Precious Things

657

A near-death experience — or maybe a death and resurrection — has Starsky searching for answers to big questions.

 

Written in 2002. Originally published in the mixed media gen zine, A Small Circle of Friends #9  in 2004 produced by Neon Rainbow Press.

K. Hanna Korossy is a prolific fanfiction writer who has written stories in multiple fandoms, including Starsky & Hutch. You can find more of her fan fiction at Archive of Our Own at this link and atfanfiction.net at this link.

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“Anybody seen the tear gas-211 file?” Starsky called impatiently to the squadroom at large.

A few detectives shook their heads, the rest not even looking up from their work.

“Terrific,” Starsky muttered, returning to the search of his overflowing desktop, then Hutch’s. “Twenty-four hours on the case and we already lost the file.”

“It’s here somewhere,” Hutch soothed, also sorting through layers. It was a little like composting; while they’d been gone, their desktops had disappeared under accumulated paperwork. It was a heck of a thing to come back to after a funeral.

Starsky muttered a curse and moved over to the filing cabinet.

Hutch stopped searching for a moment, watching his partner instead. Irritation was clear in Starsky’s every movement, but it didn’t take a detective, or a friend, to know a missing file wasn’t what was really bothering him. Hutch had wondered if going back to work so soon was a good idea, if Starsky was ready for it, and nothing he’d seen thus far had allayed any of his doubts. Even this newest case Dobey had put them on upon their return–a convenience store robber who used tear gas–hadn’t been the busywork Hutch had hoped would keep Starsky’s mind occupied. It had just become another source of frustration for a man who was already emotionally worn out.

Hutch pressed his lips together. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. Even a small suggestion earlier that Starsky take a few more days off had met with angry silence. They were stuck there now, and Hutch just had to ease the way as much as he could for his grieving partner. He went back to looking.

The file cabinet apparently a dead end, Starsky turned away from it with a huff and was soon picking through the piles in the squadroom “in” and “out” boxes. Hutch repressed a sigh–Starsky knew as well as he those boxes mostly held old files no one had bothered to put away, but he didn’t say a word. As distracted as Starsky was, it wouldn’t have helped, anyway.

Giving up on the layers on his own desk, Hutch moved over to his partner’s and started searching through drawers. The center one yielded only the usual assortment of junk Starsky kept in it, everything from a petrified Ho-Ho to–Hutch’s expression softened–a blue stuffed dog. More bittersweet memories. The last time he’d seen that dog was when Starsky had been searching for something to give him, something to express how he felt about his partner, as he’d fought the losing battle against poison in his system. The battle they’d miraculously ended up winning. No gifts had been needed in the days afterwards, everything they could ask for already given.

A sad smile on his face, Hutch returned the dog to its place and kept looking. The next drawer held loose forms, mostly blank as far as he could tell, and he shoved it shut. The middle drawer was more food, fresher this time–Starsky’s stash. He also knew the brunet’s back-up weapon was hidden in the rear of the drawer, buried under all the junk. He shut that drawer a little more carefully before pulling out the last one.

Rachel Starsky smiled at him from inside.

With a glance up at Starsky, who was preoccupied questioning the other detectives about the missing file, Hutch gently took the framed picture out. It was the last one she’d sent Starsky, only a few months before; Hutch had helped his partner pick out the frame for it. Starsky wasn’t one to keep pictures on his desk, but it had joined the photo of Terry he also kept in the drawer to serve as reminder of the people he loved. And had lost.

With a fresh pang of grief, Hutch moved to put the picture back into the drawer, then realized it had been resting on the 211 file. He snorted, pulling out the file before returning the picture to its place. And realizing Starsky must have been looking at the photo recently, too, for it to end up on top of the file. He hadn’t caught his partner at it, but then, he’d been trying to give his friend some space even while he waited, wanted, needed to be there to help when Starsky was ready.

But not yet. Not yet.

He shut the drawer firmly and straightened before calling over to Starsky. “I found it.”

Starsky looked up, hurried over. “Where’d you-? Never mind.” He took it from Hutch’s hand and settled at his desk, soon re-absorbed in a case that wasn’t that absorbing.

Hutch, feeling more than a little useless, sat at his desk and stared at the clutter on it, at his partner, then back at the clutter, wondering where he should start with everything.

The phone rang, and he gratefully went with the distraction.

“Hutchinson.”

The news was short but sweet, and his enthusiastic, “That’s great,” caught even Starsky’s attention. The brunet was watching him as Hutch hung up.

“Who was that?”

“Loan officer at the bank. The financing for the boat went through.” It had happened suddenly, like falling in love usually did. He’d always loved the outdoors, had been a sea scout as a kid, but one trip on a friend’s new schooner had sold Hutch completely on life on the waves. It hadn’t taken him long after that to find his “dream girl.”

Starsky’s mouth quirked, the nearest to a smile he’d managed for the last week. “So, you’re really goin’ through with it?”

“Yup, soon as I can sign the paperwork.”

“You ever think it’s a little dangerous, bein’ out on all that water by yourself?”

“You’ll be welcome to join me anytime, Starsk.”

A mock shudder. “No thanks. You can’t drown on dry land.”

That momentarily sobered him; Starsky had once nearly done just that, with the help of a maniac at the docks. But his partner didn’t seem to be making the connection, so Hutch swallowed the memory and said smoothly, “You can’t fish on it, either.”

Starsky shrugged, already losing interest in the matter that would have once given him fodder for teasing for weeks. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn ya when those long legs of yours get tangled up and send you overboard.”

Hutch didn’t answer, his heart not in the banter that was a little too automatic. Besides, Starsky was re-immersed in his file, the boat already forgotten. Hutch returned to his own work, joy dampened. Probably rightly so–what was a boat when your best friend had just buried his remaining parent?

But he couldn’t help wishing for a little more life in Starsky’s dark eyes, in the stoop of his body. It made him seem so… old. And alone. And neither of them had needed to be alone since they had each other.

Dobey’s door opened and the captain stuck his head out. “Starsky, Hutchinson, get over to Griffith Park. There’s a 187 near the old zoo.”

A 187–a homicide. Great, a dead body was just what they needed right then. And at the old zoo, no less, a place that held only painful memories: Starsky’s abduction by Simon Marcus’ people, his showdown with insane George Prudholm. Hutch would have offered to check it out himself, but it didn’t seem to be bothering Starsky as he laid the 211 file aside and started to shrug into his jacket.

Still, Hutch couldn’t help but try. “You could stay and work on the tear gas case,” he offered brightly.

A hard look. “Dobey said both of us.”

“Dobey would understand.”

“I wouldn’t.” The clipped phrase closed the matter for discussion.

Hutch didn’t say another word, trailing his partner down to the car. Where Starsky abruptly stopped, catching his eye over the hood of the Torino. For a moment, the defensiveness fell away and it was Starsky in all his earnestness and grief who looked at him.

“I’m not mad at ya, Hutch, I just need… time.”

As if he didn’t know that, but the fact that Starsky would say it, would even realize he should say it, and wasn’t trying to hide from him, encouraged Hutch. It meant the issue was readiness, not willingness or trust. He could live with that.

Hutch smiled gently at his partner. “We’ve got all the time in the world, Starsk. Just don’t forget you’re not going it alone.”

A hesitant nod, Starsky’s eyes avoiding him now, not quite ready yet to be comforted. Hutch, unfortunately, understood.

And then Starsky briskly got into the car and it was back to business. A minute later, they were heading out to Griffith Park, the previous strain absent from the quiet in the car.

 

“I don’t think this is a homicide, Starsky.”

Hutch straightened from his examination of the body, a middle-aged, bald male lying posed peacefully and wrapped in a white sheet in the middle of the small glen. Although his face looked thin and unwell, it was composed–the vic, if that’s what he was, had not died in terror, nor were there any visible signs of injury. Crystals of various colors and sizes were sprinkled around him. If it was a crime scene, it was one of the stranger ones Hutch had seen in his long career. Starsky, examining the ground some feet away, looked up at him with surprise.

Hutch shook his head, glancing back at the body. “Look at the posing. I know we’ve seen that before in victims, but the message this time seems to be dignity, humanizing instead of dehumanizing.”

“Could be remorse,” Starsky offered. They’d seen that before, too, a guilt-stricken killer trying to achieve the appearance of normalcy post-mortem.

“Face isn’t covered.” That usually went with guilt. Hutch crouched again beside the body, lifting an edge of the sheet with his pen. “And the robe… reminds me of something…”

“Yeah?” Starsky knelt on the other side.

“Some kind of ceremony, some-”

“Preparation for passage to a new life.”

They both looked up at the woman who was walking toward them, her eyes on the body but without any sign of shock or discomfort. Her feet were bare, her long skirt’s swish the only sound as she walked. She was dressed much as a love child from Hutch’s college days, in fact, from the peasant blouse to the ring of flowers in her long, blonde hair.

Hutch frowned and glanced past her to the uniforms who should have been keeping curious bystanders clear of the scene, but the nearest one just pointed to her and nodded. Apparently she’d been let through for a reason.

Starsky seemed to have already surmised as much. “You know something about this, uh, passage, Miss-”

“Jane. That was Drew,” she gestured gracefully at the body. “He has passed now to the next life. We were here to see him off.”

“You were here when he died?” Hutch asked, frown deepening. He pulled out his notepad.

“When he passed, yes.” She talked serenely, her movements economical and elegant. She was either crazy or not like any killer Hutch had ever seen.

“When was that?” Starsky cut in. He knew as well as Hutch from the rigor the approximate time of death, but it would confirm her story.

“Last night.”

Right answer. “And there were more of you here when he, uh, passed?” Hutch continued. The light was starting to come on.

“Our whole circle.”

Starsky was blinking like he couldn’t believe it, probably starting to picture a group murder. Hutch spoke up before his partner headed off in the wrong direction. “Drew was dying,” he said.

Jane nodded once. “He had leukemia. It was time for him to pass on to the next stage of his journey.”

Hence the baldness and signs of sickness. It hadn’t been a homicide, just as Hutch had suspected, and the autopsy would probably confirm it.

Starsky was staring at them both with growing confusion. “You sayin’ he just died here? From natural causes?”

“Passage to the next life is a natural step,” Jane said serenely.

Starsky’s face twisted at that one and Hutch mentally cringed. Natural death was a lot more painful a subject for them both at that moment than a brutal murder would have been. But Starsky swallowed, recovering with a speed Hutch had to admire him for.

“What about the crystals?”

“They are to concentrate his mind and help him find his new path.”

Starsky made a sound of rude disbelief and Hutch quickly stepped in. “Do you have any records of… Drew’s illness?”

“I believe you will find some in his home. I can give you his former address,” she offered pleasantly.

All very calm, very normal. Hutch almost shook his head. “Thank you, I’d appreciate that. I also need some information about you.” And he stepped forward to lead her away, from the body and his partner.

Not soon enough. “You’re sayin’ this is natural,” Starsky said flatly, pointing to the body.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“Wrappin’ the guy up in a sheet and throwin’ rocks around him? What good’s it gonna do? He’s dead, gone.”

“Only in one sense. In another, he is as alive as you and I.”

Starsky’s annoyance was rapidly turning into anger. “Don’t fool yourself. Dead is dead, lady. That’s it, there ain’t no second chances.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Am I the one fooling myself, detective? Or is it you?”

This wasn’t about the case anymore, and Hutch interrupted before the rage–grief?–in Starsky’s eyes boiled over. “Go talk to the M.E., Starsky,” he said softly, stepping between the woman and his partner. “I’ll take care of her.”

Starsky didn’t move for a long moment, staring hard at Jane, then Hutch, before backing down with a small nod. One last glance at the girl and he turned and walked away, shoulders heavy.

“He’s not yet ready to understand,” Jane spoke up beside Hutch.

As much as he understood her beliefs, had even dabbled in reincarnation and mystical wisdom for a while before rejecting them while he’d been in school, her words made him shake his head. “No, lady,” he said quietly, directing her in the opposite direction from the one in which Starsky had gone, “you’re the one who doesn’t understand.”

 

The Torino was becoming like a tomb, Hutch thought with a touch of the morose as they drove along yet again in silence. The last time, Starsky had been thinking and no doubt feeling, but now he was brooding and sullen, angry at a foolish girl’s foolish words. Hutch chewed on his knuckle as he stared out the passenger-side window and wished he knew what to say.

Inspiration flashed as he realized where they were, and he turned with a grin to Starsky.

“Hey, you want to see the boat?”

Starsky shook himself, frowning as he looked at Hutch. “What?”

“The boat–guy who owns it isn’t far from here. You wanna take a look?”

“Not today, Hutch.” No anger, just tired apathy.

“C’mon, Starsk, I want your opinion.”

“I gave you my opinion.”

“About the boat, not about sailing,” Hutch persisted.

“Same thing, dummy,” Starsky grumbled, but he sighed, relenting. “Which way?”

Hutch happily gave directions, glad at least for the distraction. Starsky was reluctant, but at least his dark mood had lightened.

They finally pulled up to a house, a truck and a trailer with a large fishing boat on it standing in the driveway. Hutch bounded out of the car as soon as it had stopped, already grinning.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?”

Starsky made a face. “It’s a boat, Hutch, not a girl.”

“Boats are always ‘she.’ Just look at her!” How could anyone not like the sleek lines, the blue stripe down the side, the tiny cabin just big enough for one captain? Okay, so she was small, a twelve-footer, but how much more room did one person need?

“I’m lookin’,” Starsky said unenthusiastically, leaning against the car.

Hutch circled her, then gingerly climbed on, admiring again the shining brass trim and neat compartments. The perfect getaway when the city got too close and the work got too dark and he needed to breathe. She was just what he needed.

He didn’t notice Starsky’s expression go distant, didn’t see the young boy and his father Starsky pictured in Hutch’s place, fishing side-by-side. Or the woman, trim and dark-haired, who waited on the imagined dock for them to return so she could cook the fish they’d caught. She turned, and for a minute the wind swept her loose hair out of her face. Starsky’s throat caught at the sight of her. He hadn’t seen her that way in a long time, but the features hadn’t changed that much, had only softened and rounded with age. It was still the same face he’d seen a few days before in the open coffin, lifeless…

“Zebra-Three, come in.”

Starsky shuddered, started, jerked back to the present. He rubbed at his eyes even as he reached into the car to grab the mike.

“Zebra-Three.”

“Zebra-Three, report of a 211 at McGonagle’s Market, 4900 Broadway, possible use of tear gas.”

“Zebra-Three responding,” Starsky signed off, then quickly yelled toward the boat. “Hutch! Call came in–sounds like our guy.”

There was no answer, just a scrabble of sound as Hutch climbed down and sprinted over to join him. “The tear gas-211?”

“Yeah.” Starsky was already around on his side of the car when Hutch caught something in his expression.

His voice was soft. “Everything okay?”

Starsky froze, just for a moment, just long enough to tell Hutch he wasn’t imagining it, before Starsky went on, climbing into the car. “Yeah,” he answered shortly.

Hutch didn’t argue, also getting in and wondering what had just happened that he’d missed.

It was a whole different kind of silence now as they drove, tense with anticipation and mental preparation. They didn’t answer calls on a regular basis anymore, sticking mostly with the straight detective work now, but the instincts didn’t dull. Hutch’s hand had gravitated toward his gun and he sat slightly leaned forward as Starsky smoothly turned corners at high speed.

A few blocks from the market, Hutch killed the siren. And then they were pulling up behind a lone black-and-white, the two officers crouched behind their open doors.

Even as Hutch got out, he could see the smoky gas through the glass storefront. Definitely looked like their guy. “He still in there?” he hissed to the nearest uniform, a young black man he didn’t know.

“We’ve seen some movement inside but no one’s come out since we’ve been here. Think he’s still inside,” the officer quietly answered.

Hutch nodded, gaze leaving the storefront only to glance at his partner. Starsky had already gotten the gas masks out from the trunk–special issue for this case–and tossed Hutch one, then pointed around to the back. Hutch nodded, starting to count to himself as Starsky slipped to the side of the store, then disappeared around the corner to cover the back door.

The vague movement in the store Hutch had seen, disappeared. Maybe heading towards the back, and Hutch hoped his partner had gotten into position in time. He really didn’t want to lose this guy again. He slipped his own mask on, adjusted it, then made his way stealthily to beside the front door of the store.

Still no movement. That wasn’t good considering that even if their guy was gone, there should have been several store employees. Taking a deep breath, Hutch opened the door and plunged into the gas-filled building.

He quickly found the employees, a couple behind the counter on their knees, choking in the gas. Hutch prodded them to their feet and led the way toward the front door, a little slower than he’d have liked. There was no sign of the suspect that he could see, which meant the man was either hiding in the store somewhere or had already run into Starsky.

The lights in the store flickered as Hutch got to the door, and he glanced up at them with a frown. The gas’s effect, maybe? First thing was first, and he ushered the couple out the front, into the uniforms’ waiting hands. That done, Hutch went back inside.

The gas was beginning to clear, and a quick check of the aisles didn’t turn up the guy. Definitely the back. Hutch headed that way next, unsurprised to see the door standing open. He ran through it, jumping to one side of the doorway as soon as he cleared as to provide a harder target…

… And nearly tripped over Starsky’s legs.

A quick sweep revealed no suspect in sight, only his partner lying on the ground, gas mask and gun beside him where they’d fallen. Apparently the guy had gotten the drop on him, and Hutch grimaced as he knelt beside Starsky, wondering how many times now they’d been knocked out in the line of duty. Certainly more than was healthy. He jerked his mask off and put it and his own gun on the ground as he prepared to pat the unconscious man awake.

It took him a second more to realize Starsky’s chest wasn’t moving.

Hutch went cold as other details came into focus. Like the fuse box that was spitting sparks on the wall behind them and the burnt smell in the air. Starsky’s hair also seemed to be smoking, and Hutch frantically searched for a pulse. Nothing. Electrical shock was very good at shutting body systems down.

“Back here!” he yelled as loud as he could, and then scrambled into position to do CPR, not thinking beyond the need to get the heart and respiration going again. It could just be shock, not actual internal damage, in which case all he had to do was jumpstart Starsky’s system again and everything would be fine.

He was on the second cycle when the black officer’s partner appeared around the corner, face paling as he took in the scene.

“Call an ambulance. Hurry!” Hutch screamed at him, then bent to do a pair of breaths. The body under his hands could have been one of the Red Cross dummies they practiced on, rolling loosely under the compressions, completely without animation.

Lifeless.

“You are not doing this to me, not now,” Hutch panted, strength already beginning to fade, but he knew he’d continue as long as he had to. No way was one of them giving up, not after all they’d been through, all they’d survived. He hadn’t come so close to losing Starsky to a shower of bullets to forfeit him now to a 211 suspect and a poorly placed fuse box. “Come on, Starsky, fight!” he growled. “Don’t let it end this way!”

No response.

He had no more extra air to talk, willing Starsky to live by his sheer determination as he continued the CPR. But Hutch could already feel the emptiness of the body, knew he was working on a corpse. And still continued to fight, with tears in his eyes.

By the time the paramedics arrived, all he had the energy for was to collapse against the wall and watch them work. They were doing the same thing he’d been doing, with the same result. One of them found a burned area on the back of Starsky’s head, as Hutch had suspected but hadn’t had a chance to check for, and he blankly pointed up to the still-sputtering, crushed fuse box. No doubt the suspect had somehow knocked or pushed Starsky up against it.

A heartbeat was restored, although Hutch’s fear didn’t diminish. They loaded Starsky onto the stretcher, still working on him, and Hutch stumbled to his feet and followed them, like the entourage of a funeral procession.

But he wasn’t ready to give up, not yet. Not like last time, when Starsky had come back to life even as Hutch had mourned. And so he sat at his partner’s head in the ambulance, one hand clutching Starsky’s now-bared shoulder, and prayed–begged–for his friend’s life.

Some response, a negative one, sent the paramedic into a flurry, and Hutch had to remove his hand as shock was administered. Starsky jerked and lay still, twice. The second time, the monitor began beeping softly again as it had before, still uncertain and irregular. Hutch listened to it and went back to clutching and praying.

At the emergency room, they first relegated him to a corner, then, as the machine flatlined again, sent him outside to wait.

He loathed waiting.

Simmons and Babcock were there by the time he got to the waiting room, and he answered their questions in monosyllables before sinking into the farthest chair and staring out the window. It was ground floor, not much view, but he wasn’t really seeing it, anyway.

What a sense of humor God had. Hutch had been so worried about his grieving partner, seeking some way to make the loss of Starsky’s mother easier for him to bear, hoping the pain would soon ease. Well, this was one way to do it–perhaps Starsky had joined her already. Wouldn’t that be ironic, mother and son gone within a week of each other? But while Rachel Starsky had lived to see her children grow up, one of them marry, Starsky was still in the middle of his life, so much still ahead.

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut. Not again.

The last time he’d been there in that same hospital, doing a similar vigil, the world had seemed to end with Starsky’s imminent death. He couldn’t conceive of going on, hadn’t wanted to. When he’d gotten his partner back, Hutch hadn’t forgotten that feeling and had made an effort to make each moment after count, to concentrate on the good times, to enjoy what they had. The last three years had been so different from the one just before them. And while, if anything, it had made the two of them even closer and his love for Starsky stronger, it had also forced Hutch himself to grow. If he lost Starsky now… well, it wasn’t the end. But it was a far bleaker, lonelier future.

Hutch snorted. That was cold. Not the end of the world–how generous of him. Maybe it wasn’t unbearable, but just the possibility still choked Hutch with pain, and he hadn’t even heard any news yet, had nothing but his hopes, his denial that this was it. If it really did happen… if Starsky really did… die…

At that moment, he would have well and truly offered his life up instead, and considered himself selfish to do so.

Not again. Not again.

With a ragged breath, he opened his eyes, stared past the growing crowd in the waiting room, to where the doctor he’d seen in the emergency room was just coming out, pulling off his cap with slow, reluctant movements.

Hutch stood without conscious thought, and moved stiff-leggedly through the officers who parted before him, out of the waiting room to meet the doctor.

The older man saw him, paused, then quietly said, “I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.”

Hutch nodded vaguely.

“There’re some arrangements to be made…”

“Yeah.”

“I’m really very sorry.”

“Thank you. I’d like to see him.”

“I’ll have someone get you.”

“Fine.”

He sat in the chair the doctor pointed out, near the nurses’ station, to wait. He felt numb, like after he’d been shot by that girl. Seriously injured then, he’d been in no pain, only able to think about the kid who’d wanted to kill him. All the terror and worry and pain from moments before was gone now.

People bled to death when they were in shock, and never knew it.

And Hutch dispassionately wondered if he would survive this, after all.

 

The sheet-covered body lay in the emptied examining room. No sound or movement stirred the room.

And then someone pulled the sheet back.

Crystals, different colors and shapes, rained down on the bare chest of the body. The 211 suspect stood beside the stretcher with his upraised, now-empty hand, looking down on the still form.

The chest suddenly moved as a deep breath was drawn in, then released. Blue eyes opened.

The man dropped his hand and smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant to be this way.”

Starsky blinked, half sat up, looking at the man. “Who are you?” he rasped.

But the man, still smiling, just shook his head.

Starsky lay back down again, eyes wearily closing.

Silence fell again on the room, broken only by soft breathing as his chest continued regularly to rise and fall.

 

Hutch pushed open the door to the examining room, standing in the doorway for a moment as he caught sight of the sheet-covered body before he found the strength to step inside.

Because the death hadn’t been a bloody, gory one, no one had protested him wanting to take one last look, to say good-bye. That was the excuse he’d given, anyway. In truth, he couldn’t really believe it, couldn’t take it in unless he saw it for himself.

So… this was for his benefit.

Hutch crept over to the side of the bed, illogically afraid of making any noise. What, and wake the dead? What he wouldn’t give…

He reached the gurney, and with shaking fingers–his body was reacting far more than his mind–reached out and pulled the sheet back.

Starsky looked asleep, and Hutch winced. Gunther’s hit might have been easier to accept in that respect–Hutch could understand the damage a bullet did, had seen all the blood and the torn flesh. It made sense that the body could not heal from so much damage.

But this… a patch of burnt skin and hair on the back of his head? An unmarred chest and smoothed face Hutch could almost see move with inhalation–what kind of a death was this?

The depth of grief starting to well up inside him, Hutch swallowed hard and laid a hand on the bare chest, right above the heart that had been strong enough to survive so much over their years together, both physical and emotional wounds. He knew, of course, it wasn’t the literal seat of the soul, but it seemed a fitting gesture.

“See you later, Starsk,” he whispered roughly.

And was about to pull his hand away as he felt something stir beneath it.

Hutch’s brows drew together. Was he that far gone, to be imagining something he wanted so badly? It was a cruel trick for his mind to play on him. He flattened his palm against skin he tried to tell himself wasn’t as warm as it felt.

It was weak, but another beat definitely thumped against his hand.

His own heart’s rhythm catching, Hutch leaned forward to press his ear against the hair-covered chest.

One pulse, then another, and a slight exhalation stirred his hair.

Hutch jerked up. Starsky still lay as motionless as before, but if Hutch looked closely, he could see the flush of color in Starsky’s face, the minute movements of a body that was unconscious but very much alive.

“My God,” he breathed, and wouldn’t have known if it was plea or thanks. One more breath, a little deeper than the previous, and his lasts doubts evaporated.

Starsky was alive.

His hands were trembling harder now as he cupped one hand around a roughened cheek, feeling Starsky’s throat move, and Hutch leaned forward to whisper in happy awe, “Be right back, partner. D-don’t go away.”

And then he backed away from the bed, turning and rushing out so blindly, he nearly ran down a nurse in the hallway. Hutch clutched her arm.

“He’s alive.”

She stared at him, her mouth forming an “o” of surprise.

Hutch let her go, grabbed hold of a passing doctor instead and, grinning like a madman through tears, insisted, “He’s alive!”

The doctor took one look at him and hurried into the examination room, the nurse on his heels.

Hutch fully intended to follow them, but for the moment, he leaned against the wall, overcome. Grief, inexpressible joy–he couldn’t sort it out. There was only one thing he knew or cared about.

Starsky was alive.

 

“The last place our guy struck was here,” Hutch pointed to the thumbtack on the map that was doubling for McGonagle’s Market. “You can see it’s outside the radius the other 211’s were in.” His finger traced the circle of red drawn on the map.

“Do you still think the guy’s on foot?” Dobey asked, frowning.

“Maybe he took a bus?” one of the robbery detectives gathered in the captain’s office suggested.

Hutch shook his head. “The sites don’t follow any particular bus route, and the guy’s still staying close to home. I still think he’s on foot, yeah. Definitely doesn’t have a car.”

“So DMV identification is out.” Dobey sighed. “Starsky able to give you any kind of a description?”

“Yeah, but so far we haven’t been able to make an ID off it.”

“How soon do you expect him to strike again?” another detective asked.

“It’s been three days since the last hit.” Three days since Starsky had nearly died–would he ever stop marking the passage of time that way? There were already too many black anniversaries. Hutch cleared his throat. “That our guy’s pattern–he usually strikes every three to four days, so we can expect the next attempt any time now.”

The captain straightened. “All right, men, that’s all we have to go on right now–suspect possibly lives walking distance from the hits, probably near the center of that circle. We haven’t got much time–I want you to canvass the area with Starsky’s description of the guy, see if you can find someone who can ID him before he strikes again and kills someone this time.” His voice rose pointedly.

There was a quiet murmur as the collected detectives from Robbery and Special Units filed out, leaving only Dobey and a suddenly still Hutch in the small office.

“Hutch?”

His boss’s unusually gentle query shook Hutch out of his thoughts. Kill was still too fresh a word. He blinked at Dobey. “Uh, yes, sir?”

“How’s Starsky doing?”

The corner of Hutch’s mouth pulled up. “Sick of being in the hospital.” Half his visiting time the day before had been spent in argument with his partner about Starsky’s need to stay and rest, but he had never been so glad to be arguing with someone in all his life. Of course, then the conversation had turned rather strange, but Hutch wouldn’t be complaining about anything his partner did again for a long time.

“That’s good,” Dobey said with a grin of his own. “Tell him I’ll send him another fruit basket if he behaves himself and stays put.” His eyes flicked over to the open doorway and he gave a mock, aggrieved sigh. “Never mind.”

Hutch’s eyes followed his boss’s gaze out into the squadroom, to the sight of a slightly haggard and subdued Starsky coming through the double doors, a baseball cap shading his face. Hutch’s smile broke out in full force, and forgetting the map, he strode out into the squadroom.

Already another detective had noticed the brunet, and the men began crowding around to wish one of their own back. Starsky smiled wanly at them, answering questions briefly and returning handshakes. His gaze finally caught Hutch’s, sending a clear message for help, and Hutch broke through the group to pull his partner free. “Later, fellas, give the invalid some air.”

It didn’t even earn him an indignant glance from his friend, something else clearly on Starsky’s mind. Within moments, Hutch found himself following his hurrying partner out of the squadroom and into an empty interrogation room.

Starsky dropped his hat onto the table and wheeled around as soon as Hutch closed the door. “It happened, Hutch,” he said flatly.

He sighed, figuring what was coming. The same thing Starsky had tried to convince him of the day before, that their 211 suspect was really some hippie healer who could bring back the dead. The brunet had finally, reluctantly, agreed to drop the matter for a day, to see if he still remembered it that way the next day, in which case Hutch had promised to discuss it again.

For all the good it would do. Crystals with magical resurrection powers? Hutch swallowed a sigh and spread his hands reasonably.

“The doctor said it was a final burst of adrenalin, that’s all. It doesn’t make sense–there was no way that guy could have gotten in there without any of us seeing him. And he tried to kill you, Starsky.” His partner couldn’t remember the actual attack, but Hutch had no doubts. “Why would he come back to save your life? Even if he could do what you say?”

Starsky had sunk into one of the two chairs around the single table that furnished the room. His face was blanched, and Hutch suddenly thought to wonder what his partner was doing there at all, out of the hospital, at the station. The Torino was still parked in front of Hutch’s home, where he’d left it.

He sat down in the chair in front of his friend, voice softening. “Let me take you home, Starsk. You look terrible.”

Starsky’s face twisted a fraction and his tone was hushed, almost wavering when he finally spoke. “I have to know, Hutch. I saw him–he was there. He did … something. I have to know what.”

He was about to answer that he understood; their job was full of whys, and Starsky had always been especially fascinated with the unknown. But with blinding clarity, Hutch suddenly saw the obvious direction this was going, what he should have seen the day before when his partner finally woke with coherence and immediately insisted his would-be murderer had brought him back to life.

Compassion stirred him to gentleness and he put a hand on Starsky’s knee.

“You can’t bring her back, buddy.”

Starsky jerked away from him so hard, he almost fell off his chair. “I know that,” he said angrily.

“Do you? It was a dream, Starsk, wishful thinking. We’d all like to think we can get back someone we’ve lost but… it doesn’t work that way.” And was abruptly reminded it had for him, more than once now. Hutch knew too well the degree of desperation at stake here, and ached all the harder for his friend for it.

“Yeah? Then explain this.” And Starsky pulled something out of his pocket, dropping it into Hutch’s hand.

A crystal. Hutch frowned, momentarily speechless.

“I know what I saw,” Starsky insisted stubbornly. Desperately?

“It doesn’t make any sense-”

Starsky abruptly stood. “I’m gonna find the answer, Hutch. I have to.” And he strode past his partner, out the door.

Hutch sighed heavily, leaning back in the chair as he traced a finger along the edge of the clear crystal. He knew better than anyone how tenacious his partner could be, particularly when a loved one was concerned. Hutch himself had been the beneficiary of that stubbornness many times, and he usually supported his partner’s missions no matter what. But this? Bringing Rachel back? It was, at best, a vibrant dream produced by a shocked and scrambled mind, and at worst, Starsky setting himself up for an awful letdown through his wishful gullibility. How could Hutch support such a delusion? Even with that little bit of evidence he held in his hand.

Hutch shook his head. Then again, none of that really mattered, did it. They were still partners, and if Starsky ever needed him, it was now, ridiculous beliefs or no. Hutch would help his friend find the answers that would satisfy him, as painlessly as possible. He owed Starsky that, and far more. If for nothing else, then for not dying on him.

The crystal clenched in his hand, Hutch rose and went to look for his partner.

But Starsky was already gone.

 

The police tape was no longer there, but Starsky knew where he was. The glen that had once held the body of Drew Stadler was just ahead, and neither he nor the lone woman sitting in its center seemed surprised to meet there.

“You came back,” Jane said quietly, looking up at him but not rising.

“I had some questions,” Starsky answered, crouching in front of her.

“About passages.”

“Maybe. These passages wouldn’t happen to run both ways, would they?”

“There is no one pathway. Each must follow their own.”

Starsky shifted. “What if one leads back to life after death?”

She simply nodded her head. “If that is your pathway…”

“I wanna know if you can do that–bring people back to life.”

A slight smile. “There is enlightenment in our ceremonies. Come find your answers there.”

Starsky frowned. “Ceremonies? What, standin’ naked under the moon and painting yourself with blood?”

“Come and see. Each finds something different in our ways.”

“You’re not gonna tell me.” Starsky stood.

“Each must find their own path, but we can help. Come join us.”

Starsky left the glen without a backward glance, as unenlightened as he came.

 

Hutch pulled up in front of the Westchester house, engine idling as he sat and looked at it, debating with himself. It was late and the house was almost dark, but there seemed to be a faint glow of light in the living room.

He turned the engine off and trod softly up to the door. Another moment of hesitation and he knocked, unwilling to use his key when he wasn’t sure he was welcome.

“Come in.”

It wasn’t locked. Either Starsky had been waiting for him, or he was being careless. Hutch hoped earnestly it was the former.

The room was indeed dark except for two candles that glowed on the dining room table. They were both nearly burned down to their holders, spluttering with their last flame. Their impending death managed to drag Hutch’s mood even lower, but he put a false note of cheer into his voice.

“Hey, Starsk. Electricity out?”

Starsky was sitting at the table in front of the candles, his legs drawn up onto the chair, his chin resting on his knees as he watched the dying flames. “Shabbat candles.”

Hutch’s eyebrows rose. He’d celebrated Hanukkah with Starsky, congratulated him on Rosh Hashanah, even gone a few times with him to the local temple, but Starsky had never exactly been an orthodox Jew, and Hutch didn’t think he’d ever seen his partner celebrate the sabbath before.

Then again, Starsky hadn’t ever lost his mom and nearly his own life within days of each other before, either.

Hutch closed the door behind him. “Came by to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine.”

It was difficult to imagine a tone of voice that would have matched those words less. Starsky sounded bruised and soul-weary, anything but fine. Hutch came over to the table and sat across from his friend, reminded briefly of Starsky doing the same thing with him as Hutch had sat in shock after his ex-wife’s murder. Just Starsky being there had helped then, but now his partner seemed almost insensible of his presence.

Hutch glanced at the candles again, trying to remember the Shabbat ritual. Something about a prayer and then letting the candles burn themselves out. He was pretty sure there was nothing about sitting and watching them die. His eyes returned to Starsky, to the man’s unusually defensive position, and the lecture he’d been practicing on the way over, about rationality and logic and reality, melted away.

“She was something else,” he said quietly instead, knowing he’d struck home when Starsky’s throat bobbed. “I’m gonna miss her.”

“Yeah,” Starsky whispered. It was more of an admission than he’d given his partner the whole time they’d been in New York. The eldest child of the family had taken his responsibility very seriously, but that had left no time Hutch had seen for grieving.

“Just about every time I talked to her, she told me how proud of you she was.” Each line was a tentative offer, uncertain as to how it would be received or what Starsky was ready to hear.

Starsky just nodded. Still not ready yet, then. It couldn’t be easy to take in that both your parents were gone, with their love and wisdom and just being there for you to turn to. Even just a year shy of forty, Hutch still found himself calling up his own mother sometimes for advice or simply comfort, particularly when something was wrong with Starsky. To lose that constant in your life had to be devastating. Starsky had actually been handling it very well, too used to loss in his life, but it was an awful drain and Hutch longed to help. It would come, but as he watched Starsky wrap himself deeper in withdrawal, it didn’t seem to be coming soon.

He sighed and let it go, trying a different angle. “Where’d you go this afternoon? I tried to catch up with you but you were already gone.”

“Had to go talk to someone.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” Hutch was too concerned to let his exasperation last long. “Did it help?” he continued, genuinely interested.

A small shake of the head.

One of the candles flickered and died, casting Starsky’s features in even dimmer light, but Hutch could still see the reflection of the remaining candle’s light in the dark eyes. The dying of the light, the line of poetry played through his thoughts. Death seemed heavy on both their minds that evening.

“Why don’t you go to sleep, partner?” he said softly. “I’ll stay if you want.” He hated Starsky’s couch with a passion, but hated leaving him alone like that even more.

Starsky actually smiled at that, if just barely. “You hate my couch.” He looked up at Hutch. “I appreciate what you’re doin’, I just wanna be alone right now, Hutch.”

Hutch stared back at him for a long minute, reading what he could in the blue eyes and a little comforted by what he saw. There was no wild hope or despair there, just sorrow.

Fair enough. He offered a small, encouraging smile of his own and nodded once.

“Okay. But you know where to find me.”

“Yeah.” There was even a touch of fondness in his tone.

He patted Starsky’s hand where it lay on the table and stood to leave, pausing as the second candle spat one final time and went out, the darkness immediately sweeping in to fill its place.

Starsky didn’t move. After a long moment, Hutch finally did, heart only a little lighter than the room he was leaving behind. He let himself out quietly, locking the door behind him.

And so wasn’t there to see Starsky slink out of the house a few minutes later and drive off toward the park.

 

The fire flickered low in the center of the glen. Presumably, they had a permit for it, but Starsky didn’t ask. He sat in the circle around it with a dozen others, trying to believe he-wasn’t-sure-what as they passed around a drink and then began to chant and meditate.

He hadn’t been home the afternoon she’d called, Starsky had learned from his brother later. She’d called to say she wasn’t feeling well, that she was going to go to the hospital just to make sure everything was okay. Nicky had gone with her, and it had been his frantic call Starsky had received hours later, after he returned from a late date. By then, she’d been comatose, unable to speak to him. And by the time he got there with Hutch the next day, she’d succumbed to the stroke, and suddenly he was in charge, seeing relatives and making funeral arrangements. And, even with Hutch there, profoundly alone.

Another round of the drink, something sweet and cloying in a hollowed gourd, and Starsky passed this time. It was very possibly drugged, but he couldn’t seem to care at that moment, caught in the memory of his brother’s call, of his mother’s lifeless face, of the fresh grave.

The chanting grew, the flames casting dancing shadows on the otherwise still bodies in the circle.

She’d called and he hadn’t been there.

Starsky sat and stared blindly into the fire as the ceremony proceeded, unheeded, around him.

 

He’d nearly made it back to his car before she caught up with him.

“You’re leaving already?”

“There’s no enlightenment here, lady, just memories. I got enough of those already.”

Jane smiled sadly at him. “You came, but you did not open your mind. Only then will you find your answers.”

Starsky threw his jacket through the open door, onto the passenger seat, and got in, slamming the door shut behind him. He looked up at her through the open window. “My answers aren’t here.”

He drove off, leaving her standing there in the dark, watching him go.

 

It was everything he’d dreamed of.

It was the weekend and they had Saturday off. Hutch had gone around to Starsky’s early still to see if he could coax his partner out with him. The Torino was already gone, though, and after arguing for a while with his continuing worry, Hutch had decided to go and enjoy the day by himself. Rachel’s loss had been hard for him, too, Starsky’s pain even worse, and he needed to relax and forget, if for a little while. The boat’s owner had been more than willing to let him take her out for a spin, and after a quick lesson on the basics of navigation, it was just Hutch, his lady, and the water. Perfect weather, perfect diversion. Perfectly what he wanted.

And yet…

His mind wandered. Where had Starsky gone, again? Those secretive trips were starting to concern Hutch almost as much as his partner’s emotional state. They didn’t seem to be helping the grief or the questions eating Starsky, and the last thing the man needed was another burden on his shoulders.

The boat would have been the ideal diversion–a change of scenery, of thoughts. Even Starsky would have had to admire the blue of the water and the tang in the air and the fish that sometimes strayed near the surface. And not a manmade sound to be heard besides the slap of waves against the side of the boat and its gentle creak as it swayed with each swell. It was the sound of peace, of sheer solitude.

Of loneliness.

It was everything Hutch had wanted: being away from the city, communing with nature, a little solitude. It was exactly what he enjoyed most about solo camping trips, too. And yet sitting there without another soul in sight, only himself for company, it was a little too much alone.

It took a while before Hutch gave in to the inevitable and turned toward home. Peace came from the inside, not the outside, and what good was it, anyway, without someone to share it with? When the call came on his portable radio that Starsky was requesting his presence at the station, it was just a good excuse to look forward to getting back.

Hutch didn’t really want to think beyond that as he returned the boat to its owner and hurried into the city.

 

His first inclination when he saw Starsky was to sit his partner down before he fell down. Starsky obviously hadn’t slept the night before, and the only color in his face was the flush of intensity. Even as Hutch opened his mouth to say something, though, Starsky was already talking.

“I think I got our guy.”

Hutch’s mouth shut.

Starsky indicated the map he had propped against the wall nearest their desks. “I was thinkin’ about the places he hit, all close to home except for this one.” He indicated McGonagle’s. “Kinda weird, but doesn’t match any bus routes, and I doubt our guy’s gonna spring for a taxi. So I started thinkin’ about other routes. School bus, store delivery, garbage trucks. Don’t have t’ drive to be a garbage man. Turns out one of the routes fits all our guy’s stops. Ran the backgrounds and came up with him.” Starsky stabbed his finger toward a slim file. “Luther Trenti. No license. And turns out his breaks match when stores were hit, too.”

Hutch was impressed. It was a lot of tracking down, and some good thinking. No wonder Starsky looked like he hadn’t slept. By all rights, Hutch knew he should drive him home that minute and let the uniforms take it from there, but he was also well aware how personal this had gotten for Starsky. No one would be able to talk him out of being there for the bust. He didn’t even try.

“So you want us pay Mr. Trenti a visit?” he suggested.

“He’s workin’–company gave us today’s route.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

Starsky was already out the door.

They coordinated from the car, two units joining them to help box in their suspect. It didn’t take much searching to find the trash truck, or to spot the man Hutch knew only from his partner’s description. One look at Starsky’s dark expression confirmed it, and they took off after Trenti. With a black-and-white coming from the other direction, he almost ran into their arms.

It was too easy. Within a minute, Trenti sat on the ground, cuffed, glaring at them, while Hutch coolly studied the man who had nearly taken his partner away from him. He was wiry but strong, and taller than Starsky, with narrow, calculating eyes. Definitely more the killer than the healer type.

“I’ll take him in,” Starsky abruptly announced.

Two uniforms and Hutch looked up at him in surprise. “Starsky, they can handle it-” Hutch began, waving to the officers standing next to them. It was SOP unless they were the only ones on-scene.

“I wanna take him in,” Starsky repeatedly doggedly, already levering Trenti to his feet. “He’s my collar.”

Hutch wasn’t about to argue that, but any other reasons died when he got a look at Starsky’s face. He acquiesced with a bitten-off sigh. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Starsky didn’t answer, just set to manhandling the unresisting Trenti into the back of the Torino. Hutch followed the activity in his peripheral vision even as he finished talking to the officers, getting the last details worked out for reports and statements.

And suddenly Starsky’s phrasing clicked. “I’ll take him in,” not “We.”

Startled, Hutch looked up just as the Torino roared to life and took off down the street.

He clenched his jaw, fighting the useless urge to run after the car. Even if there had been any hope of catching up, Starsky wasn’t some rookie cop who needed a babysitter. He clearly wanted to do this alone, although Hutch couldn’t help but worry and wonder why.

But you always protected your partner’s reputation. Hutch turned back to the puzzled officers, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Guess he was in a hurry. I’ll go in with you guys.”

And resisting the urge to throw one last troubled glance in the direction the car had disappeared, Hutch made himself return to the work at hand.

 

The Torino sat in a deserted lot of Griffith Park, no one else present to see the two people sitting inside, the driver twisted around so he was facing the back seat passenger.

“You were there, weren’t you? At the hospital,” Starsky was saying.

Trenti was silent, staring at the seat back in front of him.

“You can do it–bring people back to life? I saw you there–what did you do to me?”

“You’re crazy,” Trenti finally said, voice low and flat.

Starsky couldn’t tell if it was the same one as in his memory. “I want to know. How do you do it?”

Trenti’s head had risen, and he was watching Starsky speculatively. “Yeah, okay, I know how to do it, but it’s not something you go around talking about, you know? It’s only for special cases.”

Starsky leaned a little closer. “Show me.”

Trenti hesitated, as if deciding. “All right, but you’re gonna have to take the cuffs off.”

Starsky got out of the car.

 

“… and we found a gasmask and some stolen gas canisters from a law enforcement supply house in Trenti’s bag on the truck. Along with some racing forms and stubs–seems our guy was stealing to support a little habit. The D.A. says it’s enough for a conviction.”

Dobey nodded, for once looking pleased with Hutch’s report. “That was good work, both of you. Where’s Trenti now?”

Hutch was searching through the piles on Starsky’s desk, looking for a pen. Finally giving it up as a lost cause, he reached over to his desk and the pencil holder there. “Starsky’s probably got him down at processing still,” he answered over his shoulder.

He straightened just in time to see Dobey’s frown. “I just called down there–they haven’t had anybody come through processing in over a half-hour.”

Hutch’s stomach turned. He should’ve checked as soon as he’d come in, but he’d wanted so hard to believe Starsky would do his job. “I-” The phone rang and Hutch snatched it up with an apologetic look at his boss.

“Hutchinson.”

It was dispatch, and the news made his mouth tighten into a straight line.

“Thank you.” He hung up and was already heading for the door. “I have to go, Cap’n. Starsky called in–Trenti got away from him.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, or the annoyed expression he knew was on Dobey’s face. It matched his own.

But, knowing Starsky’s state of mind of late, his irritation was also tempered with real concern.

 

The scene Hutch drove up to was one of controlled chaos. Several other black-and-whites and at least one other unmarked car was parked in the area, and officers were just starting to fan out to search for the escaped suspect. And off to one side, where no one was paying attention, a grim-faced Starsky was taking the shotgun out of the Torino’s trunk.

Hutch sprinted over to the red car, arriving just in time to face Starsky as his partner slammed the trunk lid. A faint scratch, probably unnoticed by anyone but Hutch, ran across Starsky’s cheek, but otherwise he looked fine. Hutch’s moment of startlement, almost panic, was quickly replaced by determination.

“I’m gonna get him, Hutch.” With that announcement, Starsky tried to step around him, but Hutch cut him off.

“How’d he get away, Starsky? He was cuffed in the back seat.”

“Doesn’t matter, he just did. I’ve gotta stop him.”

Hutch checked another move to run off, and Starsky’s gaze began to smolder.

“Would you get outta the way!”

“What happened in the last hour? You should’ve been back at Parker a long time ago. How’d you get here?” Hutch indicated the park around them. “And how’d a cuffed suspect get away from an experienced cop, would you tell me that?”

Starsky wrenched free of him, the set of his face and body making it clear he wouldn’t let Hutch stop him again. “This isn’t the time–we’ve gotta get this guy.”

At least the I had become we again, and he had a point about timeliness, but that was all Hutch was willing to grant him. As soon as they had Trenti back in custody, it would be time for a talk.

First things first, though. He pulled his own gun and nodded to Starsky, letting him point the direction. A wary look at him, and Starsky set off, looking very certain and going in the opposite direction of the other officers around them. Hutch swallowed his suspicions and followed his partner.

The path was a familiar one from previous cases that had taken them into the park, and it wasn’t until they reached the glen that Hutch realized he had been there only days before, on the homicide that wasn’t. Frowning, he kept his peace and followed Starsky through it, toward the now-deserted cages of the old zoo.

It didn’t take long for them to come upon Trenti, still cuffed and searching fruitlessly for some way out of one of the deeper cages he’d tried to flee into.

Starsky immediately shifted into shooting position, shotgun pointed at the trapped suspect.

“There’s no way out, Trenti,” he said coldly.

Far too coldly. Hutch had reached his side and, still frowning, took in Starsky’s posture, the tightness of his finger on the trigger, the look in his eye… and the way Trenti cowered in front of them, all attempts at fleeing abandoned.

“Starsky-”

“You lied to me.” Hutch could have not been there, for all the attention Starsky was giving him. His focus was on the escaped prisoner. “You can’t do anything.”

“You’re crazy, cop! Nobody can bring people back from the dead!” Trenti, for all his obvious fear, was angry, too, leaning forward on his knees, in the midst of assuming the position of surrender.

He wasn’t nearly as angry as Starsky, though. Face flushed and eyes darkened to midnight blue, this was Hutch’s partner at his don’t-mess-with-me worst. The tremor in his voice was almost pure fury. “You promised.” And his finger tightened on the trigger.

Hutch’s heart was hammering. Starsky was ready to shoot an unarmed, helpless prisoner. Swallowing with a suddenly dry throat, he stepped in front of Starsky, shoving the shotgun aside and standing between his partner and the now-babbling Trenti.

“Starsky, don’t do this. You can’t shoot him down in cold blood.”

It was, in reality, taking his life into his hands. There was something wild in Starsky’s face, something that was quite capable of shooting an unarmed man–and anything that got in his way. He was already shoving back, re-aiming around Hutch.

Hutch couldn’t afford fear just then. He jostled the barrel aside again, almost yelling to try to draw Starsky’s attention. “Listen to me! You can’t do this! He tried to kill you and he’s gonna pay for it, but not like this. Starsky, you’re a cop–think like one!”

“He said he could do it.” There was a different shakiness in the voice now, no longer anger.

Oh, God… So that was Trenti’s great crime. Hutch almost closed his eyes, and his voice abruptly dropped. “Starsk, it’s not his fault he can’t bring her back.”

Starsky blinked. His eyes were wet and finally seeing him. And Hutch wondered how he could have seen only anger in the man before, because all he saw now was one heartbroken, orphaned son.

“Let her go, Starsk,” he said gently. “Your mom would want you to.”

A tear broke free, and Hutch shifted a little, completely blocking his partner from Trenti’s view. For all the privacy and space to grieve he’d tried to offer his friend over the previous week, it seemed the catharsis was to be there, in the middle of Griffith Park.

They never had done things the easy way.

He eased the shotgun out of loose hands and laid it aside even as Starsky fought a sob. “I couldn’t say good-bye to her, Hutch. She tried to call, but I was-”

There it was, the last piece, why he hadn’t been able to let go. Now they could deal with it. Hutch squeezed Starsky’s shoulder, inordinately relieved. “You were busy living your life, buddy. She wouldn’t blame you for that. There was no way you could have known.” The truth of what he said didn’t lessen his compassion. He would have felt the same way in Starsky’s place.

Starsky just shook his head, shoulders shuddering.

An officer, no doubt attracted by the shouting, appeared behind Starsky. Hutch jerked his head back toward Trenti, and with a curious glance at Starsky’s back, the officer went to collect the suspect. Hutch waited in tense silence until they left, trying to meet Starsky’s eyes and not succeeding. Sorrow had struck hard and fast. Or maybe Starsky just hadn’t been able to hold it off any longer. Hutch doubted he would have been so strong for so long.

But at least he could help now. With the grief, and the regret he hadn’t even known was there until then.

“Ah, Stark…” he sighed, and as Starsky had once done more than once for him in his anguish, gathered him in and held him as he cried.

It was a long time before they left the park.

 

The LTD pulled up to the curb and idled there.

Hutch looked at his partner, whose eyes were on carved wooden door of the synagogue across the street. “You ready?” he asked softly.

A long swallow. “Not really.”

“You wanna come back another-”

“Uh-uh. Rabbi Stone’s expectin’ me.” Starsky glanced over at him. “I’ll be okay, Hutch.” He was far older and wiser than the Starsky who’d sat next to Hutch two weeks before, but he still looked too tired and sad. At least the sleep he’d gotten the night before on Hutch’s couch and the very long talk they’d shared beforehand had brought some peace back into his eyes. The grieving would go on, but at least the wrenching first shock and undeserved guilt were passing. And Hutch hoped this visit would help them along.

He smiled, understanding. “I know. I’ll be back for you at five. We’ve got a date with some take-out and beer at my place after.”

“Sounds good.” Starsky cocked his head. “Where’re you goin’?”

“Gotta see a man about a boat.”

Starsky just nodded, no doubt assuming it was to buy the vessel Hutch had been talking about for so long. He opened the door, started to get out, and turned back. “You still have that crystal?”

Hutch started, surprised by the question. “Uh, yeah, it’s-” He started to reach for the glove compartment where he’d stashed and then forgotten about the gem.

His partner’s hand covered his on the glove compartment door, stopping him from opening it. “Get rid of it,” Starsky said shortly.

A pause, then Hutch slowly nodded.

He received a quirky grin in response, the kind that was uniquely Starsky’s, and a squeeze of the hand. Then Starsky was off, darting across the street through breaks in the traffic.

Hutch watched him slow as he climbed the temple steps, stopping at the top to pull a yarmulke out of his pocket, smooth it out, and put it on. Starsky took a deep breath, then opened the doors and went in.

May you find your answers, Starsk, Hutch wished him silently as he pulled back out into traffic. At least Starsky was on the right path now. Hutch himself had already found his own answers, and he was off to tell his prospective seller that they did not lie in a twelve-footer. He had everything he really wanted already, and life was too short to waste time getting away from it all.

 

Come hell or peaceful waters, he’d be returning by five.