Odds Against

Starsky is undercover and missing.

Originally published in SHareCon 2008 zine.

The car was moving upwards. He could feel his ears popping and yawned to relieve the pressure.

Starsky swallowed back incipient nausea and tried to flow into the rhythm of the wheels, anticipating when the heavy body of the car would swing to the left and then dive back toward the right. He braced himself against the rough carpeting on the wall, his fingers scraping painfully without anything to hang onto.

When the car slid wildly, momentum gathering in a most unpleasant way as if the wheels were destined to lose their grip on terra-firma, break free of gravity and sail out into emptiness like an Apollo spacecraft on launch day, Starsky rolled himself into a tight ball. The rope looped around his wrists made that maneuver most unpleasant. Finally, the car lurched to the right in a desperate attempt to cling to the roadway. With the smell of burning rubber and acrid exhaust exacerbating his sick stomach, Starsky rolled helplessly in the small space, unable to stop his freefall. His head slammed against the trunk hood with a force that shook his very bones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clock on the wall of the detective squadroom gave a very distinctive click each time it claimed a new hour. The very sound of that long hand slotting into place always made Hutch shudder. He purposefully flipped another page over, but the printed words of the current case just swam in front of his eyes. He kept seeing the same thing over and over, Starsky silhouetted in the lighted rectangle of the door to Bufante’s just before he went inside.

Like watching a single loop of film going through a projector, Hutch saw Starsky look to either side, as if searching for someone. For one instant their eyes had locked. Hutch had felt Starsky down deep inside him, sensed his essence curling around Hutch for reassurance, just before he’d closed the door.

Starsky was undercover and couldn’t acknowledge the dirty, blond bum crouched on the corner nursing a bottle of Thunderbird tucked discretely in a brown paper bag. Hutch had sat there for another hour, yards from Bufante’s, hoping that he might see Starsky again. He’d abandoned his corner only when Dixon showed up, looking even more disreputable than Hutch did.

“Report in every half hour,” Hutch whispered, passing the bottle of rotgut over. The walkie-talkie was taped to the bottle with duct tape and was linked to the cops sitting warm and dry in their unmarked car one block over.

The rain had stopped right before Starsky went into Bufante’s, but drizzle started falling moments after. Hutch was soaked to the skin by the time he left his post, and his boots squelched wetly when he walked to his dented Ford.

Now, twenty minutes later, he could still feel the wet soles against his stocking feet and wished he had some other shoes to wear. His locker had only contained an old turtleneck and a pair of jeans, but no sneakers. He’d changed clothes immediately after getting back to Metro, in anticipation of Starsky’s brief check-in.

Let the designated phone on their desk ring twice. Hutch had set the phone guarded by Pinky the piggybank right in front of him, within easy access. He was supposed to pick it up, say “Yeah, whadda ya want?”

Starsky would say, “Two hundred on Rocky in the second race,” if he anticipated being able to call back in two hours, or maybe “A c-note on Red Tomato to show,” if he was able to get away from Emilo Bufante and meet up with Hutch at the Torino which was parked in a discrete, out-of-the-way lot.

They had practiced all sorts of betting codes while coming up with Starsky’s undercover persona. Laughed and toasted one another with sodas, sure that bringing in Bufante, a known racketeer and loan shark, would be a sure thing.

Starsky had used the code phrases successfully all week, reporting in like clockwork every evening. Until today.

At the two hour mark, Hutch wasn’t all that worried. Starsky had a window of thirty minutes, give or take, before Hutch was officially allowed to be worried. But when three hours passed, and the cops in the unmarked realized that Dixon hadn’t checked in nearly an hour, they’d gone to check.

Dixon was dead on the sidewalk, slouched over his Thunderbird bottle, a slender shiv pushed up between two ribs, directly into his heart. When the cops raided the restaurant at midnight, Bufante’s had a full crowd of diners; well-dressed Bay Cityites enjoying their cocktails and lobster, but the boss wasn’t in. Neither was Starsky.

Hutch didn’t allow himself to panic then. Panicking was for the quiet night hours after all this was over. He tamped down his emotions and went to work, ferreting out the clues.

The entire staff of waiters were apparently fans of Hogan’s Heroes, because they all knew nothing. Emilio Bufante had had dinner with friends at his usual table in the back.

Yeah, that new guy—what was his name? Rudy Skyler? Yeah, he’d been there, for a little while. But they all left. Around ten. Hours ago.

Around ten—one hour after Starsky went in through the front door and disappeared without a trace.

It was now six a.m. Hutch felt the particular loud snick of the hour hand and minute hand as if it were a key locking Starsky away forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beating was bad, but Starsky had been hit before, and he would be hit in the future. He didn’t scare easily, no matter how dire the situation might be.

“You think I’m made of glass, you dumb shit?” Starsky taunted Nagle, Bufante’s main enforcer, earning another blow to the ribs. Nagle and the other guy, the one Starsky hadn’t seen until too late, would get tired of beating the crap out of him soon enough. He’d survive. Hutch would come, he just had to wait things out.

Two more to the head left him dizzy, but the kick directly to his gut came with benefits. Starsky vomited all over Nagle, losing the linguini with clams he’d eaten with the boss man.

“Fuck!” was one of Nagle’s favorite words. In fact, it seemed an all-purpose expression to be brought in for any number of occasions. He employed it constantly for the next few minutes without stopping while proving to Starsky that a bare knuckles beating could hurt as much—or quite possibly more—than being struck with a length of wood or a belt.

Starsky’s father had been a big believer in the belt on a boy’s bare butt. Three swats and no dinner. He’d hated that form of discipline at the age of eight.

Now he knew for certain that there were much, much worse ways to be hit.

He lay on the floor of Bufante’s office simply existing. There was no other word for it. This was certainly not living, but he was just as sure that it wasn’t death. Death would mean no pain, and he was as far from painless as the sun was from the earth.

“Whadda we do with the fucker?” Nagle asked. “He puked on my Italian shoes!”

“Bufante wants t’go up to the cabin,” the other guy replied. “We can get rid of him there.”

Starsky sucked on his bottom lip, swallowing blood and trying to follow the conversation. The clanging in his ears, some obscure heavy metal band with no sense of rhythm, was making hearing altogether more difficult than it should have been. He thought he’d identified all of Bufante’s associates but this latest voice was unfamiliar. Which, in retrospect, had probably been his downfall.

He and Hutch had been gambling on few of Bufante’s men knowing them. All had come in from the East coast in the last few months just as the brand new restaurant opened, and hadn’t had any contact with Bay City’s favorite detectives up until now. Unfortunately, there had been no way to ascertain whether Bufante or his people associated with any members of the criminal element who could recognize Starsky or Hutch.

Bufante hadn’t hinted that he suspected his newest employee of any kind of duplicity. He’d just calmly asked Starsky to go into the back office to get some paperwork he wanted to look over.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Rudy Skyler was supposed to be a weaselly, brown-noser who’d do anything to come up through the ranks of Bufante’s business. Being reduced to errand boy rankled, but Starsky knew that later in the evening Bufante wanted him to run a much more important errand—transporting four hundred thousand dollars to the airport to be carried back to New Jersey.

That was to be the highlight of the whole undercover operation. It was a coordinated operation with the Newark police department and Bay City’s. If they could prove exactly how and where Bufante was ferrying his laundered money, they could shut the whole Bufante crime organization down cold.

The Big If.

And he had blown it. Walked right into a trap he never saw.

“You’re a fucking cop!” Nagle had screamed the moment Starsky came into Bufante’s office and sucker punched him right in the face.

Starsky immediately went on the offensive, getting two jabs in before a big guy with a heavy ring on his right hand had grabbed his arms.

“Recognized you right off, Star-sky,” he’d whispered and pinned Starsky’s arms behind his back while Nagle went to town on his victim. The sharp facets of the ring dug into Starsky’s hand until his knees had buckled and his captor dropped him unceremoniously on the floor.

This whippo had fingered him, but he couldn’t place the guy’s voice.

Couldn’t see him, either because one of Starsky’s eyes was already swelling shut and the other was smashed into the carpet. Moving his head even two inches to one side was too much work at this stage. He just lay there, summoning strength from muscles that had nothing more to give, and praying that his betrayer hadn’t seen Hutch outside the club and gotten him, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the phone rang, Hutch snatched up the dedicated phone, “Starsky, where the hell are you?” half-way out of his mouth before he realized that the other phone by his left elbow was the one he should have answered.

“Hello?” he snarled into the receiver, his heart beat erratic and unpleasant. He couldn’t manage civility.

“Hutch,” Huggy said. “Breakfast at Cora Lee’s in half an hour. I’m buying.”

“Hug, I can’t . . .” Hutch looked up at the clock, cursing the hands that moved too fast around the face. It was already 6:30 and Starsky had been out of communication for over seven hours.

“If you’re waiting for a particular phone call, I’m here to tell you it probably ain’t coming.” Huggy’s voice was brittle with a harsh overtone that spoke volumes. Huggy was scared.

Hutch felt his heart stutter and then slam violently into his ribcage. “What do you know?” he demanded.

“Not a lot.” Huggy sighed. “Just come.”

“Be there in twenty,” Hutch said. He hung up and waited, simply stood for a minute staring at the dedicated phone—Starsky’s lifeline. It didn’t ring. He never should have trusted such a shoddy piece of equipment. Never should have let Starsky out of his sight.

That one image, of Starsky backlit in the door of the restaurant, haloed in light like a saint in a Renaissance masterpiece, kept sucker punching him when he was most vulnerable. Had he been alone, at home, he might have drunk himself into oblivion, wallowing in despair and fear. There was no option for that now. Not with Starsky missing and the minutes ticking past with lightning speed.

Cora Lee’s was open and almost deserted. Mid-week must not be the time for indulging in a down-home breakfast of buttered grits and biscuits with gravy. Hutch walked in and sat down at Huggy’s table without a word except for a brief meeting of eyes. The tension was so palpable, Hutch almost wanted to yell and curse just to relieve the unbelievable pressure. That wouldn’t have helped, so he didn’t.

“Starsky didn’t make his call in, did he?” Huggy asked.

Hutch swallowed and for a moment, the pressure on his throat was so great that he couldn’t speak. Huggy was one the few, besides Dobey and the cops on stake-out, who knew about the undercover.

Cora Lee smiled warmly, apparently sensing the stress level between them with a wary glance at Huggy. “G’morning, Hutch. Coffee?” She held up the pot.

He nodded, watching her pour the dark brew into a thick, white china cup. Looking anywhere but at Huggy, so he wouldn’t have to see the fear reflected in those dark eyes, Hutch settled on the menu tacked on the wall.

Griddle cakes, scrambled eggs with a side of bacon and hash browns. Every item reminded him of Starsky. This was the kind of place where Starsky liked to eat, not him.

Hutch switched his focus to his friend. There was the shadow of a beard on Huggy’s jaw and inky bags under his eyes. He looked like he had been up all night. His rainbow-hued scarf hung limply over a bright green jacket and jeans that were dirty at the knee. Hutch had rarely seen him in anything but sartorial splendor.

“You have information?” he asked shortly, curving his hands around the white cup. The hot coffee barely warmed his chilled palms. It was still raining; a cold, wet day that so perfectly matched his mood it was as if the weather man had consulted Hutch personally.

Huggy mirrored Hutch’s pose, long fingers interlaced around the cup, but he picked his up and drank, something Hutch couldn’t bring himself to do. “Vegas Lenair is back in town—and word is that he’s courting favor with the new kingpin.”

“Bufante.” Hutch felt his hands trembling and clutched the warmth of the cup more tightly. “Lanier was supposed to be in Joliet on a racketeering indictment.”

“He got out,” Huggy said unnecessarily. He drained his cup and motioned Cora Lee over again. “Some eggs, Cora my love. Hutch, you want anything?”

“No!” Hutch exploded. Cora Lee actually backed up, her mouth opened in shock. “Sorry, I’m sorry, Cora Lee. Things . . .”

“Starsky’s not here to temper the tiger, eh?” She poured more coffee, even adding a dollop to Hutch’s undrunk cup. “Where is he?”

“Under the weather,” Hutch said with as much nothing-out-of-the-ordinary, things-are-fine that he could muster. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“I’ll get Lester started on them eggs, Hug.” Cora rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “You’re like a rock, boy, gotta loosen up.”

“Trying to, Cora,” Huggy said quietly. He waited until she was back behind the counter, chatting with another customer. “Lanier was spotted at Bufante’s last night, ’round ten, maybe later, so I heard.”

“From who?” Hutch pressed.

“I resurrected the Mouse Downs for a private client who shall remain nameless, if you catch my drift.”

“Unless he figures into finding Starsky, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“You’re a riot, blondie, anyone ever tell you that?” Huggy said sourly. “Mice, rats. Anyway, I had quite a crowd long ’bout four a.m.. The betting on Chucky Cheese to win was fierce, and in saunters Lanier’s little brother, Reno, throwing cash around like it’s confetti, high as a kite on coke or something. He said Vegas was going up to the mountains with Bufante.”

“Shit. Vegas knows Starsky on sight.” Was it possible to squeeze a china coffee cup hard enough to shatter the thing? Hutch forcibly relaxed his grip, breathing in and out very deliberately. “Where’s Reno now?”

Huggy smiled, all teeth and gums without a hint of joy. “He likes to mix his medicinal aids. He’s sleeping off some potent horse he scored after the race, cuddled up to his favorite mouse, Pepper Jack, at the deserted dairy off 89th and Fisher.”

“He coherent?” Hutch stood, impatient to be on his way. This had to be a lead. Was Starsky in the mountains? Or had he been shot between the eyes, execution style and laid to rest in some remote place on the way? Both possibilities were sickening.

“As anyone in his condition can be.” Huggy watched Cora Lee pick up a plate of eggs and then slid his eyes up to Hutch. He looked haunted. “You need me to come with? Starsky’s my . . .”

“I know,” Hutch said abruptly, not wanting any maudlin sentiment. There was no evidence that anything bad had happened, not yet. He was a detective, he had to have proof before he started the eulogy. “You come, you stay out of the way.”

“Will do, Captain.” Huggy gave a ragged salute and forked up a huge portion of the eggs Cora placed in front of him. He was still chewing when he followed Hutch out the door. “Later, Cora!”

“I’ll put it on your tab, baby,” she called after him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Starsky came to in stages as if his abused body simply couldn’t tolerate acknowledging the pain all in one fell swoop. Breathing turned out to be a chore best left to someone with their ribs all intact. Since Starsky’s were most decidedly broken, at least the ones on the right side, every breath was a necessary torture. He could feel the ends of the bones jabbing him from the inside. For a while, he just had to ride out the pain, waiting until he could catch enough oxygen to clear his aching head.

Once he’d accepted that his chest and head were agonizing, Starsky was far more worried about his hands and feet. At first, he couldn’t feel them at all. As things fell into place and he came up from the half-with-it state that he really, really liked, he began to feel something more ominous than the lack of sensation in his limbs.

It was freezing.

Not just the wintry, rainy, chill-to-your-bones coldness of Bay City on a January night but a freezing iciness that took what little breath he had away. Cold that hurt.

Starsky tried to open his eyes. That was a mistake of mythic proportions, remembering belatedly that the left one was swollen shut. He decided against trying that again, for a while at the very least, and concentrated on what he could discover about his surroundings by touch, smell and hearing.

It was damned cold. That was a given.

He was lying on his left side, arms hinged backwards behind him and hands tied together.

Starsky experimented with wiggling his arms and felt the rough nap of a carpet underneath him. He simply couldn’t place why he was cramped into such a small space with his knees up almost to his chest and the sharp scent of gasoline in his nose.

The effort to think through all the heavy metal arias in his head was too great. He drifted for a long time and finally roused again when some kind of bird screeched nearby.

He came awake with a gasp that wiped the cotton wool out of his head. Bufante.

Rudy Skyler’s cover blown.

The beating in Bufante’s office and subsequently being dragged to the black BMW Bufante favored for a ride to the mountains— locked in the trunk.

A gust of wind shook the lid of the trunk above his head and this time, his eyes– the right eye, anyway—opened automatically. If he could feel such strong wind, then the trunk was open and the car was not moving. Snow peppered his unprotected face, stinging with cold.

The bird screeched again, high and raucous in the night. Not sure he really wanted to know what sort of bird that was, Starsky focused the little energy he had on getting out of the trunk. His hands were still tied behind him, which hampered any escape plans.

There was nothing to do but get his hands in front of him. That involved some gymnastics that didn’t take into account broken ribs. Laying quietly in the dark, Starsky considered how long he could last in below freezing weather. He was dressed for a dinner at Bufante’s, in Skyler’s burgundy silk shirt and black slacks. No suit coat or warm jacket, he’d draped the black jacket that went with the slacks over the back of his chair at dinner and never picked it up again.

No gun, either. Not that a gun would help keep him warm, but it would certainly make him feel better.

A whole lot better.

Gritting his teeth, Starsky wiggled his butt, pulling his arms down toward his ankles and nearly passed out from the pain.

Damn.

He panted, moaning with every anguished breath. He bent forward more, jamming his knees up under his chin. The broken ends of his ribs grated against each other, igniting shockwaves of pain through his body.

This wasn’t going to work, it wasn’t going to work.

It wasn’t going to work.

He sobbed out loud when his senseless hands cleared his feet. He could feel the weird sensation on the bottom of his ice cold feet, but everything from the elbow down on his arms was completely numb. His shoulders made up for it by screaming in pain, and every breath was like a stab of fire.

Sitting up very slowly by bracing his numb hands on the edge of the car, Starsky pushed the truck open with his head. Snow blew into his open mouth and up his nose and the cold seemed far worse now that he was sitting into the wind.

Where was Bufante and the two other goons who’d dragged Starsky to the car? And why had they left the trunk of the car ajar?

Shifting his weight, Starsky leaned forward to climb out and the vehicle lurched, knocking him to one side. His ragged breathing taking precedence, Starsky lay quietly, fearing the worst. The car slid downward, the heavy chassis of the BMW now simply an out of control deathtrap. It slammed into some kind of barrier, the whole frame shuddering from the impact.

Starsky held onto the rim of the trunk, thinking of Hutch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Trying to question Reno Lanier was an object lesson in frustration. Hutch swore under his breath and kicked an old, metal milk container. Lanier was so stoned, he barely flinched.

“Huggy, he wouldn’t recognize his own brother, much less be able to tell us where the bastard was.”

“No’ a bastard,” Reno slurred, swatting ineffectively at Hutch.

“What about this trip to the mountains?” Huggy asked, glancing around. The remains of a small track with tiny mouse prints in the dust was over to their left. He nodded and snagged a small rodent nibbling on a discarded crumb of cheese. “Knew I’d find Pepper Jack if I tried.” He tucked the mouse into a Chinese take-out box.

“That’s the best lead we have.” Hutch checked his pocket watch. Seven-fifteen. He’d been away from his designated phone for nearly an hour. Surely Dobey would have gotten through to him if Starsky made contact.

Please, Starsky, call in.

“Where were they going? Local mountains are the closest,” Hutch mused. It was amazingly difficult to breathe with his belly in knots and his heart beating faster than usual. “A cabin? Lake Arrowhead? The San Gabriels or the San Bernadinos?”

“Searchez la real estate,” Huggy said. He looped the rainbow striped scarf around his neck, swinging the take-out box by the handle. “Must be snowing like crazy up on the mountains. Winter sports—the like of which the Bear does not partake.”

“Hey, Reno.” Hutch nudged the barely conscious man with his foot. Under any other circumstances, he might feel remorse for the guy, even an overpowering sense of empathy—there but for the grace of Starsky go I, but today he just wanted answers and fast. “Your brother ski?”

“Wha?” Reno opened a bleary brown eye and drool dribbled down his chin.

“Does Vegas like to ski?” Hutch gave each word precise enunciation.

“Cross-con’try.” Reno held out a shaking hand. “Hey, you got som’thin for me? Some help? Vegas goin’ with Bufan’e t’the snow. S’cold there.”

It was the most that the junkie had said all at one time but there was little new information. Disgusted, Hutch turned away, automatically reaching for a twenty in the pocket of his cords. He dropped the bill into Reno’s hand.

Huggy was right, they had to find out if Bufante owned any property in the mountains, but the search could take hours. How long did Starsky have? Hutch had spent half the night searching Bufante’s establishment but there wasn’t a single shred of evidence that Starsky had even been there. Except that Hutch knew for certain that he had been.

“I’ll get Minnie started on a records search for mountain cabins.” Hutch ducked his head when they came out of the old dairy. The rain was now a steady downpour. “Bufante may have left something at his house that will give me a destination. Dobey was going to get me a search warrant. That’s my second stop.”

“Let me guess, the first is the Pits to leave me off?” Huggy jerked opened the door of Hutch’s beater, stowing his mouse container on the floor of the car before getting in. “I can help. Starsky had a bad feeling about this whole undercover from the start. He told me to keep an eye out.”

“He didn’t tell me that.” All Hutch could think about were those goofy evenings coming up the code phrases and Starsky’s laughing eyes over a bottle of beer. The warm sweetness of his hand on Hutch’s when he’d grabbed the pencil to write down more racing jargon.

“Puce Goose to win,” meant that everything was primed for an arrest.

Starsky had never used that one.

Two times he’d called right on time with Hutch’s favorite, “Kissing Bandit in the third race to place.” Meaning a-okay, don’t worry about me. Wish I was there.

Kissing Bandit was a real horse that they’d bet on one carefree afternoon at Santa Anita race track. Starsky’s eyes had lit up at the name and he’d plunked down a week’s pay to win, place or show. Hutch’s more penurious nature had been appalled at the capricious spending. When the horse thundered down the track, Starsky screamed his head off, cheering his newfound favorite. Caught up in the excitement when Kissing Bandit raced past nearly all of his competition, Hutch had added his encouragement. Kissing Bandit was neck and neck with the front runner, Quicksilver, for the last hundred feet and they crossed the finish line nose to nose.

The race was so close, the officials called a photo finish and announced the results after a short delay. Quicksilver to win, Kissing Bandit second and coming up a distant third was Birdie Burt.

Starsky had kissed Hutch quick, in the stands at Santa Anita, amidst a crowd of enthusiastic race fans. Not their first kiss by a long shot. Not their last, but memorable for the location and the public nature. Starsky’s splurge had netted him over a thousand dollars.

That was two weeks ago, just days before the Bufante undercover.

Kissing Bandit in the third race to place really meant I want to kiss you right now.

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, glad that the rain on his face hid any possible sign of tears. He wasn’t prone to crying, but the pricking sharpness behind his eyeballs would not go away. Was he being negative to fear that Starsky was already dead or overly positive to want to believe that he was still alive?

Dammit, Starsky, call in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His whole body braced for another jolt, Starsky didn’t move, afraid to tip the car further down the snowy slope. How the hell was he supposed to get out when every movement rocked the car? He was now convinced that there’d been an accident at some point that he didn’t remember clearly. Since no one had come back to investigate Starsky’s situation, the accident must have injured Bufante and his goons, maybe even killed them. He didn’t know how to feel about that. One the one hand, a couple of no-good criminals were possibly dead. On the other, he was alone on the side of mountain without any way to contact Hutch.

He panted, attempting to get his erratic breathing under a modicum of control. He had to jump free of the trunk in one fluid movement in case the redistribution of weight caused the car to tumble from its precarious perch on the edge of the roadway.

He was in no shape to be replicating the moves he’d once gloated about after finishing the police academy obstacle course in record time. Every part of his body hurt, bad. The smallest wrong move could shove the end of one of his broken ribs right into his lung—it had happened once before, and he didn’t care to relive that, thank you very much.

Besides, with only one eye that he could see out of, his depth perception was dicey, at best. And in the dark, he couldn’t see patches of slick ice on the black road.

They were all extremely good reasons not to jump out of the car.

However, falling to his death in the trunk of a BMW as it plummeted off a mountain was a more than convincing motivation to fling himself out of the car.

He landed in a shockingly cold bank of snow.

Breathing, once painful and awkward, was now utterly impossible. The snow stole every particle of oxygen from his abused lungs. He was frozen in place, unable to move and unable to breathe.

A century later, Starsky sucked air into his lungs and coughed, pain searing across his chest. All he wanted to do was sleep, slip away from the agonizing cold and just let go.

But nagging memories kept tugging him away from oblivion.

Blue eyes. Hutch’s eyes watching him.

The last time he’d seen Hutch, he couldn’t quite make out those remarkable summer-sky blue eyes because of the shadows. He’d laughed at Hutch’s choice of stake-out gear, a grubby red plaid lumberjack coat that was missing most of the buttons and a black watch cap that covered Hutch’s distinctive blond hair. Minnesota farm boy clothes, he’d called them.

Hutch had called him something rude and very sexy in return.

Poor Hutch, huddled over his walkie-talkie, practically sitting in a puddle of rainwater.

Even though the alley was shrouded in gloom, Starsky had felt those blue eyes deep inside him. Then he’d walled off his feelings for Hutch and walked confidently into the restaurant for dinner with Emilio Bufante.

Those blue eyes probed the stark white stillness, forcing Starsky back into his body, forcing some feeling back into his face and chest. The pain was awful and it was good because he was alive, and that was enough for now.

He spit snow out of his mouth, inhaling carefully with his right arm pressed protectively against his chest. Damned ribs. What the hell were they good for, anyway? Nothing at the moment. Every inhalation was like sucking razor blades into his lungs.

Very slowly, he inched his way out of the snow and stood upright. His hands were still tied in front of him, all he had on was a ripped silk shirt and light weight pants, and he was miles from anywhere he knew. Snow was falling steadily and the wind chill factor had to be near zero but there was a hint of brightness through the dark clouds, on the eastern face of the mountain. Dawn.

Life was looking up.

The BMW was lying at an angle down a steep slope with the left side of the hood pinned precariously against a thick evergreen. The right back tire was just barely touching the pavement and the whole left side of the car was buried in snow.

It wasn’t hard to guess what had happened to Bufante, who had been in the front passenger seat. There was an enormous hole in the windshield and a corresponding hole in the snow to one side of the evergreen was splashed with blood. Just his mangled legs stuck out of the snow bank.

Nagle, who’d taken such obvious glee in beating Starsky to a pulp, was hanging out of the driver’s side, stone dead. The door had been ripped completely off the car. Starsky shivered, hugging his bound hands more closely to his body. He had to get out of the weather or he’d die of exposure and hypothermia.

All those Starsky relatives who thought that Southern California was the land of endless sun would just die laughing to hear that David Starsky had frozen to death.

Starsky took two steps, tottering like a one year old learning to walk. His feet had gone from numb to icy lumps of useless flesh. He didn’t remember losing the snazzy black loafers that Rudy Skyler had worn to the restaurant, but right now he really missed his blue Adidas with the white stripes. Or even better, the ugly-as-sin gray overshoes his mom used to make him wear when he was a kid in New York. The ones that were lined with fleece.

Without a better alternative, Starsky found himself staring at Nagle’s brown Italian shoes, the very ones he’d vomited all over. Nagle’s legs were dangling out of the car, his body caught by the steering wheel and his moon-face tipped up to the snowy sky as if in supplication. It took very little effort for Starsky to slip the first shoe off the dead man’s foot. His stomach flip-flopped when he reached for the second one, his hands coming away smeared in blood, but at least he had a pair of shoes. They were probably two sizes too big, which was a good thing, since his feet were swollen and discolored. Starsky longed for the leather jacket Nagle wore, but he didn’t have the strength to drag the body from the car. Just bending to put on the shoes made his head swim and reduced his breathing to insufficient gasps for several minutes.

He could just see a body in the backseat of the car but there was no way to get to the dark haired man. He was splayed across the upholstery, his neck bent at a completely unnatural position and his face turned away. The windows of the car were too covered with snow and ice to see much more, and trying to open the passenger door would just unbalance the vehicle from its perch.

Nothing to do but start walking. Starsky peered up the road and then down the way they’d come. Black pavement was barely visible in some places, almost completely covered in snow. He could just make out the last few twists and turns up the mountain before everything was obscured by the steady snowfall. Which direction was more likely to get him to civilization the quickest? He hadn’t a clue where he was and didn’t know the mountains around Bay City at all. He’d rarely strayed from the LA basin and hadn’t ever developed an interest in skiing for recreation. Anybody who wanted to spend their day slogging waist deep in snow to strap on a pair of polished two by fours and go speeding down a ski slope was cracked, in his opinion.

Downward it was. Heading to lower elevation had to lead him to a town or someplace safe. People did live up here, and there were houses and even towns up on the mountain—which ever one this was.

Starsky put one foot in front of the other, feeling his way by maintaining contact with the rough face of the mountain that bordered the road. Sooner or later, a car had to come around the bend and see him.

Surely somebody would be driving up or down the mountain.

Cold settled in his chest, replacing the crippling agony of taking a breath with broken ribs. He was almost glad of the absence of pain.

He walked until he couldn’t take another step and had to lean against a convenient tree that butted up against the roadway just to remain standing. What time was it? Snow fall made it impossible to see the sun, or judge time passage.

Starsky almost laughed, but that would have hurt too much. He was still wearing his wrist watch. Another generation of Yamamoto precision from the one that had been shot up a couple of years back, it was supposed to keep time under water and tell the date in all time zones. Miracle of miracles, it also kept time.

He lifted bound arms and twisted them to peer at the Yamamoto. His vision was blurry and he was shaking with the cold which made the watch face hard to read but Starsky was nothing if not determined. Both watch hands pointed straight down, one on top of the other.

It was six thirty on a frigidly cold morning. January 17th, if he remembered correctly.

Where was Hutch?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Three houses?” Hutch ground out, his nerves stretched so tightly he was sure there was no elasticity left in them anymore. He stared at the printer, mentally urging the thing to spit out the printed results of their search faster.

“When you’ve got money to burn—or wash Rinso Fresh,” Minnie chuckled at her own joke and ripped off the perforated sheets. “then you’ve got to spread it around.”

“Palm Springs doesn’t count—Reno said something about cross-country and cold,” Hutch said, reading down the list of properties owned by Emilio Bufante. How had the man acquired so many in such a short period of time? And these were only the places in California. There were four more back east, as well one in the Italy and another in the Caymans. “Tahoe is a possibility, but it’s too far. Has to be this one up in Green Valley Lake in the San Bernadinos. Only about two hours from Bay City and still remote as hell.” Hutch was out the door of the computer room before he remembered to yell back at Minnie, “Get the Green Valley Lake police on the line. Tell them to stake out Bufante’s cabin.”

“If there even is a Green Valley Lake police department,” Minnie muttered, picking up the phone.

Hutch galloped to his car, pausing only long enough to snag a map out of the glove department. Green Valley Lake was above seven thousand feet on the side of a mountain. In this weather, there were probably severe snowstorms up there—damn. Getting up would take far longer than two hours, and he didn’t have chains for his tires.

None of that made the slightest difference. He had to go up to find Starsky, even if he went without official authorization. He didn’t even consider asking Dobey in advance—this was not just a case anymore, it was personal. This was his partner.

His lover.

In retrospect, kissing his detective partner—sleeping with him–had not been the best idea. It had changed the fundamental boundaries, made them both more vulnerable. But Hutch would gone to the ends of the earth to find Starsky even before they’d shared spit.

Nobody touched his partner. He’d taken down Gunther on his own. He would take down Bufante and find Starsky. He could wage his whole life on that and still come up winning the stakes.

Hutch hit the Ten freeway without trouble and was headed to the turnoff for the mountain resorts before dispatch patched Dobey through.

“Hutchinson, what in the blue blazes are you doing? This is not some guerrilla rescue mission like that stunt you pulled a couple years ago out in the desert.”

“No, sir, it’s not.” Hutch kept his eyes on the road, sure that some kind of invisible force was pulling him toward his partner. The feeling that something was very wrong with Starsky increased the closer he got. He’d wasted too much time trying to find leads when he should have just trusted his gut all along.

The search of Bufante’s house had brought to light a vast array of illegal businesses, four unregistered guns and a very disgruntled Mexican housekeeper but no indication of exactly where Bufante was off to for the weekend. The file of real estate holdings was Hutch’s only lead.

“I’ll be coordinating with the Green Valley Lake police and . . .”

“I’ve already talked to them. All they have are two full time officers and a handful of volunteer firefighters,” Dobey said harshly but Hutch could hear his compassion for the situation. “You don’t even know Bufante has Starsky or if they actually went up there.”

“I know Bufante has him, Captain.” Hutch changed lanes, thankful for light traffic in the Ontario area. His speedy progress so far would be mitigated by the severe winter conditions on the roads up the mountain. Heavy snowfall had been reported below three thousand feet on the All-weather-and-news radio station. “It sounds . . . far-fetched, I realize, but I just know the bastard grabbed him and took him to somewhere convenient but remote to stash him.”

“Alive presumably.”

“Not accepting anything less.” He couldn’t allow himself to think otherwise. Finding Starsky dead would not only be a failure on Hutch’s part, it would be a loss of the most essential part of his own world.

“Have you contacted the CHP?” Dobey asked, sounding resigned.

“I was hoping you could do that.”

“Keep in radio contact,” Dobey said. “I’ll call back when I’ve established a link with Highway patrol. A large area of that mountain is federal land, so the forest rangers could be a resource, too.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Hutch said sincerely. The storm clouds were thicker here in the foothills and at nine thirty in the morning, it was as dark as night. He flipped on his headlights and increased the speed on the windshield wipers to battle the rain lashing against the windshield. He’d already passed two accidents on the freeway and did not want to get entangled in some fender-bender.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All white, all alien, all alone.

The only reason Starsky knew he was still on the road was because he could feel the scrape of rock against his upper arm as he stumbled forward. He’d long ago lost any sensation at all in his feet and his bound hands were simply leaden weights at the ends of his arms. He hadn’t seen a car pass by yet and had no idea where he was or at what elevation. Maybe the road had been closed due to the weather? Maybe nobody could come up this high?

Maybe no one but Bufante ever did?

Cold. Nerve-deadening cold.

His thinking was beyond muddled and into serious shut-down mode. Breathing was so difficult that he forgot to once in a while and was only reminded when stabbing pains in his chest forced his lungs to contract again.

He couldn’t read his watch anymore. The numbers wavered and danced like live things, mocking his disorientation. It had to be past seven a.m. by now, but he wasn’t sure of anything.

Starsky stumbled and went down to his knees. In the small portion of his brain that was still functioning rationally, he knew that he was in the road and in danger of being hit by a car if he stayed where he was. It was just so damned difficult to move. The longer he stayed hunched over, against the rock face, he was semi-protected from the wind and almost warm. At least, he had a peaceful, placid sensation like curling up in bed next to Hutch.

Reaching out, Starsky expected to find his partner’s sleeping body. He was so damned cold, why had Hutch left the windows open again? Nature-loving idiot. Didn’t he know that they’d catch their deaths?

No Hutch. No bed. Just hard rock and a blinding light in his good eye.

Starsky raised his arms, not in supplication, but defense. If this was Bufante’s men, he wasn’t going without a fight.

When the white light surrounded him, he collapsed, unable to hold out any longer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Zebra three, Zebra three?” Dispatch called.

Hutch caught his breath at the sudden intrusion into his somber thoughts, swallowing a swear word. He’d gotten to the bottom of the mountain and started up, but even at the lowest elevation, he had to drive at less than twenty miles per hour. Visibility was nil and he hadn’t even gotten snowflakes on his windshield yet, just heavy rain.

“The reception is bad here, dispatch,” Hutch replied, wincing at the static when she tried to repeat her message.

“Hutchinson!” Dobey’s voice broke through the white-noise like Moses parting the Red Sea. “CHP found a John Doe unconscious between Running Springs and Green Valley Lake about two hours ago. He was taken to Mountains Community Hospital near Lake Arrowhead.”

“Is it Starsky?”

“There was no ID. It’s Starsky’s general description but I haven’t been able to get though to anyone who was there when he was found,” Dobey explained. “We’re trying to get a patch through to you from CHP, but it may take a while.”

Half-laughing with a sob at the root of his emotion, Hutch pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The knowledge that his intuition had been right on the money was nothing to his elation that Starsky was still alive.

Waiting to be connected with CHP was unbearable, and although the difficult driving conditions took up the lion’s share of his concentration, there was still enough left over to ponder what had happened to his partner. Where was Bufante? Nothing had been said about him. How had Starsky gotten away? What shape was he in when the authorities found him?

“Zebra-three, Detective Ken Hutchinson? This is the California Highway Patrol,” an unfamiliar voice called just after Hutch had passed a sign declaring that he was at three thousand five hundred feet above sea level. Snow blowing at an angle made the sign difficult to read but the car was creeping so slowly that Hutch had a good long time to make out the letters before he drove on by.

He’d been clutching the radio mic for the last half hour. “Reading you, CHP.”

“Officer Mike Halsted,” the man said. “We’ve been waiting to relay a message to you for nearly an hour. Go ahead, Martine.”

There was a series of clicks, static blow-out and an ear-piercing whine before the voice Hutch was waiting for said, “Kissing Bandit in the third race to place.” Hissing pops interspersed the words, but it was undeniably Starsky.

Hutch wasn’t sure he could adequately express his relief in any way that wouldn’t get him in hot water with dispatch, Dobey and maybe the CHP, too. Joy suffused his entire being. “Starsk,” was all he could say without revealing way too much on a public airway. “Me, too.” He blinked to clear his eyes, focusing on the nearly invisible road. “Buddy, you all right?”

“Thawing out,” Starsky said, wearily.

“Mr. Hutchinson?” A woman came back on the line, her voice light and vaguely English accented. “David is taking a rest for now, and we’ll be waiting for you. Do you need directions?”

“And a snowplow,” Hutch quipped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For someone who looked as awful as he did, Starsky looked wonderful to Hutch. Whoever said that love was blind was right because Hutch saw past the blood smears and bruises, drinking in his first sight of his partner in over twelve hours. He brushed his fingers over Starsky’s bruised forehead, unable to keep from touching him.

Starsky stirred, turning towards the caress, which left the swollen, discolored side of his face prominently on display. A plastic oxygen mask covered his mouth and nose and more than one IV had sprouted from both of his arms. His fingers and toes were puffy and red, the latter just peeking out from under two large green blankets.

“How is he?” Hutch asked, finally able to breathe after the arduous journey in blizzard conditions he never expected to experience outside of Minnesota. He took Starsky’s hand, stunned at how cold it was, close to three hours after his rescue.

“Exceedingly lucky. He certainly beat the odds.” Dr. Lindstrom could have been one of Hutch’s cousins. Same blond hair and pale blue eyes with an accent that marked him as having been born in the old country. “His core temperature was just 90 degrees when he was brought in and his respiratory rate was far too slow. He was also having some heart arrhythmias, a direct result of the low body temperature. We see a lot of hypothermia cases up here, but usually not with signs of a significant beating, too.”

As much as Hutch wanted to know that Starsky was among the living and likely to stay that way, he really didn’t want to hear how close to death he had been. He’d gone past the wrecked BMW on the way to the hospital and the extent of the damage had driven home how truly lucky Starsky was. Hutch didn’t really care how Starsky had survived, the fact that he had was enough.

He ran his thumb along Starsky’s, satisfying his own need to touch his lover under the guise of comforting a friend. “He still feels cold.”

“Temp is up to 96,” Martine, the nurse, said cheerfully, jotting down her patient’s vitals. “Be careful not to rub, he has frostbite.”

“Oh, s-sorry.” Hutch stilled his movement, sure he’d worsened Starsky’s condition. “When can he go home?”

“Level three hypothermia can cause damage to the organs,” Lindstrom said, watching the cardiac monitor oscilloscope. A green wavy line etched a visual signature of Starsky’s heart beat. “We’ve had him on warmed IV fluids for a couple hours now, but I’ll need to watch him for the rest of the day. And there’s no way to can transport him down to Riverside in this weather.”

Starsky batted aside the oxygen mask so that it hung around his neck by the elastic band. “‘M doin’ fine,” he slurred drunkenly, his eyes still closed. “Now that you’re here.”

“Hey.” Hutch grinned. “You missed your call in by about ten hours.”

“Busy.” Starsky gave a hoarse laugh and winced.

An older nurse stuck her head in the door of the exam room. “Doctor, the Abrams kid is in the other room—broke his arm tobogganing.”

“In a blizzard? That boy can’t go a month without visiting us.” Lindstrom looked upward as if searching for divine assistance. “I’ll check in here later, Martine. Call if Mr. Starsky has another run of tachycardia and keep me apprised of his temperature.”

“Sure thing.” Martine listened to Starsky’s chest with her stethoscope and nodded with satisfaction, tucking the blankets up around his shoulders again. “He’ll recover, but you look like you could use a stiff drink,” she said to Hutch.

“Long night,” Hutch admitted, still unable to take his eyes off Starsky. And this time, his partner was looking back at him, one bright blue eye in a sea of purple, red and black bruises.

“I’ll call down to dietary to have them send up some warm broth for David here, and if I can chase down that little volunteer Jennifer, I can undoubtedly persuade her to bring you a cup of coffee,” Martine said.

“Volunteer giving you some trouble?” Hutch laughed, glad to have something to laugh about.

“She’s my daughter, and if I know Jennifer, she’s mooning around Danny Abrams’ room.” Martine shook her head, looking from Starsky to Hutch. “I suspect he’ll be safe with you around. Be right back.”

“Next time,” Starsky said slowly, raspy breaths staggered between each word. “It’s your turn to go undercover.”

“No way,” Hutch pulled up a stool so he could be at Starsky’s eye level. “We go in together, as a team, or we don’t go at all.”

“Deal.” Starsky closed his fist around Hutch’s fingers, a clutch that made Hutch’s heart contract. It said much more than the casual shop talk; translation—this was too close.

“Who ratted on me?” Starsky asked.

“Vegas Lanier.”

“Guess he came up three lemons this time.” He frowned. “Think he’s dead.”

Just as long as you’re alive…

Hutch cupped both hands around Starsky’s icy one, warming him. “The drive up was bad enough with all the snow, so I had a long time to chat with CHP on the radio, especially after the emergency vehicles came through. They found three bodies—two inside the BMW and the other one thrown clear through the windshield. All were ID’d, Bufante, Nagle and Lanier.”

“I never saw his face, shoulda recognized his voice,” Starsky said savagely. “S’been too long since he was around.”

“Who would have thought a guy named Vegas liked skiing,” Hutch said lightly. “I used to be pretty good on the slalom course when I was seventeen. Even won a couple of races.”

“I’m sticking with horse races.” One corner of Starsky’s mouth quirked upward. “You even think about watching down hill Olympic qualifying events on the TV, and I’ll . . .”

“What? Wrestle the TV Guide out of my hand? You think you can take me on?” Hutch banished all the fears he’d kept banked for too many hours. “Not going to happen, icicle-boy.”

“That’s icicle-man, to you, knucklehead. Betcha I could press you into the mat—” Starsky broke off with a hiss of pain, pressing his right arm around his chest.

“I’ll give you fifty/fifty odds—after your ribs heal up.” Hutch allowed himself one kiss, on the back of Starsky’s frostbitten fingers.

Starsky closed his eyes, accepting the benediction. When Hutch moved back, very aware of their public location, Starsky grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him down to his level. The kiss was sloppy; Hutch’s mouth was still open in surprise and Starsky’s lower lip was misshapen and dotted with dried blood. Didn’t matter in the slightest. Hutch felt the relief zip down his spine, the contact a soothing balm for both of them.

Starsky’s cheek, the one that didn’t resemble psychedelic nightmare, flushed pink and he panted, his breath coming out in short pained grunts. “Kissing Bandit rides again,” he whispered.

Hutch shook a long forefinger at Starsky, only half-teasing, and repositioned the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. “Keep that on, you sound like a poorly tuned muffler.”

“You would know,” Starsky muttered, joy lighting up his undamaged blue eye.

“Here we are, gents,” Martine called out, pushing open the door with an ample hip. “Chicken broth for you.” She set a steaming cup on a silver cart and wheeled it up beside the gurney. “And coffee from my fine assistant, Jennifer, for Mr. Hutchinson.”

A pretty teenaged girl with braces on her teeth, who bore more than a passing resemblance to her mother, handed Hutch a cup and then fled without a word.

“Can’t keep good help,” Hutch said dryly, sipping his ambrosia. It burned his tongue and left a river of heat down his throat that was much appreciated.

“Can’t I get some of what he has?” Starsky asked plaintively. “With a shot of brandy from a St. Bernard’s flask?”

“No St. Bernards around these parts,” Martine informed him. “Just lots of very bulky Chihuahuas.” Hutch guffawed, spewing hot coffee all over his hand.

The nurse regarded Starsky with a slight knowing smile. “You look much pinker since the last time I checked,” Martine said. “Let’s get another temperature reading before you ingest hot fluids.”

Shaking his stinging hand, Hutch gulped self-consciously. Had she seen what they were doing?

“Doncha love when they talk dirty?” Starsky winked at Hutch, which looked decidedly odd with the unmatched sides of his face. He closed his mouth on the thermometer that Martine slid between his lips and grimaced while waiting for the mercury to rise appropriately.

Deciding that keeping his mouth shut was the best plan, Hutch drank more coffee.

“Martine!” The older nurse stuck her head in the door again. “I never should have said it was too quiet yesterday—today, it’s a zoo. Can you go do an admit assessment on the patient in exam three? Coughing and fever.”

“Sure thing, Allison.” Martine shrugged. “Never snows but it’s a blizzard around here.” She retrieved her thermometer from Starsky. “Looking good, it’s up another couple of points. 96.2. You’ll be normal in no time.”

“He never was normal.” Hutch took a sip of coffee to hide his grin.

“Hey!” Starsky mock slugged Hutch’s bicep and then obviously paid the price for it. His face paled and he took a rapid series of short breaths to get the pain under control.

Martine kept her eye on the oscilloscope and Hutch on Starsky’s face but neither one said anything. Hutch finally put a hand on Starsky’s shoulder, feeling the heaving breaths.

“Broken ribs are a bitch,” Starsky ground out.

“Your heart rate is steady as a rock,” Martine commented. “That’s marked improvement from when you arrived. You keep a four leaf clover in your pocket? This must be your lucky day. If you placed a bet on a horse, you’d probably win big money.”

“Already did that.” Starsky relaxed on the pillow, his breathing slower.

“I’ll be back.” Martine cranked the gurney up so that Starsky was more upright and pointed at the cup of broth. “Drink that and you get hot chocolate.”

“No coffee with brandy?”

“What can I say?” She gave an eloquent shrug with a twinkle in her eye. “Rules are rules. No alcohol for the hypothermic patients. Take it up with Lindstrom.” Martine whisked out, on to another patient.

“You hungry?” Hutch asked, handing the cooling cup of broth over.

“Not very, but if it’ll warm me up . . .” Starsky shivered slightly and wrapped his swollen fingers around the mug. He took a careful drink. “You know what we ate at Bufante’s?”

“No, what?” Hutch gently dabbed at a stray drop of soup on Starsky’s lower lip, the need to touch him all encompassing.

Starsky licked his bottom lip, encountering Hutch’s thumb in the process. “Linguini with clams. I shoulda known right then that it was gonna be a bad night. Couldn’t refuse, though, you know? Bufante ordered for the table.”

Something wrapped around Hutch’s heart, squeezing tightly, taking him back to the restaurant when the waiters had all solemnly shook their heads, claiming ignorance while pointing to the back booth where Bufante had entertained his party. And then farther back to an Italian restaurant on a rainy night in December. “Just tell people you’re allergic to clams. Solves the problem right there.”

“Hutch, anyone ever tell you that you’re a genius?” Starsky swallowed a majority of his meal in one go.

“Only the luckiest guy on the planet.”

Hutch got a kiss for that.

The End