Promises to Keep

666

Archivist’s Note: Teri White was one of the first of S&H’s fandom’s classic zine writers to give us permission to post all her fanfiction to the Archive. Her only caveat was that we include the art as well. With permission of those artists, that has been done. I never anticipated that it would take us all this time to finally bring Teri’s stories to the Net, but finally, Teri’s work will be seen by fans of Starsky & Hutch all over the world. And what a treasure trove it is. It is with great respect and appreciation that we present the zine, Promises to Keep. In an attempt to maintain the flavor of the zine, we have presented the first few pages just as they appeared.

As usual, there are many people to thank when a zine has been translated for the net. Classic Starsky & Hutch fiction, in particular, starts on paper, has to be scanned or typed, proof-read and corrected, turned into html, proof-read again, then set up on the Archive. Many people are involved in this labor of love. I want to thank, in particular, Cindy L. who did the scanning, Rosemary, my housemate, who did correcting and proofing, and my partner, Anne, for providing unlimited technical expertise and for having to live with the havoc Starsky & Hutch has caused in our lives. I especially want to thank Paulie Gilmore for granting us approval to post her art. And of course, many thanks to Teri for graciously allowing us to bring her work to a whole new audience.

Enjoy.

Flamingo

---

Cover and all interior art by Paulie Gilmore.

 

by Teri White

ARTWORK BY: PAULIE GILMORE

EDITING & PROOFING: ELLEN K.

COPYRIGHT:©1979 by Teri White. This is an amateur publication produced at cost, and is intended solely for the entertainment of its readers. It is not intended to infringe upon copyrights held by Spelling/Goldberg, A.B.C. TV, or any others.

 

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep, 
And miles to go before I sleep.
ROBERT FROST

---

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The sound intruded abruptly into his nightmare, working its way stubbornly and insistently into his consciousness. A noise. A shrill, repetitious tintinnabulation. An annoying . . .

He rolled over, not opening his eyes, groping desperately in an effort to stop the dreadful clanging before the top of his head exploded. One hand collided with the offending instrument and he grabbed the receiver. “‘Lo?”

“Hutchinson? Is that you?” Dobey’s voice blasted in his ear.

He cringed. “Huh?”

“What’s the matter, Hutchinson? You sound like hell.”

“Huh?” Hutch finally ventured the courage to open one eye; sunlight collided with his brain and he squeezed the lid shut again quickly. “Uh . . . Captain Dobey?” He managed to say that much finally, even though his mouth felt like dry cotton and tasted like . . . well, he didn’t want to think about what his mouth tasted like.

“Yes, it’s me. Are you awake?”

Hutch realized that he was fully clothed, down to and including his shoes. “Yeah . . . yeah, I’m awake.” He shook his head, hoping to clear it a little, and wished fervently that he hadn’t. “Yeah, Cap?”

“I want you to get down here right away.”

“Get down there right away?” Hutch repeated slowly and precisely, as if the words were in some only vaguely familiar foreign tongue.

“Yeah, you and your partner. And by the way–where is Starsky? I tried calling his place and there was no answer.”

Hutch was untying his left shoe with one hand; bemused, he watched the hand tremble for a moment before realizing that Dobey was waiting for an answer. He had to think briefly in order to remember what the question had been. “Starsky?” The name was definitely familiar. “Oh. Starsky . . . .” A sudden thought emerged from the cobweb that was his mind. “Uh . . . Cap . . . I think Starsky’s here.”

“You think?” Dobey was beginning to sound like he had one of his headaches.

“Yeah. Hold on.” He set the receiver down on the bed and very carefully stood. Putting one foot in front of the other seemed almost too difficult a task; he managed it only by holding on to the wall with one hand as he moved. He made his way to a position from which he would be able to see the couch. Except that he couldn’t see anything. He blinked several times, rubbed his eyes with one hand and tried to focus. It wasn’t easy, but finally vague shapes and colors emerged from the fog. He concentrated very hard on what he was seeing.

An apparently lifeless body was draped across the sofa. Starsky, at least, had managed to remove his shoes and trousers before passing out. “Starsk?” Hutch’s voice was a hoarse croak and there was no reply. He leaned against the wall for a moment, staring morosely at the comatose figure of his partner. After a minute, he turned and made his way gingerly back to the bed. He picked up the phone. “Cap?”

“Hutchinson?” Dobey sounded impatient. “Well, did you find your missing partner?”

Hutch ardently wished that Captain Dobey did not feel obligated to yell quite so much. “Yeah . . . he’s here.”

“I’m delighted. What’s going on there, anyway?”

“Oh . . . Starsk and I were at a . . . party last night. At Huggy Bear’s.”

“I should have known. And so now you’re hung over.”

“Cap, I’m not even sure that I’m alive.” Hutch resisted the temptation to lie back on the bed, knowing that if he did so, he might never get up again. “What’s going on?” he asked, not caring, but trying to convince Dobey that he did.

“Something big. You and Starsky get your butts in gear and be in my office in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty?” Hutch said plaintively.

But Dobey was no longer on the line.

Hutch carefully and precisely hung up the phone. He sat there a moment longer, trying to gather a little strength. It didn’t help much. When he stood, the room seemed to be spinning around him. Somehow, he made it over to the couch and knelt beside the improbably-positioned body sprawled there. He put a hand on Starsky’s shoulder and shook him lightly. “Hey, get up. Duty calls.”

Starsky mumbled something unintelligible, but unmistakably obscene in tone.

Hutch shook harder. “Dave Starsky,” he said sharply, trying to sound like a drill sergeant and at the same time trying to ignore the stab of pain caused by the sound of his own voice.

” . . . uh . . . ?”

“Wake up. Dobey called; he wants us in his office right now.”

One dark blue and very bleary eye opened slightly. “Day off ” The eye closed again.

“Yeah; well, it looks like our day off has been cancelled. Again.”

Starsky groaned. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? I mean, this is one of your rotten jokes, right? Hutchinson, you have a weird sense of humor. A weird and nasty sense of humor.” He said all of that without opening his eyes and almost without moving his lips. He didn’t really think that he could move his lips.

Hutch sat back on his heels, glaring. “If you think I’da gotten out of bed just to come in here and play a bad joke on you, you’re crazier than I’ve always thought you were.”

With another groan, Starsky rolled over and tried to sit up. He toppled once, tried it again, and this time managed to reach an upright position. “I hate you,” he muttered. “I will never forgive you for this.”

“Yeah; well, whose idea was it to go to the damned party in the first place?” Hutch demanded. “I wanted to go to the movies, if you remember correctly.”

Starsky was opening and closing his eyes experimentally. “Huh. Go watch a bunch of people I can’t even understand talking about sleeping with their mother. That’s not what I call a movie.” He swayed a little and almost slid off the couch.

Hutch pushed him back up, none too gently. “It won an award at the Cannes Film Festival.”

Starsky made a rude noise and then repeated it, pleased to discover that his tongue still worked.

Hutch gave him a disgusted look and stood. “I’m going to take a fast shower. Why don’t you make some coffee?”

“Coffee?”

As Hutch disappeared into the bathroom, Starsky dragged himself off the couch. “Hope you drown in the shower,” he mumbled, having the last word. He stretched, giving a primitive bellow, and scratched his chest. “Damnit.”

He went into the kitchen, put a pot of water on to boil, and leaned against the counter, staring at himself in the shiny surface of the toaster. I look just about as bad as I feel, he thought sourly. After a gloomy surveillance of his bloodshot eyes, greenish skin, and woebegone expression, he began to think vaguely about getting dressed.

The clothes he had taken off the night before lay in a disordered heap on the floor. He picked up the slacks and tried to shake out some of the wrinkles, but it was an impossible task. And besides, there was a large stain in the front that bore a strong resemblance to Huggy’s special bar-b-que sauce. He frowned, wondering if the stain would come out. The slacks were his favorites and only four years old. In any event, Dobey would not appreciate him showing up looking like he’d eaten dinner in his lap and then slept in the pants.

“Hey, where’s those jeans I left here last month?” he yelled in the general direction of the bathroom. The only reply was the sound of running water. Sighing, Starsky began to search through the closet, pushing aside the rather intimidating variety of neatly pressed shirts and trousers. Finally he found his own Levi’s, washed, pressed, creased, and tidily draped over a hanger. “He irons blue jeans?” he said, awed and dismayed at the same time. He pulled the jeans out. “Can I borrow a shirt?” he asked loudly.

When there was no answer to that question either, he shrugged and flipped through the clothes again. A gaudy red-yellow-green striped T-shirt caught his eye and he took it out of the closet to look at it more closely.

The bathroom door swung open and Hutch stepped out, dripping wet, toweling his hair.

“Can I wear this?” Starsky asked, holding up the shirt.

Hutch eyed it from under the towel. “Be my guest,” he said. “And the shower’s all yours.” He took a pair of navy blue slacks out of the closet, considered the shirts for a moment, and chose a pale blue knit.

Starsky moved past him into the bathroom. “Coffee water’s on.”

The sensation of the steaming hot water hitting against his weary, aching body felt good; and Starsky stood there for nearly five minutes, until the water began to cool off. He lathered once quickly, rinsed the soap off, and got out of the shower. He squeezed toothpaste onto his index finger and cleaned his teeth. Before getting dressed, he ran Hutch’s razor over his face.

He emerged from the bathroom feeling at least slightly more alive. Hutch had made the coffee and there was a cup poured and waiting for him. He put four spoonfuls of sugar into the cup and stirred unhappily. “We should’ve taken the phone off the hook,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe Dobey would have called some other pair of suckers for a change.”

“I doubt it.”

“Yeah.” Starsky shoved one hand through his tangled wet hair as he sipped the coffee. “I like this shirt.”

Hutch, who had graduated from a cup of black coffee to some fresh fruit, glanced at him in amusement. “Do you?”

“Uh-huh. It’s so colorful.”

“That’s true.” Hutch smiled faintly. “You gave it to me.”

“I did?” Starsky looked down at the shirt, surprised. “You’ve never worn it.”

“I was . . . saving it for a special occasion. I think this qualifies.” He finished the fruit and washed his hands. “You want something to eat?”

“Ugh.” Starsky made a face; then he brightened a little. “Unless you’ve got a chocolate bar?”

Hutch looked at him, unbelieving. “A . . . chocolate bar?”

“Great for a hang-over.”

“I’m sure.” He shook his head helplessly and surveyed the contents of a cupboard. “How about a carob bar with granola and raisins?”

Starsky ignored him.

Hutch shrugged and slammed the cupboard door closed. They both cringed a little at the noise. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “Hey, we’d better get going. Dobey sounded serious.” As Hutch spoke, he was busy strapping on his holster. He grabbed a navy blue jacket from the closet. “Come on.”

Starsky swallowed the last gulp of coffee quickly and followed Hutch down the stairs. He stuck his gun into the waistband of his jeans and pulled the shirt down over it. “Any clue about what’s going on?” he asked, catching up with Hutch on the stairs.

“No. Just that it was important.”

“It better be,” Starsky said darkly.

They paused on the sidewalk, looking from one car to the other. Starsky sighed. “I’ll drive,” he said finally, a poignant trace of martyrdom evident in his voice.

Hutch seemed unimpressed with the sacrifice. “Fine,” he replied, slipping into the passenger seat and leaning his head back gratefully. “I’ll just . . . rest.”

“Yeah why don’t you just do that?” Starsky muttered, taking the wheel of his red-and-white striped Torino. If there was a certain viciousness in the way his partner maneuvered the car away from the curb, Hutch pretended not to notice.

Sunday morning traffic was light; Starsky’s only problem was keeping his rather fuzzy mind focused on the act of driving.

“Did I have a good time last night?” Hutch asked a couple of minutes later.

Starsky glanced at him and almost smiled. “Well . . . that depends. Is dancing on top of the bar your idea of a good time?”

Hutch turned his head very slowly and peered at him. “I didn’t . . .” he said without much conviction.

“Yep, you did,” Starsky replied with a cheeriness that struck Hutch as being vaguely obscene.

Hutch frowned and closed his eyes again. He disdained to even acknowledge the muffled snort of laughter that came from the other side of the car.

They were both silent during the rest of the journey to the station. Starsky parked the car and Hutch, exuding dignity, led the way toward Dobey’s office. Starsky paused outside the squad room. “Hey, Hutch, do you have a dime?”

“What?” He stopped and turned around toward Starsky. “What for?”

Starsky stood, jiggling slightly, in front of the candy machine. “I really need some candy and I’m a dime short.”

Hutch opened his mouth, prepared to deliver his standard lecture on the importance of good nutrition, but the doleful expression on Starsky’s face stopped him. He assumed a look of extreme patience, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some change. Talking softly to himself, he searched through the coins until he found a dime. “Here. You now owe me a grand total of $2.64.”

“Put it on my tab,” Starsky said, debating silently whether to have a Hershey with almonds or one without.

“Dobey’s waiting for us,” Hutch reminded him finally.

Starsky pushed a button quickly, choosing the nutless bar, and followed Hutch into the squad room.

The Captain was sitting at his desk, poring over a map. He looked like he’d just come from church–but then Dobey always dressed like a deacon in search of a congregation. He looked up impatiently as they entered. Starsky was totally engaged in the act of unwrapping his candy bar, so Hutch nodded a greeting. “Morning, Cap.”

“What took you so long?” Dobey replied irritably, skipping the pleasantries. “I said thirty minutes, not an hour.”

They both sat down. “It’s Sunday, Cap,” Starsky said around the candy bar. “Supposed to be our day off, remember? Day off. As in, we’re not supposed to be here at all.”

“It’s supposed to be my day off, too,” Dobey replied sourly. “And I’m sitting here, aren’t I? If I can work today, so can you.”

“You sound bitter,” Starsky mumbled.

Hutch kicked Starsky’s leg. “Shut up,” he said. He turned to Dobey. “Well, what’ s up, anyway?”

“What do you know about a guy named Al Mendala?”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, who shrugged, willing to let his partner handle this. The blond detective looked at Dobey. “He’s a syndicate operative. Part of Guardino’s operation. A bookkeeper, I think.” He paused, apparently searching his mind for more details, then shrugged. “He’s been picked up a couple of times for questioning, but nothing ever stuck. Why the interest?”

Dobey sat back, folding his arms. “He wants to sing.”

Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Testify against Guardino? Why?”

“Who knows? He’s getting old; maybe he just wants out. Or maybe he’s crossed somebody in the organization and is scared. I don’t care very much why. He could be our break in getting to Guardino.” Dobey had wanted Ralph Guardino for a long time, ever since his days as a uniformed officer, when the current head of the crime community had been a fairly insignificant pimp in the city. Dobey had once found the body of a fourteen-year-old hooker that Guardino had killed. His face was grim now as he recalled the sight of that skinny child-woman’s body lying on the pavement fifteen stories from where she’d been tossed. “I want to get Guardino,” he said firmly.

Starsky finished the candy, rolled the wrapper into a ball, and tossed it toward the wastebasket. It missed. Ignoring Dobey’s scowl, he thoughtfully licked chocolate off one finger. “What’s all this got to do with us?” he asked, pretty sure that he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Dobey tapped the map in front of him with a pencil. “Right now, Mendala is sitting up at his mountain cabin. He’s one scared crook. Wants somebody to bring him in safely. The Feds guaranteed him that.” He grimaced. “Then they asked us to do it.”

“You mean we have to do it? Today?” Starsky protested.

“You. Right now.”

Starsky moaned. The thought of making a long drive into the mountains was not his idea of how best to spend this particular day. “Cap–”

“Your route is marked on this map,” Dobey interrupted. He glanced at his watch. “If you leave right now, you should be back by nine or so tonight.” Starsky and Hutch were both listening glumly now. “When you get back to the city, take Mendala to the Rex Hotel on Third Street. There’s a room reserved for him in the name of John Smith.”

“Original minds these Feds have,” Starsky said to no one in particular.

They both ignored him. “Once you get him to the hotel,” Dobey finished, “the federal agents take over.”

“Simple as that?” Hutch said.

Dobey looked at him, trying to spot any sarcasm in his expression; but the blue eyes staring back at him were guileless. “Just don’t blow it. The guys in Washington want this guy and I want Guardino.”

Hutch stood and reached for the map. “Have we ever let you down, Cap?”

Dobey snorted.

Hutch folded the map carefully. “Count on us this time. We’ll defend him with our very lives,” he said lightly.

“Ha. Speak for yourself, hero,” Starsky said, getting up and following him to the door.

“Starsky!” Dobey said urgently.

Starsky wheeled around. “Yes, Cap?”

“Pick up the candy wrapper.”

Starsky opened his mouth to say something, closed it without a word, and did as he’d been ordered. He threw the wad of paper at the wastebasket again and this time it went in. Then he stalked back to the door, ignoring Hutch’ s grin.

“Cheer up,” Hutch said as they exited. “That fresh mountain air will do wonders for your health.”

Dobey couldn’t hear Starsky’s reply to that remark and he was just as glad; after all, it was Sunday and Starsky’s attitudes on the great outdoors were well known.

The black man sat there a moment longer, not quite at ease. Guardino worried him. A very smart operator. Had to be to last as long as he had and rise to the position he held.

Of course, there weren’t two smarter cops around than those two. If anybody could handle Guardino it would be his two boys Starsky and Hutchinson. But can anybody? Dobey thought.

He sighed heavily and got to his feet. Nothing more he could do here and his family would be waiting for him to grill the steaks for Sunday dinner.

He started for the door, then turned around and came back to the desk and picked up the phone. “Dobey,” he said crisply. “I’m going home now, but I want to be called immediately if I get a message from John Smith at the Rex Hotel.”

Such a call would let him know that Starsky and Hutchinson were safely back in town. Dobey lifted his grey fedora from the coat stand and left his office.

CHAPTER TWO

It took them only a few minutes to get the car gassed up and ready for the trip. Starsky took the wheel and headed cut of town, still grumbling to himself about lost days off, captains who expected their men to work all the time; and for some obscure reason known only to himself, he also mentioned harshly a certain bartender who poured drinks much too freely.

Hutch, practicing what he considered to be a most commendable exercise in self-control, managed to refrain from telling his partner to shut up.

Abruptly the car made a sharp turn and pulled up next to a distinctly disreputable and seedy-looking drive-in. Hutch, who had been lost in his own glum thoughts for the past fifteen minutes, stirred himself. “Why are we stopping here?”

Starsky pulled up expertly next to the gaudy, grinning cowboy figure that housed the microphone. “If I’m going up into the mountains,” he said sadly, “I need some food first. You want something?”

Hutch looked at the filthy façade of the place and shuddered involuntarily. “No. Thanks anyway.”

Starsky shrugged and leaned out the window toward the speaker, clicking it on. “Order, please,” a tinny voice crackled.

“Ahh . . . two jumbo dogs with chili, kraut, onions, and hot sauce. And a chocolate milk shake.”

Hutch was trying very hard not to gag. “You’re not really going to eat that?”

“Every bite,” Starsky said, fumbling for his wallet. “I have to keep my strength up if you want me to play hero. And they make great hot dogs here.”

“Probably use real dogs,” Hutch said, just softly enough so that Starsky couldn’t hear.

His partner shot him a suspicious glance, then decided to let it pass. “You’re going to get pretty hungry before we get back to town,” he said amiably.

“I’ll survive. Which is more than can be said for you, if you keep eating at places like this.”

Before Starsky could retort, the food arrived. He paid for it, set the greasy bag down on the seat between his legs, and drove out of the parking lot. He pulled one hot dog out of the bag. Its not-unpowerful redolence filled the car and Hutch ostentatiously rolled down the window. “You know, Starsk,” he began, “someday–”

“Yeah, I know,” Starsky broke in. “Someday, my stomach is going to fall out, and my bones will crumble, and I’ll lose my virility. You’ve told me all that before.”

“Well, someday it’ll all happen and then you’ll wish you’da listened to me,” Hutch predicted darkly.

Starsky took a big bite of the hot dog. “Then you can say ‘I told you so,'” he said, chewing vigorously. “That’ll make you happy.” As was his habit, he ate with one hand and drove with the other. His well-practiced deftness at that maneuver reassured Hutch not at all and he watched the road carefully.

Just as they reached the outskirts of the city, Starsky downed the last of the milkshake, washing down the final bite of hot dog, and gave a satisfied sigh. “I feel much better,” he said, reaching over to dump the trash into a backseat litter bag.

“I’m glad,” Hutch said, relaxing his vigilance and settling back in the seat. “Now we can just relax and enjoy our Sunday drive.”

“One of us can, anyway,” Starsky said.

“I could have brought my car if it would have made you feel better.”

Starsky didn’t even consider that remark worthy of an answer. Hutch smiled to himself and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep. Starsky glanced over at him once, scowling affectionately, then concentrated on the road.

Hutch slept for nearly two hours.

When he woke up, it was with a guilty start. He glanced quickly at Starsky bent over the wheel. Sometime while he’d slept, Starsky had retrieved his ratty-looking leather jacket from the back seat and pulled it on. Hutch sat up straighter and pulled his own jacket closed. “Cold up here in the mountains,” he commented.

Starsky nodded. “Yeah. Wish the heater worked.” He looked tired. “Ran into some snow a few minutes ago.”

Hutch leaned forward, peering skyward. “Kinda looks like it might blow into something.”

“Great. That’s all I need,” Starsky mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand.

Hutch glanced at him, concerned. “Want me to drive for a while?”

Starsky shook his head. “No, I’m all right.” He smiled ruefully. “Just look at the map, willya, and tell me which way to go when we hit the crossroad? I forget.”

Hutch took the map from the glove compartment and unfolded it. He studied Dobey’s carefully marked route. “North,” he said finally. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”

Starsky grunted.

“This guy sure built his cabin off the beaten track.”

“Just your kind of place, right?”

Hutch grinned. “Sure is. Someday I’d like to have a cabin way up here. Far away from the city and all of its problems.”

“Well, send me a postcard once in a while, willya?”

“You mean that you wouldn’t ever come up?” Hutch asked, as he carefully folded and replaced the map.

“Not unless I had to,” Starsky replied.

Hutch was indignant. “Some best friend you are.”

“You can just come down to the city and see me.”

“And take a chance on getting mugged or murdered?”

“Hah,” Starsky said. “Better than me coming up to see you and getting eaten by a bear.”

“Statistically,” Hutch answered, “my chances of being mugged are much greater than your chances of getting eaten by a bear.”

Starsky glanced at him. “Yeah. You know the statistics; I know the statistics; maybe even the mugger knows the statistics–but does the bear know the damned statistics?”

Hutch laughed, knowing when he was beaten, and shook his head. “You really should try to develop a little taste for the finer things in life, Starsk.”

“You’ve got enough class for the both of us,” Starsky replied, frowning a little as more snowflakes appeared. “Besides . . . I do like the finer things in life. Give me a pepperoni-sausage-mushroom-green pepper pizza and a beer and I’m a happy man.”

Hutch made no reply to that. He was watching the snow, a faint worry line creasing his forehead. ‘”Hope the road doesn’t get too slippery.”

“My car can handle a little snow,” Starsky said confidently.

Nearly twenty minutes later they reached the fork in the road and Starsky turned the car north. The paved surface ended shortly thereafter and they were left with a dirt road that was scarcely more than a path through the wilderness, a path that was increasingly difficult to drive because of the snow that kept falling.

“Why can’t the boys from Washington pick up their own stool pigeons?” Starsky inquired plaintively after hitting a particularly slippery patch of road and skidding a little. He slowed down slightly. At least, he thought, no one else was on the road. In fact, it had been several hours since they had seen another car and at least an hour since they had spotted a light from a cabin.

Hutch bent over the dashboard, acting as navigator. The snowfall had become so heavy that he could barely see three feet in front of the car. Neither man spoke very much; both were concentrating entirely on the job at hand and a lot of conversation between them at such a time would have been superfluous. So closely attuned were their minds to one another that a single word or often simply a gesture could communicate a thought completely. This rapport between them had existed for so long that they sometimes took it for granted.

“That clearing up ahead,” Hutch said finally. “The cabin should be just beyond there. Or else we’re lost,” he added helpfully.

“Thanks.” Starsky guided the car to where Hutch had indicated. “He could have a light showing,” he complained.

“Probably too scared.”

“Yeah; well, it would serve him right if we missed him altogether.”

“Dobey wouldn’t like that much.”

Starsky squinted through the snow. “Damn . . . can you see anything?”

Hutch wiped the front windshield with his sleeve. “Yeah! Right there,” he pointed. “Stop here.”

Starsky pulled the car to a stop and sat still for a moment, letting the tension flow from his cramped muscles. He looked at Hutch with some obvious bitterness. “It shouldn’t be snowing like this, should it, Nature Boy? It’s only October.”

“It is a little early,” Hutch admitted. “But relax. In just a few hours, you’ll be back down in the smoggy city where you belong.”

“I can hardly wait.” Starsky sighed, gathering the jacket around himself more tightly. “Might as well get this over with.” At Hutch’s nod, they both jumped from the car and ran to the door of the cabin. Starsky pounded. “Hey! Let us in!”

The door opened a crack and a rifle barrel was shoved into his face. “Who’s there?” a low, tight voice said.

“Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson,” Starsky answered. “LAPD. Let us in, Mendala. It’s cold out here.”

“Show me some identification first,” the voice replied.

Hutch, swearing a little, grabbed his wallet and slid it through the crack in the door. After a moment, the door closed again; there was the sound of a chain being removed and the door swung open. They both tumbled in out of the wind and wet snow.

Al Mendala stood there, a rifle cradled in one arm, and watched them shiver. “You jerks aren’t dressed for this weather,” he commented pleasantly.

“And a good afternoon to you, too,” Hutch said, mentally sizing up Mendala: early to mid-fifties, slightly overweight, hair gone gray, wearing a dark brown three-piece suit, white shirt, narrow tie. Thick glasses. And obviously very scared.

Mendala tossed the wallet to Starsky. “Here, Hutchinson.”

Starsky handed it to Hutch. “I’m Starsky; he’s Hutchinson. Why can’t anybody ever get that straight?” he complained to his partner.

“Maybe we should just change our names,” Hutch suggested.

“Probably they’d still get it wrong.”

Mendala set the gun down on the table and wet his lips. “You sure nobody followed you?”

Starsky was offended. “Do we look like rookies?” he asked.

“I can’t be too careful.”

“Yeah, we know; you’re a V.I.P.” Starsky walked around the room, taking note of the chintz curtains, the folk art hanging on the walls, the handmade rag rugs scattered on the polished wooden floor. Not exactly the setting one imagined for a top man in the mob. He paused for a moment in front of a photograph of a young girl on horseback. She was smiling brightly into the camera.

“Can we go now?” Mendala asked.

“In a minute.” Starsky opened a door, found what he’d been looking for, and disappeared into the john.

Hutch smiled faintly and perched on the oak dining table, arms crossed over his chest. Mendala, impatient at the delay, glared at him and paced the room like an expectant father. In the silence, the sounds coming from the bathroom seemed abnormally loud. Hutch bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Mendala only scowled.

A moment later, Starsky came back into the room. Hutch eyed him speculatively. “You know, Starsk, that shirt really does something for you,” he said, being deliberately ambiguous.

“You think so?” Starsky said, obviously pleased.

“Definitely. I think you should keep it.”

Mendala glared at them.

Starsky glanced down at the shirt, smoothing the fabric appreciatively. “But I gave it to you,” he said hesitantly.

Hutch nodded solemnly. “Yes, and I hate to part with it. But it really looks better on you than it does on me. Keep it.”

“Okay,” Starsky said cheerfully, pulling his jacket on again.

Mendala was still pacing. “Are you two about ready to go?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on,” Starsky said, going to the window. He pushed aside the cheery yellow curtain and peered out. “Snow seems to have let up a little. Maybe the trip down will be easier.”

Hutch studied Starsky’s face. “You want me to drive?”

Boy, you always know how I’m feeling, don’t you? Starsky thought. Aloud, he only said incredulously, “You drive my car down a snowy mountain road? Look, if you ever got a decent car of your own and practiced a little, then, maybe, I would let you drive my car on a road like this. Until then, forget it.”

Hutch opened his mouth to reply in kind, prepared to enjoy another of their endless arguments on the merits of their respective cars. But he caught a glimpse of Mendala’s impatient face and shrugged instead. “Okay. Just trying to help.”

Starsky’s teasing grin softened a little. Shit, I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings . . . I gotta learn when to stop kidding. “Sure, I know. Thanks. But I’m all right.”

Mendala picked up a heavy brown overcoat. “Hey, you jerks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Starsky opened the door, looked around quickly, and dashed to the car. He turned around and saw Mendala still cowering in the doorway. “Come on,” he yelled indignantly. “It’s cold out here!”

Mendala gathered his overcoat about him and ran to the car, jumping into the back seat. Hutch followed more slowly, huddling in his jacket, his eyes watching the trees. Starsky got in behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He waited until Hutch was settled in the seat next to him and then started the engine with a roar. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” he said over his shoulder to Mendala.

Mendala muttered something unintelligible and began to wipe the wet spots off his glasses with a large silk handkerchief. Starsky edged the car back out onto the unpaved road. Hutch, wide-awake after his earlier nap, slumped in the seat, his brow creased. After a couple of minutes, Starsky glanced at him. “Something wrong?”

Hutch smiled at him faintly. Sometimes it almost seemed as if Starsk could read his mind; maybe that was why they made such a good team. “Don’t know . . . probably it’s nothing . . . only . . . ” He lowered his voice. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Starsky was quiet as he maneuvered the car across a particularly icy patch. Snow was falling again. “Like it’s too easy, right?” he said.

Hutch nodded.

“Mendala,” Starsky said more loudly, “are you sure nobody knows you were at the cabin?”

“As sure as I can be,” the other man replied. A thin line of sweat had appeared on his upper lip and he dabbed at it fastidiously with the silk handkerchief. “Why?”

Neither detective answered him. They glanced at one another for a moment. Then Starsky concentrated all of his energies on safely guiding the car down the increasingly icy road. Hutch, frowning, sat back and tried to relax.

CHAPTER THREE

Mendala was chain-smoking and Hutch kept the window open a crack for some fresh air as the car crept snail-like down the mountain road. Starsky whistled softly to himself as he drove, repeating the same unrecognizable tune over and over. The noise was about to drive Hutch crazy; but he glanced at Starsky’s face, read the tension there, and kept his mouth shut. Jesus, the poor guy must be about ready to keel over . . . wish he’d let me drive, damnit . . . too stubborn . . . but he probably really thinks he can do it better than I could. And maybe he’s right . . . his car, after all . . . he understands it. He gritted his teeth together and tried to guess just what the hell it was that Starsk was whistling.

It was getting dark, and Hutch had narrowed the list of possible tunes to two–it was either Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” or the Dr. Pepper advertising song–when he first saw the car behind them. He watched for a moment. “Starsk,” he said quietly.

Starsky looked into the rear view mirror and saw the dim glare of headlights through the snow. His gaze flickered to Hutch’s. “Where’d that come from?”

Hutch shrugged. “Could be legit. Just somebody coming down from another cabin.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said doubtfully.

Mendala heard their conversation and turned around in the seat to look out the rear windshield. He gasped, then leaned over the front seat. “I thought you guys said nobody followed you.”

“Nobody did,” Starsky muttered. “But somebody might have had an idea where you were going, even if they didn’t know exactly where the cabin was. All they had to do was wait for us to come back down.”

“They probably know your car, Starsk.”

Starsky shrugged.

“If they get their hands on me, they’ll kill me!” Mendala said, his voice going up about two octaves.

“Sit back, Mendala,” Starsky said sharply. “And keep your head down,” he added.

The man slid out of sight behind the seat, whispering desperate prayers. Hutch was swiveled around staring out the rear window. “They’re not being very careful. That might mean they’re straight . . . .”

” . . . or it might mean that they just don’t care about being seen,” Starsky finished. “That would mean that they have help. One way to find out.”

He pressed the accelerator and the car jumped ahead, skidding a little. He controlled it with a sure hand. “Hold on tight.”

Hutch leaned forward and slid the rack out from under the seat. He surveyed the contents for a moment. Then he pulled the shotgun out and readied it for possible use.

Mendala was whimpering softly, wiping his sweaty face on the already damp handkerchief. “You promised me safety,” he said over and over again. “You promised me safety.”

The car behind picked up just enough speed to keep them in sight. Starsky grunted, feeling a peculiar sense of vindication. “They’re tailing us.”

“Uh-huh,” Hutch replied. “We knew this was going down too easy, right?”

“Right.” Starsky was maintaining the increased speed.

The Torino moved down the steep incline steadily. On one side was the forest, dark and forbidding; on the other there was nothing but a sheer drop to the valley miles below. With anybody else at the wheel, Hutch would have been quite frankly terrified. However, he had complete confidence in Starsky’s driving skills. Still . . . .”How is this striped tomato in the snow?” he couldn’t help asking.

Starsky only shrugged, a reply that did not entirely reassure his partner.

“Can we outrun them?” Mendala asked.

“No problem,” Starsky replied. There was a pause. “Except . . . .”

The tone of Starsky’s voice made Hutch whip around in his seat. What he saw through the front windshield brought a whispered curse to his lips. In the road just ahead sat two cars, side by side, quite effectively blocking their way. No wonder the car trailing them hadn’t been uptight about being seen, Hutch thought. Didn’t matter one damn bit. Now the Torino couldn’t go up or down the mountain.

“Then we’ll go across,” Starsky said, as if in reply to Hutch’s thoughts. He set his jaw. “Hold on, Hutch,” he said grimly.

Mendala gave a low moan and disappeared behind the seat.

“What–” Hutch didn’t bother to ask any questions; he braced himself against the seat and waited.

The car slowed almost to a stop. Then they made a sudden sharp right hand turn toward the forest, picked up speed instantly, and careened over a ledge. There was a drop of about four feet and the car hit bottom.

Starsky’s teeth clattered in his head. For a moment, he sat still; then he glanced toward Hutch, who gave him a rather shaky thumbs-up gesture. Starsky took a deep breath, shifted gears gratingly, and took off into the forest.

“Hail Mary, full of Grace . . . .” Mendala’s voice droned on behind them.

Hutch was trying to see out of the rear window, but the blowing snow hampered his vision. He thought he could see some headlights back there, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Well?” Starsky said finally.

“I think we’re being followed,” Hutch replied. “But–”

His words were cut off abruptly. That they were indeed being followed became painfully clear when two bullets crashed through the back window and smashed with more luck than skill right into the radio.

“Damn, that was too close,” Starsky said. “They must be right on our ass.” He was trying desperately to pilot the car through the trees.

“I’ll see if I can discourage them,” Hutch said, rolling down the window. He leaned out, raised the shotgun, and fired into the snow and blackness.

The sound of the blast reverberated in the car.

There was no way of telling if he had hit anything. The only reply was the crashing impact of two more bullets hitting the car. “Damn.” Starsky doused the headlights and tried to maneuver through the almost total darkness. Hutch fired again. “Can you see anything?” Starsky shouted.

Hutch, readying for another shot, only shook his head. More bullets smashed against the dash and Starsky pressed the accelerator down. Hutch hung out the window again, trying to aim between the two dim points of light he could see back there.

“Oh.”

The word was a soft whisper, barely more than a gasp, but somehow Starsky heard it over the sound of the car, the wind, the shots; he heard it and it scared him. “Hutch?” he said.

Hutch slipped in from the window, sat still for a moment, and then fell forward against the dashboard.

“Hutch?” Starsky said again, pleadingly. Answer me . . . ohchristhutch . . . please, say something . . . .

There was no answer.

Mendala leaned over the seat. “Do something, you son of a bitch'” he yelled into Starsky’s ear.

Starsky was trying to drive with one hand and reach for Hutch with the other. He managed to get one arm around Hutch and pulled him close. He could feel a spreading hot dampness across Hutch’s chest. “Hutch?” he whispered. “Oh, Hutch.”

“Do something!” Mendala said again, beating the back of the seat.

“Shut up,” Starsky yelled. “My partner’s been shot!” A bullet hit the front windshield. “Keep your goddamned head down!”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the ground beneath them suddenly tilted. The car, completely out of control now, careened downward into a black void. Starsky gave up any attempt to guide their path and just held onto Hutch with both arms, trying to protect him from the impact of the steering wheel or the windshield. He wouldn’t allow himself to think that it was a wasted effort. Hutch might already be dead . . . . But that thought was too painful, too frightening.

He closed his eyes and just held on.

After an eternity spent crashing through the dark , the nightmare journey ended when the car came to a grinding halt against a growth of trees. Starsky felt one stab of pain through his head and then there was nothingness.

All was silent.

CHAPTER FOUR

Starsky stirred first. His head had collided with the steering wheel and now throbbed with thick, unrelenting pain. Groggily he opened his eyes and tried to remember what the hell had happened.

Blackness surrounded him and there was an uncomfortably heavy weight lying pressed against his right side. He blinked once and wiped a small trickle of blood away from his nose.

. . . my partner’s been shot . . . !

The four words echoed suddenly with terrifying clarity in his mind. For a split second he squeezed his eyes shut against the terrible reality that he knew was waiting to be faced. “Hutch?” he whispered, shifting slightly under the other’s weight against him. “Hey, buddy?”

There was no response from Hutch.

He eased Hutch’s body off his own and rested him back against the seat carefully. “Mendala!” he said sharply. “You all right?”

Mendala crawled up from the floor. “Yeah, Hutchinson.”

Starsky felt an urge to laugh; he fought down the bitter taste that rose in his throat, not bothering to correct Mendala. “Get me the flashlight. Hurry.”

He rested both hands on Hutch’s shoulders and held on for dear life. . . . don’t be dead . . . please, Hutch . . . please . . . . He could hear Mendala searching and the flashlight was shoved over the seat toward him.

“Here.”

Starsky grabbed it with one hand and switched it on.

He almost wished he hadn’t.

Blood covered the front of Hutch’s jacket. His head lolled to one side; and though he was still breathing, the breaths came in harsh, tortured gasps. Starsky lifted his hand and pressed it against Hutch’s frighteningly white face; the skin felt clammy. “Mygod,” Starsky whispered brokenly. “Mygod, Hutch . . . ?”

Mendala was hanging over the seat. “Hutchinson, we have to get out of here. They’ll be looking for us. Come on, you and me have to cut and run.”

“I’m Starsky,” he said softly. “He’s Hutchinson.”

“Does it matter? Come on, we have to go.”

Starsky didn’t hear him. “Have to stop the bleeding,” he mumbled to himself. “Have to stop the damned bleeding or . . . .” . . . or Hutch will die . . . he’ll die. He shook his head in angry self-recrimination. Hold on, he told himself. Hold on, damnit. Don’t go to pieces now. Hutch is counting on you. Can’t let Hutch down.

He reached down for the knob and tried to open the door, but it was jammed shut. “Damn.” He kicked at it viciously until, with a grinding metallic creak, it swung reluctantly open. “Mendala, help me. We need to lay Hutch down where I can get at him better. Have to be outside.”

“Damnit, Starsky,” Mendala said, climbing out, “we don’t have time for this.” He peered in at Hutch and shrugged. “He’s a goner, anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” Starsky replied fiercely.

Mendala grabbed Starsky by the arm, trying to pull him away from the car. “Come on.”

Starsky jerked free. “I think there’s a blanket in the trunk,” he said, thinking aloud. “Used it when we went fishing . . . .” He walked around the car, unlocked and jerked open the trunk. After some quick rummaging around, he pulled out a rather tattered brown blanket.

Wet snow completely covered the ground by this time. Starsky tried rather hopelessly to clear it away. He gave that up and crawled into the car to pull out the rubber floor mats. “Hold the damned flashlight, willya?” he said to Mendala, who was just standing there. Grumbling under his breath, Mendala did so.

Starsky spread the floor mats onto the ground and went back to the car. Moving carefully, he took Hutch into his arms and lifted him out. “Easy, buddy,” he whispered. “Hang in there, please.” He held Hutch for a moment, pressing him against his chest with desperate tenderness, before resting him on the floor mats. He knelt next to him, not even noticing the wet snow that seeped through his jeans, and covered Hutch with the blanket. “I need something,” he murmured. “Something . . . .” After a few seconds thought, he pulled off his jacket, jerked the gaudy T-shirt over his head, and quickly donned the jacket again, zipping it against the cold wind.

“Keep the light down close,” he said. “That way, the door blocks it from the road, just in case.” As he talked, he was quickly folding the T-shirt into a makeshift bandage. He pulled Hutch’s shirt up and out of the way and put the cloth against the wound, pressing firmly.

. . . so much blood . . . how much blood can a person lose and still . . . ? but at least it’s not gushing . . . if it were spurting that would be worse, wouldn’t it?

“Oh, Hutch,” he whispered, not even knowing that he spoke.

As he continued to apply steady pressure to the wound, the T-shirt quickly became soaked with blood. He glanced around at Mendala in his heavy overcoat. “Take off your vest,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Take off your damned vest,” he repeated. “I need it to stop the bleeding.”

Mendala set the flashlight down on the ground. He removed his coat, jacket, and vest. He handed the vest to Starsky, who folded it quickly and replaced the blood-soaked T-shirt. Starsky held on to the shirt for a moment, lost in thought, before throwing the bloody garment aside angrily.

His hands were covered with Hutch’s blood, the warm red stickiness contrasting bitterly with the chilling wind. He grabbed a handful of snow and rubbed savagely, trying to wash the blood away.

Hutch’s head moved slightly. A moment later, his eyes opened and he struggled to focus on Starsky’s face bent close over him. The blue eyes were pale and bewildered. “Starsk?” he said hoarsely.

“I’m here, Hutch, I’m–” Starsky’s voice broke. He took a deep breath, fighting for steadiness. “Take it easy, buddy. I’ve got everything under control.”

“Sure . . . like always . . . .” Hutch stirred. “It hurts, Starsk.”

“I know, I know,” Starsky crooned, patting his shoulder. “But it’s going to be okay.”

Hutch nodded and his eyes slowly closed again.

The bleeding seemed to be slowing. Starsky could taste blood in his own mouth and he realized that he’d been biting his lip and had cut it. He licked the blood away absently, watching Hutch’s face.

Mendala crouched next to him. “What do you think they’re doing?” he asked.

“What?” Starsky turned to stare at him stupidly. “Who?”

“Guardino’s men, of course!”

“Oh.” Starsky struggled to bring his mind back to that problem. After a moment, he shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably they think we’re dead from the crash. If we’re lucky, they’ll keep right on thinking that. That’s why I can’t risk using a flare to get help. Don’t know who it would attract and . . . .” His voice dwindled off as a tremor wracked Hutch’ s body. “Damn. Hold this in place,” he said abruptly. “I want to see if the car can be moved.”

With obvious distaste, Mendala placed his hand over the bloody vest.

It took only a minute for Starsky to realize that, even beyond whatever mechanical damage had been done to the vehicle, his car was hopelessly wedged in the trees. It would take a tow truck to pull it out. He even tried the bullet-shattered radio, knowing that it was an exercise in futility, but needing to try everything.

He climbed out of the car and walked back over to Hutch and Mendala, realizing suddenly how cold he was. And Hutch . . . lying on the ground . . . .even with that blanket over him, he had to be cold . . . injured people should be kept warm . . . if Hutch went into shock . . . . He stood there, watching Hutch shiver. Then he had a thought. “Mendala, take off your suit jacket.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because he needs it and you don’t, that’s why.”

Mendala started to argue, but something in Starsky’s face apparently warned him against it. He silently took off the jacket and handed it to Starsky, then quickly put the overcoat back on.

Starsky sat beside Hutch again and carefully tucked the jacket around him. Hutch’s eyes opened. “Thanks, buddy,” he whispered.

“Sure.” Starsky reached out and pushed snow-wet hair out of Hutch’s eyes. “Hold on,” he said. “I’m going to get you out of this mess. I promise.”

“Yeah . . . after all . . . what’s a . . . partner for?” Hutch tried to smile and almost succeeded.

Starsky smiled down at him. “Right. You just rest, okay?”

Hutch closed his eyes. Starsky sat there a moment longer, his hand resting in the blond hair. Then he sighed. At least the bleeding had stopped . . . but for how long? Got to get you out of here, Hutch . . . got to. He stood. “We’ve got to rig up some way of getting him down the mountain . . . find a cabin . . . .”

Mendala was sitting huddled in the front seat. “It’s hopeless, you fool. He’s a dead man, and if we try to take him with us, we’ll be dead, too. Our only hope is to get out ourselves, and then worry about sending somebody back for him.”

Starsky leaned into the car. His face was red from the wind and his dark blue eyes glinted dangerously. “We’re not leaving Hutch,” he said very quietly.

“But–”

“Shut up, Mendala. We’re not leaving him.”

“You’re supposed to get me in safely; they promised me that. It’s your duty–”

“Screw my duty.” Starsky took a deep shuddering breath and consciously unclenched his fists. His voice was a low monotone. “I’ll do my duty and get you to the Feds. That was the deal, Mendala, and I’ll do it.” He paused, his gaze shifting over to Hutch for a moment, then returning, stony, to Mendala. “But not by killing Hutch. Understand? Whatever testimony you have to give, it’s not worth his life.”

“Not to you, maybe, but to them–”

“But they’re not here now, are they? It’s just Hutch and me to get you in there, so you’d better go along with what I say.”

“They won’t like it when I tell them.”

“Shut up,” Starsky said again. “I’m tired of hearing you talk.”

“What kind of a cop are you, anyway?” Mendala said sullenly.

Starsky smiled bitterly, with no trace of humor. “A tired one, man. I’m a real tired cop.” Sick and tired of hurting . . . of seeing the people I love hurting . . . . He rested his head against the top of the car and tried to forget how cold and wet he was. What can I do . . . what? He closed his eyes, trying to think clearly.

Something was nagging at him, some memory trying to get through. A movie . . . the previous weekend Hutch and he had watched a late movie on TV at his place. For a time, he let his mind wander over the memory, indulging himself in its warmth. Take-out Chinese food for dinner. A game of Monopoly that ended with them both going broke, and then some beer and the cowboy movie on TV. It had been a great evening. Sometimes it seemed like they had too little opportunity to be together, just the two of them, outside of work. Other friends, dates . . . all those other important things in life frequently seemed to crowd out their togetherness. Can’t let that happen anymore, he thought firmly. Got to remember to save time for us. If there was any more time for them . . . what if . . . what if there weren’t any more evenings like that? Ever.

He shivered, not from the cold, and forced the thought away. There was something about the movie . . . . He squeezed his eyes shut again and saw a picture of the Indians in the film traveling across the plains, all of their belongings tied to some sort of a sled-like thing. Hutch had known what it was called . . . a French word. He thought: Travois . . . that’s it . . . travois . . . going to build one of those things and pull Hutch down the mountain.

Now he had a plan and immediately he felt better. He blinked twice and straightened. “I’ve got a plan,” he said aloud.

Mendala ignored him.

“I’ve got a plan, Hutch!” he yelled, filled with a sudden surge of adrenalin.

Hutch lifted one hand just a little, to show that he’d heard.

Starsky took a deep breath and got to work.

Hutch tried to watch him through half-opened eyes, wondering what had gotten his partner so excited all of a sudden. But it was too hard to concentrate. The pain came in constant hot waves, washing over him, almost drowning him, so that he had to clutch at the frayed edge of the blanket, holding on so as not to get swept away.

“It hurts, Starsk,” he whimpered. “It hurts.”

But the wind whipped his words away and Starsky was too busy to even notice that he’d spoken.

CHAPTER FIVE

There were a great many broken branches lying around the car and Starsky searched through them until he found two that seemed to be what he figured would be necessary to do the job. They were both nearly eight feet long, almost as big around as his arms, and fairly straight. He broke off all the smaller branches, then hoisted the two and walked back to the car, whistling softly into the wind.

Mendala leaned out curiously. “What the hell are you doing?”

Instead of answering, Starsky propped the branches against the car and then leaned in to open the glove compartment. He fumbled around, trying to find his pocket knife, and finally his fingers closed around the ivory handle. He pulled the knife out and tossed it to Mendala, who just managed to catch it. “Cut the upholstery off the back seat,” he ordered brusquely. “In one big piece.”

Mendala glared at him, then gave a snort and climbed into the back seat. He began hacking away at the upholstery with the air of a man indulging a willful child or a fool.

Starsk got out of the car again. He rested the branches on the ground near Hutch, then crawled over to check on him. For one terrifying moment he thought that Hutch had stopped breathing. . . . no! He pressed one ear against his partner’s chest and searched desperately with a trembling hand for the neck pulse.

He gave a sigh of relief. There was a pulse–too fast, too faint, but there. He raised his head and saw Hutch watching him. He cleared his throat. “How you feeling, buddy?”

“Not . . . so great,” Hutch whispered.

Starsky tried to smile; what came out was a quickly stifled half-sob. “S’okay. I had this idea, see . . . .”

“What’s your idea?”

Starsky carefully tucked the coat more closely around Hutch’s neck. “Remember that movie we saw the other night at my place? The one with the Indians when we had the Chinese food?”

If Hutch was having any trouble following Starsky’s train of thought, he didn’t say so; he only nodded a little.

“Well, I’m rigging up one of those travois things they were using. Then I’m going to pull you down the mountain to find help.” He looked up anxiously. “Does that sound okay?”

“Damned . . . good idea, Starsk.”

Starsky grinned at him. “Didn’t think I had it in me, didya?”

Hutch struggled to move his fingers until he could grab the edge of Starsky’s sleeve. “Starsk . . . .”

Starsky was checking the wound. “Hmm?”

Hutch’s fingers closed around his wrist with surprising strength. “Hey, Starsk . . . am I gonna die?”

Starsky stopped what he was doing. “No.” He shook his head fiercely. “No, Hutch. I’m going to take care of you.” He clasped Hutch’s hand between both of his. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“With my life,” Hutch whispered as his eyes closed again.

Starsky gave a quick squeeze to Hutch’s hand and stood. He walked over to the car, chewing on the inside of his lip nervously. “You about done, Mendala?”

The other man tossed the piece of vinyl out to him. “Here. For all the good it’ll do you.”

Starsky spread the vinyl between the two branches and paused, considering. Then he unfastened his belt, and with one tug, pulled it off. “Give me the knife,” he snapped. Mendala handed it to him. “And your belt.”

Mendala only looked at him blankly, before shoving both hands into his coat pockets and walking a few steps away.

Starsky bent on one knee and lashed the vinyl to one end of a branch, using his belt. He pulled the belt through the buckle as far as it would go, then used the knife point to poke another hole to fasten it in. He tested the improvisation and granted in satisfaction. That’d hold. He glanced up, holding out his hand. “Your belt.”

“Damnit, Starsky–”

“Your belt.” There was no emotion in his voice.

Mendala ripped the ornate leather belt off and threw it onto the ground next to Starsky. “There.”

“Thank you,” Starsky said politely.

“If I’da said ‘no’, you probably would have taken it anyway,” Mendala said.

Starsky nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

Starsky stared at him for a moment, his eyes genuinely curious. “Didn’t you ever have a best friend?” he asked. “Somebody you really . . . cared about? Somebody you’d do anything for?” Not waiting for an answer, he bent to the task of attaching the second corner of the travois. This belt was a little harder to poke a hole in than his own cheap one had been, but he had it finally. Again he tested it; again it held.

“That isn’t going to work,” Mendala said scornfully.

Starsky didn’t look at him. “It’ll work.” He moved over next to Hutch once again. “Hutch?”

“Huh?” he replied, not opening his eyes.

“I need to use your belt.”

“My what?”

“Your belt. For the travois.”

Hutch twisted restlessly and shook his head. “I don’t know . . . what you’re talking about,” he said fretfully.

“That’s okay,” Starsky soothed, “doesn’t matter, I’m going to take your belt off as carefully as I can. You give a shout if it hurts, okay?”

“I’ll . . . do that.”

Very carefully Starsky unhooked Hutch’s belt; it was hard to manipulate his fingers because of the cold and he felt clumsy. As he started to pull the end of the belt through the loops, Hutch stiffened and gave a soft gasp. Starsky stopped instantly. “Hutch?” he said.

Hutch shook his head. “I’m . . . okay. Go ahead.”

Starsky pressed his lips together tightly as he cautiously eased the belt off. Hutch didn’t say any more; it was only by the way that his finger clutched at Starsky’s knee that his pain was revealed at all.

When the belt finally came free, Starsky sat back on his heels, the strip of leather dangling from one hand. It was a moment before he raised his eyes to meet Hutch’s gaze. Although Hutch managed a small smile, his eyes were confused and burning with fever–in startling contest to the pale clamminess of his face.

“Hey . . . Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“How’s the car?”

Starsky blinked. “What?”

“If anything happens to that car . . . you’ll never get . . . over it . . . .” Hutch began to struggle, as if trying to sit up and get a look at the car.

Starsky pushed him back down gently but firmly. “Shh . . . take it easy, Hutch. Come on, lie down, willya? The car is fine.”

Hutch gave in and rested again. “Okay.” His sigh reflected infinite weariness. “I’m tired, Starsk.”

Starsky patted his arm reassuringly, but he had no more words to say then. The bleeding had stopped; that was a good sign, he guessed. But the snow was beginning to fall more heavily. He wiped the wetness from his face with one sleeve and went back to the half-finished travois.

He used Hutch’s belt to fasten the third corner. That done, he went back to the car, pulled out the equipment rack from under the passenger seat, and removed the strap that belonged to the shotgun. The gun itself had gone out the window when Hutch had been hit.

He glanced around and saw Mendala in the back, his head resting against the seat. The man looked pale. Probably scared . . . hell, who isn’t? Hutch is scared . . . I’m scared . . . I’m so damned scared . . . Hutch might die. Hutch is dying . . . . He tried the words in his mind: Hutch is dead. Hutch is . . . no, damnit, no.

He stopped thinking and devoted his attention entirely to finishing the travois. As long as he could do anything on God’s earth to prevent it, Hutch wouldn’t die.

When the job was completed to his satisfaction, he raised his head. “Mendala.”

It took a minute for Mendala to ease himself out of the car and get over to Starsky. “What?”

“It’s ready; we have to lift Hutch on now.”

Mendala wiped his face. “I don’t feel very good, Starsky.”

Starsky’s gaze was cerulean ice. “Yeah.” He pushed strands of wet hair out of his eyes. “I guess Hutch doesn’t feel too good right now, either. He’s got a bullet in his chest, remember? A bullet he got protecting you.”

“Yeah, yeah, big hero cop, I know.”

You slob bastard . . . Hutch might die because of someone like you? It’s not fair . . . it’s just not fair . . . all your life you’ve been the bad guy, the enemy, and all of a sudden you want to go straight and we’re supposed to die to make sure you get that chance. It’s just not fair. I’m a tired cop . . . so goddamned tired . . . . Starsky’s hands felt frozen and he rubbed them together briskly as he went to Hutch. “Okay, buddy, we’re ready to go now.”

Hutch stirred, mumbling to himself, then looked at Starsky. “Going? In the car?”

“Nope, ‘fraid not. This is strictly a foot trip. Except for you. You get to ride. First-class deluxe service.”

“That’s good . . . I don’t think I could walk . . . very far. I’m so tired . . . .”

Mendala came closer and glazed down at Hutch. “We’re all going to die, don’t you know that?” he said loudly. “Because of you. We can’t all make it down this damned mountain and so we’re all going to die because he won’t leave you behind. Why don’t you just die now and save everybody a lot of trouble?”

Starsky started toward him. “Shut up, Mendala. Shut your damned mouth.”

Hutch’s eyes were suddenly wide open. “Starsk? Starsk, is that true, what he said?”

“No, of course not,” Starsky said firmly.

Mendala pushed Starsky’s restraining hand aside. “Maybe it makes you feel good, Hutchinson, to know that when you die, you’ll take two others with you, me and your partner. Maybe that’s what you want!”

Starsky grabbed Mendala by the arm and shoved him back against the car. “Shut up,” he said, his voice low and tight. “If you say one more word, I’ll break your jaw.”

Mendala leaned against the car, rubbing his arm where Starsky had grabbed him. Starsky knelt beside Hutch. “Starsk . . . what he said . . . maybe you better leave me . . . .”

“No, Hutch.” Starsky shook his head, speaking with a rather unconvincing show of bravado. “That’s got to rank as one of the stupidest ideas you’ve ever had, buddy. I mean–” He laughed a little.”–I already have to turn in enough requisitions for lost or damaged equipment. What would Dobey say if I turned in one for a lost partner? No way.”

Hutch stared at him until Starsky was forced to meet his gaze. “Starsk . . . please . . . no jokes . . . it’s no good . . . I don’t want you to die because of me . . . I don’t want that . . . .”

“Nobody’s gonna die,” Starsky said sharply. “Damnit, Hutch, I’m in charge here, okay?”

Hutch sighed. “All right, but–”

“No buts. Hutch, we’re in this together, just like always. Would you go and leave me?”

After a moment, Hutch shook his head. “No,” he whispered.

“Okay, then be quiet, willya?” Starsky turned toward Mendala. “Come on, creep.”

Reluctantly, Mendala came.

“Do this carefully,” Starsky said, his azure gaze piercing Mendala’ s face, warning him. “We don’t want to get the bleeding started again.”

“All right, all right; let’s get it over with,” Mendala said impatiently.

Starsky bent over Hutch. “If this hurts, you tell me. Don’t try to be a hero, understand?”

“Who, me, a hero?” Hutch said. “No way . . . I leave all that stuff to you.”

“Sure you do.” They hoisted him and moved toward the travois. Starsky could see Hutch’s jaw clench tightly. “Hutch?”

“S’okay,” Hutch muttered. As they lowered him, however, his eyes flew open. “It hurts,” he gasped. “Oh jesus, it hurts . . . Starsk . . . .” They rested him on the travois and he grabbed for Starsky’s arm, holding on desperately.

Starsky sat very still, just letting Hutch cling to him. Mendala, panting from the apparently unaccustomed exercise, walked a few steps away. Finally Starsky eased Hutch back down. “You okay?” he asked, reaching for Hutch’s wrist. The pulse was fluttery. “Hutch?”

“Yeah . . . yeah, Starsk.”

“You take it easy for a minute and then we’ll go.”

Hutch seemed only half-conscious, almost as if he’d been drugged. “Where . . . where we going, Starsk?”

The jacket draped around Hutch had slipped a little during the move to the travois. Starsky straightened it, covering him more tightly. “We’re going to find help, buddy. A doctor.”

“Oh . . . good. I need a doctor, Starsk . . . it hurts.”

“I know it does, Hutch.” Starsky picked up the knife and shoved it into his pocket. Then he walked back over to the car and sank down behind the wheel. God . . . I’m tired and so cold. He could not remember ever having felt as cold as he did at that moment.

He leaned against the steering wheel, his face in the sleeve of his jacket, seeking warmth and also seeking some escape from the way things were. Oh Hutch. Unbidden, memories filled him. Hutch standing on the stage in that dammed country-western bar, singing. Or trying to sing. Scared to death. And himself sitting there laughing. It had been funny. Poor Hutch. Scared . . . to death.

And now Hutch was dying for real and Starsky had an icy lump in the pit of his stomach.

He remembered: When Gillian died, Hutch, torn to pieces with grief and anger, struck out at the closest person. “Come on, what are you gonna do? You want to hit me again, huh? Is that what you want?” Starsky had said. It was so easy that time. Just hold Hutch tightly and let the caring wash over him. If only that would work now. If only he could wrap his arms around Hutch and let him know how much he was loved. If only that would save Hutch, keep him from dying.

“Oh, Hutch.”

He raised his head and rubbed the back of one hand across his eyes. No more time for that now. Later. Later. A time to live . . . a time to die . . . a time to love . . . and plenty of time later to mourn. A whole life to mourn.

He slid out of the car. “Mendala?”

The stocky man turned and walked toward him. “The snow’s getting worse,” he said. “We don’t stand a chance in hell of getting out of this alive.”

Starsky absently massaged his fingers, trying to warm them. “Well, then, we’ll all die trying, won’t we?” he replied bitterly. “Nobody lives forever anyway. Come on.”

Mendala took one more step toward Starsky, then stopped, clutching at his chest. “Sweet Jesus,” he gasped.

Starsky, already bending over Hutch, didn’t turn. “‘What?”

“Starsky . . . I can’t . . . pain . . . oh, no!”

Starsky spun around just in time to see Mendala fall face down into the snow. For a long moment Starsky was too stunned to move. Then he plunged forward and dropped beside Mendala, pulling him over onto his back. “Hey!”

Mendala’s face was twisted with pain and his hands clutched weakly at his chest. He gave one convulsive shudder and was abruptly limp.

No heartbeat. Starsky’s training asserted itself immediately and like an automaton, he went into the emergency procedures for heart attack victims. He pulled open Mendala’s overcoat so that he could give closed heart massage. You bastard . . . I don’t have time for this . . . not now. I have to get Hutch down this damned mountain.

He put both hands, one on top of the other, at the bottom of Mendala’s breastbone. Counting softly to himself, he applied pressure through the heel of his bottom hand, pressing firmly. . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . . Sixty times a minute. Press, release. . . . twenty-two . . . twenty-three . . . He glanced toward Hutch, who was apparently unaware of what was happening. . . . forty-two . . . forty-three . . . .

He kept it up for three minutes before he was sure that Mendala’s heart was beating regularly again. Some of the color returned to the unconscious man’s face and his breathing appeared to stabilize.

Starsky sat back wearily. He drew both knees to his chest and rested his head. Maybe . . . maybe if I just sit here awhile and pretend that everything is all right, it’ll all go away. Maybe I’m dreaming. I’m probably still sacked out at Hutch’s hung over from Huggy’s party, and this is all just some nightmare. Hutch is all right . . . any minute, he’s going to start shaking my arm to wake me up . . . wake me up, Hutch, please, I don’t like this dream anymore . . . .

But the bite of the wind, the feel of the cold snow soaking through his jeans, and the raspy sound of Mendala’s breathing let him know that it was all too real. He felt like crying. The sense of helplessness that filled him was more bitter than any feeling he’d ever known before.

Finally he took a deep breath and checked on Mendala, who seemed to be all right, for the moment, at least. He crawled back over to Hutch and leaned down close. “Hutch?” he whispered.

“We . . . ready to go, Starsk? I’m cold.”

“Yeah, buddy, I know.” He took Hutch’s face between his hands and rubbed gently. “Hutch, can you listen to me for a minute? Open your eyes,” he said.

Hutch turned his head and tried to focus on Starsky’s face. Starsky got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw Hutch’s face. He looked like he’d been on the losing end of a fistfight. Both eyes were circled by black rings and his lips were swollen and trembling. “What?”

“We’ve . . . got a problem, partner. Mendala just had a heart attack.”

Hutch was silent, absorbing that information. “Is . . . is he dead?”

“No. Not yet. But he’s in bad shape, I think.”

Hutch’s lips seemed to turn upward slightly. He fumbled for Starsky’s hand, found it, and held on. “Poor Starsky,” he murmured.

“What am I going to do, Hutch? I can’t get both of you down this mountain at the same time.” His voice cracked. “Christ, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Yeah, you do . . . Starsky. Men . . . Mendala is in . . . protective custody . . . our responsibility . . . can’t leave him.”

“I know,” Starsky whispered, rubbing his eyes. But the tears that he had been fighting back would no longer be denied. They spilled out and coursed down his face, seeming to scald his cold skin. He wiped them away angrily.

“Hey,” Hutch said. “Don’t. It’s okay.”

“But . . . I don’t want to leave you,” Starsky said, anguished.

“You have to, Starsk . . . it’s okay, really . . . I understand.”

“Do you?” Starsky stared at him. “Then maybe you can explain it to me, buddy. ‘Cause I don’t understand it at all.”

Hutch made no reply. He only tightened his hold on Starsky’s hand.

Starsky shook his head. “Hutch . . . .” His shoulders straightened and he spoke firmly. “I’m going to put you back into the car, Hutch. At least you’ll be out of the snow and wind.”

“Okay.”

“Then I’ll load Mendala onto this damned thing.” He sat there a moment longer, unaware that one hand still gently caressed Hutch’s face. He raised his eyes finally, the dark gaze steady and determined. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Hutch; you know that, don’t you?”

“Sure. You just . . . you’re just too lazy to . . . break in a new . . . partner. You’ll be . . . back.” Hutch’s eyes were closing, but his grip on Starsky’s hand was still firm. “I don’t want to die, Starsk.”

“You can’t die, Hutch,” Starsky said, trying to keep his voice level, finding it impossible to believe that they could be sitting there calmly discussing Hutch’s death. Hutch. “‘Cause I’m coming back for you. You have to wait for me.”

“I will.”

Starsky pulled his hand free from Hutch’s and stood. “Hold tight for a minute, buddy.”

It took him only a minute to open the car door and clear out the back. The hard part was going to be lifting Hutch and getting him in there without causing the bleeding to start again. He went back to Hutch. “Ready?” he asked, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt.

“Uh-huh.”

Starsky gritted his teeth and lifted Hutch into his arms. He could feel the other’s body go tense, but Hutch didn’t make a sound. Starsky knew that Hutch wouldn’t let him know how much pain he was feeling; his partner knew how much Starsky was hurting inside already and wouldn’t want to make it worse.

Walking as if he were balancing eggs, he reached the car and eased Hutch onto the back seat. He stayed bent over him for a moment while they both caught their breath. He managed a small grin. “Feels almost warm in here now, doesn’t it?”

“Right . . . cozy, even . . . great car, buddy . . . I’ll be fine . . . .”

“Yeah, sure.” Starsky tucked the suit jacket around him again and then spread the blanket over that. Hutch rested against the seat, watching him carefully, almost as if trying to memorize his features and gestures.

Starsky dragged the travois over to Mendala, who was breathing a little easier; his face, however, was a peculiar shade of gray. Starsky rolled the unconscious man onto the travois. Lot heavier than Hutch . . . hope this thing will bear the weight. He checked Mendala’s pulse and respiration.

Hutch raised his head when Starsky crouched in front of him again. “Going now?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Be careful.”

“Sure, aren’t I always?”

“No.”

Starsky didn’t know what to say next. “I wish it was me lying here,” was what finally emerged.

Hutch shook his head slowly. “No . . . don’t say that, Starsk. Besides,” he went on, making the effort, “you’d just rather lie here while I had to go walking down the mountain . . . dragging Mendala . . . you’re always looking for . . . the easy way . . . .”

“Right.”

“Starsk . . . thanks.”

“For what?” Starsky said bitterly. “Going off and leaving you?”

“For being a pretty good partner all these years.” Hutch was trying to smile.

There was a long pause. Starsky leaned forward and pressed his cheek against Hutch’s hair. “I’ll be back just as soon as I can, Hutch. You’re my partner; I’ll be back.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hutch patted his shoulder weakly. “Get going.”

“I am. See you.” The last two words were a muffled sob, but Hutch pretended not to notice.

Starsky edged out of the car, picked up the flashlight, and then lifted the travois. He hesitated just a second, almost turning around to take another look at Hutch. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Afraid if he did that, he wouldn’t be able to go at all. And he had to go.

He ducked his head and trudged into the trees, dragging the travois that carried Mendala, leaving his partner behind. He could taste the salty tears that still slid down his face and there was an aching in his chest that threatened to break him. But he went.

CHAPTER SIX

He shifted his position a little and immediately regretted it.

The pain in his chest intensified. Damn, it’s quiet. And dark. He’d never realized before just how dark the woods could be.

Cautious of movement now, he slowly raised one hand and wiped off the rear window. The snow was falling so hard that he couldn’t even see the trees into which Starsky had vanished so long ago.

How long ago? Two hours? Four?

No way of knowing. He had slept a little. The pain in his chest was constant, unrelenting, but he didn’t think that the bleeding had started again. If it did, he was a goner anyway, so there was no sense in worrying about it.

He rested his head against the seat and tried to remember being warm. Couldn’t do it. Tried to remember being without this hurting in his chest. Couldn’t do that either. Then he tried to remember why he couldn’t just lie back and give up.

The snow kept falling. He was so cold. Be easier to die . . . no more cold or pain . . . easier just to give up. Easier for sure . . . hell, I’ve had it anyway . . . what are the odds, for instance, that Starsky will find help? Well, pretty good, I guess. Hell, better than that, probably. Once he sets his mind to something, he’s like a bulldog . . . .

He felt himself smiling a little at the thought of his stubborn partner. That son of a bitch won’t give up. He’ll keep going if it takes forever . . . yeah, forever. Unfortunately, I don’t have forever.

He closed his eyes. But Starsk is coming back . . . he promised . . . I have to wait for Starsk. He had a sudden vision of his own dead body sitting in the car and Starsky coming back to find him like that. Can’t do that to Starsk . . . not to my partner . . . he was crying . . . tough guy Dave Starsky, the scourge of our district, was crying. First time I ever saw him cry was in Nam. When we found the body of that little kid in the alley. Cut to pieces by some drugged-up freako. Starsk broke down and cried. And when Terri died, he cried then, too. And he was crying tonight because he didn’t want to leave me . . . .

Ken Hutchinson put the thought of dying aside. He couldn’t do that to Starsky. Not as long as he could help it, anyway. He opened his eyes. Got to stay awake . . . he’s probably on his way back now . . . I’ve got to wait for him. If I die . . . if I die . . . what will happen to Starsk? I think . . . I think he needs me. Just like I need him. Oh Starsk . . . what’s going to happen to us?

He huddled beneath the blanket and tried to keep his eyes open. The wind whipped around the car. Hutch gritted his teeth, determined to stick it out. Determined to live. Determined not to let his partner down.

PART TWO

CHAPTER SEVEN

Finally Mendala regained consciousness.

Starsky set the travois down and walked back to crouch next to him. For a moment, Mendala looked at him blankly; slowly recognition dawned. “What’s . . . where are we?” he asked.

Starsky, who had been walking for nearly three hours through an increasingly heavy snowfall, bent his head wearily. “We’re going down the mountain,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

“I guess you saved my life.”

Starsky blew on his fingers, trying to warm them. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Thanks.”

“All in the line of duty.” His eyes burned as if he had a fever.

Mendala was silent, watching him. “Hutchinson . . . he died?”

Starsky’s head jerked up. “No. Why’d you say that?”

“‘Cause you’re here with me. This thing was to get him down the mountain, not me.”

Starsky nodded. “I know. But . . . Hutch is waiting back at the car.” He glanced over his shoulder in the direction they had come from, back toward the dark trees. “He’s waiting.”

“You left him?”

“Yes.” Starsky’s tone turned savage. “I’m a cop, goddamnit.” He got to his feet again. “We have to keep going.”

Mendala was quiet for a while as Starsky pulled him along, always heading downhill, always trying to walk in as straight a line as possible. “Starsky?”

“Huh?”

“If I don’t make it, there’s something I want you to do for me.”

“You’re gonna make it, Mendala.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Starsky jerked the travois over a branch it had tangled in. “You’re gonna make it because I left Hutch up there so you could get down the mountain. So you could make it. That can’t be wasted.”

“But if I don’t,” Mendala insisted.

“Yeah, all right, if you don’t make it,” Starsky said, too tired to argue anymore.

“I’ve got a family. A wife, my daughter. Maybe you saw her picture back at the cabin?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I’d like them to know why . . . .”

“They’ll know.”

“Thanks.” Mendala seemed unable to stop talking. “You have a family?”

“Yeah. My mother, mostly.”

“And a lot of friends, probably.”

“Hundreds,” Starsky said bitterly. “I’m a very popular guy, Mendala. Haven’t you noticed my winning personality? Hell, I’ve got so many friends, I can’t count them all. I’ve got friends to spare.”

“I’m . . . sorry about Hutchinson,” Mendala said after a moment. “You and he have been partners for a long time, I guess?”

“Yes.” Why don’t you just shut up? It doesn’t help to talk about it. Just shut up, please? “Yes, we’ve been partners a long time.” He bent his head against the blowing snow and just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

What would it be like without Hutch? He tried to imagine going into the squad room by himself or with a new partner. A new partner? God, no. He couldn’t do it. This kind of life was hard enough . . . dealing day in hand day out with death and violence and the filth of humanity until you could nearly go crazy . . . but to try and do it without Hutch–without someone at your side that you knew could be counted on, always–that would be unbearable. There was no doubt about Hutch. They could laugh or be mad or scared or sickened by what they saw, but they were always together. Hell, they could even fight with one another, but it was all right, because even when they fought, the love was still there. They just loved each other. That fact made everything all right. And without that central fact to keep him going, Starsky knew that he wouldn’t be able to make it. Just couldn’t swing it. He’d have to quit. Yeah, that was it. Quit the damned department. Go someplace else. Do something else. Just live the rest of his life knowing that once he’d had a friend and now that friend was dead.

Suddenly he shook his head fiercely. No. No, damnit, Hutch won’t die. He can’t. It wouldn’t be fair. Hutch is . . . Hutch is my best friend; he’s a part of me and if I lose him, I lose a part of myself. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let it happen.

“Hutch is going to be all right,” he said aloud. “You hear me, Mendala? Hutch is going to make it.”

“If you say so, Starsky,” Mendala replied.

“I say so. Damned right I say so.” He moved forward with a new surge of energy. No time to be dragging ass now. Had to get Mendala to a safe place and then get back to Hutch.

When he first saw the cabin ahead, Starsky didn’t quite believe that it was real. He stopped in his tracks, stared, blinked a couple of times, then nearly fell to his knees in a confused blend of exhaustion and relief.

“Mendala,” he said finally.

“Huh?”

“There’s a cabin up here, Mendala, a cabin.”

“Thank god . . . thank god.”

Starsk walked the last few yards to the cabin. The place was dark and looked empty, but he pounded on the door just to be sure. When there was no answer, he took the knife from his pocket and with fingers that were numb and clumsy, managed to jimmy the lock open. The door swung open silently and he dragged the travois across the threshold.

At first he could only stand there, grateful beyond words to be out of that chilling wind for the first time in hours. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, almost sobbing. “Made it,” he said.

“Yes . . . made it . . . thank god.”

The sound of Mendala’s voice galvanized Starsky into action. He aimed the flashlight around the room, found a switch and clicked it on. The room was suddenly filled with a soft yellow glow. It was a small cabin, only the one room and a bathroom. But it was neat and obviously well kept.

There was a fireplace and a fully-stocked wood bin. He quickly piled wood into the fireplace and managed to ignite it after only three tries. Hutch would be proud of me . . . thinks he’s the only one who knows all that boy scout stuff. He hauled the travois over to the cot in one corner; there was also a bed against the opposite wall. “Think you could make it up and onto the cot?” he asked, not knowing if he had the strength left to lift the heavy man.

Mendala nodded and with Starsky holding him by one arm, he managed to stand and reached the cot. He stretched out with a sigh. “Is there a phone?” he asked, breathing heavily from the exertion of moving.

“No. No phone.” Starsky found that he wasn’t even upset by the lack of a phone. He had reached the emotional state where he would have been surprised if there had been one. Nothing else had gone right, so why should things have started to get easy at this point? It was going to be a hard fight all the way down to the end. Whatever that end might be. Didn’t matter. Whatever had to be done, he’d do it. No choice.

He prowled the cabin, finding instant coffee, crackers, a few other staples. He didn’t waste any time making conversation with Mendala about what he was doing; he just went ahead and did it, efficiently and single-mindedly. Made coffee. Removed Mendala’s coat and shoes. Checked his vital signs. Moved everything that the sick man might need within reach of the cot. As he did all of that, he gulped steaming coffee and downed several crackers.

When he found a thermos and began filling it with coffee, Mendala seemed to notice what he was doing. He struggled to sit up. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to go back.” There was a faint hint of surprise in Starsky’s voice. Of course he was getting ready to go back. What else? He found a knapsack shoved under the bed and pulled it out.

“To go . . . back?” Mendala’s voice squeaked. “Man, I always thought cops were dumb, but you top them all.”

Starsky pulled a blanket off the bed and folded it to fit inside the knapsack. “What?” he murmured, hardly paying attention to Mendala’s words.

“Don’t you know it’s suicide to go back? There’s a blizzard out there, Starsky. Besides, you’d never be able to find the car again.”

“I’ll find it.”

“And what about me?”

Starsky found some old gloves in a drawer. They were a little small, but better than nothing. “You’ll be all right. I couldn’t do any more for you even if I stayed. I’ll be back.”

“And in the meantime? What if . . . what if I have another attack?”

“Don’t.” Starsky gave an abstracted grin when he found a shabby down-filled coat hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

“Starsky, you can’t just leave me here and go–”

“Mendala,” Starsky interrupted. “I am going back for Hutch. I’ve done all I can for you right now and he’s still out there in the storm.” His voice faltered a little and he shoved the thermos fiercely into the knapsack. “I’m going.”

Mendala looked desperate. “What if Guardino’s men show up?”

“They won’t.”

“But if they do?”

Starsky sighed. He took his gun out and put it on the cot next to Mendala. “There. Defend yourself.”

“He’s dead by now, you fool!” Mendala said, nearly shouting. “You’re going out there to get a dead man!”

Busy shoving things into the knapsack, Starsky didn’t bother to look up. “If you say that one more time,” he said idly, “I’m going to come over there and stuff that damned handkerchief into your mouth.”

Mendala picked up the gun and pointed it at Starsky. “I could stop you with this.”

“Only if you kill me.”

“I wouldn’t have to do that,” he replied. “It would be much simpler. I could just . . . smash your right kneecap, for example.”

Starsky pulled the jacket on. “Mendala, you can smash both my kneecaps if you like and I’ll still go. I’ll crawl if I have to.”

Mendala was quiet for a moment; when he spoke again, his voice was calmer, more reasonable in tone. “Starsky, I know how you must feel.”

“Do you?”

“You asked me before if I never had a good friend. Well, I did once, a long time ago. We . . . we were real close, like you and Hutchinson.” Mendala paused, staring at the wall. “He bought it at Anzio. A bullet in the chest, like your partner. I could only hold him and watch him die. So I do know how you feel. But why kill yourself by going back out in that storm?”

Now, shrugging into the knapsack, Starsky looked at him. “Mendala, let me ask you something. If you could have saved your friend, if there had been a chance, wouldn’t you have done whatever you had to do?”

They stared at one another. Mendala lowered his gaze first. “If I could have, sure . . . but it would’ve been stupid to take a chance on dying myself, because there wasn’t any way to save him. Just like there’s no way for you to save Hutchinson.”

Starsky was ready to go. He was wearing the down-filled jacket, the too-small gloves, and had a wool scarf tied around his face. He walked to the door and turned around to look at Mendala once more. All that Mendala could see were two dark blue eyes; the gaze was filled with emotions that he could-not even begin to understand. “Well, I guess that’s the difference between you and me, isn’t it?” Starsky said, his voice muffled by the scarf. “I’d rather go back up the mountain and take a chance on dying with Hutch than go on living wondering if maybe, just maybe, I could have saved him.”

He lifted the travois and went out into the night, very carefully closing the door behind him.

It was suddenly very quiet in the cabin. Mendala looked at the closed door for a long moment, an anguished expression on his face. Finally, his expression hardened and he shrugged. “Damn fool,” he muttered. “Damn dumb cop.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

He remembered:

A birthday party. His ninth. Dozens of kids. Balloons. Cake. And best of all, a shiny new bicycle. When the party was over and the day had ended, he couldn’t sleep. Instead, he crept down the stairs and sat next to the bicycle, rubbing its vivid red metallic surface, wanting to jump on to the fantastic machine and race the wind. Wanting to do something. Wanting most of all to be grown-up so that he could begin to really live . . .

. . . begin to live.

Time flowed and he remembered:

Nam. The dying. Being so scared that he threw up. Hating it. Starsky, making it all a little easier to bear somehow, just by being there. Sitting around the barracks with Starsky talking about going home so that real life could begin . . .

. . . real life.

Pain was a constant companion and he remembered:

Gillian. Loving. Being loved. Thinking that now life could begin. Knowing that whole secret was loving and being loved . . .

. . . love.

Darkness was everywhere and he remembered:

Starsky. Dave Starsky, shot down by some hired gun in that restaurant. Starsky’s blood on his hands. Starsky was dying. And wishing, wishing, it would all go away. Wishing it was himself lying there dying instead of his partner. Lying there dying. Wishing–starlight, star bright, please don’t let Starsky die tonight. Wondering: why does everybody I love go away? Everybody I love . . .

. . . they go away.

Alone again naturally . . . he remembered:

The snow. The cold. And Starsky going away. He was going away . . . .

“Starsky . . . Starsk . . . please . . . come back.” They took away the new bike because he left it out in the rain all night. He hadn’t meant to forget. And he begged to have it back.

“I’ll be good, I promise, please give me back the bike.”

No, that wasn’t right.

“Please, come back, Starsk . . . I’ll be good, I promise . . . don’t leave me all alone out here . . . I’m scared, buddy . . . please, I’ll be good . . . just come back . . . Starsk . . . ohgodstarskplease . . . please come back.”

He’ll be back . . . he said he’d come back . . . I have to wait.

Or maybe, Hutch thought fuzzily, maybe I should go look for him. Maybe he’s lost. Hell, Starsk couldn’t find his way through the woods if his life depended on it. Except . . . except it’s my life that depends on it.

Or maybe . . . maybe something happened to him.

That was a new thought and Hutch considered it for awhile. There were any number of things that could have gone wrong. Starsky might be lying out in the snow somewhere. Lying there dying.

Hutch was wide awake, shaking both with cold and with fear. Maybe I should go look for him.

He edged off the seat a little, intending to open the door and then . . . well, he wasn’t sure just what he intended to do then. Something. Find Starsk. That was all. Just find Starsk and then everything would be okay again.

The pain that accompanied the movement was like having a knife thrust into his body. He groaned once. The door handle suddenly seemed a million miles away. He realized that he couldn’t make it and the realization hurt as badly as the bullet in his chest.

Hutch managed to get back onto the seat. He huddled underneath the blanket, trying not to be cold, trying not to hurt, trying not to be scared . . . trying not to die.

CHAPTER NINE

He stopped to catch his breath. The snow was getting deep enough to make walking–especially in tennis shoes–difficult. And he was so damned tired. He adjusted the scarf more tightly around his face, flexing his fingers, which even in the gloves felt stiff.

How long? Feels like I’ve been walking for days . . . forever. He lifted the end of the travois and walked again.

When this is all over, he thought, I’m going to eat the biggest pizza. Or maybe a steak. Or maybe both. A party, that’s it. We’ll have a party. With a whole table full of food. Music. Hutch can be the official bartender.

And we’ll even have some of that healthy garbage Hutch likes to eat. That’ll make him happy and he won’t bitch at me for eating junk. And dancing, we’ll have dancing, too. Maybe I can get that redhead from the radio room to come.

We’ll all sit around eating and drinking and laughing . . . we’ll laugh a lot . . .

. . . unless Hutch dies.

Damnit.

Damn these stupid daydreams. Thinking about things that might never happen. We might never have that party. Hutch might be dead already.

There was another time Hutch almost died. When he had the plague.

Pulled him through that time. Yeah, I did. Super Hero Dave Starsky single-handedly brings Kenneth Hutchinson back from the jaws of death.

Well, so what?

He wiped snow out of his eyes and kept walking. But his vision blurred for a moment–snow, he told himself, although he knew that it was tears–and he tripped over a partially-concealed branch. His ankle gave an ominous cracking sound as he sprawled flat on his face in the snow.

He simply stayed down for a long moment, not knowing whether he could get up again, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to. Just wanted to lie there forever–how ever long that turned out to be.

“Damnit, Hutch,” he muttered finally, pushing himself to his knees. “You better not have died after all of this . . . you better be alive. You just better be alive or . . . or I’m going to be pretty pissed at you. I might never speak to you again, if you’ve gone and died on me . . . after all this trouble I’ve had.” He got shakily to his feet. “And then I’d have to find a new partner . . . too much bother.”

He took one step and nearly collapsed again. The ankle was obviously broken. Mendala should’ve shot my kneecaps out, he thought bitterly. At least I wouldn’t have tripped. Despite the bitterness, he couldn’t seem to care very much about this new set-back. Just one more hurdle.

He sat down again and began to unwrap the scarf from his face. Using the scarf as a bandage, he wrapped the ankle as tightly as he could. Standing, he tested it tentatively. Whaddaya know . . . it works.

He could walk in the improvised bandage, although his progress was even slower.

After nearly an hour of limping through the trees, Starsky reached the top of a small rise. Below him was the car. He stopped, staring. “Jesus,” he whispered. “Jesus, please . . . .”

He began to run clumsily down the hill, slipping, sliding, and tripping as he went. The travois bounced wildly behind. “Hutch!” he yelled. “Hutch!?”

As he neared the car, however, he dropped the travois and slowed down, suddenly afraid. “Hutch?” he said once more.

He aimed the beam from the flashlight into the car and he could see Hutch. His partner was slumped back against the seat, but Starsky couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. He walked very slowly the rest of the way to the car, whispering Hutch’s name like some kind of an invocation against death.

He opened the door and crawled into the back seat. “Hutch?” he said quietly. One hand trailed down Hutch’s frighteningly pale cheek. “Hutch? Oh, please, Hutch?”

Finally Hutch stirred and his eyes opened a little. There was no hint of recognition in the blue depths. “. . . uh . . . ?”

Starsky gripped Hutch’s hand. “Hutch, it’s me . . . Starsk,” he said urgently. “It’s Dave. Hutch?”

“Starsk?” Hutch knew then and with the knowledge tears began to roll down his face. “Starsk . . . you came . . . promise . . . I’ll be good.”

“Shh,” Starsky said. “It’s okay now.” Then it all came down on him–the exhaustion, the cold, the pain from his ankle, the worry, and the desperate, sickening fear that Hutch would be dead–it all hit Starsky at once and he, too, began to cry, clinging to Hutch.

Absurdly, it was Hutch who became the comforter. One hand rose to feebly pat Starsky’s shoulder, to rub his shuddering back reassuringly. “Starsk . . . hey, buddy . . . I’m still here,” he said hoarsely.

Starsky sat up finally, in at least tenuous control of himself, one hand still clutching Hutch. He rubbed the remaining tears away with the back of his free hand and wiped his nose. “God . . . Hutch, I thought . . . .” He tried a smile and surprised himself by managing a rather shaky version of his usual twisted grin. “Told you I’d be back,” he said.

“Yeah . . . you told me . . . and I waited. Told you I’d wait.”

“I was scared,” Starsky said suddenly. He sniffled.

“Me, too.”

“Great couple of heroes, aren’t we?” Starsky said, reaching around to pull off the knapsack. He fumbled through the contents. “Hard to be a hero when you’re all alone,” he said, not looking up.

“Heroes . . . are over-rated,” Hutch murmured.

“Uh-huh.” He pulled out the thermos. “I have some coffee. You want just a little?”

“Yes.”

With hands that still shook, Starsky poured two sips of the steaming liquid into the cup and held it to Hutch’s lips. Hutch took just a little, then leaned back again. “Did . . . did I ever tell you . . .”

“What?” Starsky asked.

” . . . you make rotten coffee.”

Starsky laughed a little. “Yeah, you’ve mentioned that.” He poured more coffee and gulped it down, scalding his mouth and not caring. “Actually,” he said, “this is better than average for me.”

“How’ s Mendala?”

Starsky shrugged. “Okay, I guess. We found a cabin and I left him back there.”

“I’ll bet he loved that.”

“Not much.” Starsky was slowly screwing the top back on the thermos; as he did that, he was staring at Hutch. He realized with a sharp stab of anguish how bad Hutch really looked. So pale. So gaunt that the bone structure of his face was painfully defined beneath the nearly transparent skin. Starsky swallowed down his fear. No more losing control; had to keep the situation in hand.

He pulled a clean towel from the knapsack. “Think you can stand a little of my rotten doctoring?” he asked lightly, starting to take off Hutch’s jacket slowly.

“Yeah . . . can’t be any worse than your . . . coffee,” Hutch mumbled. He sounded vague suddenly; his eyes were glazed and he seemed unaware of Starsky’s presence.

Starsky finished taking off the jacket and ripped the shirt away. Rather than risk getting the bleeding started again, he left the bloodied vest in place. He folded the towel into a triangle and made a chest bandage, looping it over Hutch’s shoulder and tying all three corners in the back.

All the time Starsky worked, Hutch was silent, his body limply complaisant to Starsky’s gentle urgings. As Starsky bent him forward a little to slip the jacket back on, however, Hutch gave a low moan. Starsky settled him back quickly. “Hutch?” he said. “You okay?”

Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him, but Starsky knew that his partner was not really seeing him, but some private vision of hell. The gaze was blank; then, briefly, horror flickered there. “Starsk ” he said breathlessly.

“Yeah, buddy, I’m here.”

“Shot . . . .”

“It’s going to be all right, Hutch.”

Hutch shook his head angrily. “No . . . not all right . . . never all right . . . they shot him . . . they shot Starsk . . . never all right . . . Starsk is hurt . . . bleeding . . . ohjesusstarskisdying.”

Starsky was confused until he realized that Hutch was delirious. Dreaming. Or remembering. Remembering a time when it had been Starsky who was shot, Starsky who was hurting and dying. And it had been Hutch taking care that time. Starsky ran his hands down Hutch’s face. “Hey, babe, it’s all right. I’m here; I’m okay.”

“They shot Starsk . . . damn them.” The last words were said with a bitterness that frightened Starsky a little by its intensity. That Hutch–easy-going, sweet, too-gentle Hutch–could hate so much scared Starsky and angered him as well. This is what our life does to us . . . makes us hate so much . . . makes us so afraid that we have to hate . . . is it worth it? “Shh, Hutch,” he said helplessly. “I’m here.” Hutch only shook his head and then his eyes closed again.

Starsky sat there a moment, gnawing on his knuckles. Finally he climbed out of the car and went back the short distance to where he’d let go of the travois. At least the snow seemed to be letting up a little. Starsky wondered for the first time what he would do when they reached the cabin. No phone. No help. Might have to just leave both of them there and go on looking for help. But at least Hutch would be warm and dry and . . . .

He glanced into the car and something about the way Hutch looked caused a sudden panic to hit Starsky. He left the travois and scrambled into the back seat. Hutch had stopped breathing. “No,” Starsky said aloud. “No, goddamnit!”

He lifted Hutch’s head so that his chin was pointing straight up. Then he pulled the jaw upwards and pinched the nostrils closed. He pressed his mouth firmly over Hutch’s and blew. He pulled away and listened for an outward rush of air. When it came, he put his mouth to Hutch’s again and continued blowing. Twelve times a minute. All of this was done without conscious thought. Instinct. Training. Fear. Those things ruled him.

He did not know, then or ever, how long he kept it up; existence had coalesced into Hutch and himself and the unspeakable desperation he felt. . . . pleasegodpleasehutch . . .

And when Hutch started breathing again, that first shaky, rasping gulp of air he took was the most beautiful sound that Starsky had ever heard. He sat back, patting Hutch’s face gently. “Yeah, buddy, that’s it . . . breathe, babe . . . you’re gonna make it . . . I won’t let you die . . . I won’t lose you . . . that’s the way.” He kept whispering–soft words of encouragement, praise, nonsense–until he was sure that Hutch would continue to breathe on his own.

It seemed another eternity before Hutch opened his eyes. ” . . . hurts.”

Starsky forced himself to speak cheerfully. “Yes, I know it hurts, Hutch, but don’t worry about it. We’re all set to go. I’m going to put you on the travois now and before you know it, you’ll be warm again. Everything will be all right when we get to the cabin.”

Hutch only mumbled incoherently, tossing his head from side to side restlessly. Starsky eased him out of the car and onto the travois, settling him gently. Hutch seemed oblivious to everything.

Starsky pulled the blanket out of the knapsack and tucked it tightly around Hutch. “All set, buddy?” he asked. “Won’t be long now.”

He stared at Hutch’s face, touched his cheek fleetingly, and sighed. Then he got to his feet, lifted the end of the travois once again and moved forward.

CHAPTER TEN

“Starsk . . . ?”

“Yeah, buddy?” Starsky slowed and half-turned, easing the travois over a bump carefully. He rested the travois and crouched down to check the blanket that covered Hutch, and also to give his throbbing, swollen ankle a rest.

Hutch alternated between periods of unconsciousness and moments of vague, disconnected conversation. “Let’s go home, Starsk,” he said for the hundredth time.

“We are going home,” Starsky replied patiently, standing again.

“I’m cold . . . it hurts . . . please, Starsk . . . take me home.”

“Sure thing, Hutch. Pretty soon, okay?”

Hutch sighed, seemed to doze momentarily, then spoke again. “Starsk?”

“Hmmm?” Starsky was glad for the conversation. It helped him to stay awake, to keep his numbed mind focused, to feel still connected to Hutch.

“I’m sorry . . . .”

“For what, buddy?”

“You know what for . . . I’m sorry . . . I’ll be good . . . please, don’t leave me out here all alone . . . I’ll be good.”

“Shut up, Hutch,” Starsky said gently. “You’re talking crazy.”

There was a pause and when Hutch spoke again, his voice sounded almost normal. “You know, Starsk . . . your bedside manner . . . stinks.”

Starsky laughed a little; it felt good. “Yeah; well, sorry about that, Detective Hutchinson. But I think three toes just fell off my left foot. That kind of thing makes me irritable.”

“Guess so . . .” Hutch drifted away again.

Starsky loosened his grip on the branches for a minute to wriggle his fingers and then held on again. He hoped that Hutch didn’t realize how scared he was getting. He had decided that they were lost. They’d been walking for so long and should have reached the cabin by now. Or maybe he was just screwed up, time-wise. Maybe they hadn’t been walking as long as he thought.

I’m lost . . . .damnit, no, I can’t be . . . we’ve been walking in a straight line the whole time . . . couldn’t have gotten turned around . . . I know this is the way.

But he didn’t know for sure. He wasn’t sure of anything by this time. Except that he was tired beyond words, and scared and wet and so damned cold that he couldn’t even feel the cold anymore. He had come to the conclusion that they were never going to get out of these woods.

Hutch moaned a little and Starsky stopped to check him. Abruptly, his own legs refused to support him any more and he fell down next to the travois. He tried to push himself up, but there was not enough strength left in his body.

He half-rested on the travois next to Hutch. “Hutch? Hutch, can you hear me?”

“Huh?” Hutch woke with a start. “Yeah . . . yeah, Starsk.”

Starsky’s voice was dulled by fatigue and despair. “I can’t do it, Hutch,” he said. “I can’t go on anymore.” There weren’t even any tears left in him to shed. Too tired. He draped one arm around Hutch. “Sorry.”

Hutch nodded. “S’ okay.”

For a long time, they were both quiet. The only sound was the raspy tone of Hutch’s breathing. Starsky felt his eyes closing, knowing that he mustn’t sleep, mustn’t allow the blackness to creep over him. He raised his head and stared down at Hutch, who was watching him. “Big man Dave Starsky . . . gonna save the whole fucking world,” he said bitterly. “Didn’t do it, did I? I lost, Hutch. Mendala might make it. They’ll probably find him. But I lost for you and me.”

“S’okay,” Hutch said again. “It really is okay, Starsk.”

Starsky shifted slightly, moving closer to Hutch. “Guess if we gotta go out, it might as well be together.”

“Sure . . . we’re partners.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a lot that Starsky thought should be said. Before the end, he thought fuzzily, shouldn’t a man have some profound words to say? Some kind of summing up? Otherwise, wasn’t it all kind of a waste? But his mind felt too used up, too wasted. Then he realized what had to be said; there were only a few words that mattered and they weren’t at all profound. “I love you,” he said.

“Yes,” Hutch replied. “I know.” He let his fingers trail through Starsky’s hair. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” Starsky said. The words hadn’t been necessary. Still . . . “I’m glad we said it.”

Hutch seemed to laugh, softly, hoarsely. “Hell, man, we’ve been saying it . . . for a long time.” He shivered suddenly. “Oh, Starsk.” His head slumped.

Starsky straightened. “Hutch?” He found that thready pulse again and sighed. Damn . . . Hutch is a lot tougher than he looks . . . .

Starsky knew that as long as Hutch was alive, he couldn’t give up. For himself, he found it hard to care anymore. But he had to try and save Hutch. If Hutch died . . . well, then he’d quit. Just lie down in the snow and sleep. But he couldn’t just sit here and watch Hutch die.

He got to his feet and lifted the travois again.

It couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards when he saw the cabin. He didn’t even pause at the sight; there was no strength in him left to react. He only kept trudging forward until he reached the door. Not letting go of the travois, he kicked the door open and staggered in.

A gun was pointed at his chest.

“It’s me, Mendala,” Starsky said hoarsely. “For Christ’s sake, don’t shoot.”

The gun lowered. “You . . . but I thought . . . .”

“Yeah.” Starsky finally managed to uncurl his fingers from around the travois and lower Hutch. He slammed the door shut. “I know what you thought,” he said flatly.

“What about Hutchinson?”

“He’s alive.” Starsky knelt on the floor. “Hey, buddy,” he said softly, “we made it.”

Some mumbled words were the only reply.

Starsky managed to lift Hutch onto the bed. He carefully removed the bloody jacket, took off his shoes, and pushed wet hair back from his so-pale face. He straightened. “He’s asleep,” he said, still staring at Hutch. “Or passed out. I can’t tell which.”

Mendala watched as Starsky took off the coat and gloves and dropped them to the floor. “So what now? Any more bright ideas?”

Starsky ignored him for a moment. He took some more logs from the box and piled them onto the almost-extinguished fire, then stood in front of the flames rubbing his bands together. “I can’t do anything else right now,” he said finally. “If I mess around with his wound, I’d probably just get it to bleeding again. That would finish him, I think.” His mind wandered for a moment and he struggled to concentrate. “And it wouldn’t do either one of you any good if I passed out.” He limped back to the bed and sat down gingerly. “My ankle is broken,” he said, bending to examine it. He slipped the shoe off, but didn’t dare unwrap the scarf. “Hurts like hell. So I’m going to wait until it’s light out and then go for help.” He stretched, massaging the back of his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension. It didn’t help much. “I think Hutch can hold on that long . . . yeah, Hutch can hold on.” He glanced at Mendala. “What about you?”

Mendala shrugged. “I’m all right. A little pain, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good.” He carefully lifted Hutch’s wrist. The pulse was still thready, but it was there. He checked the bandage. Still no sign that the bleeding had started again. As long as Hutch wasn’t bleeding–well, that was a good sign, wasn’t it? That one thought, that one bit of hope could keep him going long enough to do what had to be done.

He reached down with one hand and untied the other tennis shoe. The socks were sopping wet and cold, so he took them off as well and draped them in front of the fireplace. Standing there, he ate some crackers and drank a little more coffee.

“Starsk?” Hutch’s voice was a painful croak.

Starsky went back to the bed quickly and sat down. “We’re at the cabin, Hutch,” he said quietly, taking Hutch’s hand. “How do you feel?”

“Don’t know . . . hurts . . . hot and . . . then cold. I feel . . . pretty bad.”

“As soon as it’s morning, I’ll go get help.”

Hutch seemed to rouse a little and his eyes sharpened just slightly as he looked at Starsky. “You look . . . terrible.”

Starsky smiled. “Yeah; well, so much for the fresh mountain air and how healthy it all is. Always knew that was a crock.”

“You okay?”

He nodded. “Sure. Fine. Just tired. Very tired.”

Hutch shook his head. “You were limping.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, willya? I just need some rest.”

“Lie down,” Hutch said.

Starsky stretched himself carefully along the edge of the bed. “I’ll bet the Captain is looking for us,” he murmured. “What do you think?”

“Yeah . . . sounds like Dobey. Wish he’d find us.”

“Me, too.” Starsky glanced at Mendala. “I’m just gonna rest a little. So tired . . . .” He was still holding onto Hutch’s hand when he fell asleep.

Hutch stared at the ceiling for a long time; he hurt. Starsk is taking care, he thought fuzzily. Good old Starsk. He let the waves of pain and darkness sweep him away.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Starsky? Wake up, Starsky.”

Mendala’s voice sounded very faint, very far away. Starsky groaned a reply and covered his face with one arm. He needed more sleep.

“Damnit, Starsky, wake up,” Mendala insisted. “I think Hutchinson is worse.”

That brought him awake sharply. He tottered for a moment on the edge of complete consciousness, not wanting to face what had to be faced, then he sat up. “What?”

“He’s breathing funny,” Mendala explained.

Starsky rubbed his eyes and stared down at Hutch, lying curled up next to him. “Jesus,” he said, shaken by the sight of Hutch’s sweat-drenched face. He pressed one hand against Hutch’s cheek. The feel of the burning flesh jolted him and he jerked away, staring, bewildered and frightened, at his partner.

“What’s the matter with him?” Mendala asked.

Every breath Hutch took was accompanied by a hoarse, rattling sound, and even asleep, he grimaced, as if each breath brought him pain. Starsky listened and watched for a moment before answering Mendala. “Pneumonia,” he said finally. Then he cleared his throat and spoke more firmly. “I think Hutch has pneumonia.” . . . no . . . why? It’s been enough already . . . please, not more.

Hutch’s eyes opened then. His gaze, wild and scared, darted erratically around the room. “Hey,” he said hoarsely. “Hey, what’s going on? I gotta go . . . time to hit the streets . . . where’s Starsk? We need to . . . time for duty . . . hey, come on, where’s Starsk?”

“Shh, Hutch,” Starsky said almost absently, his mind racing desperately. He patted Hutch on the shoulder. “Shh.”

“Starsk? Starsk?” Hutch began to thrash wildly on the bed, his arms flailing.

Starsky gathered him close, trying not to disturb the bandage, and held on tight. “Hutch, hey Hutch, I’m here, come on, it’s all right . . . please, it’s all right . . . don’t, buddy, you’ll hurt yourself . . . shh.”

Hutch was oblivious to the efforts to calm him. He was lost in the fiery images of his fevered mind. He kept talking, rambling on aimlessly–nonsense words, names and memories that meant nothing to Starsky, memories that were all too clear for them both–Nam, cases they’d handled, Gillian. “Lemme go,” he said, his voice a pathetic shadow of his usual strength. “Gotta go . . . duty . . . gotta hit the streets.”

Starsky rocked back and forth, as if soothing a child. “No, you don’t have to do that anymore, Hutch,” he said. “No more. No more. We’re going to quit this crazy life.” He meant it as he said it. “Why should we go on wasting our lives? Nobody cares . . . nobody cares.” He didn’t even know that tears were coursing down his face as he spoke. “We gotta quit, buddy, before it kills us . . . oh, shit, Hutch. Damn.” He cradled his partner, protecting him. “I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t have left you . . . I’m sorry . . . it’s my fault . . . please don’t die . . . .”

Hutch looked up at him, not seeing him. “Please,” he whispered urgently, “I have to go . . . my partner needs me . . . let me go, please . . . where’s Starsk?”

“I’m here; I’m right here with you,” Starsky said over and over until finally Hutch settled back into a restless sleep. Starsky gently lowered him back onto the bed. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. “Shit,” he said finally. He bent down and picked up one of Hutch’s shoes, and threw it across the room. It hit the far wall and fell with a dull thud to the floor. The sound echoed in the room. “Shit.”

“You won’t quit, you know,” Mendala said.

“Won’t I?” Starsky muttered.

“No. Your kind never does. Too dedicated. You’ll keep right on doing what you do, because you think it’s necessary.”

Starsky shook his head. “Nobody cares.”

“You care, Starsky.”

“If Hutch dies,” Starsky said tonelessly, “I will quit.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. You’ll have one job left to finish.”

“What?”

“Revenge.”

After a moment, Starsky shrugged and got to his feet, infinitely weary. As he put weight on his broken ankle, the room turned dark and spun around him. He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and hung on. When he could move without dizziness, he began to put on his shoes and socks.

“I don’t think he’s going to make it,” Mendala said.

Starsky started to object; instead, he only shrugged. “You keep an eye on him,” he said. “If . . . .” He finished tying the tennis shoe on his good foot; the other foot was so swollen that he couldn’t lace it. “Just keep an eye on him.” He pulled on the jacket, gulping down a mouthful of cold coffee as he did.

He returned to the bed and knelt beside Hutch. “Hutch?”

Hutch stirred, but didn’t answer.

“Hutch, I’ve got to go again, but I’ll be back. Wait for me, understand?” His voice quavered. “Don’t die,” he said. “Please, don’t die. You promised Terri that you’d look out for me . . . you can’t die.” He leaned closer and pressed his lips to Hutch’s burning forehead. The kiss was a plea, a benediction . . . a farewell? “Hang on, babe,” he whispered.

He got up and left the cabin without another word.

Mendala settled back, his eyes on Hutchinson. “You better not die now, you bastard,” he muttered. “I don’t want to be the one to tell him. Your partner is a crazy man, you know? I mean, he’s crazy. I’ve seen plenty of guys like him–they usually work on my side of the law, though. They all have a kind of crazy look in their eyes. Too damned . . . dedicated. I don’t know what he’d do if he came back and found you dead. Hell, he might even kill me. So you just keep on breathing, cop; just keep it up a while longer.”

Hutch tossed restlessly.

It was a perfect morning for a walk–blue sky, bright sun sparkling off the snow in crystal colors, crisp, clean air. Starsky noticed none of it. He found the road and trudged along it, each step an agony as his leg throbbed with pain and his thoughts remained back at the cabin.

Will we really quit? he thought. Or is Mendala right? Do we care too much? He shook his head in answer to his own question. No. I care, but not that much. You care, though . . . probably more than me. Oh, hell, I’m just tired of it all. You can understand that, can’t you, Hutch? Always choices to make. Too many choices.

Once the pain became so bad that his stomach heaved and he knelt in the snow, retching. He managed to struggle back up and walk again, but he knew that unless he found some help soon, it would be too late. Too late for him. Too late for Hutch. Just too late.

And every time I make a choice, it seems to turn out wrong. Like this time. I shouldn’t have left you. You were in worse shape than Mendala. It was stupid to leave you.

He didn’t even hear the car approaching until it was right on top of him. He looked up, shading his eyes against the glare. A black-and-white? Wonder what they’re doing way up here? he thought, mildly curious. His curiosity was not great enough to cause him to stop, however.

The car’s horn sounded as it pulled to a stop next to him. Starsky halted and watched with a strangely detached interest. Someone was getting out of the car and there was something vaguely familiar about the stocky figure coming toward him.

“Starsky?” Dobey’s voice was anxious. “Starsky?”

Cap seems upset . . . hope it’s nothing he wants Hutch and me to handle . . . we’ve got our hands full already, I think. Starsky smiled sweetly. “Hi, Cap. What are you doing way up here?”

“What am I–?” Dobey began irritably, knowing Starsky’s penchant for ill-timed and inappropriate jokes. However, something in Starsky’s face and the faraway tone of his voice made the black man pause. He studied Starsky for a moment. “We’ve been looking for you,” he said gently.

“Have you?”

“We got worried when you didn’t reach the city last night and came up here to find you.” Dobey spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully; the blankness of Starsky’s expression worried him. “The storm messed everything up.”

Starsky nodded. “Yes . . . that was a bad storm. Hutch said it was too early for such a heavy snow.” He seemed lost in thought again.

“Well, we’ve found you now, so I guess everything is okay, isn’t it?” Dobey said.

Starsky mulled that over briefly. “I guess. Well, I have to go now . . . .”

“Where are you going, Starsky?”

Starsky was staring off into the distance. “I’ve got . . . to get help. Hutch is hurt.” His eyes moved to Dobey. “Hutch is dying, Captain, and I’ve got to go get some help.” He turned and started to walk away.

Dobey reached out and very carefully took Starsky’s arm. “Get into the car, Starsky. We’ll go help Hutch.”

“Will you?” Starsky stared at him for a moment, evaluating. He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay . . . that sounds like a good idea. You’ll really help?”

“Sure.” Dobey helped him into the back seat of the squad oar. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Broken ankle,” Starsky replied carelessly. He seemed unable to relax, perching on the edge of the seat as if he might take flight at any moment. “Let’s go, huh?”

“We are; we are,” Dobey said, settling into the front seat, signaling the uniformed officer who was driving to start the car. Dobey shifted in the seat so that he could look at Starsky. “What happened, Detective Starsky?” he said, hoping the official tone would snap Starsky out of his vague state.

Starsky was rubbing the back of the seat with one hand. “Uh . . . what happened? Guardino’s men came after us . . . must have been waiting for us. Chased us. They shot Hutch.” His hand squeezed into a fist. “They shot Hutch.”

Dobey cringed. “Bad?”

“Yeah, bad.” Starsky was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “They shot him in the chest. It’s bad. Then . . . uh, what’s his name?”

“Mendala?”

Starsky nodded. “Yeah. Mendala had a heart attack and I had to leave Hutch . . . .” His voice wavered and he looked pleadingly at Dobey. “That’s what I had to do, right? It was my damned duty.”

“Yes, Starsky,” Dobey said very kindly.

“. . . yeah. That’s what Hutch said. So I left him in the car and took Mendala to the cabin.” Starsky paused, biting his lip in an effort to remember. “Then I went back for Hutch and now he has pneumonia and . . . .” His voice dwindled off and Dobey didn’t press him for anymore details. “The cabin is right up here,” Starsky said a moment later.

Dobey had already radioed for an ambulance. The car pulled to a stop in front of the cabin and they all got out. Starsky, dragging his injured leg, was the first one to reach the door. His hand on the knob, he hesitated for just one second; afraid to open the door and find . . . what?

He shoved the door open.

Mendala was sitting up in the cot, watching Hutch, who was lying half off the bed, tossing in the frenzy of a feverish nightmare. Mendala looked up as they entered, relief clear on his face. “Thank God! He’s been out of his head, yelling and–”

Starsky was at the bed in an instant. He sat down and pulled Hutch onto his lap. “Hutch?” he said softly. “Hutch, I’m back . . . shh, buddy, it’s going to be all right now.” Whether it was his words, or the firm grip of his arms, something got through to Hutch and he calmed.

Starsky looked up at Dobey; his face was pale, twisted with anguish, almost unrecognizable in its suffering. “He’s dying.” It was a strangely objective statement, coming from someone who looked like a madman. “Hutch is dying.”

Dobey didn’t hesitate. He turned to the uniformed officer. “He can’t wait for the ambulance, Richards. You get him down to the hospital in the squad car. I’ll wait here with Mendala for the ambulance.”

“Yes, sir,” Richards replied.

Starsky was still holding Hutch, whispering desperate words of comfort into his ear. He looked up sharply at Dobey’s words, however. “I’m going with Hutch,” he said quickly. “I have to stay with him.”

Dobey stared at the two younger men for a moment, feeling an all-too-familiar surge of guilt. These were his men; he had ordered them into this. Would it ever end, he thought. Would these feelings ever stop? He, like they, was only doing his duty. My damned duty, he thought, echoing Starsky’s words. He remembered when his own partner died, murdered by hoodlums. I survived . . . but I had Edith, a family . . . who does Dave have, except Ken?

He pulled himself out of the reverie and nodded. “Yes, Starsky, I know that. You go with Hutch.”

Starsky got to his feet, resting Hutch back on the bed. He pulled the blanket around Hutch, tucking him in with care. “It’s going to be okay, buddy,” he said softly so that no one heard but Hutch. “I’m going to take care of you.”

“Let Richards carry him to the car,” Dobey ordered.

“No.” Starsky lifted Hutch, wavered a moment as the pain roared over him, and then straightened. “I’ll take him.”

Dobey wanted to object, but he didn’t. He only gestured in resignation. Starsky headed toward the door.

“Starsky–”

He almost paused. “Yes, Captain?”

“Good luck.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you all right?”

Starsky nodded. “I’m fine,” he said; he was gone out the door before Dobey could speak again.

He did relent enough to let Richards hold Hutch while he climbed into the back seat. As the officer settled Hutch in with him, Hutch stirred and opened his eyes. “Starsk?”

“We’re going home, Hutch. It’s okay now.”

“Starsk?” Hutch tried to talk, but he was wracked by a sudden spasm of coughing that left him drained and trembling, able to only cling weakly to Starsky.

Starsky tightened his hold and leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. He willed the car to go faster, wanting them to get to the damned hospital so that Hutch could be taken care of. At the same time, he was afraid of what would happen when they did get there. . . . sorry, detective starsky, it was too late . . . nothing we could do . . . he’s dead . . . he’s dead . . . you were too late . . . sorrysorrytoolatehe’sdead. Starsky squeezed his eyes closed more tightly, trying to shut out the thoughts.

Hutch watched him. Poor Starsk . . . he looks so tired . . . he must be hurting . . . . He lifted one hand toward Starsky’s face, wanting to touch him, to reassure him, maybe to make him smile. But before his fingers reached Starsky’s cheek, the blackness and the pain enveloped him again. His hand dropped as he was pulled down, down, down, into the maelstrom.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The hospital waiting room was exactly thirty-seven steps from one end to the other and he had made the journey nearly fifty times. It hurt to walk, even with the cane that someone had brought for him after he refused to go and let them treat his ankle. He welcomed the pain, almost reveled in it, willfully kept moving so that the ankle would keep hurting. He sent away the nurse who came to check on him, wanting to be alone with his pain and his fear.

Why don’t I hear something? he thought fretfully. The ride to the hospital had seemed endless and the moment when the orderlies took Hutch from him almost unbearable. And now nothing. No word. Hutch could even be dead and maybe they just forgot to come tell me. He spun around, prepared to charge through the door.

He almost collided with Dobey, who was coming in. “Starsky? How are you?”

“Oh . . . I’m all right, Cap,” he said vaguely. “Have you heard anything? Nobody will tell me about Hutch.” He crumpled the empty paper cup that someone had handed him earlier; he was supposed to have gotten a drink from the water fountain and swallowed the pain pill in the cup. The pill rolled, unnoticed, under a chair. “Nobody will tell me anything.”

Dobey shrugged. “There’s not much they can say yet, Starsky. The bullet has been removed. Everything that can be done is being done.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Starsky burst out. “Is Hutch going to make it or not?”

Dobey led Starsky to the couch and gently pushed him down. He sat next to him. “If he doesn’t–I said if,” he added quickly at the look that appeared in Starsky’s eyes, “it won’t be because of anything you did or failed to do. You did everything . . . more than one man should have to do for another. Starsky, you did your best.”

Starsky didn’t answer for a moment. His hands slid restlessly up and down the cane. “I left him,” he whispered softly.

“You had to do that,” Dobey said firmly.

But Starsky shook his head. “No. I shouldn’t have left him. If he dies . . . if he dies, I’ll be to blame.”

“That’s a lot of bull,” Dobey said sharply. “Snap out of it, Detective Starsky. Everybody knows the risk when they join the force.” His voice turned brisk. “Now, I want you to go and let them fix that ankle of yours. They told me you wouldn’t let anybody even look at it. I don’t need a crippled cop in my office.”

Starsky shook his head, studying the cane intently. “I can’t . . . .” he murmured.

“You can’t what?”

“Be a cop anymore.” He raised his eyes and met Dobey’s gaze. “I’m tired. Too tired. I can’t do this anymore.”

“We’re all tired, David,” Dobey said. It was the first time he’d ever called him that. “But we all keep going on. Somehow.”

“I can’t.” Starsky looked away again. “I don’t want a new partner, Cap . . . I don’t want any partner except Hutch. Without him as my partner, I don’t want to be a cop. It’s too damned tough.”

Dobey sat back, folding his arms. “So you’ve given up on Hutch, have you?”

“What?” Starsky sounded surprised.

“You sound like you’ve got him dead, buried, and forgotten. You think that he’d ever give up on you like that?”

After a moment, Starsky shook his head. “No . . . I guess not.”

“Damned right. I can remember pacing these corridors with him a couple of times, too, you know. And he never gave up hope. Everybody else, maybe, but not Ken. Don’t you owe him that much? Your hope?”

Starsky was silent and finally he nodded.

“All right then, can all that talk about quitting or having a new partner. And get that ankle taken care of.”

Starsky got up. “Can I see him first?”

Dobey sighed. “I’ll check it out.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

A few minutes later, Starsky was standing outside the intensive care unit, staring at the oxygen tent over Hutch. Between the tent, the IV’s and other medical equipment, and people crowded around, he could hardly see Hutch at all.

“See, Starsky,” Dobey said. “I told you he was being well-taken care of.”

Starsky didn’t answer. He stood with his forehead pressed against the glass and watched. Once, a nurse moved and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Hutch’s face through the tent.

“Starsky?”

He turned around. Dobey and a nurse lowered him into a waiting wheelchair. Too tired to argue anymore, he just closed his eyes and let them take him away.

He didn’t look back.

Other people took control of his life then and he let them. First he was taken to x-ray, where a cheerful technician photographed his ankle and chatted endlessly about something. Starsky didn’t listen.

Before he knew what was happening, someone had stuck a needle in his arm and everything began to grow blurry. He tried to protest, but the words were lost in sleep.

He woke up much later. His foot, sporting a fresh cast, was suspended from a pulley over the bed. He lay still for a moment, watching Dobey sleep in a chair across the room. What’s he doing here? Should be with Hutch. Unless . . . unless there isn’t any need for him to be with Hutch . . . .

It would be like Dobey, Starsky thought, to stay here so that he could tell me himself.

Moving carefully, he sat up and managed after a few moments’ effort to pull his foot free from the pulley. There was a robe lying across the end of the bed and he pulled it on over the skimpy hospital gown.

He slid out of the bed, gingerly resting his foot on the floor, and looked around for the cane. Apparently no one had expected him to be walking around, because the cane was nowhere in sight. He shrugged and went without it. Dobey didn’t stir as Starsky crossed the room, eased the door open and slipped into the hall.

Apart from a few visitors, who did no more than look at him curiously, there was no one in the corridor as Starsky retraced his steps to the intensive care unit. He stood outside the room and stared in through the glass. The oxygen tent was gone and Hutch was lying in the bed, hooked up to what looked like a dozen different machines. Starsky felt a lessening of the tightness in his chest. Still holding on, Hutch . . . good boy.

The doctor glanced up and saw Starsky leaning against the window. He spoke a few words to the nurse. She nodded and came to the door. “Detective Starsky?” she said pleasantly.

“Don’t send me back to the room,” he said. “I won’t get in the way, I promise . . . please.” He tried to smile.

“The doctor says you may come in for just a moment, if you like. Detective Hutchinson has been asking for you.”

Starsky hung back a little. After all he’d been through–the pain, the fear, the waiting–it was hard for him to realize that he could just walk through the door and see Hutch.

“Come on,” the nurse urged gently. “He’s all right.”

She held the door open and he followed her inside. The other nurse stood aside and Starsky took her place by the bed. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes.

Hutch was awake and recognition flickered in his pale blue eyes when he saw Starsky. “Starsk . . . .” he said, his lips barely moving.

“Hi,” Starsky said softly. “How you doing?”

“Okay . . . you?”

“Never better.” He hesitated; then, tentatively, as if holding a fragile object, took Hutch’s hand. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. “Damn,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed. On the other side of the bed someone was adjusting an IV in Hutch’s arm. “Rough,” he said. “Thought I’d bought it.”

“Me, too. Thought we both had. But we pulled it off.” He got the courage finally to look closely at Hutch’s pale face. His partner looked tired, but beyond that okay. Better than okay; he looked wonderful. Alive.

Hutch tried to turn his head and see Starsky’s foot, but the effort was too much. “They said you broke your ankle.”

“Yeah. But it’s all right.” Starsky realized that the nurse was hovering just behind him. She tapped him on the shoulder. “Guess I have to go,” he said reluctantly. “You need to rest. But I’ll come back later.”

“Okay . . . Starsk?”

“Hmmm?”

Hutch seemed to falter for a moment. “. . . thanks . . .”

Starsky shrugged. “What for?”

“Idiot. You know what for.”

He smiled a little. “So? What’s a partner for anyway?” He clung to Hutch’s hand a moment longer and then allowed the nurse to lead him out of the room. With a frown, she settled him in a wheel chair again.

“You shouldn’t be walking on that cast,” she scolded him. “They might have to re-set it now.”

Starsky grinned at her. “Doesn’t matter, honey.”

“Well, it should matter. Would you like to limp for the rest of your life?”

Starsky considered that for a moment. “No,” he agreed, as she pushed him toward his room. “But I had to check on my partner.”

“You should have asked someone. They would have told you that he was doing fine.”

As they reached the room, Starsky shook his head. “No. I had to see him. Just to be sure.”

Dobey was awake when they entered. He waited until the nurse settled Starsky on the bed and left the room. “Where the devil did you go?” he growled in his fiercest mock-angry voice.

Starsky was sitting up in the bed. “To see Hutch. They let me talk to him.”

“How is he?”

Starsky nodded. “Okay.” He tried to keep smiling, but sudden tears welled in his eyes. He turned away from Dobey quickly. “I think he’s going to make it,” he said after a moment, his voice choked.

“Thank god,” Dobey said. He stood, straightening his tie and giving Starsky a minute to recover. “I better go check on Mendala.”

Starsky cleared his throat. “Will he live to testify?”

“Yes. It was a mild attack. But if you hadn’t given him the treatment right away, he probably would have died. We’ll get Guardino. That should make you feel good.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Starsky realized that his ankle was hurting.

“You guess?” Dobey sounded indignant. “After what he did to you?”

Starsky tried to explain. “I’ll be glad to get Guardino,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t even things up. Nothing could do that. What we went through . . . hell, maybe I’m just too tired to care right now.”

Dobey frowned at him. “You lie down, Detective Starsky,” he ordered. “And this time you stay there until they tell you to get up.”

“Sure, Cap,” Starsky said, lying down. He gave a grateful sigh, then lifted his head again. “Hey, see what can be done about my car, willya? I don’t want to leave it out there any longer than I have to.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“And, Captain–”

Dobey, halfway out the door, stopped. “What?”

“You’ll let me know–”

“Sure, Starsky. Any change in Hutch’s condition, you’ll know right away.”

“Thanks.” Starsky settled back and closed his eyes. Hutch was going to be all right. The nightmare was over. This time, one part of his mind said. You made it this time . . . but just barely. What about the next time? And there will be a next time. Count on it. Another choice; another chance to win a bitter victory or to lose it all. He pulled the blanket up, suddenly cold.

He was lost in thought and never even felt the needle going into his arm.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Starsky turned the volume up another notch on the stereo and the sound of the Moody Blues reverberated off the walls. He gave a satisfied sigh. This party was more than living up to the daydreams he’d had a month ago. Huggy was pouring drinks with a very free hand at the kitchen table. All of the over two dozen people crammed into his apartment seemed to be having a good time. Velma, the redhead from the radio room, was dancing energetically–alone, but with eye-boggling enthusiasm. Starsky watched her for a moment, before his gaze moved on. Even Dobey looked like he was enjoying himself as he surveyed the contents of the heavily-laden buffet table.

It was a perfect party.

Starsky took in the whole scene again in a glance; he frowned slightly. One flaw in all of this perfection: the guest of honor was missing. Starsky felt that same vague unease he’d been feeling ever since Hutch had been released from the hospital. Something wasn’t quite right between them; Hutch seemed to find his partner’s perfectly logical concern annoying.

Starsky picked up two beers at the makeshift bar and went into the hallway. The window to the fire escape was open and, on a hunch, he climbed out.

Hutch was out there, leaning against the railing. He glanced around as Starsky joined him. “Hi.”

“Hiya.” Starsky held out one beer. “Everything okay?”

“Sure.” Hutch took the beer and sipped it.

“You feeling all right?”

“I’m fine, Starsk. Quit making like a mother hen, will you?” Hutch turned away and looked out over the neon lights of the city again.

“Okay. Sorry.” Can’t seem to say the right thing anymore. He stared at Hutch for a moment. His partner was still too thin and still pale, but otherwise he seemed all right. He was even wearing the shirt that Starsky had given him to replace the ruined T-shirt. “That’s some shirt,” Starsky said finally.

Hutch glanced down at the purple and green and yellow Hawaiian print. “Sure is,” he agreed ambiguously.

Starsky turned and started back in through the window.

“Wait,” Hutch said. “Don’t go in yet.”

Starsky hesitated, then sat on the steps. “Thought maybe you wanted to be by yourself,” he muttered.

“Not necessarily.” They were both quiet, listening to the muffled sound of the music coming from Starsky’s apartment.

“I just came out here for some fresh air,” Hutch said. “Even city air feels pretty good right now.”

“Pretty good?” Starsky echoed. He took a deep breath. “It’s great. I’ve had enough fresh mountain air to last me a lifetime.”

Hutch smiled faintly. Again they were silent, until Hutch said hesitantly, “Starsk . . . .”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t had a chance yet to . . . thank you.” Hutch didn’t bother to add that the reason he hadn’t yet had that opportunity was because Starsky seemed to deliberately avoid being alone with him or, when they were alone, stoutly refused to let the talk turn serious.

Now he squirmed, gulping beer. “Ah, you did that already. At the hospital. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember.” Hutch came over and sat down next to him. “I remember almost everything that happened. It’s kinda funny. I was out of my head most of the time, but I can still remember so much. What I said. What you said.” He took a sip of the beer and swallowed slowly. “But that time at the hospital doesn’t really count. I want to say it again.” Their gazes met and locked. “Thanks, Starsk.”

Starsky looked away first, staring broodily into the night. “I . . . shouldn’t have left you behind.”

“You didn’t have any choice.”

Starsky shook his head. “I had a choice.”

Hutch sighed. So . . . this explains it . . . a good dose of guilt . . . the idiot . . . that’s why he’s been treating me with kid gloves . . . should have figured. “Starsk, I would have done the same thing, if it had been the other way around.”

“Would you?” Starsky said doubtfully.

Hutch nodded. “Yes.” He set the beer down and leaned back against the stairs. “Hell, it would’ve been the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. To just walk away and leave you. It must have been rough on you.”

Starsky shivered a little. “It was. God, it was. I knew it had to be done, but . . . .” He twisted the beer can around in his hands. “I felt like I was betraying you. Letting you down. And for what? For a piece of garbage like Mendala.”

Hutch was quiet for a moment. “It wasn’t just for Mendala, Starsk. It was for a lot more than that.”

“I know.” Starsky paused and when he continued his voice was so soft that Hutch had to lean forward in order to hear. “I thought maybe . . . you wouldn’t be able to trust me anymore.”

Hutch stared at Starsky’s face. “I trust you. Hell, Starsk, I do trust you. What you did up there on the mountain, you had to do. No alternative. But that doesn’t affect how I feel about you. Besides, you’re forgetting the most important thing.”

Starsky looked at him curiously. “What’s that?”

“You came back.” Hutch picked up his beer and took a drink. “You did come back. I knew you would. I almost wanted to die, you know?”

“Why?”

“Because it seemed so . . . hopeless. It was so cold and I hurt so much. I just wanted to let go. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

Hutch waited until Starsky looked at him again; he made his voice firm. “Because I knew that you would be back for me.”

“Thank you,” Starsky said in a whisper.

Hutch draped one arm around Starsky’s shoulders and gave him a firm hug. After a moment, he withdrew his arm and got to his feet. “For a couple of tough cops,” he said grinning, “we sure can get soapy.”

Starsky leaned back and looked up at him. “Psychologists say that it’s much healthier to express honest emotions than to keep them all bottled up inside.”

“S’at so? Where’d you hear that?”

“From a book I was reading yesterday. In the check-out line at the grocery store.”

Hutch hid his smile by bending to crush the beer can. “So what was the title of that fascinating book?” he asked.

“Thirty Days to a Healthier Psyche.”

Hutch shook his head, laughing. “Oh, Starsk. Sometimes I wonder why you’re my best friend.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Starsky said indignantly.

“Nothing, nothing.” He changed the subject quickly. “Did Dobey tell you I’ll be back on duty Monday?”

Starsky frowned a little. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“The doctors say I am. Unless you think you know better? Or maybe you’re just used to working with Whitman? Maybe you’d like having him for your partner permanently.”

“Hah,” Starsky said. “Whitman has not been my partner. He’s been a passenger in the car with me. And speaking of cars, mine is ready.”

“Great,” Hutch said glumly. “Guess everything will be back to normal come Monday, then.”

“I guess.” Starsky bit his lip. “Are we doing the right thing, Hutch? I mean, for a while, I really thought about quitting.”

“I know. So did I.” Hutch shook his head. “But we can’t, Starsk. This is all too much a part of what we are. We’re cops. And partners. And friends. It all goes together.”

“I guess.”

“Risks and all.” Hutch shrugged. “No way out. Anyway,” he finished briskly, “don’t you think we’d better get back to the party? Somebody might miss us.”

“Yeah.” Starsky smiled. “Velma promised me a dance.”

Hutch grinned lecherously and climbed in through the window.

Starsky sat still for a moment. He took a deep breath of the night air, held it briefly, and expelled slowly. He realized then that Hutch had not yet returned to the party, but was hovering just inside the dim hallway, waiting for him.

He gulped down the last of his beer, crumpled the can cheerfully, and followed his partner.

If you need a reason to begin again
I am
I am
you will find an answer at your journey’s end
I am
waiting there, my friend . . .
I’m the one you call your friend . . . 
HAYWARD & LODGE

end