One Way or Another

200

Variations on the theme of “What Might Have Been” or “What Might Be Yet”.

Author’s Note: Sending huge amount of thanks and love to Cyanne and Flamingo, editors extraordinaire, for their never-ending patience and encouragement.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2019 zine.

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He bursts through another set of doors, Dobey’s words still ringing in his ears.

I think you’d better get down here right away, Hutch.

And he did. Instead of hanging up, he’d dropped the phone and raced to the hospital like Mario Andretti.

Now he’s running down the corridor to the ICU. He flies around a corner and skids to a halt in front of a wall of people.

Dobey’s there. And Huggy. And some uniforms. And Starsky’s cardiologist. And a couple of nurses and other medical staff.

Hutch looks from Dobey to Huggy and knows he’s too late. “No,” he says, lurching forward. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Brave Dr. Bachman blocks his path. “We did all we could to save him,” he tells Hutch. “We tried everything.”

Hutch clenches his fists, takes a raspy breath, and blows it out noisily. “I’m sure you did,” he says, staring straight ahead. “Now get out of my way so I can s—see my partner.”

Bachman exchanges a quick glance with Dobey, who nods, and allows Hutch to pass.

The moment the door of Starsky’s room closes behind him, Hutch is enveloped in unaccustomed, absolute silence. He swallows hard and approaches the bed on wobbly legs.

Starsky’s no longer hooked up to the ventilator. The nasal cannula is gone and all the IV lines have been removed.

Hutch collapses into a chair.

“Why?” he asks, almost inaudibly, resting his head atop Starsky’s motionless chest. “Why couldn’t you w—wait for me?”

And, for the first time since the shooting, Hutch breaks down. He buries his face in Starsky’s mattress and sobs, his entire frame shuddering with profound, overpowering grief. He crawls onto the narrow bed and wraps his arm around Starsky’s still-warm body. Eventually, he uses the sheet as a handkerchief, trying to wipe away enough tears to get an unobstructed view of the sweet, peaceful profile. Memorize every detail.

“Hutch.”

It’s Dobey.

“Go ‘way,” Hutch snaps.

“Hutch,” Dobey persists. “The, uh, doctor has to get his b—get him ready for transport.”

“What?” He strokes Starsky’s cheek with his thumb. “What are you talking about?”

Dobey sighs. “When I broke the news to his mother, she told me that it’s custom for the burial to take place within 24 hours, if possible. So, I need you to come with me, son.”

“No,” Hutch splutters. “Not yet.”

“You’ve been here for almost two hours already.”

“What? No. No. That’s imp—impossible. You’re lying.”

“Hey, I’d never do that to you.” Now Dobey sounds like he’s about to choke up. “Don’t you want to respect his mother’s wishes? Her faith and—and its traditions? I know you do. That’s the kind of man you are.”

With infinite care and in no great hurry, Hutch gets off the bed, keeping his back to Dobey. “Gimme another sec,” he says. “Can you at least do that?”

Without waiting for an answer, he bends down and places his lips against Starsky’s ear.

“I love you, Starsk,” he whispers, his voice and heart breaking. “Always have. Always will.”

Tenderly, he kisses Starsky’s forehead and, after only the slightest hesitation, his mouth.

Hutch straightens slowly and turns to see that Huggy’s arrived, his face also a wet and messy study in misery.

Two big orderlies are standing in the doorway, looking anywhere but at Hutch.

“I d—don’t think I can do this,” Hutch says to his friends, starting to panic. “I c—can’t leave.”

“We’ll help you,” Huggy tells him. “We’ll help each other.”

Hutch grimaces but nods. Even so, Dobey and Huggy pretty much have to drag him away from Starsky’s body.

The three men leave the room for the last time.

~~~

The next 12 hours are physically and emotionally exhausting for Hutch and his friends.

“He says he doesn’t want anything to eat or drink,” Dobey informs his wife over the phone. “He doesn’t want to take something to help him calm down. He doesn’t want anyone’s sympathy. He just wants Huggy and me to get the hell out of his apartment.”

Down the line, Edith Dobey sighs. “And to have his partner back, I imagine.”

“I don’t know what to do for him. How to help. Even Huggy’s out of ideas.”

Edith, worried about them all, tells Cal to look after his little sister and keep the doors locked tight, then takes a cab to Hutch’s place.

To no one’s surprise, she’s just what Hutch needs, and he cries himself to sleep in her arms.

She won’t move from the sofa for fear of waking him but she’s certainly not going to sit here docilely. “Where’s this boy’s mother?” she asks Dobey in quiet but heated tones.

“They’re not a close family.” He drops into a chair across from her. “Not like us.”

Edith strokes Hutch’s hair. “Poor lamb. He’s lost so much. Too much.”

Huggy comes out of Hutch’s bedroom carrying a dark suit on a hanger. “I found—oh, sorry.” He lowers his voice. “I found this in the back of the closet. He’s put on some weight over the few months, so I hope it still fits him.”

“I’m sure it will,” Edith says. “What about the rest?”

“There’s a white shirt that’s clean but could use an iron. And he’s got one tie that’s not too bad. Medium gray with a fine white stripe.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brown.”

“Call me Huggy. Please.”

“Thank you, Huggy.” Edith glances at Hutch’s feet. “I don’t suppose you unearthed any shoes that would be appropriate for the occasion?”

With a flourish, Huggy produces a pair of black dress shoes from behind his back. “Voilà! With a little polishing, these’ll do nicely.”

“Good. Now all we need is some black socks and we’re all set for the….” She sniffles. “…for the funeral.”

Dobey goes over to her and lays a hand on the shoulder that’s not serving as Hutch’s temporary pillow. “It’s all right, dear.”

“Of course it’s not all right.” Edith blinks back tears. “Dave is—gone. How can anything ever be all right again?”

“Um, I’ll go and look for those socks,” Huggy says, wiggling the shoes. “And I’ll pack his bag for the trip.”

“Thanks, Hug,” Dobey says. Once it’s just him and Edith and a dozing Hutch left in the living room, he stoops to kiss the top of Edith’s head. “You’re right. That was a dumb thing to say.”

Edith leans back and looks up at her husband. “No, it wasn’t. You were just trying to comfort me. There’s no right thing to say at a time like this.”

He comes around the sofa and sits on the arm closest to her. “So, what happens when he wakes up?”

Hutch moans in his sleep.

“We take him home with us,” Edith states. “We all have to get up early for the flight to New York, so it’ll be better if he stays at our place tonight.”

“And we can keep an eye on him. Make sure he—well, you know.”

“I do. Unfortunately, I do.”

~~~

They go straight to the hotel from LaGuardia Airport—Hutch, Huggy, and the Dobeys—but only have time to drop off their luggage with the concierge.

“C’mon, Hutch,” Huggy says kindly, guiding his charge from the lobby back to the waiting cab. “We don’t want to be late for the—for the service.”

“Sorry,” Hutch murmurs and adjusts his sunglasses.

He’s been apologizing a lot lately. It’s been several days since he’s slept or eaten properly, and he feels like he’s doing everything wrong. And in slow motion.

At his other side, Edith Dobey puts her hand on his head as he gets into the vehicle, pressing down with care to prevent him from concussing himself.

Traffic isn’t too heavy and they arrive at the funeral home in Brooklyn right on schedule. None of them have said much since they boarded the plane for New York.

But now fellow members of the BCPD are greeting them, shaking hands with the men and hugging Edith. Hutch catches the occasional word of condolence but doesn’t contribute to the conversation. He’s supremely grateful when Dobey suggests they go inside and starts leading the way to the entrance of Sherman’s Flatbush Memorial Chapel. As usual, Hutch is flanked by Huggy and Edith.

After they enter through the heavy door, an older gentleman hands something to each of the men, but Hutch just stands there holding it.

“Want some help?” Edith asks him.

He gives his mute assent and lets her put the yarmulke on his head. And he only flinches a bit when she removes his sunglasses and slips them into her handbag.

“I’ll hold onto these for you until we go back outside, okay?”

“Okay,” he says meekly.

She looks at him and her lower lip trembles. “Oh, honey.” She takes his arm and the foursome resumes the short journey to the room where Starsky’s funeral is being held.

They’re almost there when someone steps in front of Hutch. “Excuse me,” he says, his New York accent thick,” but are you Ken Hutchinson?”

“Y—yes.”

Dobey takes over. “Can I help you?” he asks the forty-ish bespectacled man.

“Yeah. I’m Michael Gerstein,” he says. “My late parents, God rest their souls, were good friends with Magda and Joe. My sister used to babysit Dave and Nick. Anyway, the family’s asked me to find out if you fellas would serve as pallbearers.”

The Dobeys and Huggy turn to Hutch.

His Adam’s apple bobs a couple of times but, somehow, he finds his tongue and accepts, aware how insulting it would be to turn down this honor.

“Thank you,” says Gerstein. “Let me escort you to your seats.”

They follow him to a decent-sized room and are directed to the front row, on the left-hand side of the center aisle. The chairs on the other side are among the few empty ones in the room.

It’s not exactly a sea of people but the turnout is impressive all the same. Starsky’s family is small, which means most of the crowd is made up of friends, neighbors, and cops—not only from Bay City but also Brooklyn, where Starsky’s father served until he was killed in the line of duty.

In the early days of their partnership, as they were growing closer, Starsky told Hutch about his childhood, including the death of his dad and what the funeral was like. Even so, the fact that there are no pictures of Starsky—and not so much as a single flower—makes Hutch feel like this is all being done for someone else. For some other poor bastard.

That feeling intensifies when Hutch spots the simple wooden casket at the head of the room. Also in keeping with Jewish tradition, the casket is closed and will remain so.

“Hutch.” Edith speaks softly and takes his shaky hand in hers. “Do you want me to find you a glass of water?”

But there’s no time. The low murmuring among those assembled dies down to nothing, indicating that the family has arrived. All rise until Starsky’s mother, brother, aunt, and uncle are seated in the front row on the right-hand side of the aisle.

Hutch nearly gasps aloud when he sees Magda Starsky up close. The previously fine lines on her face are now a deep, dark contrast to the pallor of her skin. The gray in her once-curly hair is more pronounced. She seems to have aged 20 years since he saw her last. Even Nick, her youngest child, looks older. And every bit as devastated as his mother.

With everyone now present, the rabbi—a lanky, middle-aged man—begins to conduct the service. Words of welcome are followed by the reading of prayers and the eulogy. Then Rabbi Baskin calls upon Nick.

Constantly referring to a crumpled piece of paper, Nick describes what Starsky was like as a kid, as a teenager, as a young man. What a good big brother he was. What a mensch. And how much he’ll be missed.

Hutch thinks Nick did a decent job, considering how little time the Starsky boys spent together as adults. And how little in common they had. He regrets not having the strength or the guts to get up in front of so many people like Nick did and talk about Starsky. What a great cop he was. What a great partner. What a great friend.

At this moment, Hutch feels like none of these.

There are no more speakers, so the rabbi reads a final prayer and announces that, after the burial, the family will be hosting a reception in the basement of the funeral home.

Everyone stands, and the pallbearers—who also include Nick, his uncle Daniel Starsky, and Michael Gerstein—carry the casket out of the building and help load it into the waiting hearse.

Hutch thinks about all the other times he’s carried Starsky, especially when they were horsing around.

He’d give anything to go back to one of those times.

“Hutch,” Nick says, slapping Hutch on the arm. “Oh, man. You okay? You look terrible. Listen, I gotta go to the cemetery now. The limo’s waiting. See you there.”

“Jack ass,” Huggy says under his breath, watching Nick saunter off. “Ignore him.”

“No,” says Hutch, whose eyes are on the hearse as it drives away. “He’s right. Have you seen Edith? I need my—”

Edith materializes at his side and presses the ubiquitous sunglasses into his hand.

“Harold,” she says, turning to her husband, “we need a cab.”

“Please,” says Gerstein. “My wife and I will take you. There’s plenty of room, as you can see.”He points to an approaching red station wagon being driven by an apple-cheeked blonde. She parks close to them and hops out of the vehicle.

“This is my wife, Sarah,” Gerstein says.

Once introductions are made, the six of them get into the Gerstein family Ford LTD Country Squire and hit the road.

“So, Detective Hutchinson,” says Sarah, “you were Dave’s partner, huh? For how long?”

He clears his throat. “Seven years.”

“I see. Magda tells me you’d known each other since the police academy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Sarah,” Edith intervenes, “do you have children?”

Hutch stares out the window, seeing nothing, saying nothing. When they reach the Beth El Cemetery, the hearse and the limousine are already there. Nick and Daniel are standing near the back doors, talking to the rabbi.

After Baskin determines that everyone who should be there is there, he gives the six pallbearers their instructions. Followed by the attendees, they carry the casket in a solemn procession to the gravesite and place it on six straps spanning a metal frame that sits above the burial plot. Next to the frame is a pile of newly dug earth with two shovels sticking out of it.

Hutch’s hand flies to his throat and he thinks about undoing the top bottom of his shirt. Maybe later.

People have begun to assemble in a horseshoe pattern around the grave. Only the family is sitting. Hutch, the Dobeys, and Huggy stand across from them.

If Magda has noticed Hutch yet, she’s given no indication. And why should she want anything to do with him when he failed her son so completely?

He adjusts the knot in his tie and focuses his attention on the casket. So deep is his contemplation that he’s barely aware of the rabbi’s presence or the psalms and prayers that he reads. He finally snaps out of his reverie when the casket begins to sink slowly into the ground.

A man in a suit is there, cranking a gizmo located at the far-right corner of the frame.

Once the casket reaches the bottom, two cemetery workers in dusty clothes take up positions on either side of the grave, wiggle the straps free, and start folding them up.

The Starskys then rise and, along with Rabbi Baskin, say the Mourner’s Kaddish.

Hutch watches as Magda, eyes puffy but dry and lips firmly set, steps forward and takes a shovel offered her by the rabbi. Somewhat unsteadily, she heads over to the mound of dirt, turns the blade of the shovel takes a scoop, and walks carefully to the grave.

Hutch’s body jolts at the sound of the dirt hitting the casket.

Magda returns to the pile of earth twice more but uses the shovel right-side up.

Magda returns to the pile of earth twice more.

Then it’s Nick’s turn. He accepts the shovel from his mother and performs the sacred ritual exactly as she did.

Every thud of soil on the lid of the casket breaks Hutch’s heart that much more, and it takes all his willpower not to fall to his knees and wail.

Daniel Starsky is the next person to add dirt to the grave, followed by his wife.

And now she’s standing in front of Hutch, the shovel in her outstretched hand.

Edith nudges him subtly. “Take it, dear.”

He does, although reluctantly. He doesn’t want to be a part of this. Of anything that symbolizes the acceptance of the finality of death. Not this death.

With the first scoop, using the concave side of the blade, he loses most of the dirt on the way to the grave. He does better with the other two shovelfuls. By the last one, he can’t see very well, and all but staggers back to his friends.

Dobey relieves him of the shovel and pays his respects to Starsky.

The pile of earth is still standing, not looking terribly depleted, by the time everyone has taken their three scoops. The mourners leave, almost en masse, led by Rabbi Baskin and the family.

Only eight people remain—Hutch’s group being half of them—because Hutch is rooted to the ground.

“Hutch,” Edith says. “We’ve got to go, sweetheart. To the reception. With the Gersteins. And the groundskeepers need to, um, do their job.”

Hutch’s cheeks are wet. “I—I—”

She makes a manic gesture for everyone to back off. Which they do.

Hutch shambles over to the grave and peers into it. “It should be me down there. In that c—coffin.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” Edith scolds, grabbing hold of his arm. “It shouldn’t be either of you. This wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me? You’re not responsible.”

He shakes his head from side to side. “I was supposed to have his b—back. Protect him.”

“You did your best,” she insists. “You know that. We all know that. But, sometimes, things happen that are beyond our control.”

Hutch removes his sunglasses so he can mop his face with a cotton hankie he pulls from his jacket pocket. He blows his nose noisily.

“Good boy,” Edith tells him. “They’re all waiting for us. For you. Let’s not disappoint them, okay?”

~~~

There’s no small talk during the ride back to the funeral home. Hutch suspects things won’t be so peaceful for him at the reception.

Sure enough, as soon as he enters the designated room, he’s grabbed by Nick.

“Ma wants to see you.”

For the first time today, Hutch is going to have to talk to Starsky’s mother. She extends both hands, and he’s convinced she’s going to lash out at him for letting her son down. For letting him die.

And if she knew how he really felt about Starsky—how he loved him as more than a friend or work partner, and had secretly lusted after him—she’d probably have him thrown out of the place. And he wouldn’t blame her.

“I’m so s—sorry, Magda.”

Instead of throwing a punch, she throws her arms around him in a tight embrace. “Me, too,” she cries. “Oh, Hutch. Me, too. Me, too.”

Her kindness undoes him and he weeps with her, trying not to hold onto her too fiercely, although he’d bet his life that she’s not as fragile as she seems.

When they’ve regained their composure, Nick drifts over with a box of tissues. And a question.

“Will you be sitting shiva with us, Hutch?”

“I wish I could,” he lies. The idea of spending the next day, let alone the next seven days, mourning in Magda’s tiny house—shoulder-to-shoulder with mostly strangers, surrounded by memorial candles and covered mirrors—makes him queasy. “I have to get back to work as fast as possible.”

Nick scoffs. “What’s more important than properly demonstrating your grief for my brother? Your dead partner and so-called best friend? Would that be too much of a sacrifice for you, Detective Hutchinson?”

“Nicky!” Magda admonishes.

“I have to go back to Bay City,” Hutch says, telling the truth this time, “so I can find whoever ordered the hit on Star—on David. That’s what’s most important to me right now.”

~~~

In spite of Dobey’s well-founded misgivings, Hutch insists on working Starsky’s case.

In less than a day, he gets a lead. And it’s a damned good one.

Thanks to dogged police work and some not-exactly-legal help from Huggy, Hutch finds who’s been behind all this: James Gunther of Gunther Industries. A man who’d turned down a chance to run for president because it would be a step down in power.

Then it’s all hands on deck until enough evidence is gathered to arrest Gunther. Of course, there’s only one man for the job.

When Hutch arrives in San Francisco, the butler shows him to Gunther’s private sanctuary as though his visit was expected.

Gunther is waiting for him, seated behind his desk, his hands in his lap.

After identities are established, Hutch drops the arrest warrant in front of Gunther. From a back pocket of his jeans he fishes out a set of handcuffs, which joins the warrant on the desk.

“Please.” Gunther raises his right hand. In it is a pearl-handled revolver.

Hutch dares Gunther to kill him. He actually means it until he realizes that it shouldn’t be Gunther who puts him out of his misery. And that Starsky—were he alive—would be furious if Hutch let Gunther kill him, too.

Before Gunther can act on the offer, Hutch grabs the hand holding the gun, which goes off without anyone being shot. It only takes Hutch a matter of seconds to gain possession of the weapon and assume control of the situation.

For a few fleeting moments, Hutch considers shooting Gunther. Right here, right now. Would that not be the ultimate revenge for Starsky’s murder? There’s no question he could get away with claiming he was acting in self-defense.

But Hutch was never any good at lying to Dobey and, eventually, he’d have to turn himself in. Oh, he might not wind up in prison or a psychiatric facility. But what if killing Gunther taints Starsky’s good name just because he’d been partners with Hutch?

Besides, blowing Gunther’s head off wouldn’t bring Starsky back.

The decision to do things by the book is made in an instant, and Hutch takes Gunther away, alive and kicking, in handcuffs.

~~~

Hutch is beginning to think that most people are morons.

Now that Starsky’s case has been solved and Gunther’s awaiting trial, everyone wants to take Hutch out to celebrate.

Even Dobey suggests a low-key dinner with Edith and Huggy.

“It’ll do you good,” he tells Hutch.

But Hutch turns him down. He turns everybody down. James Gunther or no James Gunther, Starsky’s still gone and Hutch isn’t in the mood to go out and have a good time. Not now, not ever. Apart from death and taxes, that’s about the only thing he’s certain of.

His first night back in Bay City, he heads over to Starsky’s place, letting himself in with the spare key. Nick will be here soon enough to go through everything, and there are certain items that Hutch wants to rescue.

Collecting Ollie is his top priority. Who else would want Starsky’s white teddy bear? Who else would even know it existed?

He’s stayed over at Starsky’s so often that he’s got his own drawer in the bedroom. With Ollie watching from the middle of the bed, Hutch cleans out the drawer, shoving its contents into a large shopping bag. There’s stuff in the closet, too. At least a couple of shirts. They’re so intermingled with Starsky’s clothes that it takes a while for Hutch to find what’s his.

Hutch opens the drawer where Starsky kept his sweaters and whimpers at the sight of the orange collared number the two of them traded back and forth so often they’d forgotten who the original owner was. Into the bag it goes.

By the time he gets to the bathroom, his mind is made up that he won’t be going home tonight. He ignores his own toothbrush and uses Starsky’s. Then he strips down to his boxers, digs a T-shirt out of Starsky’s laundry hamper and pulls it over his head, and climbs into bed.

“Goodnight, Ollie,” he says, cuddling the toy like a toddler. “Goodnight, Starsk. Sweet dreams.”

Hutch has anything but.

~~~

Solo sleepovers at Starsky’s become the bittersweet highlight of Hutch’s days until he gets the call from Nick, saying he’s coming out to pack up the place.

“You going to help?” Nick asks once his version of pleasantries is out of the way. “You could bring pizza and beer.”

“Work is pretty crazy right now,” Hutch says. It’s the understatement of the century. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

What he does first is spend one more night sleeping in Starsky’s bed, in Starsky’s T-shirt. He leaves nothing of his own behind but dried tears on Starsky’s pillowcase.

The next thing he does is not help Nick. He’s said his farewells to Starsky’s place and wants to remember it full of Starsky’s furnishings and knickknacks instead of as a bunch of rooms empty but for cardboard boxes.

Hutch doesn’t escape Nick entirely. On a rare occasion when he’s at BCPD headquarters, he storms into the bullpen after yet another shouting match with Dobey to discover Starsky’s little brother in his chair, booted feet on his desk.

“You’re a hard guy to track down, Hutch.”

“Yeah. Well.” Hutch glares down at him. “What can I do for you?”

Nick takes his sweet time vacating Hutch’s territory. “More like what I can do for you.”

Hutch is about to ask Nick what the hell he’s talking about when he spies a brown paper bag sitting beside his phone. “What’s this?”

“Ma thought you should have Davey’s pinkie rings and that weird necklace he always wore.”

Hutch is intimately familiar with these pieces of jewelry but peers into the bag to give himself a moment. He’d rather be burned at the stake than get emotional in Nick’s presence. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Oh, yeah.” Nick draws a manila envelope from an inside pocket of his green corduroy jacket and hands it over. “And this.”

There’s something about the way Nick’s mouth is set that makes Hutch reluctant to open the packet here. He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s photos,” Nick says. “There were hardly any of his own family but lots of the two of you. And you alone. Everywhere. In drawers, on shelves, hanging on the walls. Guess you guys were closer than I thought.”

Hutch blinks a couple of times. “I’d think you’d better leave. Now.”

Nick isn’t the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree but he’s not completely stupid. He swaggers away without a word.

And, by some miracle, with all his teeth.

~~~

The emergency room is bustling and noisy, but Hutch hears Dobey before he sees him.

“He in there?” Dobey’s voice booms from the hallway.

“Sir, you can’t—Oh. I guess it’s okay. But please… keep it down.”

The curtain dividing Hutch’s ER bed from its neighbor is yanked open and in walks Dobey, police ID still in hand.

“Dammit, Hutchi’son!”

Hutch winces. No one has come to examine or treat him yet and he’d kill for some aspirin.

Dobey takes the hint and brings the volume down a notch or two. “Look at you. You’re a mess.”

There is a lot of blood; head wounds are like that.

“I’m fine,” Hutch says. “The bullet only grazed me.”

“Yeah, this time. Next time you may not be so lucky, which is why I’m putting you on suspension. Effective immediately.”

Hutch slides off the side of the bed and stands toe-to-toe with his boss. “You can’t do that!”

“Damned right I can. You’re a danger to everyone: other cops, citizens, and yourself. Especially yourself.”

“What about all the collars I’ve made? All the scumbags that are behind bars because of me?”

Dobey waves a meaty finger in Hutch’s face. “And what about the scumbags that you’ve injured and killed? You’re not exactly Internal Affairs’ favorite person right now. It’s time you smartened up and stopped acting like Dirty Harry.”

“Now, captain—”

“Don’t you ‘now, captain’ me. You keep ditching the partners I’ve teamed you with, you never call for backup, you refuse to go for counseling—”

Hutch puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t need to see a shrink.”

“Son,” Dobey says, his exasperation waning, “you do. You need help. Professional help. I’ve already lost one of my best men and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose you, too.”

When Hutch shows up for work the next day, he’s summoned to Dobey’s office and, after much fruitless arguing, is relieved of his weapon and badge.

“So, what am I supposed to do now?” Hutch demands, running his hands through his unkempt hair.

“You could start by seeing Dr. Anderson. And I suggest you make an appointment as soon as possible. Because until she says you’re fit for duty, you’re done here.”

Hutch slams the door on the way out, almost hoping someone—anyone—challenges him. He’s itching for a real fight.

But no one dares approach him, so he takes his anger out on the motorists of Bay City. He thumps the steering wheel mercilessly when he sees the familiar flashing of a red light in his rear-view mirror. Lucky for him he knows the uniform, who lets him off with just a warning.

The beach isn’t far. When he gets there, he’s satisfied to see more gulls than people. He sits in the sand, arms wrapped around his knees, gazing at the horizon.

“It’s not fair, Starsk,” he mutters. “This is the thanks I get for cleaning up the streets?”

He doesn’t notice the setting of the sun and wonders why he’s suddenly cold. There’s no doubt that his ass is numb, however, indicating that it’s time to split.

As close to home as he is, he drives to Starsky’s former residence and sits there, in the dark, like some pathetic loser in a cheesy movie. It’s not the first time he’s done this and he can’t promise himself it won’t be the last. There are no lights on in any of the windows, which doesn’t necessarily mean someone hasn’t moved in, but his every instinct says Starsky’s ghost doesn’t have a roommate yet.

He stays there for hours, finally calling it quits at the break of dawn.

“Goodnight, babe,” he says around a huge yawn. “This stakeout is officially over.”

~~~

Hutch tries to get some rest. He really makes an effort. The thing is, he can’t seem to sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time and, when he does, he has vivid dreams of Starsky. They can’t all be the nightmarish kind, but those are the only ones he ever remembers.

He puts on the TV for a while, but nothing can hold his attention. He doesn’t feel like playing his guitar, and making something decent for dinner feels like too much work. He opens a can of something—tastes like baked beans—and eats half of it, cold.

Nighttime finally arrives, and he determines he needs something constructive to do or else he’ll lose his mind. For lack of a better idea, he gets back into the car.

“Where to, Starsk? Want to see what trouble we can get into tonight?”

He heads to one of the seediest, most crime-ridden areas of Bay City and drives aimlessly, wishing he knew what he was doing here.

He’s sitting at a red light when someone knocks on his half-opened window.

“What?” Hutch snarls.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the guy’s seriously strung out. “Looking for some dope, man? I’ve got good shit.”

There’s a fraction of a second where Hutch considers this imbecile’s offer. In the right amount, some “good shit” could be a godsend. But memories of how Starsky helped him survive heroin withdrawal when he was made an unwilling addict put a swift end to a stupid idea.

“How do you know I’m not a cop?” Hutch asks.

“Your car, for one thing,” the junkie laughs. “You also look like you could really use a fix.”

The light must have just turned green because an impatient turkey in a rusty pickup behind Hutch blares his horn.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going, I’m going,” Hutch hollers, rolling up his window as he accelerates.

Not two blocks later, traffic comes to a dead stop for a drunk standing in the centre of the street, swearing his head off.

Everyone is honking, except Hutch, who has nowhere to go and is, therefore, in no hurry to get there. He takes in the scenery, just to pass the time, when three men—dressed a little too well for this part of town—catch his attention. Especially the one in middle.

“Holy shit, Starsk. I think that’s him.”

The lane to his left becomes momentarily clear, presenting him with the perfect opportunity to make a U-turn. Without taking his eyes off his prey, he parks at the curb and slips out onto to the sidewalk through the passenger door.

He keeps a cautious distance, not wanting to spook the three men ahead of him. If the one sandwiched between the two walking mountains truly is Girard “Gerry” Rodríguez… It’s too dark to tell for sure.

The trio comes to the husk of a long-abandoned diner, and one of the hulks opens the door for his companions.

Without a second thought, Hutch sprints down an adjacent alley and makes his way to the back of the diner, where a pretentious black vehicle is parked. The windows are tinted, so he takes his chances that it’s empty and sidles up to the building, trying to remember if he saw a pay phone along the way here.

Near the back door, Hutch spots a small beam of light spilling out of a broken window. Even though the sill is at least a foot above his head, he crouches below it, holding his breath. And then he hears it: someone inside utters the name Rodríguez. The FBI and every police force in Southern California have been searching for the elusive arms dealer for what seems like an eternity. Rumor had it that he’d been in San Diego as recently as a week ago to supervise a significant guns-for-money transaction.

Why else would Gerry Rodríguez be hanging out in a deserted greasy spoon in the middle of the night if not to sell weapons? He sure as hell isn’t meeting friends for a cheeseburger and fries.

But Hutch can’t call this in to the BCPD because if it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity, he’ll never hear the end of it. He’s got to be dead sure. He surveys his immediate surroundings, hoping to scrounge up something he can stand on to get a good view of whatever’s going down inside. There’s nothing in sight, so he runs back into the alley and practically trips over a rickety wooden crate sitting beside a dumpster. He checks it out hastily and deems it usable.

Hutch returns to the back window and gets set up under it without making a sound. Once his eyes adjust to the gloom of the diner’s guts, he has a glorious view. The Rodríguez party is standing across from another threesome, a closed briefcase resting on the battered table that separates them.

“The merchandise is nearby,” says a Rodríguez flunky with a distinctive Texas drawl. “Heavily guarded, of course. It’ll be delivered once Mr. Rodríguez is satisfied that you’ve honored your part of the bargain.”

Hutch’s brain is buzzing. If he can just get to a phone in time, he’ll be instrumental in bringing Rodríguez and his organization down and, logically, have his suspension revoked.

But he’s got to move now. He’s about to step down from the crate when it breaks and the snapping wood rings out like a gunshot.

Cursing quietly, Hutch turns and runs like hell. He almost makes it to the mouth of the alley before he’s caught.

As impossible as it seems, he thinks he might be able to survive the night, thanks to a comment the junkie made earlier.

“Hey, man,” Hutch says, twitching and stumbling while being manhandled toward the diner. “Are you cops?”

“Shut up, asshole,” growls the goon on his right.

“‘Cause if you are, I wasn’t doin’ anything wrong. Just lookin’ for my, uh, cat.”

“I said, shut up.” He bends Hutch’s arm painfully behind his back.

“Oww! That hurts, man!”

He’s dragged through the back door and brought before Rodríguez.

“What were you doing back there?”

Hutch shudders and snuffles. “Before I say anything, I have to know if you’re the fuzz.”

Rodríguez sighs. “Do we look like lawmen?”

“Uh, maybe. I dunno.”

“Well, we’re not. And if you don’t tell me what you’re doing here immediately, one of my associates is going to shoot you. In the head.”

Hutch looks around wildly. “Don’t do that, man! Don’t kill me! I was just looking to score, okay? I got lost because it’s so dark and then I heard people talking and I stood on this shitty old box and looked in the window and thought that maybe you were selling—”

Rodríguez makes a cutting motion with his hand. “Enough!”

“If you take my wallet out of my back pocket,” whines Hutch, “you’ll see I’ve got some bread. I can pay. I wasn’t going to steal anything. Honest.”

“Want me to search him, boss?” asks the Texan.

Hutch has never been so glad to not have his gun or badge on his person.

Rodríguez looks through Hutch’s wallet. “Not much in here,” he says, shaking his head. He takes out Hutch’s driver’s license. “Mr. Hutchinson. Kenneth Richard Hutchinson. Is that right?”

“What?” This from the hitherto mute owner of the briefcase.

Hutch doesn’t recognize him or his two henchmen. But he’s painfully aware that the swarthy man in the immaculate grey suit is suddenly paying attention to him. “What did you say his name was?”

“Uh, Kenneth Hutchinson. Why? Who is he?”

The man comes around from the other side of the table and steps in front of Hutch. “Never met him,” he says, “but I know the name. He’s a local cop.”

Hutch stays in character. “You’re crazy, man,” he chuckles half-heartedly. “I’m no pig! I hate pigs. They—”

The man backhands Hutch across the mouth. “So, you’re just a junkie, huh? Let’s see if you’re telling the truth, junkie. Roll up his sleeve,” he barks at Rodríguez’ thugs.

Hutch’s clothing makes baring his arm difficult, so they strip him of his leather coat and sweater.

“Well, well, well. No track marks,” observes Rodríguez.

His colleague smiles, exposing small, sharp teeth. “Just as I thought. Which one of you would like to put this pig down?”

At this stage of the game, Hutch expects—and hopes—things will be over fast. But time chooses to do something weird. It slows down just enough for him to acknowledge the one true regret of his life: being too cowardly to tell Starsky that he was in love with him and not trusting in the unbreakable strength of their partnership, no matter what.

Hutch’s final earthly thoughts are of Starsky.

~~~

He bursts through another set of doors, Dobey’s words still ringing in his ears.

I think you’d better get down here right away, Hutch.

And he did. Instead of hanging up, he’d dropped the phone and raced to the hospital like Mario Andretti.

Now he’s running down the corridor to the ICU. He flies around a corner and almost skids past where they’re keeping Starsky. Breathing hard, he grabs onto the doorframe as Starsky’s cardiologist emerges from the unit.

“He’s alive,” he says to Hutch, his amazement evident. “Still not out of it, but damned if he isn’t alive.”

Hutch looks at Dobey and Huggy, grinning hugely, until it dawns on him that Starsky must have nearly died only moments ago. He turns back to Dr. Bachman, still panting slightly. “Wha—what happened?”

“Your partner,” Bachman explains, “went into cardiac arrest and had to be defibrillated three times before his heart started beating again.”

“Oh my god.” The color drains from Hutch’s face.

“He’s going to be okay, Hutch,” Dobey offers. “He’s a fighter. Nobody knows that better than you do.”

Hutch bobs his head in agreement, then extends his hand to Bachman. “Thank you. Thank you for saving my partner.”

Bachman shakes Hutch’s hand. “That’s my job.”

“And my job,” Hutch tells Dobey and Huggy, “is to find the bastard who shot Starsky and tried to kill me.”

~~~

Hutch doesn’t have to wait long before he gets a lead. And it’s a damned good one.

Thanks to dogged police work and some not-exactly-legal help from Huggy, he finds who’s been behind all this: James Gunther of Gunther Industries. A man who’d turned down a chance to run for president because it would be a step down in power.

“I don’t know what to do, Starsk,” Hutch tells his still-comatose partner. “I’m pushing the odds. I don’t know what to do.”

He’s looking down at his hands, at the floor “I mean, what if—? What if…Oh, man. What am I talking about?” He hauls himself out of the bedside chair and starts pacing. “What am I talking about?”

Sighing, he turns toward Starsky—who’s looking straight at him.

“Starsky…” It’s not much more than a whisper.

Starsky blinks.

“Starsky?” he asks, louder.

The response is more blinking and a subtle nod of the head. Perhaps even a tiny smile.

“Y—you’re awake. He’s—he’s—he’s—he’s—he’s—he’s—he’s awake,” he informs the nurse who’s been sitting quietly in the corner, reading a paperback novel.

Hutch knocks the book out of her hand, picks her up, and spins her around—several times—while cackling joyously and shouting “he’s awake” and “he’s okay” over and over again.

There’s no doubt that Starsky is smiling now.

~~~

And things keep getting better.

Turns out there’s more enough evidence to arrest Gunther, so Dobey sends Hutch to do the honors.

When Hutch arrives in San Francisco, the butler shows him to Gunther’s private sanctuary as though his visit was expected.

Gunther is waiting for him, seated behind his desk, his hands in his lap.

After identities are established, Gunther introduces Hutch to his assistant.

Bates—obviously dead, and not from natural causes—is slumped in a nearby chair, holding a broken, partially filled teacup in a bloodied hand.

“He so looked forward to meeting you,” Gunther tells Hutch, who doesn’t react. “You’ve come to arrest me.”

Wordlessly, Hutch drops the arrest warrant in front of Gunther. From a back pocket of his jeans he fishes out handcuffs, which join the warrant on the desk.

“Please.” Gunther raises his right hand. In it is a pearl-handled revolver.

In an effort to throw Gunther off his game, Hutch dares him to kill him. Says it doesn’t matter if Gunther shoots him dead or not because there’ll always be somebody else to come after him.

Before Gunther can act on the offer, Hutch grabs the hand holding the gun, which goes off without anyone being shot. It only takes Hutch a heartbeat to gain possession of the weapon and assume control of the situation.

He’s none too gentle when he cuffs Gunther and reads him his rights. But then, Gunther’s comfort isn’t his top priority.

That would be Starsky.

And Hutch can hardly wait to get back to Bay City General to see him.

~~~

Hutch steps silently into Starsky’s private room.

Starsky’s been out of the ICU for almost a week now, and his recovery feels like a gift.

The greatest gift ever.

Nurse Auerbach—the one Hutch had the impromptu waltz with when Starsky awoke from his coma—is tending to the patient. Whatever she’s doing, she’s blocking Hutch’s view of Starsky and vice versa.

The corners of Hutch’s mouth turn up when Starsky’s left hand pops up and all five fingers waggle. At him.

The nurse looks over her shoulder to see Hutch leaning in the doorway. “Oh, hello, Hutch. We’re just about finished here.”

Hutch strolls over to the other side of the bed and sits in the lone chair, which must have his butt-cheek prints permanently pressed into the plastic by now. He’s content just to wait and watch Starsky, who’s got a thermometer sticking out of his mouth.

But not for long.

“All done,” says Nurse Auerbach. “Let’s see… Good. Your temperature is normal.”

“Glad to hear it, Stefanie,” Hutch says, finding it funny that she blushes whenever she sees him. But that’s not why he’s smiling so serenely.

She addresses Starsky. “Is there anything I can get you? Uh, either of you?”

“We’re good,” Starsky says, his focus directly on Hutch. “Right, partner?”

“Right.” Hutch is melting unabashedly under that penetrating gaze.

“Okay, then. I’ll check on you later, Dave.”

“Thanks,” he says to her, and then to Hutch, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Hutch says back.

“How was your day?”

“Oh, you know. Boring. All that paperwork.”

“Good,” Starsky says. “Boring is good. Boring is safe.”

Hutch nods. “What about you. How was your day?”

“Oh, you know. Boring. Until you showed up.”

Hutch wipes his palms on his thighs and clears his throat.

“You okay?” Starsky asks.

“Never been better.”

Hutch scoots his chair as close to Starsky as possible and takes his hand.

“Starsk,” he says, without breaking eye contact. “There’s something I want to tell you…”