patients he actually sees, aren’t they?” Hutch felt sick as he remembered again how he had tried to persuade Matwick to take an interest in Starsky. How could he have been such a fool to dismiss the man as nothing more than lazy and incompetent?

Bycroft nodded tiredly. “Always at night, in case something goes wrong.” She sighed deeply, then lifted her head to meet Hutch’s eyes with weary resignation. “Your policeman, he isn’t really a suicide survivor, is he?”

Hutch hesitated, unwilling to offer her the same trust she had given him for fear of putting Starsky at risk.

“Come now, Ken. I may have been a lovelorn idiot all these years, but I’m not stupid.” There was some of her old spirit in Bycroft’s reprimand. “You didn’t come here because you’re fond of me. Are you a policeman, too?”

“No.” It wasn’t a career choice that had ever crossed Hutch’s mind. Not until a certain pair of dark blue eyes had looked into his and asked for his help.

“But you’re helping him,” Bycroft guessed. She hesitated, perhaps weighing her choices and the years of loyalty she had given to the wrong man against a conscience that would no longer be silenced. “If you’ve put Switeck out, Leon will need a new…assistant,” she said then turned her face away.

“What do you mean?” Hutch asked although the possibilities were immediately apparent to him. He could offer to be that new accomplice and work his way into Matwick’s confidence. He would be able to obtain all the damning evidence Starsky needed. If, of course, he could talk Starsky into it.

“I’ve said all I’m going to say,” Bycroft insisted and pressed her lips tight together.

“Except goodbye?” Hutch asked, nodding toward the closed bedroom door and the suitcases beyond it.

A grim smile on her lips, Bycroft nodded. “Except goodbye,” she confirmed sadly.

*~*~*

Starsky was waiting anxiously for Hutch before the sun was all the way up the next morning. He sat at the window, straddling the chair and resting his chin on the back, watching for that battered old car to pull into the lot. He tried to tell himself he was only anxious for his temporary partner to return with whatever information he might have gleaned from Bycroft the night before. The way his heart leapt at the sight of that tired old wreck as it pulled into the lot branded him a liar.

“I’m out of my fucking mind,” Starsky warned himself, pushing out of the chair and turning his back on the window, refusing to watch as those long legs carried Hutch to the building in that limber, distance-eating, deceptively lazy stride.

“Christ,” he muttered when he realized that he might as well have stayed at the window for the show because he was standing, eyes closed, while he watched it on the screen of his imagination. This obsession was going to get one of them killed.

Starsky returned to the window to watch the rest of the day shift arrive, certain that Hutch would come to him as soon as he could. He had maybe half an hour to lasso his desire, rope and tie it, and corral it the hell in the furthest corner of his mind.

Starsky was still standing at the window, back to the room, when he heard his door open. He knew it was Hutch. He could feel the other man, smell him, taste him, even if Hutch had taken no more than a step or two into the room.

“David?” Hutch said, the uncertainty in his tone tugging at Starsky’s heart.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve teamed up with a civilian when I was undercover,” Starsky said, imagining the puzzled expression that would be appearing on Hutch’s face, the dent that would dig itself between pulled together fair eyebrows. “Used ’em.” He gave a dry, humorless laugh and turned slowly to face the cautious puzzlement on Hutch’s face. “Dobey’s told me before that I can be a ruthless, heartless son of a bitch. Where the fuck is that detachment now?” he growled, letting his eyes hungrily devour Hutch from soft blond hair to white-shod feet. “Where’s it been all night while I’ve been worried sick about you?”

“David,” Hutch murmured, moving forward, hand outstretched, something that Starsky could only interpret as joy on his face. “You were all–”

“Call me Starsky.” Starsky turned back to the window, unable to watch the joy wiped off Hutch’s face. “I don’t believe in love at first sight. It usually turns out to be an itch in the crotch, and a roll in the hay’ll cure it.” The rejection was brutal, as it needed to be, but Starsky couldn’t keep up the façade for long. He turned back to Hutch and saw that the aristocratic hauteur with which he had faced Switeck down had dropped over him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, but still shook his head when Hutch once again began to move toward him. “I don’t know what this is between us. Whatever it is, love or lust, it could get us killed if we’re not careful.”

Hutch nodded agreement. “We agreed to ‘hold that thought,'” he reminded Starsky, and if there was a shadow of hurt in his eyes, Starsky had to give him credit for keeping it out of his voice.

“Yeah, well, sayin’ and doin’ are two different things,” Starsky admitted the weakness he had never suffered before. He hadn’t been lying when be said he had used people in the past when he had needed to. His conscience had twinged him, but he had always been able to keep his mind on the job. Not this time. As absolutely vital as he knew it to be that he be detached and professional, he couldn’t seem to wrestle his own emotions into submission.

“But we could, uhm, help each other…resist temptation,” Hutch suggested and this time it was his eyes doing the reconnoitering.

Starsky felt their touch warming his skin and remembered how those same eyes had assessed him when Starsky had stood nude and dripping in the shower room the first day. Had Hutch liked what he saw, wanted him then even though his position of trust made him reject that desire? He bit his lip over the question, recognizing that that was not the best path to resisting temptation. “Not if you keep looking at me like that.” He growled the reprimand and turned his back again, giving them both a few moments to cool off before he tried to force their minds back to the assignment.

“Did you see Bycroft last night?” Starsky finally asked, and for the next few minutes, as Hutch revealed everything he had learned from the head nurse, Starsky’s finally succeeded in focusing his attention completely on the job.

“But she doesn’t have any proof. Doesn’t really know enough to even testify against him,” Starsky summed up the situation after Hutch finished his report.

“And I’m sure she’s planning on running away,” Hutch revealed.

For a moment, Starsky considered having her picked up, but the risk that Matwick might discover her arrest and hightail it himself was too great. He wanted the barracuda, not the guppy. “Damn!” he swore, beginning to pace as he looked for some workable alternative. “Two more days and Dobey’s gonna pull my useless ass out of here. It’ll be months before we can put someone else inside.”

“There is another option,” Hutch said with enough diffidence that Starsky immediately knew be wasn’t going to like the idea about to be presented. “With Switeck and Bycroft both gone, Matwick is maybe going to need a new assistant.”

“No!” Starsky rejected the suggestion without hesitation. He faced Hutch with his hands on his hips, willing, Hutch to retreat. “It’s too fucking dangerous. You’ve already done enough.”

“Is that the cop talking or the lov– the man who wants to take me to bed?” Hutch demanded. “You still don’t have any other options that I can see.”

“No?” Starsky asked, stung on his professional pride. “Since Matwick is using his drugs on violent patients, maybe it’s time I got violent.” He didn’t want to admit it, but he almost relished the thought of shedding his passive role completely.

“No!” Hutch rejected the idea immediately.

“Now who’s talkin’ through his balls?” Starsky shot back, but the abused-innocence pain on Hutch’s face forced him to reign in both his tongue and his own fear. “I’m sorry. I know you want to help. Hell, you have helped. But I don’t want you sticking your neck out so far it’ll take your shoulders a week to find out what happened when Matwick cuts your head off.”

“If I’m careful what I say and Matwick says no, I won’t be in any kind of danger,” Hutch argued far too reasonably for Starsky’s peace of mind. “Isn’t it at least worth a shot before you risk your life unnecessarily? If he rejects me, you still have that option. At least let me try.”

“You sneaky bastard,” Starsky growled without heat and without the necessary willpower to pull his hands away from Hutch’s. He had been so distracted by the deep voice and handsome face, he hadn’t even noticed how the s.o.b. was sneaking up on him while they argued. The power Hutch had over him scared him to death. Almost as much as it thrilled him.

“Now I’m sorry,” Hutch apologized and stepped back, releasing Starsky’s hands with obvious reluctance. “But you have to admit it’s logical.”

Starsky groaned, giving in because, as much as he hated to admit it, Hutch was right. Again. “Damn it, leave it to me to hook up with Mr. Spock.”

*~*~*

“Why do I keep doing this?” Hutch asked himself as he climbed the stairs, headed for Matwick’s office. But the answer was self-evident. He wanted to believe he continued to put himself in situations for which he had no training and little aptitude because he was still trying to protect his helpless patient. Wanted to pretend that knowing Starsky was far from helpless and not even a patient didn’t matter to Hutch’s protective instincts. Huch wasn’t that good a liar, especially to himself. Starsky’s kisses hadn’t just aroused Hutch’s desire, they had captured his heart, and Hutch didn’t want to take it back. Not while a future of so many possibilities stretched out before them.

Hoping the acting experience he had in high school would help him now, Hutch paused outside Matwick’s door to clear his mind and calm his features and then knocked. Even though he had expected Starsky’s objections, Hutch had already planned how best to offer his services to Matwick, and for the first time since Starsky had recruited him, felt a little confidence in his unfamiliar role.

Matwick stood up at his desk as soon as Hutch opened the door, his expression decidedly unwelcoming. “Hutchinson. What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you, sir.” Hutch closed the door behind him and moved with a confident stride to the doctor’s desk “I’m sure it’s already been reported to you that I had to escort Mr. Switeck off the premises last night.”

“Indeed it has, Mr. Hutchinson.” Matwick appeared, as Hutch had hoped, surprised by the bold assault on the subject. “Considering how short a time you have been at Cabrillo, I feel you overstepped your authority. I intended to see you about this today.”

“I do apologize, but I felt immediate action was called for considering Mr. Switeck’s behavior,” Hutch explained quickly. “As we both know, it only takes a whisper to damage an institution’s reputation, and I didn’t want to see your administration under investigation because of the actions of one brute.”

“Yes, indeed. I see what you mean now,” Matwick agreed, sinking back into his chair, his expression wary. “I am, of course, grateful for your timely intervention.”

“Please, Doctor. No thanks are necessary.” Hutch ducked his head modestly. “I just wanted to be sure you knew all the facts and to offer my help if you should ever need it.”

“Your help, Mr. Hutchinson? Other than the proper completion of your duties, what possible assistance could you give me?” Matwick asked suspiciously.

“Whatever I can do for you. I know Switeck has been with you for some time, and I thought his…absence might be an inconvenience.” Hutch made the suggestion with what he hoped was the right combination of innocence and guile.

“Well, I suppose it would help if you could take on more shifts until I can replace him.”

That wasn’t exactly the type of assistance Hutch was suggesting, but it was an opening he was quick to capitalize on. “Of course I’d be willing.” Hutch bent slightly over the desk and lowered his voice to a confiding tone. “I applied for this position because I was hoping to work more closely with you, Dr. Matwick.”

“Did you now, Mr. Hutchinson.” Matwick was struggling to hide it, but Hutch could see he was flattered. “Why exactly was that?”

“Your reputation, sir,” Hutch exclaimed excitedly, not letting so much as a flicker of an eyelash reveal that he was lying through his teeth. If Matwick had any reputation at all, it was of the worst possible kind. “Surely you much realize that you are considered one of the most…” Hutch almost choked on the word, but forced himself to smile as he said it. “…brilliant minds in the profession. The entire community it expecting to see you publish a discovery that will revolutionize the field.”

Matwick was puffed up like a turkey before he saw the farmer’s axe. “I do have my theories,” he admitted with false modesty. “And it’s entirely possible that you could be of assistance to me.”

Hutch was glad he didn’t have to try to hide his excitement, but could let Matwick interpret his flushed face any way he wanted. Success, keeping Starsky safe, was within his grasp, and Hutch was ready to grab it with both hands. Matwick’s next sentence cut Hutch’s excitement off at the knees.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Hutchinson, we presently lack suitable subjects to test my theories.” Matwick gave Hutch a smile and a conspiratorial wink. “But I will certainly keep your eagerness to learn in mind for the future.”

“Thank you, Dr. Matwick. I appreciate it,” Hutch said, his disappointment robbing his voice of any trace of gratitude.

“That will be all.”

Hutch left Matwick’s office, desperately trying to think of some way to prevent Starsky taking the next inevitable step and risking the life that had come to mean so much to Hutch. He was tempted to pretend that Matwick had been more than happy to take him up on his offer, but knew it would be useless. Even if he didn’t turn into a stammering, stuttering fool, Starsky would see right through him in a heartbeat. In fact, Hutch wouldn’t even be surprised if his nose began to grow.

*~*~*

Starsky returned to his room immediately after breakfast to wait for Hutch’s report, but he wasn’t alone for long.

“Ya hear the news, partner?” Freddy sidled into Starsky’s room uninvited and parked himself on Starsky’s bed.

Starsky turned to look out the window before he rolled his eyes. As much as he liked the guy, he didn’t feel up to dealing with the determined gumshoe’s delusions. Not when he was so worried about Hutch. But Starsky already knew there was no easy way to get rid of Freddy. “What news?”

“Skinny is Hutchinson caught Switeck doin’ the dirty with Tina and booted him outta the joint. Right in the middle of shift.”

At least it appeared Starsky’s part in the incident wasn’t common knowledge and his cover was still secure. He supposed he should be thankful for small favors.

“And Bycroft ain’t showed up. Hey, partner, you think we got it all wrong?”

“Have what all wrong, Freddy?”

Starsky turned away from the window at the sound of Hutch’s voice in time to watch Freddy scramble off the bed and out the door.

“What’s that all about?” Hutch asked, watching Freddy retreat before coming into the room and closing the door.

“He thinks I’m his partner,” Starsky said, leaning his back against the window as he let his eyes feast on Hutch. He knew he had to try to keep his hands to himself, and with Hutch’s help he just might manage it. But he couldn’t seem to stop his eyes from devouring the tall figure as if Hutch were a particularly delectable appetizer and Starsky had been on a starvation diet for a very long time.

“St-Starsky?” Hutch hesitated only a step away from the closed door, suddenly appearing unsure what he should do with his hands or the eyes that seemed as eager to devour Starsky.

Starsky forced himself to look at the floor and pull a tight rein on his desire. “Yeah, Starsky.” He met Hutch’s eyes again, giving him a rueful smile. “But what I wouldn’t give to be David right now,” he admitted, then shook his head and held up a hand. “I know, hold the thought. So give me something else to think about besides your beautiful lips and how much I want to kiss them. Did Matwick bite?”

Hutch took a breath and moved a little further into the room. “No.” The confession was made with obvious reluctance.

There wasn’t much Starsky could say to that. They both knew what he had to do now.

“He didn’t say no,” Hutch reported hopefully. “And he wasn’t angry with me for kicking Switeck out. He just said….”

“He just said what, Hutch?” Starsky asked, his suspicions aroused by Hutch’s guilty expression and inability to meet his eyes. He left the window, met Hutch at the foot of the bed, and took the chance of laying his hand on the smooth bare skin beneath the short sleeve of Hutch’s tunic. When the contact didn’t appear to ignite a firestorm of lust in either of them, Starsky pushed their luck a little further and curled his hand around the firm muscle of Hutch’s forearm.

For a moment, it appeared Hutch had lost either his memory or the ability to speak as they gazed into each other’s eyes, then he blinked and shook his head as if awakening from a trance. “He said we don’t have any appropriate patients right now.” The admission was a run-together mumble that took Starsky a moment to decipher.

“You know what I have to do now, Hutch,” Starsky said as gently as he could.

“Your captain wouldn’t give you more time, even if you sent him a message?” Hutch asked hopefully. “I could call him, or go to the station when I leave here. Surely, he doesn’t want you hurt anymore than…I do.”

Touched by the concern, but unable to let it sway his decision, Starsky nevertheless found he couldn’t ignore it, had to acknowledge it. Again reneging on his own mental promises, he slid his arms around Hutch’s waist, interlacing his fingers to lock the embrace when he felt Hutch stiffen.

“Not coercion, baby blue. You’re a civilian and I don’t need your approval,” Starsky reminded Hutch, tightening his arms even further when Hutch made an inarticulate sound of protest. “But I gotta thank you for caring. Not that many people in my life give a damn if I live or die.”

“I do,” Hutch whispered after a few moments of silence, his hands moving to creep around Starsky’s waist and completing their embrace. “Can’t it at least wait until tomorrow?”

Starsky lifted a hand to gently touch the crease beside Hutch’s mouth, rubbing at it with his thumb, wishing he could erase it instead of only digging it deeper with his next words. “You know I can’t, Hutch. Matwick is already spooked or he wouldn’t have pulled those files out of here. I don’t know what the hell Switeck’s told him, and now Bycroft is AWOL, too.” He smiled ruefully at Hutch’s start of surprise. “Freddy told me.”

“Freddy has a big mouth,” Hutch said, pulling away from Starsky and stalking to the window.

Starsky accepted the rejection. He could hardly blame Hutch for his feelings when he knew, if their roles were reversed, he would feel the same way. Hell, their roles had been reversed.

Filled with remorse, Starsky moved up behind Hutch and embraced him again, expecting another rejection and relieved when, after a moment’s hesitation, Hutch relaxed against him. “I know what you’re feeling, and I’m so sorry to have to put you through this.”

There was another moment of silence that stretched and stretched until Hutch finally broke it. “What can I do to help?”

Starsky squeezed his thanks so hard into Hutch he pulled a grunt from him. He turned his temporary partner and would be lover toward him and then sidestepped them away from the window and prying eyes. “If I wasn’t trying to hold that thought,” he growled, drowning in the crystal blue eyes that begged him to forget every thought except this moment.

“I can’t let you do this alone, Starsk. I can’t. Please don’t try to make me.”

“Oh, God.” Starsky might have been able to resist a sensual assault, but he was helpless to resist this heart-aching plea. He cupped Hutch’s face in his hands and brought their lips together in a tender kiss full of uncertainty and fear. And Hutch kissed him back, taking control of Starsky’s body and holding him tight while a bold tongue explored his mouth.

“This is insane,” Starsky panted when Hutch finally released his mouth, just as if he hadn’t been the one to tempt fate. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he chanted, punctuating each imprecation with a hard kiss to Hutch’s unprotesting lips. “Did you even lock the door?”

“These doors don’t lock from the inside,” Hutch murmured against Starsky’s mouth.

“Damn.” Gathering every ounce of willpower he possessed, Starsky pushed Hutch away from him, holding him at bay with a hand over the pounding heart. “Okay?” he asked, and when Hutch nodded, he dropped his arm, trying to drop his feelings with it and focus on the job he had to do. “Do you really want to help? Really?”

“Yes. If it will help keep you safe, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

“All right. Then I need you to be my partner now. Just my partner. I’m playin’ it by ear, so I don’t know what I’m going to have to do to get Matwick’s attention. Whatever it is, you have to let me do it. No interfering, Hutch. Do you understand?”

“I understand. But what if you do attract his attention and he wants me to help? Do you want me to…?”

“Hell, yeah. Do you think I’m so crazy I don’t want my back-up right there in the room with me?” Starsky tried a cocky smile and was relieved to receive a small, less certain one in return. “Between the two of us, we gotta be able to handle that tub of lard. And just in case we can’t, you’re going to make sure we’ve got some back-up waiting right outside the gate. Do you remember Dobey’s number and the code words?”

“555-6772. My Torino ain’t no striped tomato,” Hutch replied promptly.

“Good boy. Now get out there and do your job and let me do mine.”

Hutch hesitated, then obediently moved to the door, turning back with his hand on the knob. “Starsky, I….”

“Me, too,” Starsky promised. “It ain’t easy, but ya gotta do it if ya wanna be a cop, Hutch.” It was a joke, and a poor one at that, but Starsky needed to see one more of the caring smiles to hold like a talisman against the coming danger.

“Who said I wanted to be a cop?” Hutch said, and gave Starsky the smile he needed before he left him.

*~*~*

Starsky’s plan, such as it was, was simple. Go berserk and raise a ruckus. He had already picked the time and place. The place was obvious, the activity room to ensure the most witnesses, and he judged the best time would be after lunch. Matwick would still be in the building, and the orderlies, taking their own lunch breaks, might be a little slower to respond. The rest of the details were still a little fuzzy.

For once, Freddy played right into Starsky’s plans. He latched onto Starsky’s arm at the end of lunch and towed him along to the activity room. “The boys wanna little game of five card stud, partner. Figured it’d be good cover while you and me figure out the Bycroft angle. Throw the heat off the scent, if ya get my drift. Ya in?”

“I’m in,” Starsky agreed and chose a seat between Freddy and Bo. By the end of the first hand, Starsky had streamlined his strategy and picked his patsy. He played a couple of hands to put his companions at ease and then pounced.

Starsky threw his cards into the middle of the table, scattering the pile of match sticks, and grabbed for Bo’s right hand. “You’re cheating,” he growled and pretended to fish the ace of spades he had palmed out of the big man’s vest pocket.

“Am not,” Bo bellowed in offended innocence and grabbed for the card.

Starsky held onto both the card and the meaty arm tenaciously as the ex-boxer lumbered to his feet, dragging Starsky with him. “Are, too,” he insisted, deliberately raising his voice to attract as much attention as possible.

“Cheese it,” Freddy hissed, grabbing Starsky’s arm and giving him a shake. “Yer gonna blow our cover.”

Starsky pulled free of Freddy just as Bo worked his arm free from Starsky’s grip and swung a ham hock of a fist. Starsky ducked and the wild swing whistled past him, landing with a sharp thud on Freddy’s face.

While the gumshoe flew backward, landing on the table and sending cards and stakes flying, Starsky popped up and aimed a left jab directly into Bo’s already misshapen nose. He sent a mental apology as blood spurted and tears sprang into the blue eyes, but retracted it hastily when Bo swung on him. Pain exploded in what was left of Starsky’s jaw and starburst into temple and ear and nose, bringing tears to his eyes as well.

“Break it up! Break it up!”

Starsky heard the command, thought it might be Jackson doing the hollering, but ignored it. He had to make this good if it was going to attract Matwick’s murderous attention. Squinting through tear-blurred eyes, Starsky aimed an uppercut at Victor and sank his left fist into Wheeze’s soft belly.

“Get down, partner!”

Freddy was dragging on Starsky’s right arm, trying to pull him down, while Bo aimed another punch his way. Down suddenly appeared to be a good idea, and Starsky let himself be dragged to his knees, turning his head in time to see Victor’s fist just before it landed on his eye.

Starsky lost track of his purpose for a while after that, simply punching and kicking whatever came close enough in an effort to stay at least semi-upright. If he went down in this melee, he would be trampled for sure, and that would only earn him a trip to County or into a pine box. What could have been an hour later, judging by the number of blows that rocked him, the white-coated orderlies finally seemed to get the upper hand and Starsky found himself suspended between Jackson and Dauber.

“No. Leave me the fuck alone. He’s cheating!” Starsky bellowed as loudly as he could, continuing to struggle with all his strength.

“What is going on here?” a strange voice demanded.

“You see, Dr. Matwick. I thought you should see this.”

There was nothing strange about that second voice. Hutch.

Starsky stopped fighting and raised his head, blinking through blood and sweat. As his vision cleared, he saw Hutch, standing with Matwick, studying him with clinical detachment. The blood in Starsky’s veins turned to ice.

“I’m not sure, Dr. Matwick,” Jackson said. He and Dauber dragged Starsky to where the doctor stood with Hutch in the doorway. “Looks like Starsky here just suddenly went berserk.”

“Starsky?” Matwick asked, peering into Starsky’s face without recognition.

“The new patient from County, sir,” Hutch identified Starsky.

Starsky tried to make eye contact with Hutch, praying for a silent reassurance, but the blue eyes refused to meet his. Had he been betrayed? Had the man who had held him in his arms, kissed him so tenderly, been nothing more than Matwick’s flunky all along?

“You said he had no violent tendencies,” Matwick said accusingly to Hutch. He waved his arm, taking in the destruction the execution of Starsky’s plan had caused. “I would call this violent, Hutchinson.”

“I’m so sorry I misled you. Please believe me, Dr. Matwick, if he had shown this side at all, I never would have removed his restraints.”

“That’s right,” Dauber confirmed Hutch’s story. “He’s been as quiet as the dead all week. Wouldn’t even eat if we didn’t make him.”

“I see. Then perhaps he fooled us all. Not your fault at all, Hutchinson.” Matwick was magnanimous in his forgiveness, clapping Hutch on the shoulder and nodding his head with satisfaction.

Starsky hardly registered Matwick’s delight, all of his rattled attention on Hutch. If Hutch was acting now, he was doing a damned fine job of it. But if he had been only playing a role up to this terrifying moment, gaining Starsky’s trust with his goodness and passion, then he deserved a fucking Oscar. And Starsky deserved the tombstone in his near future for falling for it.

“This is all quite fortuitous, given our conversation this morning.” Matwick smiled at Hutch like Santa Claus about to unload a sack full of goodies. “If, that is, you’re still interested in learning more about my theories first hand.”

“I’d consider it a privilege,” Hutch said.

“Very well. Jackson, Dauber, see that the patient is restrained and sedated.”

Starsky gathered himself as the doctor hesitated, prepared to start fighting again, this time in deadly earnest. If Hutch had betrayed him and Starsky stood meekly and allowed himself to be sedated, he would have no chance of escape. He didn’t want to leave the job unfinished, but neither did he want to die uselessly.

“Would sedation interfere with his treatment, Doctor?” Hutch asked, finally, at last, and not a minute too soon, meeting Starsky’s eyes.

Starsky relaxed, going weak in the knees with relief and giving Jackson and Dauber his dead weight to bear as he read his salvation in the eyes that had never been more the windows to Hutch’s soul. Though the contact lasted only a second or two, Starsky was reassured. Hutch was doing exactly what Starsky had asked of him, being his partner.

“Perhaps you’re correct. Please see that the patient is restrained and locked in his room, and I will see you both in my office at midnight.” Matwick gave Hutch his Santa Claus smile again and waddled away.

“You heard the doctor, take Mr. Starsky to his room.” Hutch took command of the orderlies holding Starsky prisoner.

Starsky didn’t resist as he was dragged to his room and remained passive while Hutch buckled him into a straightjacket. Despite the efficiency of his movements, Hutch’s reluctance was as clear to Starsky in every touch as if he shouted it. The fingers that lingered as the strap on his shoulder was tightened and the palm that cradled his head gently as he was lowered to the bed told their own story of caring and remorse.

When Starsky was securely strapped to the bed, Hutch dismissed the other orderlies and closed the door behind them. He sat down on the bed beside Starsky, his eyes searching Starsky’s face anxiously. “How did I do?”

“You scared the shit outta me, that’s how good you did,” Starsky growled, smiling as well as he could with his battered face to reassure his partner. “Hill couldn’t have done better if he’d been here.”

Hutch smiled, but his eyes were full of guilt and sorrow as his fingers gently touched Starsky’s swollen eye and jaw. “As soon as I heard you shouting at Bo, I went for Matwick. I…I knew you wanted…” Hutch pressed his lips together and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them as he continued. “You wanted him to see you in action. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back before you were hurt so badly.”

“This?” Starsky shrugged against the straightjacket’s confines, dismissing the injuries Hutch could see and the ones he couldn’t. The imprint of Bo’s fist was going to be decorating Starsky’s ribs for weeks to come. “You should see me after the interdepartmental football match.”

“I’d like that. To see you play, I mean.” The shy eagerness of Hutch’s expression was irresistible to Starsky.

“You will. I promise.” Starsky tried to put his best “come hither” on over the bruises on his face. “Now com’ere and kiss me, then get outta here. I’ll see you at midnight.”

Hutch obligingly bent forward, delivering an achingly tender promise with his lips that made Starsky forget all about his aches and pains, the straightjacket and the straps that held him to the bed. For a few brief moments, even Matwick became nothing more than a bad dream and this loving exploration Starsky’s only reality.

“Hold that thought,” Hutch whispered huskily, slowly rising from the bed, his eyes continuing the promise of the kiss where his lips left off. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” Starsky swallowed the lump down out of his throat and flashed a cocky grin. “Get outta here, ya big mushball. And don’t forget to call Dobey.”

“I’ll remember.” Hutch paused with his hand on the door knob. “Just one question. If your car ain’t no striped tomato, what is it?”

“You’ll see,” Starsky promised, but Hutch had already slipped out the door.

*~*~*

Hutch didn’t hang around the way he normally would after his shift ended. He had a call to make. The most important phone call he would ever make in his life, and he wasn’t going all the way home to do it. As soon as he had alerted Dobey, Hutch intended to sneak back into Cabrillo and hide out until Starsky’s appointment with destiny. Logically, he knew he couldn’t do anything for Starsky until midnight, but Hutch’s logic was shot to hell. He couldn’t bear to be too far away while Starsky was so helpless.

Hutch had to find a pay phone, but Cabrillo was well off the beaten track and Hutch couldn’t remember seeing one on his route to work. His impatience mounting, Hutch drove along the quiet road, his eyes searching ahead for one of the distinctive booths. He had almost passed the bar when it suddenly hit him that he could probably find a phone inside. He slammed on the brakes hard and heard a second squeal above the protesting of his own tires. He glanced into the rearview mirror just in time to hit the gas and prevent himself from being rear-ended.

With the sun in his eyes, Hutch couldn’t see the driver, but he stuck his arm out the window to wave an apology and signal the other car to go around him. When the way was clear, he backed up, turned and drove around to the bar’s parking lot in the back.

After parking the car in the deserted lot, Hutch hurried around to the front entrance, digging change for the phone from his pocket. When he reached the door, he pushed on it, belatedly noticing the closed sign when the door refused to budge.

“Damn it.” Hutch didn’t frequent many bars and he hadn’t thought about how early it was. Frustrated, he pounded on the door, hoping the owner was inside and would let him use the phone even if the place wasn’t open for business. There was no response. Hutch raised his hand to knock a second time just as a car pulled in and drove around the back. There was something familiar about that car, but intent on his mission, Hutch dismissed the thought.

“Please be the owner,” Hutch muttered as he hurried around the building. Rounding the corner, Hutch saw the car parked next to his but there was no sign of the driver.

Hutch hesitated. Where had the driver gone? In through the back door so quickly? Should he go around front and try again? The questions flashed through Hutch’s mind in quick succession.

Then, for no good reason in the world, Hutch felt the hairs on the back of his neck lift. Too late, he felt the presence behind him and started to turn. There was a sharp pain in his head, the sun exploded before his eyes, and then….

*~*~*

Starsky watched the sun go down hog-tied and strapped to his bed. In a little while, it would be lights out, and a few hours after that, one way or the other, this assignment would be over.

He probably shouldn’t feel as calm as he did, but that often happened to him just before he went into action. Calm. Serene. Ready for whatever was demanded of him.

Of course, Starsky didn’t usually have such a solid gold ace up his sleeve when he had to put his life on the line. Hutch wouldn’t let him down. Of that, Starsky didn’t have a single, solitary doubt.

Despite the fact that his body felt like he had been hit by a Mack truck, and the dried blood on his face itched intolerably, Starsky smiled as the last tiny sliver of the sun disappeared. Before it reappeared, he knew he would be free. Free of Cabrillo. Free of his duty. Free to start exploring what future he and Hutch could make together.

It had never been Starsky’s nature to sit and wait for events to unfold, but tonight he was prepared to be patient.

Just a few more hours.

*~*~*

Hutch had only ever been knocked out once before in his life when he had, at the age of twelve, taken a tumble off a toboggan. For a minute or two, he was that groggy kid again, waking up in the hospital with his worried-sick parents hovering over him. When he opened his eyes, however, Hutch fast forwarded abruptly into adulthood. The identity of the man standing over him warned him that his troubles had only just begun.

“Wakin’ up finally, huh, fancy pants,” Switeck taunted, standing over Hutch with his legs spread and his fists planted on his hips. “Shoulda known a piss-ass little sissy like you couldn’t take a little pat on the head.”

Stubbornly, Hutch suppressed a moan as the result of Switeck’s “pat on the head” throbbed from nape to crown and between his temples. He moved his head cautiously from side to side, trying to judge just how much damage had been done to him. He grimaced at the pain in his head but there didn’t seem to be any impairment of his senses that he could tell.

“What’s a matter, you don’t like my place?” Switeck moved away a couple of steps and waved his arm around grandly.

Hutch’s eyes followed the movement, taking in the one room dump. Stained walls, threadbare furniture and a sink piled high with dirty dishes and rotten food told the story of Switeck’s squalid life at a glance.

“Not up to your usual standards, I guess. But good enough for the likes of me. Stupid. Wasn’t that what you called me?”

Hutch was barely listening. His survival instinct had kicked in and he was testing the strength of the ropes that held his legs and the knots that tied his arms to the chair behind his back.

“Looks like you’re the stupid one now. You didn’t even make me work for it. I thought I’d have to follow you all over this fuckin’ town ’til I had a chance to get you alone.” Switeck laughed, an evil sound, steeped in bitterness and strained through his lust for revenge. “You didn’t even see it was me when I almost hit your fucking car. And you were too busy pounding on the door when I followed you into the lot. What was so fucking important you made it so easy for me?”

For one second, Hutch’s mind froze, overwhelmed by panic as he remembered. Starsky! Starsky depending on Hutch to back him up. Starsky depending on him to alert Dobey. Starsky, alone and helpless, while his appointment with death drew inexorably closer. Hutch’s eyes flew to the fly-specked window and saw…nothing. No sun. No sundown. No twilight. Just a dense darkness that could be any hour of the night.

“No!” Hutch bellowed, denying the proof of his own eyes. The muscles that had been cautiously testing the ropes bulged as he struggled in earnest against the restraint. Survival didn’t matter one damn bit if he failed Starsky.

It was the sound of Switeck’s taunting laughter that penetrated Hutch’s panic. Its sick delight rang in his ears as Hutch clawed his way back to sanity. He forced his body to go limp while his mind raced, looking for some way to start acting instead of uselessly reacting.

“Gonna make me work for it, huh,” Switeck said, moving to loom over Hutch again. “I don’t mind tellin’ you, Hutchinson, I’ve been waitin’ for this since the first time you stuck your royal nose in the air and told me what to do.” Switeck reached out toward Hutch’s face.

Hutch flinched but kept his head up, determined to take whatever Switeck dished out, to stay alert enough through the beating he knew was coming to seize any opportunity for escape that came his way. To his surprise, the hand didn’t deliver a punch or even a slap, but a shockingly gentle caress instead. A one-fingered stroke that skated over brow and cheek and chin and rubbed suggestively at his lips.

“Oh, yeah,” Switeck purred. “I’m gonna enjoy every minute of this,” he promised and then landed the first blow.

Hutch made no effort to suppress the groans and grunts of pain Switeck’s punches pulled from him, letting the sounds bleed off a little of the pain as blow after careful blow was inflicted on him. Switeck knew what he was doing. Like most bullies, he could impose the maximum amount of pain without giving his victim the relief of unconsciousness. In a very short time, Hutch’s face felt like raw hamburger while his body throbbed as if it had been substituting for Mohammed Ali’s punching bag. Just when he was certain he could take no more, the punishment stopped.

“Like that, Hutchinson?” Switeck asked. He stepped back, breathing hard and sucking on his split knuckles. He grinned at Hutch around them while his narrowed eyes took in the damage he had inflicted. “Not so pretty now.”

“Still prettier than you.” Hutch hung his head, slurring the taunt more than his swollen lips demanded, hoping Switeck would think him more seriously injured than he was. Moving as little as possible, he worked at the ropes around his wrists, feeling them stretch as they were soaked in his blood and sweat.

“Not for long. Gonna make a dog puke by the time I’m done with you,” Switeck threatened and closed in again.

Hutch’s right hand came free just as Switeck reached him, the heavy arm lifted to deliver another blow. Knowing he would have only one chance, Hutch doubled up his fist and drove it with all the strength of his desperation deep into Switeck’s unprotected gut.

Switeck grunted and doubled, falling forward onto Hutch and sending them both crashing to the floor. The chair splintered under Hutch, freeing his other hand. As Switeck squirmed on top of him, Hutch flung his hand out, searching for any kind of weapon to even the odds. His fingers brushed something round and hard and he grabbed it. Dimly realizing his weapon was a rung from the wrecked chair, Hutch swung, landing a lucky strike on Switeck’s temple.

Stunned, the big man rolled off him when Hutch pushed. Hurriedly, Hutch kicked loose from the ropes around his ankles and jumped to his feet. Switeck seemed to be coming around, moaning softly and twitching. Without conscience or remorse, Hutch swung his improvised weapon again, knocking the orderly out this time.

Hutch stood over the fallen orderly while he caught his breath, only dropping the rung of the chair when it was clear that Switeck was out for the count. He looked around, praying for a telephone and saw one on the table beside the threadbare couch.

Staggering to it, Hutch sank down on the sofa and grabbed up the phone. Holding mindless panic at bay, Hutch closed his eyes and reached into his memory for the vital number. “Five, five, five,” he murmured, hearing Starsky’s voice as he dialed. “Six, seven, seven, two.” Hutch clutched the phone and waited anxiously for the connection to be made. He looked at his watch and tried not to panic when he saw the time. Twenty minutes to midnight. Only twenty minutes. Plenty of time to save Starsky. “If Dobey would just answer the fucking phone!”

“Harold Dobey.” Hutch recognized the deep voice from his interview with Starsky’s superior.

“Captain Dobey, this is Ken Hutchinson. Dave Starsky gave me your number and told me to call you in case of emergency,” Hutch blurted into the phone.

“He did?” Dobey exclaimed, then in a much calmer tone. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“Yes, yes. He said to tell you ‘my car ain’t no striped tomato,'” Hutch forced himself to repeat the phrase calmly and clearly.

Dobey was all business now. “Where are you and what’s the emergency?”

“Never mind me.” Hutch had already dealt with his situation. “Get your men out to Cabrillo. Starsky’s in danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

“Matwick, you idiot!” Hutch yelled, losing control. “Matwick’s going to kill him.”

“All right, Dr. Hutchinson. Help is on the way. Now you just tell me where you–”

Hutch put down the phone, grabbed Switeck’s keys from the table, and flew from the apartment. Dobey might be able to get officers to Cabrillo quicker, but with his intimate knowledge of the place and the plan, Hutch knew he could get to Starsky faster.

Hutch had called the cavalry, but if Starsky was going to be saved, Hutch knew he was going to have to lead the charge.

*~*~*

Some of Starsky’s serenity evaporated when Dauber and another orderly arrived to deliver him to Matwick.

“Hutch?” Starsky asked hopefully. Where was Hutch? The possibility of betrayal crossed his mind briefly, but Starsky dismissed it. Hutch was here somewhere. He had to be. But where?

“Hey, he can talk.” Although Starsky hadn’t seen him, before, he guessed from Freddy’s description that this had to be Kramer. The bulky orderly bent over the bed and began unbuckling the straps that held Starsky down. He didn’t even glance at Starsky’s face, talking over him to Dauber as if Starsky was a side of beef.

“Told you.” Dauber unbuckled the strap over Starsky’s chest. “Hurry it up. I’ve been here all fucking day and night. I wanna go home and get some shuteye.”

“Quit your bitching. You said Hutchinson is helping with this one, so the doc’ll let us clear out as soon as we get him up there.” Kramer reached down and grabbed the front of the straightjacket, hauling Starsky up and out of the bed as if he weighed no more than a child.

Starsky, who had been preparing to deliver as much resistance as he could, relaxed and allowed Kramer to march him to the door. Of course. Hutch had insinuated himself into Matwick’s favor. It made sense the doctor would send these cavemen to do the grunt work.

“Forgot about that.” Dauber opened the door and let Kramer push Starsky through it, then grabbed the other side of Starsky.

Starsky didn’t make the orderlies work for it. Anxious for the final showdown, he walked along passively. When he spotted Freddy’s worried face at the door of room eleven, he gave his self-declared partner a wink with his good eye. When this was over, he was going to put Freddy in for a commendation.

Starsky’s confidence remained intact right up to the moment he was shoved into Matwick’s office. His eyes searched the room, every nook, every cranny, every shadow, but found nothing. No temporary partner. No would be lover. No Hutch!

A hundred possibilities raced through Starsky’s desperate brain. Car accident? Foreign invasion? Slipped on a banana peel and fell? The spiral of inanity whirled to an abrupt stop when he spotted the open door to the treatment room. Hutch had to be in there. Ready, willing, and able to play the white knight one more time.

“Ah, Mr. Starsky, right on time, I see,” Matwick said as he left his chair and stood beside the treatment room door. “I’m afraid Mr. Hutchinson has forgotten our appointment. Gentlemen, if you would please….”

There was no moment of stunned incomprehension; Starsky’s understanding was instantaneous. So was his instinctive reaction.

Fight! Starsky twisted abruptly, wrenching free of the orderlies. He let momentum carrying him, shoulder-butting Kramer in the chest and then aiming a kick at the back of Dauber’s knee as he spun around behind him.

And flight! Starsky launched himself at the office door, ramming his shoulder into it with all his strength. The wood split with a loud crack but held, rebound bouncing him back into Kramer’s hands.

“You little bastard!”

“Hold still.”

“Control him, you idiots.”

Starsky saved his breath for fighting for his life. Grimly and silently, he fought, twisting and wrenching his upper body against the hands that held him while kicking out at anything and everything within reach.

“Take him into the treatment room and strap him to the gurney.”

Starsky continued the battle, but he knew he was losing the war. He was no match, even if he hadn’t been bound, for the strength of the hulking orderlies. Although he made them fight for every inch, inexorably, Starsky was wrestled across the office to the treatment room door.

Before he could be pushed through the opening, Starsky flung himself backward, lifted his legs and braced his feet against the frame.

He didn’t have enough brawn to save himself, so it was time Starsky put his mouth into action.

“You don’t want to do this. I’m a cop. You don’t want to kill a cop.” Starsky panted his appeal to the stony faces of the orderlies. “That’s death row.”

“Tsk, tsk. Delusional as well as violent. It really is a miracle he hasn’t hurt someone before this.” Matwick pointed at the gurney. “Gentlemen, please.”

“I’m not the crazy one, he is. He’s been killing people. I’m here to prove it. Right this minute, my captain is at the gate ready to lock all of you up ’til hell freezes over,” Starsky continued to plead.

“Ah, shut up, you loon. I liked you better when you didn’t talk.” Dauber grabbed the back of Starsky’s leg and pulled it away from the door frame while Kramer did the same on the other side.

“No!” Starsky shouted and fought, but his strength was fading. Even flooded with adrenaline, his battered body had given all it had to give. Despite his struggles, he was thrown face first onto the gurney and strapped down, helpless once again.

“Thank you. You may leave now.”

Starsky heard the orderlies leave and turned his head to glare at Matwick.

“Don’t be a fool, Matwick. It’s only life in prison now, but if you do this, nothing will save you from the gas chamber.”

“Now, now, Mr. Starsky,” Matwick said with surprising gentleness, his hand patting Starsky’s head soothingly. “This won’t hurt at all, and in the morning, you’ll feel so much better.”

As Matwick turned away, Starsky realized what he was truly dealing with. Matwick wasn’t just a murderous madman, he was a mad scientist who truly believed his work was for the greater good. There would be no way Starsky could ever convince him otherwise.

Exhausted and defeated, but still unable to surrender, Starsky lifted his head and bellowed one last, hopeless appeal.

“Huuuuuutch!”

*~*~*

Once outside Switeck’s apartment, Hutch realized he was only a few minutes from Cabrillo. Even without sirens and flashing lights, he arrived at the gates only a second or two behind the cruisers Dobey sent. The gates were closed and chained, as they always were at night, and the cruisers were pulled off to one side, one officer already out of the car and heading for the guard shack.

With most of his attention focused on the specter of Matwick looming over a helpless Starsky, Hutch hardly noticed the officers, aiming Switeck’s car directly for the gates and flooring it. The car crashed through and Hutch sped down the drive, spinning the wheel to swerve away from the front entrance and speeding around to the parking lot. Bringing the car to a shrieking halt beside the back door, Hutch leapt out, pulling keys from his pocket as he ran. His hands were rock steady as he fit the key into its lock and then wrenched the door open. Bolting through it and along the corridor to the stairs, he took them two or three at a time to the top floor and burst through the door.

“Huuuuuutch!”

Hutch heard the muffled bellow. “Starsky! I’m coming!” he shouted back and charged along the corridor to the treatment room. The door was locked, but that couldn’t stop Hutch, not when he could hear Starsky on the other side still yelling his name.

“I’m here,” Hutch shouted through the door, then rammed his elbow into the glass. He was oblivious to the falling shards as the tableau of Matwick leaning over a bound Starsky, hypo in hand, appeared before his eyes.

“No!” Hutch bellowed, and a heartbeat later, he was grappling with Matwick for the hypo full of death, his strength barely a match for the doctor’s desperation-driven struggles.

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as Hutch held the doctor at bay, but couldn’t gain the upper hand against his crazed strength. The hands on the clock began to move forward again when other hands grabbed Matwick and snatched away the hypo, freeing Hutch to stumble over to Starsky.

The hands that had been so rock steady were suddenly trembling as Hutch fumbled with the straps that held Starsky to the gurney. “Are… Are y-you all right,” he stammered while his fat, useless fingers fumbled.

“I’m fine, Hutch. Just fine. You saved me, partner,” Starsky crooned from the gurney, the soft tone running over the panic that still tingled in Hutch’s nerves, calming the terror and easing the fear. “Just like the cavalry again. And now you’re gettin’ the straps off. See that, there’s one. Now just try the one on my legs. That’s it, Hutch. You’re doin’ just fine.”

Hutch didn’t know how Starsky could speak so calmly when Hutch could feel how the captive body was shaking. He didn’t understand it, but he responded to it nonetheless, his heartbeat slowing and his hands steadying a little more with every word Starsky spoke. By the time he had freed Starsky from the straps and straightjacket and Starsky rolled off the gurney to stand beside him, Hutch had regained a little awareness of what was going on around him. Enough at least, not to drag Starsky into his arms and refuse to release him until he could somehow convince his terrified heart that Starsky was safe. The temptation became irresistible, however, when he looked into the dark blue eyes and saw his own needs living there. He reached out, but Starsky intercepted his hand, led it to his shoulder, and for now, Hutch had to let a fierce grip on the tense muscles be enough.

“Sergeant Starsky?” one of the uniformed officers asked as he approached them.

“That’s me,” Starsky confirmed, and waved an apparently negligent hand Matwick’s way. “Arrest him. Murder one, times six, to start with. And just to be on the safe side, there’s a couple of goons around here named Kramer and Dauber you better round up, too. I’ll let the DA figure out the rest after I file my report,” he instructed, then seemed to notice Hutch’s injuries for the first time. “Jesus Christ. What happened to your face?” he demanded, apparently forgetting his previous caution to reach out and gently brush the cuts and bruises Hutch could feel on his face.

“You probably want to send someone to Switeck’s apartment, too,” Hutch offered by way of explanation, but he was also shocked by Starsky’s injuries. “What happened to you? You didn’t look this bad when I left.”

Starsky apparently recalled the need for discretion then, taking Hutch by the elbow and pointing him toward the corridor door. “Come on. It’s Memorial for us, then I have a report to write and you have a statement to make.” He paused as the reached the elevator. “Will you look at us,” he laughed, pointing to their battered reflections in the metal door. “A fine pair we make,” he teased, but his eyes were serious as they met Hutch’s.

“Yes,” Hutch agreed, meeting those eyes and seeing promises he wanted to keep in them. “What a fine pair we make.”

*~*~*

Starsky was pecking out the last word of his preliminary report when he heard the door to Dobey’s office behind him open and knew the captain was watching him. He kept pecking away until Dobey moved around in front of him and dropped a folded paper on his desk. At first glance, Starsky thought it was a warrant, then saw it was actually the order for his release from Cabrillo.

“You cut this one pretty fine, Starsky,” Dobey complained, taking the order back from Starsky, wadding it into a ball, and shooting it at the wastepaper basket. He missed. “I was on my way out to Cabrillo at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. Excuse me, this morning.”

Starsky glanced at the squad room clock and saw that it was just a little after 3:00 a.m. It felt like five years since he had started the fight at Cabrillo, and five minutes since he and Hutch had hitched a ride from Memorial where their cuts and bruises had been treated in record time.

Starsky rolled his report out of the machine, pulled the carbons, and with a flourish, handed all three copies to Dobey. “Here’s the story in a nutshell, Captain,” he said, leaning back in his chair to yawn and stretch, aborting the movement when nearly every muscle in his body screamed in protest. “I’ll do chapter and verse for the DA in the morning. Okay?”

“Maybe the next day. You look like you could use a little time off,” Dobey observed as he accepted the report. “What did the doctor at Memorial say?”

Reminded that his injuries were as visible as they were painful, Starsky pressed gentle fingers to his half-closed eye and an even more careful hand to his very swollen mouth. “That he’s seen worse, but I can’t say I wouldn’t appreciate a day off. Excuse me, Captain,” he said as his phone rang. “Starsky.”

“I took as long as I could, but Hutchinson’s statement is done,” the voice on the other end of the line reported. “What do you want me to do with him now?”

“Just send him up here, Frank,” Starsky requested and hung up the phone. He had asked the officer taking Hutch’s statement to take his time about it so Starsky would be able to finish his report. He had seen some promises in Hutch’s eyes tonight, but he was still afraid the beautiful blond might have only been caught up in the excitement of the moment. Starsky wasn’t taking any chances that Hutch might disappear from his life.

“Send who up?” Dobey asked.

“Hutch,” Starsky replied, then scrambled for an excuse that would satisfy Dobey’s inquiring expression. “Hutchinson. I thought you might like an opportunity to thank the man. It’s not as if he was getting paid to risk his neck,” he reminded the captain pointedly that not so much as a “good work” had been offered to him so far.

Stubbornly, Dobey withheld the praise, studying the report Starsky had given him instead. “You spelled institution wrong,” he grumbled as Hutch came through the squad room door.

“Starsky. Captain Dobey. The officer downstairs said I should come up here?” Hutch explained his presence, the lilt of his tone adding a question mark to the statement.

Starsky stood and hurried around the desk, strategically placing himself between Hutch and the door. “That’s right. Captain Dobey wanted to thank you himself,” he explained, not feeling the least bit guilty for putting Dobey on the spot.

Obviously aware that something was going on, but unsure what it might be, Dobey nevertheless offered his hand to Hutch. “That’s right,” he echoed. “I wanted to thank you. From what I’ve heard, Starsky here was in well over his head.”

“Captain!” Starsky protested.

“Starsky’s very…resourceful,” Hutch said diplomatically, accepting Dobey’s handshake while his gaze touched Starsky’s but quickly skittered back to the captain. “I’m sure he would have figured something out.”

“That’s not the way he’s telling it,” Dobey said, but then shrugged and released Hutch’s hand. “I hope you’re planning on pressing assault charges against Switeck. It would give us some leverage to get him talking.”

“Of course, Captain. Anything I can do to help,” Hutch reassured Dobey, but his eyes were once again playing catch-me-if-you-can with Starsky’s. “Can you tell me what’s going to happen now? Cabrillo isn’t the best place in the world, but it’s better than the streets for most of our patients.”

“The state will have to find a new doctor and a few orderlies eventually, but they’ll probably appoint an interim administrator until the investigation is over.” Dobey lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you could recommend someone.”

“Philip Tucker,” Hutch suggested immediately. “You might have to talk him into it, but he’s good and he likes a challenge. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind an opportunity to work with him.”

“Hey, that reminds me. I want to recommend Freddy for a commendation,” Starsky said.

Dobey frowned. “Who’s Freddy? Why should he get a commendation?”

“Let’s just say for service above and beyond.”

Starsky saw that Hutch’s small smile had brought a tiny drop of blood to his split lip. It took an effort of will for him to tear his eyes away from that injured mouth, tasting the iron salt of the blood on his own tongue when the tip of Hutch’s appeared to lick it away.

“Well, we’ll have to see about that. In the meantime, well done, both of you.” Dobey shook Hutch’s hand again, and then clapped Starsky on the shoulder. He started to retreat to his office but turned back at the door. “By the way, Mr. Hutchinson. I don’t appreciate being called an idiot, but under the circumstances, I supposed I can overlook it this once. Goodnight, gentlemen,” he said and disappeared into his office.

“You called the captain of Metro Division an idiot?” Starsky asked after Dobey was gone, boldly laying a possessive hand on Hutch’s arm and smiling at the blush that appeared between the bruises on the handsome face. Even battered, cut and bruised, Hutch’s face was so beautiful it took Starsky’s breath away. It was all he could do to stop himself from taking Hutch in his arms right here and now.

“Heat of the moment,” Hutch explained and tried to half-heartedly remove his arm from Starsky’s grip. “I…uh…guess I better get home.”

Starsky refused to give up his grip. “I’ll drive you. My poor car’s been waiting down in the garage for me for almost a week,” he joked, pleading silently with his eyes.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Hutch asked, also doing more communicating with eyes full of caution than with the mundane question.

“No, Hutch. I think it’s a solid gold idea,” Starsky couldn’t make his position any clearer in a squad room full of night shift staff. “Please?”

With reluctance that gave Starsky a pain in the belly to go along with his bruises, Hutch finally agreed, and they went down to the garage.

“Your car isn’t a striped tomato?” Hutch asked as Starsky unlocked the Torino’s passenger door for him.

Starsky shrugged and hurried around the car to climb into the driver’s seat. “Where to, Mr. Hutchinson?”

“I’m all the way out in Venice. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I took a cab?” Hutch asked.

“What’s wro–” Starsky hesitated when two officers appeared. This still wasn’t the right time or the place. “What’s the address?”

1027 ½ Ocean Boulevard,” Hutch said.

Starsky let silence reign while he drove through the sparse traffic out to Venice. He spent the time lining up explanations and persuasions in his mind while he tried to figure out what had happened to the man who, only a couple of hours ago, had looked at him as if Starsky had invented passion and Hutch was ready to help him patent it.

“This it?” Starsky asked when he pulled the car up to a building called Venice Place.

“Yes, this is my place,” Hutch agreed, sounding nervous as he reached for the door handle.

Starsky turned in the seat. “I wasn’t asking if this was the right address, Hutch,” he said very softly, relieved when Hutch stopped fumbling with the door and looked at him. “I was asking if this is it for us. Is this what you want? You want me to just drive away and we’ll forget what almost happened, what could happen, between us?”

“I…I don’t want you to feel obligated,” Hutch finally admitted. “I mean, maybe you’re just grateful that I saved you from Matwick.”

Starsky shuffled forward a little along the bench seat, stopping when he was close enough that his drawn up knee brushed Hutch’s hip. “I wanted you long before you came crashing through that window, Blondie.”

“Well, then, grateful that I was nice to you, and that I was helping you,” Hutch continued to protest, though Starsky noticed he didn’t move away from the contact.

Very gently, Starsky brushed a lock of blond hair back from Hutch’s forehead, then tucked another strand behind his ear, letting his retreating fingers graze the bruised jaw before they settled on a broad shoulder. “Quit analyzing me, Hutch. I know what I feel and why I feel it,” he promised.

“W…what?” Hutch asked, the need to know up front in his pleading eyes.

“First that I want you. Knew that the minute I laid eyes on you,” Starsky confessed, repeating the caress, letting the desire he had felt live in his eyes and in his voice and in the hand that connected them. “Second, that I want to get to know you better.” He took his hand away, unwilling to continue to use physical coercion. “I never had more than a one night stand with any guy. Never wanted anything more than that. But I’ve got a feeling that if I let you slip away, I’m gonna be thinking ‘if only’ for the rest of my life.”

“Then maybe I should go up alone and we’ll agree to get to know each other better before–”

“I did put those in order of preference,” Starsky interrupted.

An already damaged bottom lip was pulled between white teeth, then quickly released. “I… All right,” Hutch finally agreed with unflattering reluctance.

Starsky seized his opportunity, hustling them both out of the car and into the building. Following Hutch up the stairs, watching the firm buttocks under the white pants flex as he climbed, set up an ache in the pit of Starsky’s belly. It was a need stronger than he ever felt for any woman. The kind of need he only ever felt for a man. But this hunger was tempered by emotions he had never felt for anyone in his life, man or woman.

Hutch’s apartment was something of a shock and distracted Starsky enough to take his eyes off Hutch for a moment. The place seemed wide open to Starsky, very bohemian, filled with unframed canvases and half a jungle of thriving plants. Starsky hadn’t had much time to imagine Hutch in any kind of home environment, but somehow, this was the last kind of place he would have expected of someone so close to obtaining their medical degree.

“Nice place,” Starsky said nevertheless, meaning it, the openness of it appealing to him, able to imagine the apartment filled with sunshine. He gestured toward one of the many unframed canvases. “You?”

“Uh, yeah,” Hutch admitted, apparently uncomfortable with the confession. “I’m not serious about it, or anything.”

“I like photography myself.” Starsky felt it was only fair to offer a reciprocal confession. “Which is a good thing since I couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler.” He took three deliberate steps closer to Hutch and watched the young, almost-doctor take the same three steps in the opposite direction.

“Uhm, would you like something to drink?” Hutch asked, backing toward the small kitchen as if he was afraid to take his eyes off Starsky.

Starsky started to pursue again, then stopped as a previously unconsidered possibility occurred to him. “Hutch?” he said and waited until Hutch stopped retreating. “Are you straight?” he asked bluntly. “Up until I grabbed you and kissed you, I mean.”

“No,” Hutch replied immediately, then just as quickly contradicted himself. “I mean yes.” He closed his eyes, his face tightening in frustration, then sighed and looked at Starsky. “I mean, no I’m not straight, but I’ve never… I never had the opportunity. Or maybe I never made the opportunity….”

“But you want to?” Starsky interrupted gently. He resumed his advance, one deliberate step at a time, pausing after each one to allow Hutch to retreat or protest if he really wanted to.

“I–I think so,” Hutch murmured uncertainly, but he was retreating again. That he wasn’t even aware he was doing so became apparent when he bumped into the table and his eyes widened in shock.

Starsky lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, then let them drop back to his sides. He wanted this man in his arms, but he wanted Hutch there of his own free will. Not coerced, backed into a corner, his doubts swept away by Starsky’s experienced seduction. Starsky started to turn away. “Okay, Hutch. I get the message. I’m leavin’, but you haven’t heard─”

“No! Wait! Please don’t go.”

Starsky turned and found that Hutch had abandoned retreat, had even ventured into the safe zone between them. He knew he could easily take what he wanted now. It was there in the panic in Hutch’s face and the hand that reached out toward him. He could cross the last few feet and claim Hutch easily. Every instinct warned him that if he closed in for the kill now, he would have tonight and nothing more. He would still have to live with “if only” for the rest of his life.

“I’ll stay if that’s what you want, Hutch. But do you know what you want?”

“I think…” Hutch lifted his head, his shoulders coming back and uncertainty disappearing from his stance. “No, I know what I want. Like you said, I want you and I want to get to know you better. But I have to tell you… There are things you have to know, have a right to know.”

“You wanna talk? Okay, let’s talk.” Starsky smiled tiredly and hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the sofa. “But could we at least sit down. It’s been a helluva day. For both of us.”

Starsky didn’t wait for Hutch to agree. He just moved to the easy chair and dropped into it, leaving the sofa for Hutch.

“So talk, Hutch. Tell me what’s on that beautiful mind of yours.”

Hutch gave a small, disbelieving snort. “What makes you think my mind is beautiful?”

“‘Cause I’m not stupid. Do you think I would have asked for your help if I hadn’t figured out how good you are. You’re so compassionate. So good with the patients at Cabrillo.” Starsky paused, suddenly knowing what this was all about. It was so damned obvious.

“There’s a good reason for that.”

“Because you’ve been in their shoes?”

There was a moment of panic on Hutch’s face that quickly changed to resignation. “You know?”

“I saw it in your file when I broke into Matwick’s office. You spent time in an institution when you were eighteen because you tried to kill yourself.” Starsky gave Hutch the small amount of information he knew. “It doesn’t make any difference to me, if that’s what you’re afraid of. If anything, it makes me respect you more for the strong, compassionate man you’ve become.”

“Strong,” Hutch murmured, his head dropping, his poor, bruised face twisted by guilt. “Not even if the reason I did it was because I wasn’t strong? Not strong enough to admit to myself who I really was. Not strong enough to love my best friend the way he loved me.”

“Hutch, you don’t have to tell me any of this.” Starsky leaned forward, reaching out toward Hutch, but held back the gesture of comfort when Hutch lifted a hand between them.

“Yes, I do. You have a right to know.”

Starsky began to protest again, then hesitated. Maybe Hutch did need to tell him. Hutch was a man of integrity, he had already shown that time and again. It should come as no surprise that that integrity wouldn’t allow him to be anything but completely honest with Starsky, however painful it might be for him. Starsky sat back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. “Then tell me.”

“Jack was my best friend. We were inseparable. People used to say we were joined at the hip.” Hutch gave a small smile of remembrance of better times, but it didn’t last long, his lips settling into a grim, pain-filled line. “The summer after we finished high school, Jack told me he…that he was in love with me.”

“But you didn’t feel the same way?” Starsky ventured the guess into the silence that fell between them when Hutch seemed to run out of words.

Hutch shook his head and swallowed hard before he spoke again, his voice heavy with old sorrows and guilt. “No. That’s what I couldn’t forgive. Why I…tried to follow him. I did love him. I just didn’t have the guts to admit it. To him or even to myself. Jack killed himself because I was a coward.”

“Hutch, no. You were only eighteen years old. You can’t blame yourself because he─” Starsky let his protest fade when he saw Hutch’s rueful smile.

“I know what you’re going to say, that it wasn’t my fault. I know that now, but I spent a lot of time, and my parents spent a great deal of money, before I could say that and really mean it. I’ve learned to accept that Jack made his own choices. It took a lot longer, but I also learned to accept my homosexuality.” Hutch lifted his head and Starsky saw that the promises, the hopes and dreams, and the desires that had been in those eyes in Matwick’s office had finally returned. “I’ve never done anything about that acceptance but, oh, God, David, I want to now.”

“Can I come over there now? You won’t run away from me anymore?” Starsky asked, certain of the answer, but needing to hear it.

“I’m not running away from either one of us anymore.”

Starsky knew it was true. The roadblocks were finally clear. He moved to the sofa and gently took the prize patience had won him into his arms. “You’re sure?” Because, you know, baby blue, if you’ve got any objections, now’s the time.”

“No objections,” Hutch whispered, his eyes closing, head tilting and lips parting in invitation.

Starsky was more than happy to accept that invitation, gently pressing his mouth to Hutch’s, discovering almost immediately that as much as he wanted this kiss and as sweet as it was, it also hurt like hell. He felt Hutch’s grimace against his lips and realized his would-be lover was just as wounded. Starsky ended the painful kiss and offered a rueful smile.

“Or maybe I do have a couple of objections,” Hutch amended in a husky, frustrated growl. “Like your cuts and my bruises.”

Starsky conceded the point, but tightened his grip when Hutch tried to pull out of his arms. “I’m not leavin’,” he insisted, then, “Unless you’re kicking me out. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He tried on a charming grin that hurt way too much, then sobered. “I meant what I said, Hutch. I’ve never felt so…connected to anyone so fast in all my life, and I don’t want to throw that away. Let me stay tonight?”

“I don’t think I could let you walk out that door,” Hutch admitted, and with a little surprise Starsky realized that it wasn’t just him holding Hutch but that the embrace had become an equal expression of want and need. “And I don’t think I want you all the way over on the couch, either.” Hutch’s blush made the bold confession all the more endearing. “Stay?”

“Oh, yeah, baby blue. I’m gonna stay,” Starsky promised.

*~*~*

Hutch had never before awakened to find someone else in his bed with him. He had had no idea that the sheer novelty of extra warmth under the sheet and the sound of someone else’s breathing could be such a sensual pleasure. It aroused him, even before he remembered who it was he had gone to sleep with last night.

Not alone. Perhaps never alone again.

Hutch allowed himself a very brief flight of fancy before he opened his eyes. Never was a very, very long time, especially based on a single week’s acquaintance and a few kisses. Even if those kisses had been the most wonderful he had ever known. Even if the lips that had delivered them were part of a man Hutch had felt compelled to connect with at first meeting.

Starsky had stated quite clearly that he didn’t believe in love at first sight. But last night, he had also said his instincts told him what was between them was more. “So what is this?” Hutch wondered aloud to the oblivious man who shared his bed.

“Potential,” Starsky said, still lying flat on his back, eyes closed, to all appearances, except for the single word, sound asleep.

Hutch jumped a little, surprised by Starsky’s awareness, and even more by the apparent previously unknown mind-reading abilities. “How long have you been awake?”

“How long have you been watching me?” Starsky rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand, incidentally offering Hutch an unobstructed view from his curls to his thighs. There were a multitude of black and blue bruises decorating that long, furry torso, many of them in similar places where Hutch could feel bruises on his own body. It was the early morning erection that held Hutch’s attention, however, and encouraged his own cock to rise in sympathy.

“Since I woke up,” Hutch replied absently, forgetting both the question and the answer when Starsky reached out to carefully brush Hutch’s lips with his fingertips.

“How are your objections this morning?” Starsky asked, his thumb resting on Hutch’s mouth.

Carefully, Hutch increased the pressure against that digit, pursing his lips experimentally into a cautious pucker. “They seem to be resolving themselves.” The pressure still hurt, but Hutch no longer cared.

The thumb left his mouth then, and taking fingers and palm with it, slid back into Hutch’s hair and cupped the back of his head. Starsky didn’t pull him into a kiss, just held him there while the eyes that had captivated Hutch from the beginning searched his face.

“Just resolving?” Starsky asked, and Hutch realized he was asking for permission to pick up where they had left off the night before. It had been Hutch who had hesitated to take the next step, and even though Starsky had to see that Hutch’s hesitation was over, he was waiting for permission to start them again.

“Resolved,” Hutch murmured, and then leaned forward those few inches to bring their mouths together in a gentle, questioning kiss. Whatever fears Hutch might have for the future, he was certain that, for this particular moment in time, he was exactly where he most wanted to be. He was in the arms of a man who might someday be his love, but only time would tell.

What the future held didn’t seem important while Starsky was kissing him. It became less vital still when that long, furry torso pressed against him, naked skin to naked skin for the first time. But when Starsky brought their cocks together, trapped them side by side between their tight-pressed bellies, Hutch forgot there were such things as past, present, or future, as he tore his mouth free, threw back his head and moaned with the power of it possessing him.

“Like that, babe?” Starsky whispered, his hips taking up a rhythm that rubbed and stroked and crossed their cocks in a mock duel. “Wanna give you what you like. Let me? Let me?”

The words meant little. They were felt more than heard as the husky pleas caressed the already overloaded pleasure center of his brain, but Hutch understood the message of the body that pushed him onto his back and the hand that burrowed between his thighs, encouraging them to part.

“Let you?” Hutch echoed. Despite his ignorance, his fingers itched to drag Starsky down to him, his body eager to buck and heave and give this man the ride of his life. His grasping hands were evaded, however, and Starsky’s breath caressed first his throat and then his chest.

“Ah, baby, baby.” There was a mourning sorrow in Starsky’s voice as his fingers delicately caressed the arch of Hutch’s ribs. “The bastard.”

Even so delicate a touch throbbed with the damage Switeck’s fists had slammed into the flesh Starsky now tended with fingertips and lips and the tender wash of his tongue, as if he could lick away the bruise, love away the wound. Remembered pain faded beneath Starsky’s ministrations, the infliction of it forgotten, replaced forever with the sensations that flooded Hutch’s body now, driving the ache down into his cock.

As if that path were painted on his skin, Hutch felt Starsky following it. The loving mouth left behind bruised ribs to torment the muscles of his belly into dancing beneath a lapping tongue, heaving against the teeth that delicately nipped around the edges of his navel.

Hutch’s world was narrowing down to a single point of focus, the ache and anticipation in his cock for the mouth that crept closer and closer, the lips that nuzzled into his pubic hair. “Christ, yes,” he moaned, threading his fingers into Starsky’s curls, barely resisting the primal need to force that mouth to take him.

“It’s comin’, Hutch.” Starsky’s hand was once again between Hutch’s thighs, pushing them further apart. “Just let me get at you.”

Hutch felt the heat of some part of Starsky’s flesh pressing against his thighs and opened them wider. He felt wanton and vulnerable and exposed, and loved every moment of it. Starsky groaned his approval and offered the reward of a firm kiss to the tip of Hutch’s cock.

“Oh. Oh,” Hutch panted, more coherent communication beyond him when Starsky’s lips parted and accepted the tip of his cock, slid down and down and down the shaft. Hutch forced himself to lie utterly still, accepting the pace and cadence of Starsky’s expertise as the dark head began to bob beneath Hutch’s clinging hands, those wet lips wrapped tight around his cock.

It was gaining on him. That agony of pleasure every man spent half his life chasing and yet vainly tried to hold at bay. For just one more minute. One long, slurping, stroke longer. One wet, swirling lick more. One hard suck into the future that dragged the seed from his balls and siphoned it into the hungry mouth that fed on him.

“You with me, babe?”

The question had an echo to it, as if it was spoken in an empty room in an empty house. Not empty, but too full, Hutch realized, recognizing that Starsky’s voice had to filter through the thunder of climax that still beat in his ears.

“Hutch? Jesus Christ, answer me!”

Hutch didn’t think he was capable of speech just yet, and movement was probably an ability that still lived a few minutes at least in the future. But he could smile. Felt, in fact, he must already be grinning like an imbecile.

“You look like a cat full of cream,” Starsky purred, the near-panic that had been in his voice gone.

Ah, Starsky much have seen the smile.

“A big old calico cat with all your black and red patches all over you.”

Hutch opened his eyes to find Starsky above him, propped on both hands, the muscles of shoulders and chest and arms taut and bulging as they supported his weight. They were hardly touching now, only one heated press of flesh to flesh where their thighs met. Lazily, Hutch brought his knees up, rubbed and stroked Starsky’s flanks, but Starsky continued to hold their bodies apart.

“Com’ere,” Hutch demanded, lifting his legs, wrapping them around the hard flex of Starsky’s ass.

“Uh, uh,” Starsky refused, rearing back and throwing Hutch’s legs back to the bed. “You just got off. It’ll kill ya,” he insisted, then lowered his head to push a kiss into Hutch’s mouth, nuzzling into his throat and up to his ear. “Gimme your hands,” he instructed in a throaty purr.

“My hands?” Hutch echoed and brought them in between them, laying them flat-palmed over the prominent swell of Starsky’s pectoral muscles, feeling the hard points of the aroused nipples press into his palms.

“Mmmmm,” Starsky hummed his approval, shifting from side to side, rubbing his chest more firmly against Hutch’s hands. “Lower. Yeah, yeah. That’s it,” he purred when Hutch obeyed, his fingers stroking over the furry belly.

Hutch had the picture now and needed no further instruction. He brought both hands down to Starsky’s groin and cupped them around the hard cock and drawn-tight balls, giving Starsky a warm, firm nest to thrust into. In and out, hard, then harder, the pace picking up. Fast, then faster, as Starsky panted and moaned and cursed.

“Damn. Damn. Damn,” Starsky grunted, the piston stroke of his hips short and sharp now.

“Come on, David. Give it to me,” Hutch encouraged and tightened his hands. He squeezed, forcing Starsky to work for his rhythm, feeling it break just a moment before the cock in his fingers seemed to swell, then bathed his cradling hands with the hot, wet liquid satin of Starsky’s semen.

Starsky collapsed on Hutch as the last week pulse sprayed into Hutch’s hands, trapping those hands and his arms between them and pinning Hutch to the bed. The dense weight, devoid of strength, crushed the breath from Hutch for a moment. He loved it. The strength and security of Starsky’s warm weight satisfied his heart the way Starsky’s mouth had satisfied his body.

“Sorry,” Starsky muttered, the weight lifting from Hutch’s body.

“No,” Hutch protested, sending his freed hands to seize Starsky’s shoulders to bring him back down. “Not yet. Stay.”

“Told ya last night I was stayin’,” Starsky whispered into Hutch’s ear, but then his muscles flexed, lifting him clear of Hutch’s body to flop, boneless, beside him.

Feeling both bereft and deprived, Hutch rolled to his side, pressing against Starsky. He let his hand rest on the rapidly rising and falling chest and felt the still thundering heartbeat beneath. One-forty, one-thirty, one-twenty, he automatically guesstimated the rate as it slowed, realized what he was doing, and let his hand stroke lower.

“Ouch,” Starsky complained, shifting a little to remove Hutch’s hand from his ribs.

The complaint lifted Hutch on his elbows to visually check the area, seeing a mirroring bruise to the one that decorated his ribs. He probed into the blood-heated flesh, feeling for the bone beneath. “I hope that doctor at Memorial knows what he’s doing. These ribs could be cracked.”

Starsky laughed a little. “Forgot you’re a doc,” he murmured lazily, smiling up at Hutch, looking like that cream-stealing cat he had likened Hutch to a few minutes before.

“Not quite yet I’m not,” Hutch reminded him.

“But soon?” Starsky asked, a frown pulling his eyebrows together and a tightness Hutch didn’t understand settling in around his mouth.

“Three months of classes, then I’ll be starting my residency.” Hutch shivered as he felt a distance growing between them. It wasn’t a physical matter of feet or inches, but an emotional withdrawal that sent him scrambling for defenses that no longer existed. Starsky had tumbled all the walls he had ever had around his heart with his tender kisses and his passionate loving.

“Mmmm,” Starsky hummed, the sound conveying neither approval nor disapproval, but his attempted escape as he tried to roll away, clear enough.

Hutch’s hand tightened instinctively, holding the muscular body in place while he tried to force Starsky to meet his eyes. “What’s wrong? You didn’t like it?” he asked bluntly, realizing that whatever hesitations he himself might have felt were gone now, that he was halfway to giving his heart to Starsky as freely as he had given his body.

The withdrawal ceased, Starsky’s hand coming up to secure a fierce grip in Hutch’s hair. “I liked it,” he hissed, then loosened his grip, petting gently as if to apologize for any tugging he might have done. “Liked it too much, maybe,” he added in a mumble Hutch could barely understand, then seemed to find his courage again. “Kinda worlds apart.” His tone made it a question while his eyes begged Hutch to say he was wrong.

“Both our worlds are in Bay City,” Hutch pointed out hopefully.

“And you really think the cop and the doctor could work?”

“Only one way to find out,” Hutch pointed out, feeling his gut tense at the thought of finally committing his heart to someone. The fear disappeared, however, when he looked into Starsky’s eyes and saw the same fear there. So hard to trust, but necessary, if Hutch didn’t want to let this man slip through his fingers. “You did say you wanted to get to know me better.”

“Yeah.” The trepidation disappeared from Starsky’s face, giving way to a glowing enthusiasm that Hutch sensed was closer to Starsky’s true personality than anything Hutch had yet seen. “I guess there’s no time like the present.” He reared up to plant a teasing kiss on Hutch’s mouth and then tipped him over onto his back. He loomed over Hutch, one hand in the middle of his chest as if he expected Hutch to suddenly attempt to escape. “Soooo, do you like pizza?”

“Yes,” Hutch answered promptly, suppressing his laughter but suspecting it was leaking out of his eyes and his smile.

“And what about root beer?” Starsky demanded ferociously.

“Well, yes, sometimes,” Hutch agreed a little more cautiously, sensing a trap somewhere behind the sparkling eyes and toothy grin.

“For breakfast?” Starsky sprang the trap.

“You’ve got to be joking?” Hutch laughed in delight at the teasing, letting the laughter fade as he watched Starsky’s face become serious.

“About you?” Starsky asked quietly, the touch of his fingers as they traced Hutch’s face from eyebrow to chin as tender as the expression in his eyes. “I think I am.”

Me, too. Hutch didn’t have a chance to say the words before Starsky’s lips claimed his. That was okay. They had lots of getting to know each other ahead of them and plenty of tomorrows to do it in. For now, it seemed perfect to end this first chapter with a kiss.