Risk

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Starsky’s dangerous undercover assignment — his first since Gunther’s hit — fails when the drug deal falls through. Hutch, who could only worry from a distance, is as frustrated as Starsky, but grateful that the end of the assignment means they can work together again. But Starsky seems distant. Hutch thinks it’s because of the botched case… or is something else going on? Why did Starsky take such a difficult solo assignment without Hutch? Is their partnership fraying? When Starsky leaves town without telling him, giving Dobey a flimsy excuse, Hutch decides to hunt him down. But every trace of Starsky is gone. It’s as if he’s vanished.

 

History: From Fanlore.org: Risk is a slash 58k word novel written by Linda McGee and edited by April Valentine. The first draft of this story appeared in Nightlight #1 in 1986. This slightly expanded version, published as a stand-alone zine in 1997 is a few pages longer.

The zine won a Huggy Award at ZebraCon in 1997 and a Slash Talent in Fandom Award at Media West in 1998, both in the category “Best SH novel.” This story was nominated for a STIFfie in 1997.

From the zine’s title page: Copyright 1997 for the author and artists. This is a (definitely) non-profit amateur publication intended solely for the entertainment of its readers, and is not intended to infringe upon copyrights held by Spelling-Goldberg productions or any other holders of Starsky & Hutch copyrights. “Risk” originally appeared in Nightlight (Amapola Press, 1986).

Art: Cover (on Fanlore) by Linda Cody.

Illustrated by Merle Decker. Some illos can be seen on Fanlore here.

The art by Merle Decker that appeared in Nightlight #1 was reprinted in the stand-alone novel.

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Author’s Introduction of the 1996 zine:

HELLO FRIENDS…

To revisit an old creation, with the chance to smooth out some rough spots and enrich the text, is a rare and rewarding experience. I’ve very much enjoyed the opportunity to go over RISK with the benefit of eleven more years of writing experience — polishing, refining, and adding to the story. In length, it’s three pages longer than the original draft, but the additions have been made a sentence or two (or, occasionally, three or four) at a time throughout the text, rather than in complete new scenes. When one has written a basically “A-B-C” story, with few time periods skipped, it’s rather difficult to think of “missing scenes” to add!

This novella exists due to the impetus of the following people:

Trish — Who started it all.

Brigitte — The very nice person who wanted to auction copies for the benefit of the PAF at her German Fanday, and who arranged to have the story retyped by:

Kirsten and Anne — Thank you, ladies, for the many hours it must have taken you to type the story onto a disk.

Thanks are also due to:

Merle Decker — For allowing the use of her wonderful illustrations from the original publication.

Linda Cody — For the absolutely perfect cover.

April Valentine — Whose editing expertise all those years ago not only made my first draft a much better story, but who also provided a model of how a good editor works, which has been most useful to me.

And most of all, to Paul and David, for breathing LIFE into the characters of Starsky and Hutch — whose unique love has given us all years of pleasure and inspiration.

In The Beginning, Trish planted the seed. “Why don’t you publish RISK as a novella? I really loved it and I’d like to have a copy!” My response to this suggestion began as, “Why? You already have it in a zine!” before going to “Thanks, that’s very flattering. But I don’t have the story on disk and I’m not going to re-type it!” After a few other people agreed with Trish, I began to think, “You know, it would be nice to have a second chance at that story.” After Brigitte, Kirsten, and Anne entered the picture, it just seemed that things were falling into place so well that it must be “meant to be.”

“Meant to be” it was, and now it is. I hope that you enjoy this story.

Linda

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PART ONE

Lieutenant Winston Teagle was treading on dangerous ground. Hutch took another deep breath and struggled to rein his mounting hostility. Thirty-four days. Wasted. All the danger, all the stress, for nothing.

“Metro’s golden boys. You’re supposed to be the best. So tell me, Sergeant Starsky, what’s your explanation for this fiasco?”

Whoa. He doesn’t have to take that kind of shit off you. Hutch stood up, resting his hands on the scarred top of the lieutenant’s desk. Keeping his voice calm with an effort, he gritted out, “My partner risked his ass to set up this bust.”

“Hutch…”

Teagle was unimpressed. Locking his beefy fingers together on the desk, he favored Hutch with a sour expression. “Regardless of that, Hutchinson, the fact remains that the suspects did not keep their appointment. They are, in fact, nowhere to be found. There was no exchange of money for drugs. And without that, we have no case.”

And does pinning all the blame on Starsky make you feel better? The failed drug bust was the disappointing culmination to a day that had promised both a successful conclusion to a murder case, and surcease from the torment of having his partner undercover without him, walking in constant jeopardy without Hutch there to watch his back. “At least now you know who you’re looking for.”

The narrow lip curled derisively. ”Yes, and we have the whole country to do it in, don’t we? Not to mention Mexico. The point of this whole operation was to arrest O’Neal’s killers.” He fixed accusing eyes on Starsky, who had remained seated. “This was your show. You’re supposed to know what you’re doing. I want to know why Donald and Alfred Bailey aren’t in a cell downstairs.”

“Now hold on.” Hutch cut off Starsky’s reply. “We’ve already been over this a dozen times. There’s nothing to be gained by doing it again. Starsky set up a buy. The Bailey brothers didn’t show. No one knows what went wrong. You win some, you lose some.”

“Hutch…”

“There’s too much involved in this to dismiss it quite so cavalierly.” Teagle turned to Starsky. “Maybe they don’t know who you are. There could be other reasons they didn’t make the meet. It’s still possible you could get a line on them.”

“No!” Hutch almost leapt over the desk. Stabbing his finger at the florid all-American face, he made certain his message was clearly understood. “This has all been settled. Starsky’s out of it.” He held up his hand to forestall Teagle’s response. “Dobey backs us up. So there’s no point in continuing this conversation.”

Starsky had risen to stand beside him. “Come on, Starsk.” He yanked open the office door, allowed Starsky to pass through, then slammed it behind them. The glass rattled satisfactorily, drawing speculative looks from the second shift detectives in the squad room.

Hutch stalked towards the elevators, still seething. “Of all the hypocrites! Teagle comes to Metro begging Dobey to loan him a good cop to go undercover, then when it doesn’t tum out like he wants, he treats you like you’re some snot-nosed rookie.”

“He came to Metro because he needed someone who wasn’t known in North Hollywood,” Starsky corrected mildly. “My charm, looks, and intelligence are just coincidental.”

Ignoring the attempt at conciliation, Hutch released some frustration on the DOWN button. “He was lucky to get you, and he’d damn well better know it. Without you, he’d have no idea who killed O’Neal.”

Starsky rubbed his forehead wearily. “Do you blame him for being upset? Come on, Hutch. One of his men gets killed, and naturally he wants to get the guys who did it. Then I get a confession from Alf, and he figures we’ll get them on a felony drug rap, and they slip through our fingers.”

“Well, it wasn’t your fault. You spent thirty-four days setting this up. For the past two weeks you’ve been Alf’s best buddy. He trusted you more than he does his own brother. If something queered the deal, it wasn’t anything you did.”

Starsky shrugged noncommittally.

“And then, after practically accusing you of screwing up the whole bust personally, he has the gall to suggest you stay under and try to get a lead on them? With them probably knowing you’re a cop!”

Even the elevators at the Sepulveda Precinct stank. Charged with indignation, Hutch smashed the ineffective button with the heel of his hand. Your type really steams me, Teagle. Fucking Joe College, kiss-ass, ladder-climbing jerk-off. As soon as you got behind that desk you forgot what it was like to be on the street. You don’t take long shot chances with psychos like the Bailey brothers. If there’s even a hint that Starsky’s cover was blown, he should be out of it. Alf Bailey cut O’Neal open with that knife of his. And Starsky’s been stringing him along, playing on his ego to set him up. If Alf found out that was all scam… No. There’s no way I’d let him go back down there.

The elevator finally arrived.

“Asshole,” he continued aloud. “He oughta be apologizing to you. You didn’t have to agree to this. It’s Sepulveda’s case, not Metro’s. Let them take care of their own garbage. We’ve got plenty of our own, thank you very much.”

At 10:00 p.m., the usual Friday night influx of domestic disputants, crime victims, and drunks were beginning to congest the halls. Pushing past two uniformed patrolmen dragging a belligerent hooker, they headed for the rear of the building and the Police parking area. “Well, Dobey set him straight. At least he’s got a hold on reality. We’ll be back at Metro Monday morning.” They passed through the heavy doors and into the hazy L.A. night. As they descended the steps, Hutch’s sense of outrage returned. “Thirty-four fucking days. For nothing,” he muttered bitterly.

“Lighten up, will you? Anyone’d think it was you he’d been chewing out!”

The strained words snapped Hutch into the realization that he’d been griping steadily, single-mindedly ignoring the object of his concern. It’s not your fault. It’s you I’m worried about! Halting abruptly, he turned to scrutinize Starsky in the circle of the floodlight, noting the dark smudges under his eyes and the tensed alertness of his stance. The signs of fatigue and stress chastened him further. This has been hard on you, hasn’t it? You haven’t said much, but I know you. Alf sounds like a real sicko, and you had to get close to him…

Starsky confronted him, silently defiant. His partner needed to get away from here and relax, not listen to him rant. In a gesture of contrition, Hutch extended his hand, palm up. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

After a moment Starsky took it, but his eyes were still wary.

“I mean it. Teagle just got to me. He really knows how to say all the wrong things.” Hutch forced a smile, determined to pull himself out of his black mood for Starsky’s sake. “Come on. I’ll drive you by the Pits to pick up your car. Huggy’s been taking good care of it. Then we’ll go to my place and I’ll cook dinner. Bet you’ve been eating nothing but fast food, right?”

Starsky’s answering half-smile didn’t quite erase the lines of tension from his face. “They don’t have home cooking at the Union Street Hotel. A free meal sounds great. How about that Chinese thing you’ve been promising me?”

“‘That Chinese thing’? Okay, we’ll stop by the store. And how about some special wine? We’ll make it a celebration.”

“Not much to celebrate,” Starsky mumbled. Seeing Hutch’s expression, he amended, “But I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

***

An hour later Hutch set his grocery bag on the kitchen counter and turned to Starsky. “Come on, you junk-food junkie. At least I can get some real food into you before you attempt suicide by indigestion. You know, sort of a protective lining for your stomach?”

Starsky flipped him the finger.

Hutch unloaded the fixings for dinner, studiously ignoring the dessert items Starsky was drawing from the other bag. Double-fudge pie. Peppermint ice cream and marshmallow sauce. Maraschino cherries, for chrissakes. Years of experience suggested that at least fifty percent of Starsky’s enjoyment of that diabetic’s nightmare had to be Hutch’s predictable reaction. This time he’d counterattack with indifference.

Hutch dumped the vegetables into the sink and began washing them. Dessert stored safely away, Starsky grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and propped himself against the counter. “Thought I’d pick up on some of your flashy technique,” he announced. “Go on, Galloping Gourmet, impress me.”

With a bow, Hutch essayed an impromptu juggling routine with the spice jars, which ended with him quickly losing control of the situation. Starsky rescued the curry powder an instant before it impacted with the sink. He ruffled Hutch’s hair fondly and admonished, “Never mind, blondie. Guess you ain’t ready for Benihana yet.”

Starsky kept up a running line of dialog, keeping him company while he cooked, and Hutch found that his improved mood was no longer forced. It was good to have his partner back. They’d barely seen each other in the past month. Starsky had been busy establishing his identity as Moe Green, independent dealer who’d come to The Big City to score what he could in the way of mind-altering drugs. Their contacts had necessarily been brief and businesslike, and Hutch had missed the familiar companionship. He was looking forward to making up for it this weekend.

Starsky needed to unwind. Although he’d handled the assignment with his usual skill and professionalism, Hutch sensed an indefinable tension in his friend.

Undercover’s always rough, but especially when you’re working alone. And he’s only been back on active duty four months. No wonder he’s wired up. What he needs is to get his mind off the job for a while. Monday’ll be soon enough to worry about the Bailey brothers.

Absorbed with the wok and his thoughts, Hutch was only peripherally aware of Starsky rummaging through the drawers and cabinets. His partner stepped back from the table with a satisfied exclamation just as Hutch turned to pour the vegetables over the rice. The silverware was laid, and as a centerpiece, two plain tallow candles from the junk drawer sat in mundane glory in a couple of beer bottles retrieved from the garbage.

“Classy dinner like this deserves candlelight,” Starsky explained sheepishly.

Hutch rolled his eyes long-sufferingly, slipping easily into the familiar badinage. Starsky was off the case now, out of danger. It was Friday night and the weekend stretched ahead free of professional obligations. “Pour the wine, turkey,” he said.

The dinner was a lighthearted success born of good food, potent spirits, easy conversation, and warm companionship. A bottle of plum wine met a noble death. While refusing Starsky’s dessert concoction with mock self-righteousness, Hutch nevertheless let himself be persuaded to share from the peppermint section of the bowl. Starsky fed him, teasing him by withdrawing the spoon just as Hutch opened his mouth for it. His eyes glittered darkly in the candle glow, and his face was relaxed in that familiar crooked smile. He looked so happy and at peace that Hutch laughed in response, mellow on the wine and ambushed by one of life’s rare moments of perfect contentment.

The spoon froze abruptly. As Hutch watched, the mischievous good humor on Starsky’s face faded into a kind of sick distress. Starsky pushed back hastily from the table, tossing the spoon into the bowl. ”You can finish it. I gotta go…” He jerked his head in the direction of the bathroom. “Back in a minute.”

Hutch was left staring blankly after his retreating back. After a couple of seconds, he got up and made his way to the bathroom. He could hear no sound from within. He turned the knob and was surprised to find the door locked. “Starsk… You okay in there?” He rattled the latch.

“Y-yeah. Be right out.” Starsky sounded shaky. Hutch heard the commode flush, followed by the sound of running water. And then the door opened abruptly and Starsky almost collided with him on his way out. His face looked flushed and sweaty.

“Hey, what happened?”

Starsky edged around him, speaking casually but not meeting his eyes. “No problem. Just a little too much good food and good wine.” Crossing to the kitchen, he set the bowl, spoon and all, in the freezer. In spite of the comment about drinking too much, he popped open another beer and brought it with him to the couch. Propping his feet on the coffee table, he called over his shoulder to Hutch. ”You said we were celebrating, didn’t you?”

Hutch came slowly into the living room, all his senses working in an effort to read his partner. Starsky slouched on the couch, studying the Escher print on the wall. Hutch sat down beside him, eyes searching the unreadable features. “Starsk. What’s wrong?”

Starsky turned a surprised look at him. “Whadaya mean?”

“Something bothering you? Can I help?”

Starsky’s expression held nothing but genuine puzzlement. “What? No, man, nothing’s wrong. What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. Just…” Suddenly Hutch felt foolish. He was overreacting, seeing problems where there were none. With a rueful shrug, he clasped Starsky’s knee briefly. “Never mind. If there ever is a problem, you know you can come to me. Right?”

“Sure, buddy.” Starsky stretched lengthily, dangling his arms over the back of the couch, moving his body away from Hutch’s and into the corner of the sofa. His Adidas-shod feet rose tentatively, and Hutch slid down to the other end, giving him room to put his feet up. “It’ll be good to be around normal people for a change,” Starsky commented casually.

Hutch managed not to ask again if he was all right. In spite of years of familiarity, he was unsure what to say, or not to say. In most ways they were closer than ever, but there had always been areas of Starsky’s unique personality that remained an enigma to Hutch, and the month apart seemed to have interfered with their usual rapport. He could sense a… what? …a need in Starsky, but he couldn’t get a fix on its source, or its focus.

“Why’d you do it, Starsk?”

“Do what?”

“Why’d you take the assignment? You didn’t have to, you know. We’ve got enough seniority now where we could have let it go to the other guys.” Again he felt the surge of resentment that Starsky had even been offered the role in Teagle’s little scenario.

For a long moment Starsky sat in silent contemplation. The Escher, which he’d seen hundreds of times, apparently fascinated him tonight. Finally he sighed. “We talked about this that first day, Hutch. I don’t have anything to add to what I said then.”

Lt. Teagle briefed them in Dobey’s office. One of his Vice officers had been knifed to death while investigating a supposedly smalltime drug ring. Teagle wanted to borrow an experienced officer to follow up on the case.

Hutch glowered at Dobey, who avoided his eyes. You know we want to slow down. Why didn’t you give this to Thompson or Davies? Before he could give vent to his sentiments, his astounded ears heard Starsky accept the assignment.

“Captatn, Lieutenant, could you excuse us a minute? My partner and I have to discuss this.” He practically dragged Starsky into the corner. “Are you crazy? What do you mean, agreeing like that without even talking it over?”

“What’s to talk about? You heard the Lieutenant. O’Neal was a brother cop. He had two kids. You expect me to just let it go?”

“You’re not the only cop in L.A., for chrissakes. Let someone else do it.”

“Why should someone else do it? I can handle it.”

“Why does it have to be you?” Hutch challenged.

“It’s our job, remember? The Board passed me fit. You saying I’m not?”

Starsky’s face wore a pugnacious look, and Hutch knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere. Starsky hated being told what to do, and he hated having his fitness questioned, especially after he’d worked so hard to get back into shape. And he’s right. The doctors say he’s in A-I condition, but…

Dobey and Teagle were shifting uncomfortably, obviously trying not to listen to a conversation they couldn’t help but overhear.

Eight months ago he’d made a promise to Starsky and to himself. The commitment had been one of unconditional support, and apparently Starsky was calling in that marker now. Shit. Hutch’s glare encompassed Dobey, Teagle, and his crack-brained counterpart. “All right. So let me get this straight. You want Starsky to settle in and try to find out who O’Neal was planning to meet that night. I’ll be his contact, of course…”

Starsky squeezed his arm and flashed him a brief, grateful grin.

“I know what you said. But I thought we’d agreed it was time to slow down some. Not take so many chances…”

Times change, Starsk. People change. We’ve learned a lot. We can be good, useful cops without living on the edge all the time like we used to. We don’t have to die. I couldn’t take losing you again…

Starsky looked at him then, and his expression softened as he picked up on Hutch’s fear. “I know, babe. You’re right. I’ll take it easier from now on, promise. Thanks for sticking by me on this one. Guess I just needed to prove to myself I could still do it.” He frowned. “Wish to hell I could figure out what went wrong. I swear that when we set the deal up last night Alf and his brother thought I was God’s gift to independent businessmen. They were all ready to sell us ten keys of sherm, and throw in all the acid and PCP we could handle as a bonus. So what happened between then and tonight?”

Starsky was beginning to brood. Suddenly Hutch didn’t want to talk about the case anymore.

Hoping that music would lighten the atmosphere, he went to the stereo and began to thumb through his albums. “Don’t worry about it. At least now we know who we’re looking for. Monday morning we’ll start fresh. Alf told you they had a house where they store the pot and add the PCP. We’ll start working on that angle. Maybe pick up P.Judy Jones and see what he knows. For now, let’s forget it.” He debated the relative merits of Kristofferson and Willie Nelson, settling on Honeysuckle Rose.

As the record dropped to the turntable, Starsky came padding up to stand beside him. After a moment he slid his arm around Hutch’s waist for a brief, tentative hug. Hutch’s arm came reflexively around Starsky’s shoulders, returning the embrace. Then, moved by deep affection and the unique comfort he felt being with his best friend, he turned and pulled Starsky into a hug. “I love you, buddy.” In a spontaneous gesture, he dropped a kiss on the curly head.

Starsky stiffened noticeably within his arms. Before vague surprise had time to register completely, “On the Road Again” developed an irritating pop. Hutch released him, and by the time he had cleaned the needle, Starsky was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water.

Well, you’ve had enough alcohol, Hutch thought in automatic admonition. Starsky hadn’t been much of a drinker since getting out of the hospital, but he’d been putting the beer away steadily all evening. And the wine, of course. Letting off steam. Well, he deserves it. Hutch stifled the unnecessary and definitely unwise impulse to tell Starsky not to drink too much. His nagging rights had ended when Starsky passed his physical.

I just got so used to watching out for you, making sure you take care of yourself... It’s a hard habit to break but I guess it’s past time. You’ve got one Jewish mother already; you don’t need another one.

What Starsky needed was… what? What did his friend require to soothe him? He had set the glass in the sink and was now prowling restlessly back and forth along the kitchen counter, aimlessly reading labels on the food items on the open shelves. Again, Hutch sensed the tension in him, the hint of troubled feelings deliberately suppressed.

Starsky glanced at his watch and, in a reflexive reaction, Hutch did the same. One-fifteen. The evening was going fast. Halfway to the couch the thought struck him, and he snapped his fingers angrily. “Ah, shit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Gotta call Caroline. Tell her I can’t make it tomorrow.” Hutch went to the phone, trying to recall where he’d left the card with her number.

“Caroline?”

Maybe the drawer. “She called the other day. Some friends of hers have a boat up at Lake Helton, and they’ve got a little trip going this weekend. I told her I couldn’t go out of town overnight with you under, but she bullied me into saying I’d come for the day. Then when the buy came down for tonight, I forgot to call and cancel it.” He grinned ruefully. “She’s gonna be pissed.”

The card wasn’t in the drawer. He chided himself for never bothering to memorize the number and stood impatiently, trying to recall when he’d last called his sometime girlfriend.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Didn’t I call her from work a couple of weeks ago? He dug out his wallet.

“Don’t change your plans. You go to Lake Helton.”

Burrowing impatiently through credit cards, receipts, and old case notes, Hutch didn’t consider the suggestion seriously. “Of course not. I’ll just call her and tell her I can’t make it. I was only kidding about her being pissed. And if she is, so what? She might as well get used to it. A cop’s life isn’t nine to five.”

“No, really, Hutch. Don’t change your plans for me. You go on. Go for the weekend.”

Hutch began to pay closer attention. “Starsky, what are you talking about?”

“I’m going up to King’s Canyon National Park for the weekend. With Celia. There’s some arts festival she wants to hit.”

Hutch realized his face must be mirroring his astonishment. “Celia? I thought the two of you had called it quits.”

”Yeah, well, we’ve patched it up.” With a dismissive shrug, Starsky leaned back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest and crossing his ankles.

The announcement was so totally unexpected that Hutch found himself focusing on the trivial. “When did all this happen?”

Starsky actually blushed. “I called her from the station while you were turning in the money for the buy.”

”You… called her from the station.”

“That’s right.” Starsky turned towards the stove, restless fingers tracing the contours of the tea kettle, his face hidden. “Maybe you were right; maybe we are getting too old for this supercop bit. Maybe it’s time to think about settling down some.” The hand rose to massage the back of his neck. In an apparent non-sequitur, he continued. “That Alf’s weird, man. Did I tell you he said I’m the best friend he ever had? Jesus, Hutch. He never had a friend except me, the guy trying to set him up. Some luck, huh? I know he’s crazy, and I know he’s a doper and a murderer and needs to be put off the streets. And he makes my skin crawl just to be in the same room. So why do I feel like such a bastard?”

Is that what’s bothering you? I knew it was hard for you, buddying up to Alf so he’d trust you enough to sell to you. And having him hanging all over you, even if you are sure it was just stoned sentimentality and not some kind of pass. Hutch’s jaw tightened at the image of the drunkenly affectionate maulings Starsky had alluded to. Alf Bailey is an animal. I didn’t realize you were feeling guilty about setting him up. Wasting tears on lost causes is more my line. Or used to be...

Instinctively he moved to comfort his friend, resting his hand on a taut shoulder. Starsky yanked away abruptly, then looked embarrassed. “Guess I’m a little keyed up. I think what I really need is to get away for a few days with a willing lady. Unwind, y’know?”

Oh. It was Hutch’s turn to be embarrassed. Faux pas. Starsky needed something, all right. But it wasn’t anything his partner could supply.

“Don’t be mad, Hutch.” Starsky stood there like a kid caught stealing cookies, awaiting his reaction.

Suddenly Hutch felt like a petulant child. It‘s his life, dammit! You don’t own him! Starsky’s a grown man, he knows what he needs. Hutch knew from his own experience that danger sometimes brought on a strong sexual tension. He’d never particularly noticed that tendency in Starsky, but his friend had changed in subtle ways since the shooting.

He forced himself to overcome his sense of abandonment and smile. “No problem, Starsk. Sorry to be dense.”

Starsky relaxed visibly. ”You never were the brains of this outfit.”

“Oh, yeah? Five bucks says you’re at each other’s throats again by tomorrow night.”

“We can’t all have your luck, Romeo. You have a good time with your fly-girl, y’hear?”

Hutch played along, denying the persistent and unreasonable feeling of rejection.

A few minutes later Starsky looked at his watch again. “Guess I’d better go, if we’re gonna get an early start.”

At the door, he squeezed Hutch’s arm briefly. “Thanks for the dinner. It was terrific.”

“Any time, Starsk.” There was an awkward moment. “Nice to have you back.”

“Thanks.” Starsky turned away. “Night.”

“Night.”

After putting away the leftovers and piling the dishes in the sink, Hutch poured two fingers of Scotch and went to sit on the sun porch. Even after seven years, there were times when he still wished for a cigarette. Settling back into the chaise lounge, he mulled over the events of the evening.

He had an indefinable sensation of being out of step with his reality, like when the image and sound on a film are slightly out of synchronization. It wasn’t the fact that Starsky wanted some female company that disturbed him. Sex was a fact of life. It was his own misreading of the situation that left him feeling so out of balance.

After Starsky had been shot, Hutch had devoted himself to anticipating and providing for his needs. They’d become so close the lines tended to blur sometimes. But no two people could be everything to each other. Let him have his chance at happiness. Just because you can’t handle a permanent relationship doesn’t mean Starsk won’t find a special lady who’ll make him happy. God knows he deserves it.

But Celia’s not the one, his emotions argued. He’d sized her up during an afternoon spent in her company. One of Starsky’s harem from before the shooting, she possessed brilliant good looks and an outgoing personality, but also a tradition-bound mentality that wanted an orderly, predictable life. Miss America in search of Mr. Right. No wife for a cop. And Starsky was a cop, for better or worse. Celia wasn’t the type to hold Starsky’s interest for long, he mused. He’d soon tire of her if she ever started asserting any real claims on him.

Hutch had thought it had already happened, over a month ago. Just before Starsky had gone undercover, Hutch had suggested a foursome for a movie. Starsky had answered rather abruptly that he and Celia weren’t seeing each other anymore.

He hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Temporary affairs had pretty much become a way of life for both of them. Even those had become less important to him, somehow, in the last nine months. Since Starsky nearly died…

Hutch’s mind shied away from the memory. It’s over, he reminded himself. You got him back. Let it go. It was an oft-repeated litany.

He had his partner back. And the job. Police work satisfied a deep psychological need to do something, to make a difference somehow. In spite of pain and frustration, he still needed it. Their joint victory over James Gunther had renewed Hutch’s flagging dedication by demonstrating just how much difference one man — no, two men — could make. And where else could he and Starsky work together as partners? Their previous resignations hadn’t disclosed any brilliant career opportunities for two ex-policemen.

So he was a cop, and Starsky’s partner. And life wasn’t so bad, after all.

He thought about calling Caroline. What the hell. I might as well go. Maybe it’ll be fun… It’s gotta beat spending the weekend hanging around L.A. while Starsky’s at King’s Canyon getting laid…

 ***

He didn’t have a good time.

They were a congenial enough bunch, if a little on the banal side. The men included him in their good-natured horsing around; the women were attractive and agreeable, and flirted with him in a superficial way. The weather was perfect, the breeze across the lake balmy, and the water inviting. Caroline was as always — beautiful, sexy, and attentive. All in all, the perfect ingredients for a relaxing, enjoyable weekend. But something was missing.

He and the beautiful Caroline shared a too-narrow bunk in the cabin with the other couples. They made silent, passionate love while their companions slept.

And by midmorning Sunday he was aching to get back to L.A. When the western sky began to darken threateningly, and a damp, ominous wind to blow, Hutch cheered silently in relief. Turning down an invitation to continue the party at the Boater’s Club, he left the others at the marina without a backward glance. The storm broke finally as he was crossing the parking lot, spattering him with large drops before he reached his car. By the time he turned onto the highway it was pouring steadily, and the approaching autos all had their headlights on. The interior of the car was an island world in the monochrome gray landscape.

Well, that wasn’t very much fun now, was it? he mused with resigned self mockery.

It was becoming harder and harder to put forth the effort required to maintain a social life. Whether it was the job, or some fatal flaw in his character, he seemed incapable of sustaining a successful romantic relationship. Love affairs begun in tenuous hope ended with doomed consistency in disillusionment on one side or the other. It seemed far easier now, and definitely safer, to approach life with no illusions or expectations.

For what you’re looking for, you might as well throw a little business to the working girls. It was not a new realization; he wasn’t even surprised at how little the thought disturbed him.

Caroline was the first woman he’d dated since Starsky had been shot. She and Hutch had met at, of all places, the symphony. The physical attraction had been instant and mutual. They had been having an undemanding affair for four months now, getting together for some uncomplicated mutual exploitation whenever it was convenient for both.

They probably wouldn’t be seeing each other much longer. Caroline was beginning to complain that she could never depend on him, and to make ”You’re too good to be a cop” noises.

Same old shit. Well, honey, you can fish or cut bait, because what you see is what you get.

Dismissing the depressing subject from his mind, he turned his thoughts instead to the remainder of the day. Maybe Starsky’ll get back early, too, and we can get together. Maybe go down to the Pits. Or the Botanical Garden. Or just hang around…

All weekend he had been haunted by a nagging concern for his friend. Nothing he could put his finger on, just a vague sense that something was wrong.

Parking the third incarnation of the LTD in his usual spot in front of Venice Place, he climbed the stairs quickly, stopping to collect Saturday’s mail from the box. Inside he dropped his bag and headed directly for the phone to call Starsky.

No answer. Hutch denied his disappointment, directing his attention firmly elsewhere. He spent a while tidying up the apartment from Friday night, pausing fondly over Starsky’s impromptu candlesticks. The vague disquiet tickled the back of his mind once more, but he dismissed it resolutely.

He tried Starsky again. No answer.

Forty-five minutes later the bed had been changed, the laundry folded, and the vacuuming was done. And Starsky still did not answer.

Restless and unable to contemplate spending the rest of the afternoon at home, he decided to drive to Metro and start following up on Alf and Don Bailey himself. He was closing the front door downstairs when he thought he heard the phone ring. He paused. Yes, there it was. Starsk! He bounded eagerly up the steps and grabbed for the key on the lintel. It dropped to the floor and he wasted several seconds fumbling for it. At last the door was open and he dived for the phone, his “Hello?” a breathless gasp. The dial tone mocked him.

Shit. Hopefully, he tried Starsky’s number. The phone rang unanswered. Grumbling, he relocked the apartment. This time he made it to his car with no interruptions. It was still raining.

***

In the squad room he began pulling the files on the elusive drug dealers.

Alfred James Bailey, white male, thirty-two years old. Hutch studied the heavyset features. Even in the flat format of the mug shot, Alf projected menace and an intrinsic… wrongness. The high, domed forehead and receding hairline gave an impression of macrocephaly. A “mad scientist” tangle of kinky brown hair reinforced the suggestion of abnormality.

Orphaned at age fourteen, Alf had been placed with a succession of foster families, but had finished his adolescence in a juvenile detention center. His recorded history of violence and mental instability began when he attacked a taunting fellow-foster child with a chair. Just when he had graduated from furniture to knives was not known, but he had served time as an adult for assault with a deadly weapon. Nine months earlier he had been arrested in Chicago for slashing a hooker, but had been released when the victim recanted her testimony.

So he and his brother came out here to go into business. All the shit runs downhill to California.

Time hadn’t changed Alf Bailey. But now all the capricious egoism and heedless destructiveness of the disturbed child were housed in a 265 pound body. Hutch shivered. Thank God you’re out of that, babe. I should never have agreed to it… wouldn’t have if you’d given me a choice.

He set the folder aside and turned his attention to Alf’s older brother. Donald Franklin Bailey, thirty-six years old, bore little physical resemblance to his sibling. Alf’s only living relative was a Vietnam vet and two-time loser, both convictions on drug trafficking charges. From the beginning it had been evident that Don was the brains, Alf the muscle of the fraternal partnership. When they caught him, the elder Bailey would be in for a long sentence.

The door to Captain Dobey’s office opened and the burly black man stepped out, dressed casually in slacks and a sports shirt. He and the detective hesitated momentarily, each apparently surprised to see the other at work on a Sunday.

“Hutchinson. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, hi, Cap. Just thought I’d get a start on the Baileys.” He tossed the folders onto his desk. “Starsk and I both feel real bad about them getting away like that.”

“Have you heard from Starsky? Does he know yet when he’s going to be back?”

Surprise that Captain Dobey either knew that Starsky had gone out of town or had any interest in when he was returning made Hutch hesitate.

“Tonight, I guess. Thought he might have gotten back earlier today, but I called him…” He trailed off as Dobey’s puzzled expression registered. An alternate interpretation of the captain’s question suggested itself. “Hold on a minute. Back from where?”

“New York, I supposed. He said it was ‘family problems.'” Dobey looked questioningly at the stunned detective. “Didn’t you know?”

“Captain, the last I heard from Starsky was Friday night when he left my place. He said he and his girlfriend were driving up to King’s Canyon for the weekend. I was out of town all weekend myself. Just got back a couple of hours ago. What happened?” What could have happened so fast? Did he try to call me? ...And I was with Caroline!

“Well, Starsky called me at 2:00 Friday night — make that Saturday morning — to request an immediate leave because of ‘family problems.’ He wouldn’t specify, but he said it was urgent. I thought it might have something to do with that aging delinquent brother of his. He sounded upset. I just assumed he’d talked to you. You’re saying he didn’t?”

Mind reeling, Hutch shook his head.

His captain looked at him with sympathy. “Well, this could have been happening too fast. And you did say you were out of town. Why don’t you call his mother?”

“Thanks, Captain. Maybe I will.” The sense of foreboding that had been gnawing at him all weekend coalesced into a boulder in the pit of his stomach.

Dobey resumed his interrupted passage to the squad room door. Hand on the knob, he paused. “Oh, and let me know what you find out.”

“Sure.” The door closed behind his superior.

Disbelief. Dismay. Hurt. A multitude of emotions battled for dominance.

Friday night. The captain said he called Friday night. I was home then. If there was trouble why didn’t he call me?

Hutch reached for the telephone directory and quickly located Celia Crawford’s number. Please let her be home…

“Hello?”

“Celia?” He was careful to keep his voice casual. “This is Ken Hutchinson.”

Silence. Then, finally, ”Yes?”

Why was her voice so cold? “Uh, I’m trying to locate that crazy partner of mine. Can you help me out?”

“No.”

Nerves already on edge, Hutch was getting impatient with monosyllabic responses. “Well, when did you see him last?”

Another silence. “Ken.” Celia sounded more than a little impatient herself. “I haven’t seen Starsky for almost two months.”

He sat for a moment in stupefied silence. “But… he said you two were going up to King’s Canyon this weekend.”

“Then he lied. Like I told you, I haven’t seen or heard from Dave Starsky in weeks, and I have no plans to see him in the future. Is that clear enough for you?”

Hutch took a deep breath. “Look, Ceil. Help me out here. Starsky told me on Friday night he was spending the weekend with you. Now you say different. What’s going on? I thought you two were hot and heavy.”

“Well, having your lover call you by his… by someone else’s name in bed cools things off pretty damned quick. Dave and I are finished. As for what he may have told you… All I can say is, apparently he hasn’t been… straight… with you, either.” A short, bitter laugh. ”You’ll have to ask him, because I’ve got no answers for you.”

With a sense of déjà vu, Hutch realized he was for the second time that day listening to a disconnected phone. He replaced the receiver carefully in the cradle.

One fact seemed inalterably clear. Starsky had lied. To him. To Captain Dobey, too, he was certain. Why? The idea that Starsky would deliberately deceive him was so alien that his mind had trouble accepting it.

Something’s wrong, and it doesn’t have anything to do with his family!

He knew with absolute certainty that Starsky had not gone to New York, that it was no “family problem” haunting him.

But something was wrong. Had been wrong Friday night. He’d sensed it then, but had been sidetracked with what he now perceived to be deliberate evasiveness.

What was that business during dessert? One minute everything’s great, he’s happy as a clam, the next he looks like someone just walked over his grave, and he’s locking himself in the john. Starsky had looked really ill when he had fled the table. And then he comes out and acts like nothing’s happened! As if viewing a newsreel, Hutch saw Starsky as he had seen him Friday night, a thousand miles away in the kitchen, face hidden as he unfolded his weekend plans. As he wove his web of lies.

What’s going on? Why won’t you let me in on it?

Dobey’s suggestion to call Rachel Starsky in New York was discarded immediately. I can hear it now: “Excuse me, Mrs. Starsky, but I just found out your son lied to me and has taken off for God-knows-where. Do you have any guesses?” ...No, thanks!

Decisively he left the office, his thoughts on his partner. On the drive to Starsky’s apartment, the unanswered questions chased themselves around his brain in an endless marathon. He felt a tremendous surge of relief when he saw the Torino parked in its usual spot. Now he would get to the bottom of this.

But repeated knocks went unanswered. Spirits plummeting once again, he located the extra key he carried and let himself inside.

The apartment was dark and silent with the emptiness of unoccupied rooms. A brief search confirmed the impression. Starsky was manifestly not at home.

He could have gotten a ride to the airport. But still, instinct told him that the family story had been a fabrication.

It occurred to him to check Starsky’s mailbox. Peering through the slot, he could see Saturday’s mail, unretrieved. The implication that his friend had probably not been home yesterday increased Hutch’s confusion.

If you’re not in New York, and you’re not with Celia, then where the hell are you, buddy?

Using Starsky’s phone, he called the Pits. Tap dancing around his reasons for asking, he obtained the information that Huggy had not seen or heard from Starsky since he and Hutch had been in together Friday night. He cut off Huggy’s curious inquiries and ended the call, reluctant to publicize Starsky’s bewildering chicanery.

There didn’t seem to be anything else to do but go home. Once there he settled down to batter his brain against the enigma of his best friend’s uncharacteristic actions.

***

An hour later the phone rang.

“Hello?” Silence.

His mind was still on Starsky’s mysterious behavior, and it seemed a reflection of his own thoughts when the voice at the other end of the line asked, “Where’s your partner, Hutchinson?”

What? “Who is this?”

“I said, where’s your partner, Hutchinson?” A short, mocking laugh.

The boulder in Hutch’s stomach exploded into a fiery nova. He leaned forward, directing all his attention toward trying to identify the voice. “Starsky’s on vacation. Who is this?”

Another jeering laugh. “On vacation? Well, in a manner of speaking.” The voice turned harsh. “He’s with us, but he doesn’t seem to be enjoying himself. If you want him back in one piece, you’ll do exactly as I tell you.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the man that’s going to cut your partner apart if you cross me. Just remember that when you’re deciding whether or not to be a good little cop and report this.”

“Wait. How do I know you have him?”

“Well, I could send you a finger, but there’s no reason to get dramatic this soon, is there?”

Alf Bailey. Hutch had never met the man, had never heard his voice, but he knew. He answered tersely. “No.” The cop part of him took over. “Let me talk to him.”

The snicker came clearly through the line. The caller was really enjoying himself. “He can’t come to the phone right now. Do you want me to make him scream for you?”

Hutch tasted bile as nausea grabbed his stomach. Oh, God, Starsk, what have you gotten yourself into? “No.” He paused. Stay calm, dammit! Be a cop! “Surely you can come up with something less drastic.”

“As a matter of fact, it’s already taken care of. Here’s the setup… First, you tell no one about this. That’s no one. Second, you come alone…”

Hutch interrupted. “I’m not going anywhere until I know for sure that you’ve got Starsky, and that he’s still alive.” The words came out smoothly, with no evidence of the absolute terror in his heart or the effort it took him to pronounce the last words.

”You’ll do what we tell you, pig!”

Hutch maintained his position stubbornly. “Not without proof.”

The caller had apparently expected such a demand. “We thought you might feel that way. As for Starsky being alive, well, you’ll just have to take my word for that. As I said, he can’t come to the phone.” The caller chuckled at his own wit. “As for the other, look in his refrigerator.”

Refrigerator? Oh God, what will I find in there? He remembered the sadistic offer to send him Starsky’s finger. Hutch was so thrown by the horrible possibilities forcing themselves on him that he almost missed the next words.

“And after you’ve reassured yourself that I’m telling you the truth, you hurry back home, because I’ll be calling you again in an hour to tell you where to meet us.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“We’ll discuss it when you get there.”

Hutch didn’t need any discussion to know exactly that they wanted from him. He would be walking into a death trap.

“Remember, pig. One hour. And no fucking cops. Or Starsky is a dead man, and it’ll be all your fault.”

The connection was broken abruptly and Hutch sat holding the buzzing phone. He was beginning to feel as if he had spent his entire life in this position.

The first thing to do was to get to Starsky’s apartment.

***

The rain had slackened to a steady drizzle. The mars light and siren cleared a path through the weekend traffic. Images too frightening to receive voluntary expression strobed through the borders of Hutch’s mind as he drove. He suppressed them brutally and concentrated on deciding whether or not to bring Dobey in on this.

The natural impulse, to do anything the kidnappers said to insure the safety of the loved one, was strong. But Hutch was a cop, and he knew the value of kidnappers’ promises. Once they had what they wanted, the victim’s usefulness was ended and he became a dangerous witness.

Besides, in this case, both of them were targets.

It has to be the Baileys. Doesn’t it? But if it is, why are they after me? It didn’t make sense, as he had had no direct involvement in the case. If they only wanted me, they could have gotten me easier without involving Starsk. No, they’re not going to trade him for me. They want us both dead, and they knew exactly what bait to use.

There was only one choice he could make.

I can’t do Starsky any good if I let them blow me away. I’ll need help to nail them and make them take me to him. He reached for the radio. When Dispatch answered, he requested a patch-through to Dobey’s home and brought his superior up to date, arranging to meet him at Venice Place as soon as both could make it.

***

For the second time that afternoon he let himself into Starsky’s apartment. The cozy home where he had spent so many hours now rejected him utterly. The present atmosphere seemed ominous, threatening.

Reluctant feet carried him inexorably into the kitchen, where he stood before the refrigerator, mind in a turmoil of apprehension. When he opened the door he flinched back reflexively and closed his eyes, like a child afraid to peek through fingers at the scariest part of the movie.

In a saucer on the top shelf lay Starsky’s rings and a single curl of dark hair.

He had to allow time for the shakes to subside before he trusted himself to reach for the saucer.

Starsky’s rings. The gold one with the double loops and the braided silver circlet. Starsky had worn them together as long as Hutch had known him. He slipped them onto the little finger of his left hand and was unsurprised at the perfect fit. The artificially cooled metal warmed quickly with the heat of his body. The curl of hair he tucked carefully into his wallet.

He wanted to stay and conduct a further search but had to get back to his apartment to meet Dobey and wait for the phone to ring again.

***

Starsky’s first awareness was insistent, voracious pain, a torment that was quickly accompanied by intense nausea. For an indefinite period of time he lay in confused suffering while his muddled mind slowly established a few basic facts.

Fact one: He had the grandfather of all headaches. It was dark, and he was a captive. He lay flat on his back on a padded surface, arms pulled above his head and fastened by some means.

What the hell happened? Where am I? The pounding in his skull made thought difficult, but he was nevertheless lucid enough to realize he was in serious trouble.

Moonlight crept halfheartedly through a window midway down the wall behind his head, and gradually the night yielded some secrets. He lay on a bed in the corner of a small bare room. Even in the dark he could tell by the intangible odor of decay that the room was long unused.

Turning his head caused an ominous lurching in his stomach, but relieved the pressure on the back of his skull, the apparent source of his discomfort. A little careful exploration established that his wrists were secured to the frame of the bed with handcuffs, probably his own, and that his ankles were hobbled together.

Oh. shit… What have I gotten into?

He remembered leaving Hutch’s and stopping at the small quiet bar down the street, where he’d gotten deliberately, grimly drunk. He recalled calling Captain Dobey from the pay phone in the corner, driving carefully home, and fumbling clumsily to get his door key in the lock. Finally the door swung open and he’d stumbled inside. He’d had a brief impression of movement in the dark before the roof caved in.

Well, that takes care of how they got me. Now try for who. And why.

As if on cue, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and muffled conversation. The overhead light came on, stabbing at his eyes to magnify the pain in his head. He flinched away from it.

“About time you woke up.”

Starsky lifted his eyelids again cautiously, and wished he hadn’t.

Alfred and Donald Bailey. Worse and worse. He wasn’t exactly high on their list of favorite people right now. And they had him, but good.

Alf came and stood over him, his menace enhanced by their relative positions, rocking from side to side in that high-strung agitation that had become so familiar to Starsky over the past two weeks. With his aureole of fuzzy brown hair back-lit by the bare bulb overhead, he looked even more demented than usual. The sense of revulsion he had always aroused in Starsky was stronger than ever, because now all the twisted malevolence of Alf’s personality was focused directly on him.

Years of practice enabled him to meet the spiteful gaze unflinchingly. “What’s going on?”

The calm question ignited an outburst of venom. “What’s going on, cop, is that you’re gonna die. And I get to do it to you!”

The enraged behemoth grabbed Starsky by the collar of his T-shirt with both hands and shook him violently. Head exploding with agony, the detective struggled desperately not to black out, and not to throw up.

“Alf! Let him alone!”

He was barely aware of being released. Nausea and cold were swallowing him whole, and Alf’s image was receding into speckled blackness. Starsky fought the relentless pull, but not even the knowledge that he was in deadly danger could hold him in the realm of consciousness.

***

He awakened to daylight, still tied to the bed, still hurting, and frankly surprised to be alive. The headache had receded to a bearable level, and his insides no longer threatened mutiny, so he carefully turned his head to survey his prison. The only other furniture in the bedroom was a battered dresser with two drawers missing. He could see his personal effects lying on the top. The room was neglected and depressing, grimy windows barely letting in the sunlight. Faded wallpaper printed with bunnies and kittens peeled in random spots, and cobwebs adorned the corners. The angle of sunlight suggested it was early, but as his watch was missing, he couldn’t confirm the impression.

Closing his eyes to aid concentration, Starsky sought further information. An occasional muted birdsong, and, after a while, the faint drone of a jet passing overhead were the only sounds to greet his straining ears. He could discern no traffic noises, no sound of activity to suggest population outside.

This must be their storehouse. It’d have to be fairly remote for them to feel safe moving the pot in and out of here. Could be miles from nowhere. I’m on my own.

As a result of his own actions, he didn’t even have the comfort of knowing that Hutch would be looking for him. He felt isolated and vulnerable, and the loneliness that swamped him went far beyond his immediate situation.

Starsky resisted profitless depression. Hutch had pulled off some remarkable deus ex machina rescues over the years, but he had never been one to sit passively awaiting deliverance. Not when he had a choice, and in this case, he did.

He could detect no hint of movement or conversation in the house. The quiet mocked him.

Are they still here? Did they leave me alone? If they did, I’m home free.

Emotion urged him to waste no time in making good his escape, but experience advised caution. He had one good chance; best to have as many factors as possible on his side. With no idea of the house’s location, he would need time to be long gone before his absence was discovered.

After weighing the possible consequences of making a nuisance of himself to his captors against his need to know if he was guarded, he began to yell. The prompt response demonstrated the wisdom of his restraint.

Donald Bailey strode through the open door, carrying a rifle by a sling over his shoulder. His calmness and self-control contrasted reassuringly with his brother’s earlier behavior. “Back with us, cop? I hope you’re not planning on making any trouble.”

Who, me? There’s nothing like lying with all your vulnerable areas exposed, staring up at an armed and presumably hostile adversary, to make one conciliatory. “Just wanted to know what the score is.”

Bailey’s smile was not comforting. “The score? Well, right now I’d say you’re one up on us, Starsky. You’ve caused a lot of trouble for me and my brother. But you didn’t catch us with any dope, and pretty soon the score will be even.”

Starsky knew from the records that the elder Bailey had been cleaning up behind his unbalanced sibling for years. Blood’s thicker than water, I guess, even when it comes to murder. And why not? Don’s no saint, either. Little things like laws are just nuisances to men like the Baileys. So why am I still alive?

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why didn’t you just snuff me at my place? Why bring me all the way out here? And where is ‘here’ anyway?”

Bailey seemed to consider whether or not to take the trouble to answer. Laconically: “We still need you.”

Starsky had an ominous feeling that he knew the answer, but he asked anyway. “What for?”

“Bait. You see, we’ve got to take your partner out, too.”

You stay away from Hutch, you bastard! Subduing the protective snarl, Starsky spoke reasonably. “Why? He’s no threat to you. He doesn’t know you from Adam.”

“Because I’ve heard all about the infamous Starsky-Hutchinson team. The Gunther scandal was all over the news when we hit town. I may not have recognized your face, but as soon as I heard your name I knew who you were. Word gets around on the streets, you know. And one thing everyone says is that you two are a matched set. You don’t mess with one unless you make damned sure the other isn’t going to be able to come looking for you. If I left him alive I’d be looking over my shoulder the rest of my life. James Gunther found out the hard way; I just learned from his mistake.”

There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that. It was too patently true to deny. While his captor was being communicative, Starsky asked the question that had been plaguing him. “You said you heard my name. How did you find out I’m a cop?”

The gunman shifted and looked away, and Starsky was afraid that no more would be revealed. “What difference does it make?”

“What can it hurt?” he countered. “If I’m gonna die for it, I’d at least like to know how I blew it.”

After a moment Bailey nodded understanding. “Wasn’t anything you did,” he conceded with reluctant respect. ”You played it perfectly. We got a tip. You know a little worm named Mickey?”

Mickey. It had been years, but the toadying snitch’s image rose instantly to mind. Small and shifty, beard stubble dark against swarthy skin, shoulders hunched in a too-large coat. rubbing shaking hands together and smiling that deceitful smile.

That oily little weasel. Should have put him in the joint when he sold us out to Forest, instead of just chasing him out of our district. He’s been waiting to get back at us ever since. “I know him.”

Bailey smiled again, amused by the disgust on Starsky’s face. “The feeling’s more than mutual. Fortunately for us, he saw you with Alf Thursday, when you two were out celebrating the deal. He couldn’t wait to clue me in about the cop my brother was hanging around with. He was just full of information about you and your partner. I’m a cautious man, and what he had to say convinced me the only way to get free of this mess is to put you both out.”

I’ll just bet. Mickey’d want to make sure Hutch wouldn’t be coming after him!

He didn’t bother to conceal his loathing. “That little cockroach. Somebody should have stepped on him a long time ago.”

Bailey shrugged, but something flitted across his bearded face that caused Starsky to suspect that perhaps someone already had. They think killing me and Hutch will solve their problems. They wouldn’t want to leave a loose end like Mickey around to maybe tie them to us.

“Anything else?” It was plainly a rhetorical question, and Bailey was turning to leave as he spoke.

“Mind if I use the john?” The request was not gratuitous. Starsky had made a pit stop before leaving the bar, but that had been quite a few hours before, and he’d had a lot to drink.

His guard grimaced impatiently. “Now why should I worry about that?”

In Starsky’s experience, few things were more humiliating than being held prisoner without bathroom privileges. He tried a disarming smile. ”Why not? You’re holding all the cards.”

Bailey shrugged and echoed the words. “Why not? As long as you know I’ll blow your brains out if you put a foot out of line.”

The prisoner nodded agreement and lay still while one cuff was unfastened, passed through the bed frame, and locked again around his wrist. He sat up cautiously, swinging his bound legs to the floor, trying to ignore the pitch and roll of the room.

“Behave yourself, now.”

Absorbed in the relief of getting his arms down from over his head, Starsky did his best to look non-threatening. His best chance of escape did not lie in hand-to-hand combat with Bailey. He was far more interested in relieving the pressure on his bladder and getting an idea of the layout of his prison.

A long central hallway ran from front door to rear entrance, dividing the house in half. Starsky was being held in a rear bedroom. He stole a quick glance at the old-fashioned latch on the back door before the rifle barrel prodded him along. Hobbled by the six-inch length of rope that connected his ankles, he shuffled slowly over the uneven floorboards. The layers of dust over everything suggested that the house was not usually inhabited.

Unfortunately for reconnaissance, the bathroom was the next door. He was able to identify the kitchen across the hall before he was shepherded into the squalid chamber. Bailey stood in the door while Starsky conducted his business. Finishing, the cop took the opportunity to duck his head under the faucet in the stained sink for a quick drink of water, replenishing some of what had been lost with the alcohol. The rifle barrel poked against his ribs again. “Don’t push it, cop.”

On the way back to the bedroom, Starsky tried another approach. “Why take out either of us? It’s not that bad, yet. Come on, Don. Stop this before it goes too far. Alf killed O’Neal; you’re not in that deep. Kill two cops and there’s no going back. Don’t make that choice, man. Stop before it’s too late.” It was the traditional spiel the situation called for. He didn’t expect it to work, and it didn’t.

Bailey shook his head impatiently. “It’s already gone too far to back out.” He fixed Starsky with his cold gaze, eyes as deadly as his weapon. ”You messed with my brother, you lying bastard. You got him to tell you things he never should have said. And you screwed up our chance to finally make it big. So you’re gonna pay for it. And so is your partner.”

Through they were physically very different, Starsky could see the resemblance to his brother in Don’s eyes. Gray instead of brown, they conveyed the same single-minded implacability, the same disassociation from the rest of humanity; but unlike Alf, Don’s mind had not been impaired by excessive indulgence in drugs.

Starsky offered no resistance to being cuffed to the bed again. Pausing in the doorway, Bailey offered a final caution. “Do yourself a favor. There’s no way you can stop this. Don’t give us any trouble, and I’ll keep Alf off you. He really hates your guts, you know. But if you try anything, the situation could change. Understand me?”

Starsky kept his face expressionless and said nothing. Bailey didn’t seem to expect a response, only stared for a moment and left without further comment.

Stretched full-length on the lumpy mattress, the detective considered the new information. Bailey apparently wanted him alive until he could get in touch with Hutch. That gave him some breathing space. Now he was glad that Hutch was out of town, unsuspecting and safe.

The pastoral stillness was disturbed by the rumble of an approaching engine. The vehicle drew up somewhere toward the front of the house, the motor died, then shortly afterward a door slammed. He could discern movement in the house, and the rumble of voices, but the conversation remained unintelligible. After a few minutes of guarded suspense he concluded that they weren’t going to disturb him at the present time.

He shifted on the bed, seeking a more comfortable position. For the time being, he had nothing to do but wait. And think.

Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? “Be careful what you wish for; you might get it.” Whoever said that sure knew what they were talking about.

Starsky stared up at the road map cracks that trailed across the ceiling, a familiar despondency sucking at his soul. His current situation seemed to be only the latest incident in increasingly rapid slide toward calamity. Lately it seemed that he couldn’t experience an emotion that didn’t bear frightening connotations, or make a decision that didn’t have disastrous consequences.

Like getting so drunk last night. You made it easy for them, just stumbled right into their hands. You call yourself a cop? You went down like a Girl Scout. In fact, why did you take this assignment in the first place? Hutch is right — we can’t keep on pushing the odds. Sooner or later, our luck’s gonna run out… And lying to him — all that bull about me and Celia. Lying to Hutch...

The deceit had been totally unpremeditated, born in a moment of intense emotional stress. The deliberate abuse of his partner’s trust had shamed him deeply, even as he embellished the falsehood in the face of Hutch’s blatant dismay. Sometimes their unique empathy could be a handicap; it was amazing he’d been able to pull it off. It had been easier with Dobey. Speaking over the phone, any tremor in his voice would be attributed to the deliberately vague “family problems.”

At that point Starsky broke off his reflections, disturbed by the catalog of irrational and uncharacteristic acts. His formerly comfortable life was spiraling out of his control, and it was time to confront the situation, before some future folly ended in disaster. For him, or worse, for Hutch.

So what is wrong? Am I burning out? Is Gunther beating us after all?

Almost reluctantly, he was forced to discard the theory that his recent emotional turmoil and undefined discontent were rooted in the near-fatal shooting. He hadn’t lost his nerve. He’d come to terms with the risks of his vocation. His current foe wasn’t the specter of sudden death, but the unforeseen chasm that had suddenly opened up in the path of his life.

Every desperate act, every subterfuge, every error of judgment — including even the self-imposed exile of the undercover assignment — could be traced back to the same source, the ultimate insanity he’d been denying so vehemently for months. After years of completely satisfying, totally platonic friendship, he found himself deeply and inexplicably in love with his partner.

The change had taken place so gradually and so naturally that he was only now being forced to accept it for what it really was. It seemed as if he’d always loved Hutch. Hutch had been so much a part of his life for so long that he couldn’t even imagine an existence not shared with the moody, introspective blond. Over the years they had grown into one another in a symbiosis that was so unique others were often struck by it.

Physical contact had always been an accepted, enriching facet of their relationship — the spontaneous expression of mutual affection and support, a tangible demonstration of their psychic and emotional unity. And always there had been the sweet succor of Hutch’s arms when Starsky was hurting or afraid. When had his feelings for Hutch begun to slip past the boundaries of friendship?

Since I got shot… He had awakened from a nightmare journey through infinite dark — drugged, traumatized, and feeling immeasurably violated. Hutch was there, of course, with love and concern, support and comfort. Showering him with execrable greeting cards, smuggling in forbidden goodies and sitting with him throughout countless visiting hours, seemingly content to wait for him when he dozed off. Hutch had put up with his griping, entertained him, and kept him up to date on life at Metro.

And you never asked me to quit. Just let me decide what I wanted, and set out to help me get it. God, what a friend you are! Hutch had helped him forget the pain, and shared the fear in long, healing conversations.

Three of the assassins’ bullets had found their mark. One had cost him his spleen. Another passed through the upper intestines, missing any vital organs. The final slug had taken out a chunk of his left lung. The major task of recovery had been conditioning and strengthening the undamaged pulmonary tissue to-compensate for the missing or scarred areas.

Hutch had moved in with him, taking charge of his recovery with a combination of determination and empathic understanding that had been exactly what Starsky needed to put the fear behind him and fight for the life he still wanted. Together they’d run and bicycled for miles, worked out in the gym, and swum the equivalent, he was sure, of a lap around the equator. Young and in peak physical condition at the time of the injury, Starsky had been fit for active duty in five months.

As a side benefit of his equal participation in the physical training, Hutch had dropped a good fifteen pounds and was now more lean and fit than he had been in years. Even with the mustache, he looked ten years younger.

Together they had traversed the Valley of the Shadow, and together they had survived their sojourn there — more or less intact, but altered by the trial.

The most notable effect on Hutch had been a return to the peaceful amity of earlier days. Gone were the snide remarks, the bitter cruel humor at Starsky’s expense, the apparent need to one-up his partner at every tum. The reborn Hutch, while still sharp of tongue and wit, was gentler, more sensitive and openly caring.

Their world had narrowed down to just the two of them, and Starsky liked it that way. Why get dressed up and try to impress some stranger, try to score with her? It seemed more comfortable, more fun, more natural to be with his closest companion. The scary part was acknowledging that he now craved Hutch’s presence like a junkie craves a fix. Despite the warnings screamed at him by conscience and upbringing, he was drawn to him irresistibly, with a need for closeness that would no longer be satisfied by innocent touches.

I didn’t plan on this, Hutch, swear I didn’t. Tried to fight it. Why do you think I started seeing Celia again? Wasn’t because I was really interested. It was when you met Caroline and I found myself sitting at home resenting the hell out of her for being with you, like she was taking something that was mine. Realized then maybe I was gettin’ too close, too dependent on you.

Celia had been chilly at first, annoyed to have been neglected for so long, but he had turned on the charm and she was soon eager to solace the wounded hero. After the first couple of times, she even appeared to adjust to the scars. He’d felt safe for a while, and began to relax more in Hutch’s company, dismissing his earlier unease.

Until the morning he’d awakened abruptly from a stunningly erotic dream, with Hutch’s name on his lips and Celia in his arms. His outraged bedmate concluded her scathing diatribe with the declaration that she did not intend to share him with his partner, and was gone in ten minutes. And good riddance. But the incident was his first real clue as to the extent of his aberrant feelings, and propelled him into another rash decision.

The roar of the engine cranking outside was a welcome distraction. Starsky focused on it until it faded away, and approaching footsteps claimed his attention. Checking up on the prisoner, Don Bailey appeared in the door, eyed him speculatively, and disappeared without speaking.

The outstretched position of his arms was a source of increasing discomfort, primarily because of the stress it put on the inelastic scar tissue of his torso. He shifted onto his left side, pushing his shoulders back toward the wall and drawing up his legs until he was lying more or less across the bed, with his wrists at waist level. Now his arms felt slightly better, but his head faced into the musty corner. A small spider rappelled down the wall on a silken thread and disappeared from his line of vision. It was going to be a long day.

He thought of Hutch at Lake Helton, oblivious of Starsky’s danger.

This case has been bad news from the start. You were so upset when I told Teagle I’d be his ferret. Didn’t see how I could keep playing that kind of game, after what happened before. How could you understand? But you backed me up, even though you hated it, even though it scared you. A warm rush of love and appreciation suffused him briefly, to be superseded by the chill of his recent betrayals of Hutch’s friendship.

You wanted to know why I took Teagle up on his offer? To get away from you, babe, long enough to figure out why I’m suddenly noticing how beautiful you are, and why I keep thinking that you’re the only person in the world who’ll ever really know me, and why it makes me crazy when you’re with somebody else. Starsky shuddered at the recognition of his jealousy, rigidly concealed until now, even from himself.

A month ago he still hadn’t accepted what was happening. A month ago he’d been balancing precariously between fear and denial. We’ve been practically living in each other’s pockets since last spring. Thought if I stayed away from you for a while, everything would get back to normal.

Time and distance had done nothing to ease the compulsion. He simply couldn’t be around Hutch without being driven to be physically close to him, to touch him; and it was getting harder and harder to hold himself back.

Like many men to whom physical beauty has been given as a gift, Hutch wanted his looks ignored. Yet his tawny, catlike sensuality was suddenly dazzling to Starsky, bushwhacking him at the oddest moments and leaving him overwhelmed with admiration.

Candlelight, for cryin’ out loud, he sneered at himself as he recalled the previous evening. Another one of your brilliant ideas.

Everything had been fine; he’d been relaxed and in control, just basking in the pure pleasure of Hutch’s company. They’d been playing a silly game with the ice cream, sharing a moment of innocent camaraderie.

Then Hutch had tilted his head a certain way and laughed, pale hair a gilded helmet in the candle glow, eyes dark, secret pools, smiling mouth seeming to summon Starsky’s response.

In the space of those few seconds, Starsky’s reality had turned inside out, and the emotion that overcame him had left him shaken with its intensity. Flight had been instinctive. If he’d stayed out there any longer, he would have made a big mistake.

But you still couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Had to play with fire…

And now there was no room for denial. His body’s reaction to Hutch’s embrace had made further self-deception impossible.

God help me, Hutch, I want you. I’m not gay, never even thought about another man, but I want you. Want all your love, all your time, all your attention. Want you to know how much I appreciate you, how much you mean to me…

Yeah. that’s just what he needs — a partner who’s gone queer for him.

Scalded by his own contempt, Starsky shook his head in angry denial. The stab of pain that accompanied the action seemed like a judgment.

The thought of revealing himself to Hutch made him burn with shame. Like others before him, Starsky had discovered that intellectual tolerance could function completely independent of emotional acceptance on a personal level. From vaguely frightening childhood misconceptions about what men did together, to the gritty adult knowledge of a veteran street cop, the voices of the thousands whispered condemnation.

What would happen if I told you?

His mind rejected the idea automatically but he forced himself to consider the option. He knew Hutch to be a tolerant man. Bigotry of any sort was just not a part of Hutch’s character. But respect for the life choices of others was a far cry from being confronted by a trusted partner who suddenly wanted to completely alter the terms of the friendship.

What would you do, baby blue?

Relying on years of knowledge of the other man, Starsky tried to construct the scene. He spent a good while at it, approaching it from countless angles, predicting probable outcomes. The exercise strongly reinforced his instinctive rejection of the idea. No matter how he imagined it, he couldn’t make anything positive come out of confession. He didn’t foresee Hutch turning away from him in anger or disgust. Maybe he wouldn’t even be shocked, too much. But no wishful thinking, no painful longing on Starsky’s part altered the bottom line, the only truth that counted.

You don’t feel the same way. I swear I wouldn’t care about anything else if you did, but…

Starsky replayed the incident of the previous evening when Hutch had hugged him and told him he loved him. And kissed him. Even in his stunned confusion he’d been able to read the well-known face clearly. The loving expression had been completely innocent of any hidden meaning. The embrace that had shattered the fragile shield of Starsky’s self-deceit had been purely a gesture of friendship on Hutch’s part.

Hutch was straight — always had been, always would be — and that was that. And so am I! Starsky’s other voice insisted.

So he wouldn’t tell Hutch. Deception would be difficult. Their identification with each other was so complete that Hutch already sensed something was wrong. Given further provocation, his inquisition would be relentless.

Just give me some space, huh? I can handle this. I got over Terry, and I got over Rosey, and I can get over you… But if you drag it out into the open, it’ll always be between us.

I know you. You give too much, sometimes. You’d end up tearing yourself apart, blaming yourself for what I feel, probably thinking you’d done something to lead me on. You didn’t do anything, except be the best friend a man could have. You might even decide you were letting me down by not jeeling the same way, and then… Masculine pride was his only defense. No. I don’t want your guilt and I don’t want your pity and I sure as hell don’t want your charity! This is just something — maybe the only thing — you can’t help with. You’ve had enough, babe. Gunther nearly killed you, too, I think. I’ll work it out. Or I’ll quit. But I won’t lay this on you!

He’d been confused and conflicted for so long that it was a relief to have gotten at least this much straight in his mind. Alf never had a friend. Well, I’ve got one — the best — and I’m not risking him on some weird fantasy. So just… back off, Hutch, y’hear? The painful decision made, Starsky resolved not to dwell on it further.

The now-familiar chugging of the engine heralded Alf’s return. Its sound seemed somehow different, higher-pitched, than most American cars. A Volkswagen? Starsky couldn’t picture the corrupt siblings tooling around L.A. in a bug. A van, maybe. A van would provide enclosed transport for the bulky marijuana.

A flurry of steps in the hall alerted him. With several quick, writhing twists of his body he returned to his original position in time to watch his malevolent enemy stalk into the room.

With his pallid, doughy face and round, lidless eyes, Alf reminded Starsky irresistibly of something that belonged under a rock. Or in a dark cellar. Even the way he smelled was somehow repellent. It took all the self-control he could muster to lie calmly when every instinct screamed danger.

“Where’s your partner, cop? I’ve been calling him all morning.”

“How should I know?” Starsky kept his inflection unchallenging. “It’s the weekend. He could be anywhere.”

“Well, when’s he gonna be back?”

Discretion being the better part of valor, Starsky didn’t point out the illogic of the question. “I don’t know, Alf,” he repeated patiently, sneaking a surreptitious glance toward the door. Where was Don?

His mildness triggered a surprising look of betrayal in Alf. “You think you’re so smart. Bet you thought you had me fooled. Bet you had a lot of laughs about it.” For an instant the burly criminal seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry,” Starsky said automatically, uselessly.

“Liar! I heard about you! All you care about is that… partner of yours. Hutchinson…” Alf spat out the name and took a menacing step forward.

The cavalry, in the form of Don Bailey, appeared before the situation could disintegrate further. Sparing the cop barely a glance, he laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s eat before the food gets cold. You can try Hutchinson again in an hour or so.”

With a virulent scowl for the prisoner, Alf allowed himself to be led away. Starsky stared at the empty doorway and mused on the truism that police work makes strange bedfellows.

You wouldn’t believe me, Alf, but I really am sorry. Not for trying to get you off the street, but that I had to do it the way I did. Banished by his own lunatic desires from the haven of Hutch’s companionship, he couldn’t help identifying with the loneliness Alf had revealed.

He had been more affected by his enforced contact with the psychopathic killer than was healthy for his peace of mind. A good cop had to be able to divorce emotional niceties from duty, and do whatever was necessary to advance the investigation. In a critical situation, soul-searching or second guesses could have deadly consequences. Knowing this to be true, Starsky nevertheless had been unable to maintain a professional distance. Instead, an uneasy combination of repugnance and guilt had eclipsed the usual adrenaline high of playing the game, maintaining the cover, and outwitting the bad guy.

Alf Bailey was anathema to mankind — a conscienceless killer. The man was beyond hope of rehabilitation, and humanity’s laws and Starsky’s own code of justice demanded his removal from society.

Yet somewhere in that damaged psyche, a normal human craving for companionship survived. Outcast from society by physical appearance, emotional instability, and social ineptitude, Alf had been easy prey for Starsky’s manipulations. With calculated good nature, a sympathetic ear, and subtle flattery, it had been pathetically easy to gain his confidence. And the cop had used the illusion of friendship like a carrot to lure Alf to defeat.

“Hey, Moe, let’s take a break before we go in.”

Gritting his teeth, Starsky resisted the urge to shrug away the heavy hand on his shoulder and accompanied his prey into the alley behind the Cheetah Lounge.

Hidden from view behind a dumpster, Alf fumbled in his jacket pocket. The gargoyle face was illuminated momentarily in the light of a match, and Starsky smelled the sweetish plasticky odor of PCP mingling with the pot.

Shit. Another night listening to how the world has dumped on Alf Bailey. If Don had any sense, he’d keep this boy on a tighter leash.

Alf thrust the joint at him. Concealing his irritation, Starsky waved it away. “No, remember, I told you I don’t mess with dust or acid. I’m just the middle man; my backer handles quality control. Is this the stuff?”

Alf released his held breath in a whoosh of smoke. “Yeah. And you don’t know what you’re missing…” His voice died away as the first rush hit.

Further up the alley, a heavy door slammed. Starsky nudged his companion. “Come on, man,” he whispered. “It ain’t safe out here. I don’t wanna get busted…“

Taking a final toke, Alf stubbed the cigarette out carefully against the side of the dumpster and stowed the roach away. Again his hand settled on Starsky’s shoulder. “Come on, partner. Let’s have some fun.”

Three hours, two strip joints, and a bar later, Starsky was ready to take the law into his own hands. He’d invested two weeks in cultivating the dubious friendship of the demented drug dealer, and still had no proof that would hold up in court. Two nights before, riding the surge of drug-induced euphoria, Alf had shown off his deadly commando knife and bragged about “taking care of” a cop, revealing enough details to assure his listener that he was indeed responsible for O’Neal’s murder. But when it came to committing himself to the drug sale that would provide grounds for his arrest, he remained elusive. The suspicion was growing steadily in Starsky that Alf was jacking him around because he enjoyed Moe Green’s company, and didn’t want to give it up.

At least this time they’d gotten a booth. Alf was on a jag, chain-smoking and ranting. Starsky slouched on the bench opposite, pasted a look of attention on his face, and wished heartily that Alf was into downers instead of pot and angel dust. Or that he’d at least pick a more fruitful subject. Like a drug deal.

Absently, he focused on Alf’s hands on the table top. Large, and attached to thick, hairy wrists, they were surprisingly well-shaped and graceful, their attractiveness a somehow unsettling contrast to Alf’s other features. Long supple fingers, tips stained brown from cigarettes, played nervously with a near-empty pack of Marlboros. As Starsky watched, one hand shifted to swirl the beer mug in restless circles.

Hutch’s hands are beautiful… The meaningless comparison shouldn’t have been disturbing, but it was.

Starsky was tired and he had a headache and Alf’s fucking smoke was drifting insistently into his eyes. He was sick of the whole operation.

He set his mug down forcefully, sloshing beer onto the table, interrupting the discourse. “All I know is, so far all I’ve heard is talk. This is the big leagues, boy.” Alf winced in surprise at the bad temper, and Starsky realized he was risking the whole assignment by threatening Alf’s fragile self-esteem. He softened his attack, shaking his head regretfully. “I got a partner on my back, man. And he’s biting my ass bad. If you can’t do business, I need to find someone who can. We’re offering a good deal, and you know it. And not just once, but steady. If you and your brother can supply what we need, we could all make a lot of money.” He grinned wolfishly. “That is what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

Alf gaped at him, poised on the edge between affront and capitulation, unsure which way to fall. Starsky pushed.

“Forget it, man.” He shrugged and slid out of the booth with feigned casualness. “See you around some time, Alf. It’s been fun.” Tossing a crumpled bill on the table, he turned for the door. Come on, dammit. Go for it!

He was sorting through ways of backing down when Alf broke. “Moe, wait!” Out of the comer of his eye he saw the hulking form scrambling after him.

Thank God. Can we please get this over with?

That night Starsky met Donald Bailey, and the deal was set up for the next evening. Only the knowledge that the end was in sight got him through the celebration Alf insisted on afterwards. As they parted before the Union Street Hotel at 3:00 am, Alf punched him good-naturedly and flung his arm around Starsky’s shoulders. ”We make a good team, Moe. ”

And when he got home, Don was waiting to tell him his good buddy was a cop. Yeah, Alf, you’ve got a reason to hate my guts.

The tantalizing aroma of the food Don had mentioned drifted into the room to mingle with the slight unpleasant odor that blanketed the house, and Starsky’s stomach rumbled complainingly. That’s what they say about Chinese food, he thought wryly. A day later you’re hungry again.

Above his head the branching cracks in the plaster outlined the shape of the state of Illinois. Toward the center of the room he discovered Minnesota, which reminded him of Hutch. Catching himself, he dragged his thoughts into other channels.

He spent some time in visual examination of the knots that bound his ankles, planning a campaign to get them untied in the minimal amount of time, in the dark. Let Alf and Don sweat. Hutch would not be back until tomorrow, and by then, with any luck, Starsky would be there to greet him. He had a plan…

The afternoon passed with excruciating slowness. Don checked him periodically, but left him alone otherwise. He heard the van leave, return, and leave again several times while his shoulders stiffened up and he grew increasingly thirsty. Over and over he found his thoughts drifting to Hutch, and again and again he redirected them. Until he got his renegade emotions under control, thinking about Hutch would only fuel the longing.

Footsteps approached, and Starsky felt a quiver of foreboding when he saw Alf standing in the doorway. His nemesis shot him a poisonous look. “Comfy, pig?”

Starsky said nothing. He knew when a snappy comeback was not called for.

Alf approached the bed. His hands were empty, but Starsky knew that the knife the man was so fond of was concealed in a belt sheath under the back of his shiny suit coat. Feeling completely vulnerable, he kept his face purposefully blank as Alf sat down beside him.

His enemy drew his knife and began to play with it absently, stroking his thumb over the serrated upper edge. Starsky forced himself not to look at it. “Where’s Don?” he asked, glad the apprehension didn’t show in his voice.

Alf was enjoying himself. He looked at Starsky in feigned surprise. “Don? Why, he’s gone for dinner. Why, cop? Getting hungry?” He placed the point of the knife in the hollow at the base of Starsky’s throat, flicking aside the coins on the rawhide thong.

The knife tip pricked him as he spoke. “Careful, Alf. Your brother doesn’t want you messing with his insurance policy.”

The comment hit home. Bailey flushed and looked at him with absolute hatred. Then he smiled evilly and leaned close. Starsky smelled a combination of pot and cigarettes on his breath. “Don needs you alive. That doesn’t mean you have to be in mint condition.” His dark eyes gleamed with strange lights as he let that idea sink in.

“I’ve got a score to settle with you, Moe Green. I’m just not sure where to start.” He ran his eyes over the length of Starsky’s body, as if searching for vulnerable areas.

The knife ran over his T-shirt, down the midline of his body to his navel, then across his chest from nipple to nipple. “I had to do that other cop fast. But with you, I can take my time. I can do a lot of damage without letting you bleed to death.”

He rose to tower over Starsky. “Think about it for a few minutes, cop. Let your imagination work.” He sauntered to the door, where he paused to wink at Starsky. “Don’t get too lonesome. I’ll be back soon.”

When he realized that Alf had really gone, relief washed over him, leaving him trembling. But he had no time to wallow. He wondered why the sane member of the duo had left him alone with the psycho. This altered his whole situation. If Alf got to work on him with that knife, night would find him in no condition to do anything to help himself or Hutch. A dangerous change of timetable was necessary.

He rolled to his side and began awkwardly to maneuver his feet to the head of the bed. Finally his manacled left hand was able to reach inside his right shoe and remove the spare handcuff key taped to the instep. And bless you, Hutch, for suggesting this the last time we found ourselves in this fix!

Carefully, chafing at the time the machinations took, he manipulated the key to reach the lock. His mind screamed at him to hurry but if he dropped the key he was a dead man. At last the right cuff popped open. Ignoring the left, he reached for his ankles.

“I thought you were taking this mighty cool.” Alf was triumphant. “Naughty little piggy, trying to escape. You’ll have to be punished for that.”

Starsky waited until Alf was the appropriate distance away, then kicked out with his legs, aiming for the vulnerable groin. Alf turned at the last moment and Starsky’s feet hit him a glancing blow — enough to hurt like hell but not enough to incapacitate him.

His adversary bellowed with rage and pain. ”You fucking bastard!” The extended kick had left Starsky lying half on-half off the bed. The hobbles prevented him from gaining his balance and he slipped to the floor. Alf fell on him.

In no time his hands were cuffed securely again, this time behind his back. He scrambled into a sitting position as Alf stood. His enemy loomed over him, face twisted with macabre anticipation. Starsky found the muddy brown eyes compelling. Alf smiled.

Then he kicked Starsky viciously. The intended victim ducked and the blow didn’t connect fully, or it would probably have caved in his face. As it was, the booted foot caught him only with its heel, shaking him up a little and causing a painful nosebleed. More kicks followed in rapid succession. Most struck him in the ribs, chest, or upper back as he tried desperately to protect his most vulnerable areas by rolling and twisting. It wasn’t the first time he had been worked over, and he used his experience to try to ride it out, avoiding the worst of the blows and hoping to prevent any permanent damage.

Tiring of the game at last, Alf grabbed a fistful of Starsky’s hair and dragged him onto the bed. Starsky sagged against the wall, trying to get his breath and to focus his bleary eyes on his foe. The bleeding nose prevented proper breathing, and he found himself gasping through his mouth and trying to spit out the blood that kept running into it.

He eyed Alf as a mongoose eyes a cobra.

The protruding eyes were the scariest sight Starsky could remember. Alf had the knife in his hand. Slowly, appearing to savor the moment, the vengeful man sat down next to him. He licked his pale lips and grinned at his prisoner.

Starsky refused to let his fear show, even when Alf grasped his jaw painfully and yanked his head around to face him. Rebelliously Starsky tried to pull away, but was held fast. “Pretty blue eyes, cop. Bet the ladies just love those blue eyes.” With his other hand he stroked the knife down the side of Starsky’s captive face. The point flicked a small wound under his left eye.

Oh, God… not that! Starsky closed his eyes involuntarily. When he opened them again the point of the knife was hovering three inches above his right eye. Reflex took over. He rolled towards the wall, ducking his head and bringing his left shoulder up as best he could at the same time. The knife slashed a deep cut over his left eyebrow as he turned. Bailey yelled in outraged frustration.

“Alf!”

All movement froze. Alf backed away from the bed. In the doorway stood Donald Bailey, deadly fury on his handsome face. His rifle pointed at his brother’s heart. “What the hell are you doing? I told you to leave him alone!”

Alf broke into self-righteous bluster. “He was trying to get away, Don! He had a key in his shoe.”

An arch of the eyebrows the only change in his expression, Don held out his hand. “Give it to me.” He examined the key, and the prisoner. Starsky laid panting, awaiting judgment, blood from the gash on his forehead flowing freely down over his eyebrow. He tried to blink it away, and it mingled with the sticky flow from his nose. His face felt covered with blood.

“You blew it, cop.” Don glanced quickly around the room, apparently altering his plans. “Bring him to the kitchen.”

Now what? Starsky was yanked ungently to his feet by the sullen Alf. When his tethered legs could not keep the pace, he was dragged.

The kitchen was a large room, which still contained an old refrigerator and a small electric stove. Bags of take-out food sat on a scarred Formica table. The floor Starsky was being dragged across was ancient and filthy, with large chunks missing from many of the linoleum tiles.

Following his brother, Alf hauled him to the corner by the elderly Hotpoint and dumped him on the floor. Starsky lay prone, arms pulled behind him in a position that was already becoming uncomfortable. The blood was sticking the side of his face to the linoleum.

He watched Alf and Don’s boots as they pulled open the door to a shallow pantry. He could see the quarter-inch thick coat of dust and grime on the floorboards inside, and walls of unpainted plaster-board, stained with generations of roach specks. His half-closed eyes took it all in. From his position on the floor he saw Don impatiently removing the contents. A decaying broom, a bucket full of cleaning materials, and a rag mop petrified into a filthy Medusa were thrust to Alf for disposal. There was now enough space in the grim interior for a man to sit with legs almost outstretched. No more.

The two sets of feet turned to him. Without a word they grabbed his bound arms and hoisted him in to the closet. The pain as his arms were yanked up behind him was excruciating. Starsky bit his lips and tasted blood. The door slammed, and he was left alone in his new prison. Through a haze of pain he heard a heavy dragging sound as the two men shifted something — the refrigerator? — across the door, firmly barricading it.

Starsky was not by nature claustrophobic, but he definitely had that closed-in feeling now.

He could hear his captors arguing, but couldn’t figure it all out.

”You said I could kill him!”

“I also said, not yet. Dammit, Alf, you’d better learn to follow orders, because I’m getting sick and tired of cleaning up after you. Look what happened with you and that god-damned dog. As if we didn’t have enough trouble!”

“That damned cur had mange! You know I didn’t like dogs, Don. It would have been whining around the whole time we were here.”

“Well, if you had to take a potshot at it, why didn’t you at least kill it, so it couldn’t come skulking back here and crawl up under the house to die?”

The answer to that was lost as damage reports began streaking in from all parts of Starsky’s abused body. The pain was so bad he almost cried out, but determination held him mute. It took a few minutes to subdue the assorted pains to an endurable level, so he caught only the end of the conversation.

“We’ll be gone tomorrow, anyway.”

“Well, I’m going to eat in the bedroom!”

Fool! Starsky was furious with himself. You damned fool! Suckered! You let Alf lead you around by the nose. Threw away your only chance! And now Hutch will be coming, and you’re the Judas goat.

Until now, Starsky had been optimistic about the situation. He’d been in tighter sports before. The spare key had been his ace in the hole. After his captors had gone to sleep he could have gotten away easily. And you blew it, you dumb bastard! All because Alf scared you with his knife… The image of the blade hovering over his eye leapt unbidden to his mind, and he shuddered.

He took stock of his situation. Except for where the appliance blocked it, light showed around the edges of the ill-fitting door. There was a two-inch gap at the bottom. At least I won’t suffocate.

His natural resilience began to take over. We’re not dead, yet. Hutch’ll find me. I can count on that. Let’s see, how will he do it? Maybe through the utilities. They’ve got water and lights. They could be on a well, but maybe he can track them through the electric company… If the accounts are in their real names. If he has time… If he even knows who’s got me… A discouraging line of thought. Okay, so let’s check this place out. Maybe I can tunnel to freedom!

 ***

It had been a long, uncomfortable, frustrating night. And he was no closer to freedom than he had been before.

Starsky took inventory of his woes. His body was one big undifferentiated ache. His left eye was plastered shut with blood, and in his present position there was no way he could wipe it. His throat was so dry it hurt to breathe. And he had to take a leak.

He yanked again at the handcuffs, trying to wriggle his hands free. But police handcuffs are constructed to prevent just that, and all he accomplished was to scrape more skin off his already raw wrists.

He had heard the engine a little while ago, and assumed Alf had gone again to call Hutch. The meaning of “living on borrowed time” had never been so clear.

He had been awakened from a restless doze by Alf’s voice in the kitchen. “Want me to check on the cop?”

“Where would he go?”

Out of sight, out of mind.

Unaware that Starsky was supposedly on leave, the kidnappers were apparently anxious to contact his partner before his absence at work Monday morning made Starsky’s disappearance common knowledge.

They’re probably going to give him that old line about not calling the police. Hutch is too smart for that, though. He won’t come in without a backup.

Would he? It wouldn’t be the first time Hutch had ignored procedure where Starsky was concerned.

Please, partner. Do it by the book. No point both of us getting killed.

His body’s needs were making themselves felt. “Hey, Don…” He waited a few moments. Silence. When more yelling got no response he managed with a great deal of discomfort to lift his legs and kick against the wall. He kept it up for as long as his legs held out, which wasn’t long.

He heard Don grunt as he shifted the refrigerator. The morning sunlight was blinding. When Starsky could see, he realized that his captor was not pleased with him. He stood without speaking, face a mask.

Starsky tried an embarrassed smile. “Gotta go to the john.”

Don considered that for a moment. Then with a shrug he bent, grasped the cop’s upper arm and tried to pull him to his feet. Starsky couldn’t hold back a cry as unexpected agony lanced through his shoulder. Don released him immediately and he fell back, blinking away involuntary tears. Determined not to show further weakness before his captor, he turned his head away.

As soon as he was able, he spoke. “Wait. Let me do part of it.” Drawing his legs up and rolling to his side, he managed somehow to get to his knees.

Even with Don’s assistance, he could barely stand. Bailey watched the wall while his prisoner stretched and stomped some life back into his cramped limbs. Finally Starsky was able to stumble along, reluctantly relying on the other’s support.

In the bathroom, he was faced with another quandary. This time he didn’t have to feign embarrassment. “Uh…” He gestured with his head.

Don looked at him with that same expressionless face.

Please don’t let him offer to do it for me!

Don turned abruptly, leaving him standing shakily. He returned instantly with the key in one hand and the rifle in the other. He placed the tip of the barrel in the hollow at the base of Starsky’s skull. Starsky could feel the cold hard ring pressing into him. Then, finger on the trigger, Don bent to unlock the right cuff. It had to qualify for one of the all-time awkward moments of Starsky’s life.

He knew that none of this was necessary except to reinforce to him his helplessness. Even on his best days he would have trouble overpowering an armed former marine in a 5’x8′ bathroom with his feet tied together. And this definitely had not been one of his best days.

As they returned to the kitchen he remembered that only one of his physical needs had been met. He was still incredibly thirsty. Should have gotten some water in the bathroom. That rifle kind of made it slip my mind. “Hey, how about some water?”

Don had apparently expended his supply of charitable impulses for the day. He shoved Starsky unceremoniously into the pantry, and was in the act of closing the door when he hesitated. Kneeling beside the cop, he said conversationally, “If you’re thinking about raising any more ruckus, bear this in mind… Hear that door slam? That’s Alf. He’s been in a damned bad mood lately. And he doesn’t like you.”

There was nothing to say to that. The door closed and he heard Don grunt again as he moved the refrigerator.

Hope you get a hernia, you sorry s.o.b.

He heard Alf’s heavy tread enter the kitchen. Don’s inquiry was answered with a snarl. “That fucking detective still ain’t home! Probably shacked up somewhere for the weekend.” A moment of silence, then Alf continued in a more conciliating tone. “Look, Don. This isn’t working out like we planned. I say let’s cut our losses. Kill Starsky; he’s the real threat. I’ll do it for you. But this thing with Hutchinson is too complicated. There’s too many ways it can go wrong. Forget him. He can’t finger us. And no one even knows we’ve got Starsky. He’ll just be one more missing person. Let’s kill him now and then go down to Mexico for a while, just like we planned?”

Starsky felt a small hope blossom in his heart. Yeah, Forget Hutchinson. He could almost face dying if he knew Hutch was going to be safe. Forget Hutch, he prayed.

Don’s first three words shattered the dream.

“James Marshall Gunther. One of the most powerful men in the country. He could have been president. And Ken Hutchinson brought him down. Why? Because of that man in there. Starsky. You want him to come after you? Because he will. He got Gunther and he’d track us down if it took forever.” A pause. “Look, Alf. You got us into this. You killed that narc and then you brought Starsky in and told him about it. Okay, we’re brothers. We agreed to go for it. There’s other evidence, sure. But it’s only Starsky who can actually tie us in. So we ice Starsky. But not until we’ve gotten Hutchinson! If anything goes wrong, that cop in there’s my ticket out of the electric chair.” He paused again for emphasis. ”You understand me?”

“Okay, sure. Don. I understand you.” Alf’s voice was sullen but resigned. Their footsteps left Starsky to silence.

In spite of his desperate situation. he felt a rush of pride. That was his Hutch Don was talking about with such fear and respect. To think what Hutch had done and would do for his sake was both frightening and exhilarating. You’re damned right to be scared of him, Don. He hoped that Hutch would nail the bastards good for this.

He hoped that they didn’t kill Hutch.

He was being forced to accept the fact that he wouldn’t have any say in the matter. There was simply nothing he could do. He couldn’t get out of the cuffs and he couldn’t get out of the closet and he couldn’t warn Hutch and soon Hutch would be coming…

All of the mental torment combined with lack of water, food, and sleep and increasing physical discomfort to sap his physical and emotional strength. Starsky slipped into a daze of depression and pain. Everything hurt or was numb, including his brain.

***

This time he didn’t even hear the barricade being removed. He could barely respond when the light poured in, stabbing his eyes before he could close them. He felt an arm around his shoulders and a paper cup was pressed to his lips. He drank thirstily.

Something felt wrong. Some instinct made him stop drinking and open his eyes. It was Alf Bailey holding him, giving him water. Alarms clamored in Starsky’s dazed mind. Why would Alf do anything nice for him? Awareness of danger smote him and he tried clumsily to pull away.

There was nowhere to go. Bailey was pressing the cup to his lips again, urging him to drink. His dehydrated body craved the liquid, but he clenched his lips and jaws shut, and when Alf persisted, the cup crumpled against his face, spilling the remaining liquid over his shirt.

Alf shoved him back roughly, and his injured head bumped the wall. He saw stars.

“Too late, pig. You got enough of it to send you away forever. If your partner did get you back, he wouldn’t be getting much. But he won’t, because in an hour he’ll be dead. And then I’m going to come back here and cut your heart out.” He rose. “Have a nice trip, cop.”

As Starsky stared dazedly up at Alf, Don appeared at his brother’s side. “Come on. Time to get set up.”

“All right, Don. Let’s go get your cop, and then I’ll get mine.” He grimaced. “It’ll be good to get out of this stinking house for good.”

Seconds later Starsky was alone again in his prison. His tomb?

He was bombarded by emotions: Apprehension about what had been in the water. Fear of dying. But mostly gut-wrenching terror for Hutch.

Take care, Hutch. Be safe. Don’t grieve too much…

His empty stomach churned as the water and its unknown contents were absorbed rapidly by his system. He tried desperately to vomit, but his bruised ribs and stomach muscles would not cooperate.

What was it? Guess I’ll find out soon enough. Resigned, he settled back to await developments.

After about fifteen minutes he felt a mild tremor in his cold fingertips.

A few minutes later his body began to tense noticeably. The house seemed unnaturally quiet, and a feeling of apprehension rose in him. Nameless unease began to niggle insistently, insinuating itself like some burrowing larva into his subconscious mind. As time passed he became increasingly aware of the tall dark walls enclosing him, entombing him, threatening to smother him. His trepidation grew, and he began to tremble. He was alone, all alone in a menacing world.

Alone…

The cracks between door and frame let in enough light for him to see dimly. When the visual hallucinations began, he knew what had been in the water. Acid. LSD. He began to perceive shifting patterns in the rays of light entering the closet, and when he closed his eyes he saw swirling fields of color. His stomach twisted into knots as the perfidy of his physical senses combined with emotional disquiet to further undermine his equilibrium.

On another level, the Cop aspect of Star sky’s psyche struggled to observe and catalog the experience without becoming submerged in it.

His youth had not been innocent. He had grown up on the streets, first in New York, then in L.A. He had run with a gang and he had experimented with a variety of drugs, including LSD. He had found it an enjoyable but not a compelling experience. He’d had some pretty weird ideas and feelings under the drug’s influence but had almost always been able to maintain his awareness that anything he perceived was enhanced and distorted by the drug. He had never felt his hold on reality to be threatened.

Now he was counting on his familiarity with the substance and its effects to help him. He doubted Alf would have suspected a cop of having personal experience with acid, particularly as he’d refused offers to share the wealth on numerous occasions. So maybe the dosage hadn’t been that large. Another piece of fortune was that Alf had selected LSD, rather than the more dangerous PCP.

Probably saving all that for himself… So maybe I can ride it out. Sure don’t have any choice but to try!

After a while he began to feel chilly. He drew his knees up and hunched against them, trying to conserve body heat. His body felt stiff with cold. He closed his eyes. The silence of the house began to enclose him physically, and his sense of orientation with respect to his surroundings vanished. When the refrigerator began to hum again, his mind accepted the new stimulus without question. The universe now appeared to be occupied entirely by sound, which soon took physical form. It passed freely through his body, possessing and absorbing him.

***

He came back to awareness suddenly — huddled in the narrow dim closet, sweating and shaking. He felt terribly nauseous, but still couldn’t vomit. The walls approached and receded in pulsing undulations that didn’t go away, even when he looked closely. The air seemed dense and suffocating. Dizziness multiplied his discomfort and disorientation. Blindly he tried to lie down. With much struggling and bumping he managed to shift to his right side. His knees were shoved against the door, his toes crammed into a back corner, and he was lying on his right arm, but at least he could press his face against the crack under the door and breathe.

He was aware of his thoughts rushing at breakneck speed. As he tried to cling to one idea, other trains of thought began to appear between every word of every sentence. By the time he had finished the sentence, so many thoughts would have piled up that he was at a total loss to organize them.

He tried to hold onto awareness, but was swept away into an overwhelming maelstrom of sensation. Geometric images expanded, contracted, and mutated behind his closed eyelids. Unable to control or interpret any of his perceptions, he lay and endured them helplessly.

Time had no meaning.

***

Every once in a while reality would return briefly. The sense of disorientation was like waking suddenly in a strange place. Then he would remember where he was and try to concentrate on staying sane. He could feel the relentless, insistent tugging of the void.

Instinctively he reached for his psychological lifeline. Hutch! For an instant he could sense Hutch searching for him, calling him. His mind leapt to meet his friend’s, and in one brief, miraculous moment he thought he had found him. Then the insanity tore him away again.

***

An eternity later. The first thing he was aware of was the smell.

Death. Decay.

He shifted uneasily but found he was unable to move. This damned place feels like a coffin.

Then he knew what had happened. Where he was.

Looks like the bastards finally won.

Is this what it’s like to be dead? He tried to examine the idea, but others kept getting in the way.

Is this hell? I never did believe in it before. No fire and brimstone… But the idea of eternity spent lying in one’s coffin, as aware as if alive…

All the faces came to him then. All the dead, down over the years. His father. His little cousin Ellen who had been struck by a car when Starsky was ten. All of the dead, known and unknown, in Vietnam. Then the toll from his years as a cop. Victims. Men he’d killed. Gillian. Helen. Terry…

They’ll be coming soon to say Kaddish over me. Will Hutch be there? I wanna see you one more time, buddy.

Hutch appeared in his mind’s eye. Sunshine man. Hutch laughing, serious, angry, tired, exasperated, amused. Hutch crying in his arms when Gillian died. His euphoric outburst when Starsky had awakened from his coma after Gunther’s assassination attempt. It had been so good to wake up and see that face. It would be so good to see him now. His whole being yearned toward his friend.

Hutch wasn’t there. In a way that made sense, since Hutch wasn’t dead. A vague worry niggled at the back of his mind. …Or was he?

He couldn’t track the thought back to its source, and it soon passed out of his consciousness.

Good-bye, Hutch. I love you. Thanks for everything…

Alone. Alone in a dark place.

Eternity claimed him.

***

“It’s time you remembered who’s the captain here. You’ll do this my way or I’ll slap you into protective custody so fast you won’t have time to button your coat.”

Hutch subsided reluctantly into a seated position.

“That’s better.” Captain Dobey glared at him across the coffee table. “Now… Forensics is on its way to Starsky’s apartment. I’ve sent Dunagan to get you a flak jacket. And we’ve got black and whites and unmarked cars preparing to back you up.” When Hutch started to protest again, Dobey stopped him with a gesture. “They’ll keep out of the way until after you’re in position. Which you’ll let us know through the wire you’ll be wearing.”

His voice drowned Hutch’s roar of protest. “Shut up! You are not going in without a bug. And that’s final!”

When Hutch had control of himself again the captain added more gently, “Be reasonable. We have to know what’s going on. It won’t do us any good to hand you to them on a platter. This way, we’ll be able to close in on you. Track you, if necessary, since you’ll also be wearing a directional device.” Any response Hutch might have made to that was forestalled by the arrival of Dunagan with the flak jacket and detection devices.

As he endured the positioning of the wires on his upper body and donned the heavy vest, he was excruciatingly aware of time passing. Only five minutes until the call was due.

“And you’re not sure about the voice?” Dobey’s question interrupted his thoughts.

“I told you I didn’t recognize it!” he snapped.

“Well, I don’t suppose it matters right now, anyway. We’ll just take this one step at a time.”

The phone rang just as the final adjustments were being made. The caller was brief, allowing no time for a trace. The meeting place was a dead-end road off Brennan Drive. Directions were given, once. And the time. Six o’clock.

The timetable left no room for delay; he would have to hurry to make the rendezvous on time. With the equipment concealed by a lightweight jacket, Hutch was eager to be gone. Captain Dobey’s voice slowed him as he turned for the door. “Be careful, Hutch.”

Hutch looked at the portly figure, at the obsidian eyes that had seen so much. He experienced a moment of affection that was immediately superseded by anxiety for Starsky’s safety. “Just don’t let them get away. If they get back to Starsky, we’ll have a hostage situation on our hands.”

Hutch caught his captain’s pitying look.

“Hutch,” Dobey said reluctantly. ”You know he may already be dead.”

Hutch read the unspoken addendum. Probably is.

He shook his head in stubborn negation, unwilling even to consider that possibility. “No, he’s not. I’d know.”

Dobey’s eyes fastened on Starsky’s rings on his finger. He sighed. ”Yes, I suppose you would.”

***

It was a good spot for a roadblock, Hutch acknowledged. The bend in the road insured that no one approaching would see it until it was too late to tum around. The vehicle would either have to stop or go through the railing and over a forty-foot drop down the side of the hill. He knew that the LAPD was near, waiting for him to get into position before setting up the barriers. There were others arranged for the other roads accessing the area of the meet.

Hutch looked at his watch as he pulled into the yard of an unused barn at the end of the road. Six o’clock exactly. There was no sign of another car, but it could be parked behind the building. He had no doubt that they would show; they’d gone to enough trouble to set this up. Speaking behind his hand, he apprised his listeners of the situation. When he had waited five minutes, he opened the car door and stepped cautiously out into the persistent, misting rain. He raised his eyes to the barn’s upper story and eyed the window of the hayloft uneasily. It was a perfect place for an ambush.

He crossed safely to the barn.

Standing behind the sagging door in order to be shielded from the interior, he pulled it open, and considered his next step carefully. If he entered the barn he would be silhouetted in the doorway for an instant. The only thing to do was to go in fast. Drawing his magnum and taking a deep breath, he charged through the door.

Yet he was not fast enough. He heard the crack of the rifle and felt a powerful blow to his upper chest as he hit the ground and rolled. The rifle cracked again, and the bullet raised dust a foot from his scrambling legs.

Shit! This guy’s good! Hutch didn’t wait around to allow the marksman time to perfect his aim. He squeezed off an answering shot and dove back out the way he had come. The LTD promised safety, and he ran for it.

The angle of the car offered perfect protection. He could crouch on the far side with an unobstructed view of the barn door, while the car’s roof protected him from pot shots from the loft window. He knelt in this position of relative safety, gasping from the force of the bullet’s impact and rubbing his sore chest under the flak jacket.

Abruptly he remembered the wire. The backup team had heard the shots and were probably going nuts trying to piece together what was happening. He made his voice clear and calm. “They’re taking pot shots at me from the barn. Close in! Don’t let them get away!”

Another shot, and he heard the bullet thunk into the LTD’s roof. He was crouched behind the door trying to spot the gunman when the wail of sirens reached him. Barely a minute later he heard the roar of an engine and was out from behind the car like a shot and racing for the barn. He ran unaccosted the length of the building and halted, panting, at the rear door. The yard was empty. Back through the barn, he was just in time to catch sight of the rear of a van disappearing down the road he had come in on.

“White VW van. California plates. Heading back toward Brennan Drive. Get them!” It took a few minutes to reach, start, and turn the LTD. By the time he reached the main road there was no sign of his quarry. Following his cop’s instinct, he turned left. South. Snatching up the microphone, he demanded a report.

Before he’d had time to receive any useful information he was brought up to date on the situation in a more concrete manner. The roadblock scene he’d passed earlier was now swarming with activity. Three black and whites and Dobey’s own car were scattered beside the road. He could see uniformed officers talking on radios, directing traffic away, or just standing, shaking their heads in amazement at the gaping hole that had been smashed in the guardrail.

Hutch slammed the LTD into PARK, flung himself out the door, and approached the gap in the railing. No. No. No! his mind screamed.

“They didn’t even slow down. Just went right over the edge.” A young black patrolman spoke wonderingly to his older companion.

Hutch shoved his way through the police officers to stand at the edge of the precipice. Forty feet below, the white van lay upside down, wheels spinning uselessly, smoke pouring from its engine. A trail of broken foliage and scarred earth marked its downward passage. Uniformed cops were even then approaching cautiously, mindful of the possibility of explosion. From behind him, he heard the wail of a fire engine and rescue truck.

Hutch went numb with shock. His mind refused to function, refused to accept what he was seeing. His soul cried out in anguish. Starsky!

A hand gripped his shoulder, shaking him. “Hutchinson!” He turned to confront his captain. The older man’s face was twisted with sorrow. He looked defeated. He looked as if he wanted to cry. Hutch stared at him blankly. He knew he should say something but couldn’t think what. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Dobey’s arm was around his shoulders tightly, providing support. “Come on, Ken. Come and sit down over here.” Hutch remembered when Starsky was dying from Bellamy’s poison and the Captain had called him Dave. They had made a joke about it, suggesting that the only time Dobey called you by your first name was if you were dying. That must be right, because he sure as hell felt like he was dying now.

He found himself sitting in the back of Captain Dobey’s car, with his superior in the seat beside him. Outside the car people went about their business, oblivious to the fact that the world was ending.

“What happened?” It came out as a tight-voiced croak.

Dobey looked at his clasped hands. “They came around that curve at full speed. We were all ready for them, but the road’s wet and the curve’s banked the wrong way. The driver lost control. They fishtailed all over the road and went through the rail.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It was an accident. The autopsy report will confirm it, but I saw their faces well enough. You were right; it was Donald and Alfred Bailey.”

Hutch tried to make sense of that. If it had in fact been the Baileys, then it would take some adjustments to make the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle fit. Why were they so determined to get me, when they could have had Starsky clean? The only evidence Hutch could give against them was hearsay. But Starsky… Starsky could nail them to the wall. And would do so, unless they killed him. Fear and grief overcame him then, and he buried his face in his hands. Starsk…

Hutch!

He was utterly cold and his ears were ringing and darkness was drowning him. He felt as if Starsky were right next to him, crying out to him for help. Starsky’s anguish was choking them both.

Closed in. Locked in a dark place. And afraid…

It was too much for Hutch. He flung his head back with a cry and reached out his arms to clasp his friend.

“Here. Put your head down.” He was in Dobey’s car and his captain’s hand was on the back of his neck, pushing his head forward between his knees. His skin felt ice cold, but sweat was pouring down his face. He felt as if his chest were being crushed. He couldn’t feel Starsky anymore. Tears trickled out from under his closed eyelids.

Dobey sat. watching him carefully, saying nothing until Hutch had regained some control. When Hutch sat up and turned to him, he could see his captain’s pain clearly.

The captain loves Starsky, too. And he’s worried about me. Poor Cap…

Dobey laid a meaty paw on his leg. “Are you all right?”

Hutch didn’t know what to say. There was no way to convey what he had just experienced. He could see that his superior was very concerned about him.

Yet gathering force in his heart was the compelling need to be reunited with his partner. He knew Starsky was alive, knew he was in danger. He urgently needed to do something to find him. He felt adrenaline surging through his body.

He grabbed Dobey’s arm. “Starsky’s alive, Captain. I felt him, just then. He’s alive! But he’s in trouble. We’ve got to get to him!”

Dobey couldn’t control his start of dismay. “Take it easy, Hutch,” he warned.

Hutch was impatient. “Dammit, he’s alive!”

Captain Dobey’s face was extremely concerned, now. He was obviously at a loss for words.

Hutch forestalled anything he might have been planning to say. “Captain. You know me. You know how it is with Starsky and me. I’m telling you I know he’s alive!”

Dobey stared at him in helpless frustration.

The confrontation was interrupted by a tap on the window glass, and a uniformed officer motioned to the captain. “Wait here, Hutch. Relax…” With an uncertain gesture at Hutch, Dobey heaved his bulk out of the car. Hutch sat obediently, striving in vain to recapture the tenuous contact, until his superior returned. “They’re bringing the bodies out now.” A charged pause. “There was no one else in the van.”

The news left Hutch unmoved. He had known that, already. Resuming the interrupted conversation, he said in a calmer tone. “I’m asking you to take my word for this. But even if you don’t, even if you think I’m crazy, shouldn’t we go on the assumption that it’s not too late, and do everything we can to find Starsky?”

“Of course we’ll do everything we can to find him. For starters, let’s get out of here and go down to Metro. We’ll have P.F. Jones picked up. Maybe he knows where the Baileys would take Starsky.”

Since that had been Hutch’s exact plan, he didn’t object. Assuring a doubtful Dobey that he was all right to drive, Hutch wasted no time in heading for Metro. In his rearview mirror he could see the cars still gathered around the broken safety rail.

***

A few shattered shards of glass were the only sign left of yesterday’s fatal crash. Hutch ran his hand through his already tousled hair and massaged the aching muscles of his neck. It was Monday afternoon and he’d been cruising Brennan Drive for three hours now. It was a long road. Dobey clearly thought he had slipped over the edge, and he knew himself that he was grasping at straws, but he had to do something.

During questioning, P.F. Jones had sworn he had no idea where the Bailey brothers would have taken Starsky. He had sold the undercover cop a small quantity of acid and PCP, and had been thereafter coerced into connecting Starsky with his source. That was all he knew or cared to know. Except that if that smart-ass cop was in trouble, it was exactly what he deserved. P.J. had warned Starsky to stay away from Alf Bailey. Everyone knew better than to mess around with that sicko. Dobey had finally hauled his increasingly violent detective from the interrogation room, threatening Hutch with suspension.

The barn was no help. Unused for years, it had probably been chosen because it was private, a good spot to kill a cop. Huggy was beating the bushes but had not come up with anything. This had been a family operation, restricted to the Bailey brothers. Aside from their pushers, who were not privy to private information, they’d kept to themselves. The police had no leads.

All the usual channels were being pursued. All the standard procedures were being followed. Everyone was doing everything they could. But Hutch knew that everyone thought they were looking for a dead man.

He kept getting visions of kidnap victims who’d been buried alive. Or Joanna Haymes in the red “Rosa’s Tamales” van. Closed in a small dark place, unable to move, to see the light. He caught himself shivering. Stop it! This isn’t doing anyone any good!

He was running on pure adrenaline now. He had been unable to sleep last night, even though he knew he needed the rest. Dobey had banned him from Metro and he had spoken as the captain, not as concerned friend. “Go home! You’re not doing anything but making people crazy. And I don’t want to see you here again before 9:00 tomorrow!”

The folder containing Don and Alf’s mug shots lay on the seat beside him. All afternoon he had driven Brennan Drive, stopping at every gas station, restaurant, and convenience store to show the photos. No one had recognized the faces, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Starsky was near.

“The Side Track” was a combination restaurant and gas station about a mile north of the crash site. He had to wait while the cashier rang up a to-go order. She eyed him appreciatively across the counter.

For the nth time he repeated his spiel and drew out the folder. His hopes fell again when she told him she’d been off over the weekend. Seeing his crestfallen expression, the cashier hesitated. “Why don’t you ask Dolores? She worked this weekend.”

Dolores was a cheery Chicano of indeterminate age who peered obligingly at each photograph. After a close inspection she pointed to Alf’s picture and spoke with conviction. “Yes, I remember this one. He was here several times this weekend to use the telephone. Mal hombre, that one. He’d get over there in the corner,” she jerked her head towards the pay phone, “and make his call and listen to it ring and slam the receiver down and curse when he didn’t get an answer. Oy! He’d be so angry when he left!”

“Did you see which way he went when he left here? Driving a white ’67 VW van.” But Dolores could be of no further help. She hadn’t watched Bailey once he’d left the dining area.

Hutch was almost crazed with frustration. To be so close! Well, if he had to search every side road, he would. In some part of his mind he was relying on the bond between Starsky and himself to lead him to his friend.

The cashier tugged on his jacket insistently. “Hey, mister. I think I might have seen that van.”

He spun on her so quickly that she took an involuntary step back. “When? Where?”

“Saturday afternoon. I was going to the store. I live alone,” she added with a coy look at him. The expression on his face must have inspired her to get to the point. “I was coming down Brennan Drive and this guy pulled out of a side road, right in front of me! I almost hit him!”

She squeaked in surprise as Hutch grabbed her arm. “Where?”

“A couple of miles down the road. Right past that old closed-down Gulf station. You come around a curve and there’s a little road on the left. It doesn’t really go anywhere,” she added defensively, “so you don’t expect people to be coming out of it and almost make you run off the road. You know what I mean?” She was addressing the empty air.

***

Hutch didn’t even notice the crash site as he passed it this time. He found the dirt road without difficulty. It was disused, overgrown with weeds and dry grass. It also had clearly been driven recently. The mass of undergrowth still lay flattened by the underbelly of the van.

The road disappeared around a curve about thirty feet into the woods. Hutch forced himself to drive it carefully. There were places where the ruts were so deep that the LTD’s underside scraped ominously. He passed a burned-out shell of a house on the right. Nature had already begun to reclaim her property.

When he saw the small gray frame house on the left he knew his search was almost ended. The road past the house stretched overgrown and unused. Hutch pulled up before the sagging porch and switched off the ignition. Shaking from head to toe, he had to rest his head on the steering wheel for a moment and suck in deep gasping breaths before he felt equipped to enter the house.

***

The odor assaulted him as soon as he stepped inside. The stench of death… the smell of rotting flesh.

For the first time his mind accepted the truth his heart had refused to believe. He was too late.

Days too late.

How could I have been so wrong? I swear I felt him…

Starsky. All that he was. Dying in the dark. Dying alone. Did he try to reach me then? Did he call to me for help? Was his last thought… that I wasn’t going to come this time? Oh, God, Starsk…

These thoughts streaked through Hutch’s mind in a single instant as he stood paralyzed in the barren hallway. He knew it was his duty to investigate, to walk further into this charnel house and locate the source of that telltale stench.

***

He found himself on the front porch, holding on to the upright for dear life, retching over the edge into the dirt. There was nothing but coffee to come up, and it burned his throat as it passed. Finally the involuntary gagging stopped and he stood with his head down, arms wrapped protectively around his stomach, gasping for air, defeated.

I can’t. I can’t… He had the insane urge to flee, to leave the house, go to his car, call Metro for help. Let it be someone else. Anyone. Let someone else go in there and find Starsky’s decomposing body.

He was actually down the steps before duty stopped him. His duty to his best friend, whom he’d failed. The Moment of Truth had come and Ken Hutchinson, in spite of a thousand fervently offered vows to protect Starsky’s priceless life, had been out fucking.

He owed Starsky this last obligation. Penance for his failure. There could never be restitution.

Breathing through his mouth and swallowing frequently kept his stomach under control. The living room contained several burlap-covered masses that turned out to be bales of marijuana and neatly packed kilos of sherm — pot laced with PCP. Cardboard boxes contained an assortment of hallucinogens in tablet and capsule form. Hutch passed over the discovery with barely a glance. He crossed the hall into a large bedroom. On each twin bed sat a duffle bag, neatly packed in preparation for the Bailey brothers’ anticipated departure.

The closets were barren. The moment he opened each one was torture; the relief when he found them empty mocked him. Russian Roulette. And sooner or later he’d hit the loaded chamber.

Bathroom. Nothing.

On a battered dresser in a small room at the rear of the house he found Starsky’s wallet, watch and badge case. He held them in his hands for a long moment, turning the badge over and over, before tucking them into his inside jacket pocket. The closet door sagged at an angle, upper hinge broken.

The stench seemed stronger in the kitchen. The room looked empty at first glance. The table still contained the remains of several take-out meals. The refrigerator was humming in the corner. Its door hung open slightly, the interior light glowing dutifully.

Hutch crossed automatically to close it. Then he noticed it had been pulled out of position, the black outline of accumulated dirt marking its former resting place. Now it had been shifted a couple of feet to one side to block what was probably a pantry. A crumpled paper cup lay wedged between the appliance and the door. About five feet into the room, a smear of dried blood darkened the floor.

This is it.

It didn’t take long enough to shift the refrigerator, and then he stood in front of the final door.

He pulled it open.

Starsky lay huddled on his right side in the shallow cupboard, arms bound behind him. His face had obviously been pressed against the crack between the door and the floor. It was smeared with grime and dried blood; the skin underneath was gray.

It was every worst nightmare come true.

Hutch’s legs collapsed under him and he dropped to his knees. His heart twisted with agony and he found himself pressing one hand to his chest. His overburdened mind went blessedly blank.

When awareness returned hoe forced himself to look again at Starsky’s face. In all his life he would never forget this image; it was seared into his brain forever in that instant. The crown of soft curls, their shine dimmed with dust. The strong profile, dark eyebrows furrowed; pale bloodstained lips, fan of dark lashes on hollow cheeks.

The lashes flickered as the closed eyes chased nightmare visions. The bloody lips twitched.

For a moment Hutch doubted his sanity. He observed the rapid and fall of the dirty T-shirt with a sense of witnessing a miracle.

He tried to speak Starsky’s name but nothing would come out. He realized that tears were streaming down his face. For the first time he reached out to touch Starsky, gently grasping his upper arm where it was pulled behind his back. It was cold to the touch, but warming now under his hand.

He was immediately overcome by the urgent desire to get Starsky out of that house. He examined him as best as he could in his cramped position. The blood on his face came from his nose and a three-inch gash on his forehead — gory but not life-threatening. His questing hand discovered a good-sized lump encrusted with blood on the back of the curly head, but there were no other obvious wounds.

He bent and clasped Starsky clumsily around the shoulders. Come on. We’re getting out of here. Dragging him from the closet and to a vertical position, Hutch lifted the unresponsive form and staggered back through the house and onto the front porch.

Gently he laid his precious burden down. Starsky had been handcuffed like that for at least a day. The first thing to do was get them off him. That was accomplished easily, using his own handcuff key. He maneuvered the stiff limbs carefully to lie on either side of the supine form and began gently chafing Starsky’s left hand and arm.

Starsky gave a small cry of pain as circulation returned, and his eyes opened. He gazed at Hutch with no sign of recognition.

For several seconds Hutch stared back, dismayed. Starsky’s irises were narrow blue coronas encircling huge black pupils. They didn’t seem like his eyes, and Hutch experienced a chill of fear. His friend raised his arm clumsily and attempted to shield his eyes from the dying light. Without thinking, Hutch shifted so Starsky’s face was in his shadow.

This time he found he could speak, barely. “Starsky,” he croaked. The tears were falling again. Still? “Jesus, buddy. I’m so glad to see you!”

Starsky lay watching him intently, quizzically. His voice, when it came out, was hoarse and strained. “Hutch?”

Relief flooded Hutch at the single harsh syllable. ”Yeah, buddy. It’s me. How ya doin’?” His hands found Starsky’s arm and resumed their massage, but his eyes never left his friend’s face.

Starsky’s attention seemed to have wandered. He was looking thoughtfully off over Hutch’s left shoulder. “Didja come to say good-bye? I waited for you, but I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna make it.” A shudder ran over his body and he closed his eyes.

A prickle of fear dented Hutch’s relief. “I’m here now, babe.” He wiped at the ravaged face with his sleeve and tried to sound calm. ”You know I wouldn’t leave you alone if I could help it.”

The unfamiliar eyes opened again and a tender expression softened the tense features as Starsky smiled at him gently. “I know.” It was a benediction.

Hutch finally tore his eyes away and began untying Starsky’s legs. “Let me take a look at you, now. You hurt anywhere?”

Starsky’s eyes were closed and he made no response. Hutch ran his hands over his body, checking as best he could for signs of injury. The ribs and abdomen were tender, and when he hiked up the T-shirt, he discovered large black bruises. The gash on Starsky’s forehead had apparently bled a great deal, but now seemed to be healing. His wrists were raw from the handcuffs. Considering the wound on the back of his head, concussion seemed a likely possibility. He could find nothing else.

The alien eyes were open again. Starsky swallowed several times before speaking. “I’m thirsty, Hutch. Is there any water?”

Hutch was torn. He didn’t want to leave Starsky. He didn’t want to go back into that house. But Starsky needed water. He’d been left locked in that closet to die alone. There was no choice. “Coming right up.” He clasped his friend’s shoulder. ”You just wait here.” He rose to his feet and forced himself to walk quickly back inside.

Something was dead in or near the house and was causing that smell of decay, but he didn’t fear it now or care what it was. He kept his attention firmly focused on his goal. Kitchen. Cabinet. Empty. Paper cups on table. Turn faucet on. Rinse. Fill. Faucet off. Then he was relieved to be on his way back out, hopefully for the last time.

Starsky was propped against the porch upright when he returned, gazing at the trees. His fingers flexed stiffly, convulsively, while his body seemed to vibrate with continual tremors.

“Didja ever notice trees, Hutch? I mean, really notice them? So clear. So perfect. If you look close you can see every little leaf, y’know?” He stared intently at a eucalyptus. “Each little leaf. Clear as glass. And if you look closer you can see all the veins… and then the cells…” His voice trailed off.

The thought of drugs leapt to Hutch’s mind. He knelt and offered the water to his friend. When Starsky had trouble fastening his hand around it, Hutch placed his own hand over Starsky’s and assisted him in bringing the cup to his lips. Starsky drank thirstily for a few gulps. Then with a sudden cry he wrenched away from Hutch. “No!” He struck at the cup, splashing the remaining water over both of them. Squirming back as far as he could against the post, Starsky flung his head back, eyeing the cup wildly. His wound impacted with the post and he cried out in pain.

Hutch was there instantly; grasping the struggling body and enfolding it in his arms. Starsky resisted him at first, but Hutch tightened his hold and spoke soothingly. “Starsk… babe… It’s all right. It’s me. Nothing’s gonna hurt you, buddy. I won’t let it!” For God’s sake, what’s wrong?

Starsky became passive in his arms. Hutch continued to hold him, talking softly, hands beginning an unconscious stroking. Starsky sighed and laid his head on Hutch’s shoulder, his own arms coming clumsily around Hutch’s waist.

Hutch was totally at a loss. He simply didn’t know what to do to help him. What did they do to you? Starsky was still, but Hutch could feel the thud of his heart through their shirts, and tiny tremors racing through his frame. He continued stroking, widening the territory to include Starsky’s shoulders and the back of his neck. The black T-shirt was wet with sweat.

“Starsk… Remember Alf and Don Bailey. They brought you to this house. Remember?” After a long, thoughtful moment Starsky nodded. “Okay. Good. Starsk… Listen. Did they give you anything? Any drugs?” Anything to freak you out?

Starsky closed his eyes as if to remember, then opened them again quickly. “Yeah. Acid. A shitload. I think… I didn’t drink it all…”

Acid! “When, Starsk? When did they give it to you?”

Hutch had to repeat the question twice. “Dunno. Seems like forever.” Thoughtful. “What’s today?”

“Monday.”

Starsky didn’t appear to be listening anymore.

Hutch’s mind raced, assimilating this new information. Acid. That explained the physical symptoms — the dilated pupils, sweating and tremors. And the strange behavior. Starsky was flying high. ‘A shitload.’ How much?

Starsky’s passive exterior was belied by the tenseness of his muscles, the pressure of his arms around Hutch, the quickness of his breathing, and the ever-present tremors. Hutch shifted to look down at his face. Starsky’s jaw was tightly clenched, expression strained, and the rapid movement behind his eyelids suggested that the mind inside the rigid body was extremely agitated.

Hutch was seized by a pressing compulsion to get Starsky into the car and get him to a hospital. Get someone to help him…

He shook him gently. “Starsky, come on. It’s time to go.”

When Hutch finally got his attention, Starsky obediently attempted to rise, but his legs would not support him. Hutch wrapped his arms around his waist and tried to lift the uncoordinated burden, causing Starsky to arch back and moan in pain. Damn! Forgot about his ribs. “Sorry, Starsk.”

Eventually he got him to his feet and slipped his jacket around his shoulders. At this point, Starsky was able to walk with support, although he seemed to be lost in a private world. Hutch kept his arm around his shoulders as he opened the passenger door. Starsky turned to smile dreamily at him. “Where we goin’?”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Starsky looked blank, as if his ears had recorded the sound and his mind was struggling to decode the message. Then a look of absolute dread seized his features. “No!” He shoved Hutch forcibly away and turned to run.

His actions took Hutch completely by surprise. “Starsk… wait!”

Starsky only made it a few stumbling yards before either his legs or his coordination gave out. He fell hard but immediately rolled to a sitting position and began to scramble backwards. Hutch moved to crouch beside him, reaching out, only to freeze in mid-gesture when Starsky recoiled.

He made his voice calm. “Starsk… What’s wrong? It’s me. What’re you scared of?”

He had known Starsky for years, had seen him in hundreds of moods and emotions, had seen him face death on many occasions. But he had never seen him so full of apprehension. His eyes were dark pools of fear. The sweat pouring down his bloody face left shiny furrows, and his T-shirt was wet with it. Violent tremors and his own panting breath made his whole body shudder. Hutch felt a wrench of empathy.

Starsky shook his head urgently, repeatedly. “No hospital.”

“Starsk, we have to. You could be seriously hurt!”

“No hospital, Hutch. You know I hate those places. I couldn’t handle that right now.”

Hutch could only stare at him in mute helplessness.

Starsky seized his forearms, making an obvious effort to overcome panic. “I’m fine, I swear. I just need to be alone, get my head together. Please!”

‘Fine’? Look at yourself! You’re a hell of a long way from ‘fine’! “I can’t, Starsky. You need help.”

“Not from them!” It was almost a scream. “Don’t you see, it’d be just like Cabrillo. I don’t want people looking at me!”

Hutch realized that the crippling anxiety was a side effect of the LSD. Starsky had apparently ingested a massive dosage. He was stunned by the change in his behavior that the mention of the hospital had produced. He knew also that there was a basis for the fear. He could not think of any way that Starsky’s mental state could pass unquestioned, the way he kept drifting in and out without warning. He needed help, but he was so defenseless…

Starsky was an extremely private person. Hutch thought with a brief flash of pride that he was the only person Starsky would let himself be vulnerable with. It would be hell for him for strangers to see him out of control. And Hutch knew the medical mind. They would feel duty-bound to poke and pry.

And yet there was no way he could justify not seeking medical attention for his friend. Starsky had been through some kind of hell, and Hutch had no way of knowing the extent of his injuries. And I don’t know what to do for you, buddy! So there was no choice.

He reached out slowly and clasped Starsky’s right hand in his own. “I’ll stay right with you, I promise. And we’ll get Greg Richards to check you out. You like Greg, don’t you? We can trust him.”

Starsky shook his head in wordless denial.

Feeling like a traitor, Hutch stood up, still clasping the reluctant hand. Starsky stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. “I’m sorry. I have to let a doctor check you out.” He tugged encouragingly, pulling Starsky to his feet. “Come on. I’ll take care of you.”

For a moment he thought Starsky was going to fight him. Then the rigid shoulders slumped in defeat. The hand tightened desperately around Hutch’s, and Starsky’s eyes met his pleadingly. “Stay close, will you?”

“Like glue, babe.”

***

He didn’t call in to the hospital from the car. The last thing Starsky needed was a reception committee from Metro. He flicked another glance at Starsky, who sat huddled in the corner of the seat, eyes closed tightly, shivering in Hutch’s jacket. He had a half-formed fear that Starsky might throw himself out of the car.

He prayed that Starsky would be all right. That there was no physical injury that would keep him in the place he hated. That there would be no permanent damage to his mind…

He was aware that his own endurance was flagging. He’d now gone about thirty-six hours without sleep, but the mental strain was more debilitating than the physical. He’d been on an emotional roller-coaster, and there was more to be faced. He·could not afford to let his body betray him now. Starsky needed him desperately, needed his support and protection.

Greg’ll know what to do. He’ll help. He repeated it to himself like a litany as he drove.

***

Greg Richards was at a medical convention in Salt Lake City.

The secretary at the desk tried to waylay him to fill out the usual endless forms, but Hutch pulled Starsky’s wallet from his jacket pocket and shoved it in her face. “All the information you need is in there. Check your records; he’s been here often enough.”

They tried to shunt him into the waiting area while they took Starsky into the Emergency Room for treatment but, true to his word, he refused to be separated from him. Now Starsky sat on a gurney in the examination cubicle, reluctantly enduring the ministrations of the ER nurse. Hutch had had to help him strip and don the hospital gown.

Hutch stood where his friend could see him, but out of the way. He tried to assess how Starsky looked to others, but his empathy would not permit objectivity. He was too aware of all the little signs of distress that he hoped no one else would notice. To Hutch’s knowing eyes, Starsky looked as if it was all he could do not to run.

Eyes tightly closed, Starsky allowed the nurse to wash away the dried blood on his face. She examined him thoroughly from head to toe, took his vital signs, then efficiently cleaned and disinfected the wounds on the back of his head and his forehead. A gauze square covered the gash on his forehead; it was too late for stitches. As she worked, the nurse asked the patient questions about what had happened. Starsky was trying, but his answers didn’t always make sense.

Hutch stepped in with a censored version of what he had been able to deduce about the weekend’s events, and ended with, “Look, he had a tough time of it and he’s still a little mixed up.”

The nurse gave him a look that said she knew she was not getting the whole story, but apparently she planned to let the doctor deal with sorting out the truth. Alarms went off when she fastened a tourniquet around Starsky’s arm and prepared to draw blood.

“What’s that for?”

“Blood work. It’ll tell us several things about Sgt. Starsky’s condition: if his hemoglobin is low from blood loss, and the degree of infection and dehydration…”

That didn’t sound threatening, so Hutch made no further comment.

Starsky had the look of a man trapped in a nightmare. His face was blank, but his slender body was rigid with the effort at control. Hutch hoped it wasn’t as obvious to everyone else as it was to him.

When the blood had been drawn, the nurse snapped the tourniquet off and addressed the patient. “Lie back now, Sergeant. We’re going to go for x-rays.” When Starsky did not respond, Hutch stepped forward quickly. He squeezed a shoulder gently, and Starsky raised confused eyes to his.

“Starsk, they need to x-ray that head of yours and make sure nothing got shaken loose.” He smiled reassuringly and was rewarded by a tense half-grin. Starsky lay back obediently at Hutch’s urging.

The nurse took charge again. “Sir, you’ll need to wait here.” With this dismissal, she pressed a lever with her foot and began moving the gurney toward the door.

Starsky was up like a shot, almost falling as he jumped off the moving table. Gown flapping, he stumbled to Hutch and latched desperately onto his arm, quivering with agitation. “Hutch, don’t go,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t let them take me!”

Hutch placed his hand over his friend’s and rubbed it soothingly. “Shh… It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” He turned to the nurse. “I think it’d be better if I went along. He’s a little nervous,” he added lamely.

The middle-aged woman had apparently seen it all, at one time or another, and wasn’t going to argue with him. She kept out of the way while he got Starsky on the gurney again. Hutch walked beside and helped push, careful to stay in Starsky’s line of vision.

In the X-ray Department, the nurse handed him a lead apron with a muttered remark that sounded like, “Watch your ‘nads, blondie.” Starsky’s eyes remained open, but his mind seemed to have slipped away again. Hutch had to manipulate him into the necessary positions as if he were a doll.

At last the ordeal was over and they were returned to the examination cubicle to await the doctor.

Starsky sat tensely on the side of the gurney, hands clutching the edge, eyes fixed on the wall. His voice was tight enough to snap. “Hutch, I gotta get out of here. Take me home. Please.”

“Starsk, we gotta make sure you’re okay. You might have a concussion!”

“So it’s a concussion. I’ve had those before. I’ll go home, get in bed, and rest. Honest.” The expression on his face turned heartbreakingly hopeful. “You could come with me, make sure I take care of myself.”

Hutch looked into the dilated, terrified eyes and was cut to the heart. “Just a little bit longer, Starsk. If the doctor says it’s okay, then I’ll take you home.”

The words were a desperate whisper. “I’m afraid I’m gonna lose it again, and I don’t wanna do it here. They’ll never let me out!” Hutch couldn’t think of anything to say, and his companion continued, eyes locked on the wall. “I know what I’m talking about. I’ve done acid before, y’know. This has been bad, but the worst is over. But bein’ here is no help. I hate this place! I just need to get home and wait it out.” He paused, and when he looked at Hutch his heart was in his eyes. “Help me, Hutch. Get me out of here. Help me like I helped you.”

The whole time Starsky was talking, his body was quivering with tension. Tremors rippled from head to toe, seeming to increase in intensity with every passing second. His hair hung in sweat-soaked ringlets and the gown was becoming rapidly plastered to his body with perspiration.

Poor babe. So scared and trying so hard not to show it. Still, Hutch hesitated. “I… I don’t know, Starsk…”

Starsky threw his head back, eyes closed, teeth bared, tight cords of muscle and tendon standing out clearly in his exposed throat. “Hutch, please! I’m begging you!”

The plea broke him. Starsky never begged for anything. Hutch could not resist his friend’s suffering. “Okay. But I am definitely going with you, and I’m staying until everything’s okay again. And you will do exactly as I say. Understand?”

Starsky looked as if he were going to cry with relief. “Yeah, sure. Anything you say…” He slid off the gurney, grabbed Hutch’s arm, and looked around uneasily. “Can we go now?” He nudged him urgently in the direction of the exit. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Hold on, Starsk. We can’t just walk out.” He tried a calming smile. “Gotta tell ’em ‘bye’, y’know.” And pray God there’s nothing physically wrong that’s gonna make me have to break my word and keep you here.

“Okay, but make it fast, will ya?”

“Sure, just as soon as the doctor comes. We’ll let him take a quick look at you, then we’ll go.” Starsky had located his clothes. He stood holding his jeans, blinking his eyes and shaking his head. Hutch moved to help him. “Having trouble?”

“Everything keeps changing, Hutch. It won’t stay the same!”

Hutch suppressed his concern and helped his friend get dressed, except for his shirt. Starsky’s mental condition seemed to be worsening. He would not sit down but stood with clenched fists, eyes tightly closed in a vain attempt to shut out the hallucinations. As Hutch watched, tears began to seep from under Starsky’s lids and flow down his cheeks.

Am I doing the right thing? If he’s this bad, maybe this is where he needs to be. “…Like I helped you…” Hutch remembered his own horror-filled experience, kicking heroin. Starsky, holding him while he died an endless, agonizing death. Not the same. But similar in one very important way. It was an ordeal to be endured in private. Professional services wouldn’t get Starsky through this. Only the two of them could do that.

First they had to get out of here. Hutch was tempted to just get up and walk out, but he was stymied by the possibility of as-yet undiscovered physical damage. Those bruises testified to some serious abuse. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure how much longer Starsky could hold out against the persistent pressure from the LSD. How long before he just collapses from all the adrenaline pumping through his system?

He reached to comfort his friend, and Starsky jumped, turning toward him fearfully. Hutch drew him gently into a close embrace. Starsky responded instantly, pressing his face into Hutch’s shoulder, hands clutching his shirtfront. Hutch· rubbed the knotted muscles of his back and shoulders and murmured, “Easy, babe, easy. We can get through this. Just hang on. Hell, you did a month as Moe Green. You can snow these turkeys!” A halfhearted laugh died on his lips.

Starsky was shuddering against him, teeth chattering so he had to make several attempts before he could speak. “Hutch, I know there’s nothing to be afraid of! But that doesn’t help. It just keeps getting worse and worse!” A sob broke past his lips.

Hutch unwrapped Starsky’s hands from his shirt and guided his friend’s arms around his waist. He could feel him fighting to overcome the tremors. “Hang on, babe. I’m here. It’s gonna be all right. You said yourself you could get through this if you could just get home. We’re going home. Just hold on a little longer.” He drew back and grasped Starsky’s sweat-soaked head gently with both hands, turning the tormented face to his own, looking deeply into the tear-filled eyes. “Trust me, Starsk.”

They stood like that, eyes locked, holding each other, for a moment frozen in time. Hutch watched himself in Starsky’s enlarged pupils. Despite the turmoil going on in his friend’s mind, the bond that had always linked them ultimately reasserted itself. Starsky took a deep breath, swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay, sure.” He looked directly into Hutch’s eyes again. “Always.”

Hutch’s throat constricted with emotion at the look of love and trust on his friend’s pale face. No one else sees him like this. He wouldn’t let them. No one but me… Starsky managed half a smile, albeit a shaky one. Hutch didn’t let go of the beloved face until Starsky stepped away himself.

“Good. You ready to face that doctor now?”

Starsky nodded, face set in an expression of determination, and scrubbed at his cheeks.

The doctor finally arrived. Dr. Simon was a slim young black man with an air of quiet confidence. He glanced at his half-dressed patient, then at the chart in his hand. “All right, Sgt. Starsky. Please get back on the table so I can check you out.” Starsky obeyed reluctantly.

”You’re a police officer?” He was looking into Starsky’s ears as he spoke.

”Yeah.”

“Tell me what happened.” Gritting his teeth, Starsky allowed him to peer into his eyes with a flashlight.

Uh-oh.

Hutch saw Dr. Simon look sharply at the patient. Then he pulled out an ophthalmoscope and conducted a careful examination of Starsky’s eyes. “Sgt. Starsky, are you under the influence of any drug, or drugs?”

Hutch held his breath as Starsky looked the doctor in the eye and said, “I haven’t taken anything, Doc. Just patch me up and let me get out of here.” He moved to get down.

“Not so fast, Sergeant. I haven’t finished yet.” Dr. Simon was thorough, palpating all the bruised areas for signs of internal injury. He paused long moments over the various bullet and surgery scars on Starsky’s torso.

Then he began a neurological exam. Hutch could see that Starsky was trying desperately to perform the requested actions correctly. He could also see that his friend was not being successful. He was able to extend his arms at shoulder height, but when he tried to copy the doctor by touching alternating index fingers to his nose with eyes closed, he was barely able to find his face.

Dr. Simon made a notation on the chart. “All right, Sergeant. We’ll need some further tests…”

Starsky cast a beseeching glance at him, and Hutch stepped into the breach. “What kind of tests, doctor?”

The doctor’s eyebrows rose above his wire-framed glasses. “And you are…?”

“Sgt. Ken Hutchinson, LAPD. Sgt. Starsky is my partner.”

“I see.” He gestured Hutch aside, out of Starsky’s hearing. “Sgt. Hutchinson. From his behavior and physical reactions I believe your partner may be under the influence of drugs. Does he have a problem in this area that you’re aware of?”

Hutch was glad to be able to answer truthfully. “None at all, doctor. And I’d know.”

“Then is it possible he could have been given something without his knowledge?”

Hutch answered evasively. “I wasn’t there.” Quickly he changed the subject. “What did the x-rays and blood tests show?”

Dr. Simon’s look showed he wasn’t fooled, but he answered the question. “There’s no fracture of the skull. Hemoglobin count shows blood loss was not excessive, and I don’t see any damage to the liver or other internal organs. He does have an infection from the head wounds, for which I’ll prescribe an antibiotic. He’s extremely dehydrated, but once he’s admitted we’ll begin IVs.”

Relief made Hutch dizzy for a moment. But he still had a confrontation ahead. “Hold on, doctor. Starsky doesn’t want to be admitted. He wants to go home.”

Dr. Simon was startled. “What? Out of the question.”

“You said he was all right physically.”

“I said he seems to be all right. But you saw how he did on the neurological exam. And I have no way of knowing whether his abnormal reactions are due to his head injury or the drugs you both insist he didn’t take.”

Hutch flushed at his pointed look. Things had gotten so complicated. The net of reason and bureaucratic procedure was closing on them both. He just wanted to grab Starsky and run.

Starsky was watching with wide, desperate eyes. When he caught Hutch’s gaze he called tightly, “Can we go now, Hutch?”

Hutch crossed quickly to his side and squeezed his arm in reassurance. “Yeah, Starsk, we can go.”

Dr. Simon hastened to intervene. “Just a moment, Sergeant. I’m not ready to release you yet. As I said, there are some tests…”

“Whatever Hutch says is all right with me, Doc.” Starsky punctuated his point by sliding off the exam table. When he reached for his shirt, the tremor in his hands was obvious. He turned the shirt for a moment, trying to figure out how it went on, until Hutch assisted him.

Dr. Simon was not ready to give up. His anger showed clearly as he confronted Hutch. “Sgt. Hutchinson. In my judgment, this man needs hospitalization.”

“Starsky wants out. You can’t keep him here without his consent.”

The doctor drew himself up and said in a formal tone, “There is some question as to whether Sgt. Starsky is capable of making that decision.”

Hutch was impatient. Starsky had done remarkably well, but his condition was deteriorating rapidly. “Then I’ll make it for him. I’ll take responsibility for checking him out.”

The doctor was obviously surprised at this turn of events. He looked closely at Hutch, then at Starsky. But he stuck to his guns.

Tenacious bastard.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to see some proof of your legal right to do that, Sergeant — a power of attorney or such — before I release this man on your say-so.”

They glared at each other. Mexican standoff. Hutch had never felt more like pulling his gun.

Dr. Simon appealed to him. “Be reasonable. I’m trying to help the man, not persecute him. Surely you can see that.”

Hutch knew he was sincere but couldn’t spare concern for his professional integrity. “I appreciate that, doctor. And I do know he’s a little mixed-up right now. But as long as he’s physically okay, I think the best place for him is at home.”

“For heaven’s sake, look at him!” The physician indicated the patient.

Starsky now stood pressed against Hutch’s side, eyes screwed shut, sweat pouring down his face, whole body taut. He was breathing in short, shallow gasps and his face, wore an expression of anguish.

The sight of him was enough for Hutch. Nothing mattered but Starsky, and procedure be damned, he was not wasting any more time in discussion. The expression on his face must have conveyed some of what he was feeling, because Dr. Simon took a step backward.

“He wants to go home and I’m taking him there. I told you I’d accept full responsibility. Now get out of my way.”

He had to admire Simon’s guts. He thrust Starsky’s chart at Hutch. “If you insist on taking him against medical advice, then I’ll have to ask you to sign this release.” While Hutch scrawled his name on the appropriate line, Dr. Simon was doing some scribbling of his own. He shoved the paper at Hutch. “Here. As long as you’re playing doctor, at least get some antibiotics into him.”

“Thanks.” He put his arm gently around his partner’s shoulders. Starsky jumped and opened vacant eyes, and Hutch’s heart ached for him. “Come on.” He tugged gently. “We’re going home.” He guided his friend past the frustrated doctor. The EXIT sign beckoned like a beacon.

Dr. Simon made no further move to stop them, but his words rang out clearly. “Sergeant, your superiors will hear about this.”

I’m sure they will.

***

Starsky seemed to be functioning purely on instinct. He accompanied Hutch obediently out of the hospital, stumbling slightly on the steps to the parking lot. When Hutch had gotten him into the passenger seat of the LTD he huddled in the corner, knees raised, arms folded across his belly, eyes locked tightly shut. Hutch squeezed his knee gently, but there was no response.

Trying to overcome the mindset that it was Starsky and himself against the world, he weighed their options. Anywhere they went, someone would be looking for them soon. So he would have to deal with the outside world and give his partner cover while Starsky fought his demons. May as well go home and call the Captain… Try to make him understand. After all, what’s he gonna do — call a squad car to drag Starsk forcibly back to the hospital?

“The lights are all ripply. Running like lava.” The quiet comment startled him out of his reverie. Starsky was turned to look at him, expression hidden in the shadows, eyes glittering darkly. He seemed lucid for the moment. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going to my place. You can use some of my stuff for tonight and we’ll go get yours tomorrow.”

After a long pause for interpretation, Starsky answered agreeably. “Suits me.” He slouched back in the comer, voice rising over the whir of the ignition. “Thanks, Hutch.”

“No sweat, buddy.”

Hutch was surprised to discover that it was nine-thirty. They filled the prescription for antibiotics at the drive-through window of Perry’s All-Night Pharmacy, then headed for Venice. Throughout the trip Starsky either stared out of the window or sat silently with closed eyes. He didn’t seem to be frightened any more, just withdrawn. Devoting all his energy to battling the drug? It worried Hutch to see him so intense one minute, and so blank the next.

Hutch locked his apartment door behind them, feeling as if they had gained sanctuary.

Starsky’s awareness was on the upswing again. He made a beeline for the kitchen and filled a glass with water. It was half gone before Hutch got to him. “Whoa! Take it slow. You’re gonna be sick if you drink too fast.” Under his coaching, Starsky finished the rest of the liquid in sips and settled for only half a glass more. He set the container in the sink and looked down at himself.

“I want a bath.”

He needed one. Even with the blood washed off his face, he looked terrible — beard-stubbled, pale and haggard, with dark circles under his eyes. His hair was a coronet of dirty ringlets; his soiled and bloodstained clothes still bore the lingering odor of death.

“Okay.” Hutch hesitated. “Need some help?”

Starsky thought about it for a minute. “Nah, I can handle it.” Then he stood there, perplexed, as if he couldn’t remember what he should do next.

“Come on, buddy.” Hutch grasped the nape of his neck and steered him into the bathroom. Starsky sat on the commode and pulled off his shoes while Hutch adjusted the temperature of the spray. He pulled the sweat-stiffened T-shirt over Starsky’s head, wincing at the dark discolorations that marred his upper body. He hated to think how his friend must have gotten those marks. At that point Starsky reasserted his fitness to bathe unassisted, so Hutch reluctantly left him to it.

He had a challenge of his own to undertake: explaining to his captain why he had gone against vehement medical advice and taken Starsky from the hospital, practically at gun point. He dialed Dobey’s number with a fatalistic sigh. Starsky was safe. That was all that mattered.

As it turned out, Captain Dobey was too overjoyed to learn that one of his favorite people was back from the dead to question Hutch’s judgment on anything. When Hutch had related the entire tale, his captain spoke with rarely-displayed affection. “God bless you, Hutch, you did it. Forgive me for doubting you; after all these years I should have known better.” Their longtime captain and friend sounded truly overcome. “God bless you both.” Then, before a deeply-touched Hutch could formulate a response, he continued in a more businesslike tone. “So what do you need? Some time off?”

”Yeah, Cap. A week would be good, with an option for longer if we need it.”

“Done. Starsky can drop by and fill out a report any time he feels up to it.”

“Thanks, Captain. You’re a prize!” Hutch chuckled, feeling lighthearted for the first time in what seemed like years.

Dobey’s harrumph came through clearly. “Just take care of your partner. And tell that rascal Starsky, ‘Welcome back!'”

Hutch was smiling when he hung up. God has blessed us!

The shower was still running. Hutch owned exactly one pair of pajamas, and he located them at last in the bottom drawer of his bureau. His spare robe was also allocated to Starsky.

He called Starsky’s name before entering the bathroom. When there was no answer he entered the steamy room, calling “Hutchinson Nightwear Service!” in a cheerful tone. There was no response from behind the plaid curtain. Concerned, he drew back the plastic.

Starsky was leaning on his arms against the shower wall, hands gripping the towel rack, eyes closed. He didn’t look distressed, just blank, as if his mind had just drifted away. Foamy lather dripped from his dark curls.

Not wanting to startle him, Hutch didn’t touch him, but called his name softly several times. At last he got through. Starsky blinked and straightened. Soapsuds ran from his hair over the wet bandage patch and into his eyes.

The stinging suds got a definite reaction. With a yelp Starsky began pawing at his eyes. Hutch dropped the clothing immediately and took charge, pulling him to stand under the spray, cleansing his tearing eyes, then thoroughly rinsing the remaining shampoo out of the water-darkened ringlets. When he finished he couldn’t resist a loving caress to the side of his face.

For the barest of seconds Starsky leaned into his palm, then he straightened away. “Thanks. I can take it from here.”

”You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. See you in a few minutes.” Hutch could tell that his friend was embarrassed, and wasted no time in leaving him to his privacy.

A pan of split pea soup was simmering on the stove when Starsky stepped out of the bathroom, wearing the pajama bottoms and the yellow robe, and looking as if he felt much better. The unbandaged gash on his head seemed to be healing well. As he sat at the table, he rubbed at the three-day growth of beard on his jaw.

Hutch served him a bowl of soup and a large glass of water and said casually, “After we’ve eaten we’ll get you shaved, and you’ll be pretty close to respectable again.” He congratulated himself on his handling of the situation when his friend nodded agreement. Starsky ate hungrily, but had to stop after one bowl. Hutch got him to drink another glass of water and take two of the antibiotic capsules. Then they adjourned to the bathroom for a session with Hutch’s razor.

Afterwards they settled on the couch. “Want the TV on?” Starsky shrugged and Hutch switched on the set, leaving the volume turned down. He felt encouraged. The dilated eyes still testified to the presence of the drug in his system, but Starsky seemed so much better than he had at the hospital that Hutch felt sure his decision had been the correct one. Even the incident in the shower had its positive side: Starsky had had a lapse, but at least he hadn’t been freaking out. The painful anxiety that had been so obvious at the hospital was absent now.

The stress of the past days was beginning to catch up with Hutch. He had been running on reserve power for a long time, and now that he was sitting still his body was being pulled relentlessly toward sleep. He had a lot of questions to ask at the appropriate time, but right now it felt so good to just sit here with his best friend, to know Starsky was safe.

They sat slouched at opposite ends of the couch, feet meeting in the middle, secure in the warmth of familiar companionship. Starsky laid his head back against the arm and watched the ceiling. “Feels good to be home,” he declared in heartfelt tones.

“How ya doin’?”

Starsky considered his answer. “Pretty good. I’m still feelin’ spacey and seein’ little squiggly things, but it’s a lot better now.” He nudged Hutch with his toe. “Thanks again, Hutch.”

”You’re welcome again, Starsk.” They grinned at each other, their special rapport humming like an electric current between them.

“Hey, you feel like playing a little?” Starsky indicated Hutch’s guitar.

All Hutch really felt like doing was going to sleep, but if Starsky wanted music, then by damn, he’d get music. After a brief pause to tune he began to serenade his relaxed friend. For thirty minutes he segued through a selection of Starsky’s favorites, including the ever-popular “Saturday Night in Toledo, Ohio,” which drew drowsy chuckles from his audience. When he finished “City of New Orleans,” he realized Starsky was asleep.

Rising silently, Hutch went to prepare the bedroom. He turned down the covers and stood thoughtfully for a moment. Starsky might feel uncomfortable right now about sleeping in total darkness. He solved the problem by switching on the bedside lamp and placing it on the floor between the bed and the wall. There it gave off a reassuring glow but left the room dim enough for sleeping.

Gathering bedclothes and spare pillow for the couch, he returned to the living room to discover that Starsky had not moved. Hutch shook him gently until he woke again. “Come on, babe. Time for sleep.”

“I was asleep,” Starsky responded groggily.

“Sorry. But if you stayed in that position all night, you’d never get the kinks out. Come on, you take the bed. You need a good night’s rest.”

“No, you. It’s your house.”

“You’re right; it’s my house. So shut up and get in bed.”

“Captain Bligh.”

That was more like the old Starsky. Hutch experienced a surge of optimism. “Yeah, that’s how I get my kicks, so humor me.”

Starsky didn’t protest further. He moved into the bedroom and pulled off the robe. The bruises stood out clear as stigmata on his upper body before he crawled under the covers.

Hutch sat on the edge of the bed. “You want me to sit with you until you go to sleep again?”

Starsky hesitated, looking at him as if to assess his condition. “No, that’s okay. You go on to bed.”

Hutch looked at him closely. “You sure?” Torn between duty and exhaustion, he allowed himself to be reassured.

Quickly he threw a blanket and the pillow onto the couch and stripped to his shorts. He was asleep within two minutes.

 

 

PART TWO

He wasn’t sure what awakened him. From habit and training he lay with eyes closed and evaluated his environment for danger signals. He was lying on his side on the couch. There was no sound in the apartment.

He opened his eyes to find Starsky sitting on the floor two feet away, watching him intently. He had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders but he was shivering anyway. In the dim light the two men stared at one another for a long moment.

“Starsk? What’s wrong?”

Starsky didn’t answer, just watched him apprehensively with those wide black eyes, like a baby rabbit hiding in the forest, waiting to see if the stalking wolf would pass it by or tear it to pieces.

What’s going on? Goddammit! Why did I go to sleep? He sat up, breaking the eye contact momentarily, and reached out carefully to pull Starsky to sit beside him. They sat there in silence while Hutch tried to figure out what was wrong.

When Starsky spoke, the distress in his voice was absolutely clear to his oldest friend. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“That’s okay. …Tell me what’s wrong?” He maintained a soothing demeanor, but inside his thoughts were frantic.

Starsky shrugged helplessly, his shivers turning to shudders.

“Come on, buddy, you’re cold. Come on back to bed.” Starsky did not resist as Hutch led him back to the bedroom and urged him into bed. He lay on his back under the covers, eyes on the ceiling, still trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Don’t worry about that, babe. You’re the one that matters now. I just wish I knew what I could do to help.” Starsky blinked but made no answer, so Hutch asked a direct question. “Are you scared?”

Starsky flinched and turned away quickly. Hutch could barely hear the reluctant syllable of response. “Yeah.”

And ashamed of his fear, Hutch realized. Embarrassed to need help so badly. “Move over.” He slid under the covers and rested his hand gently on his companion’s bare back, feeling the muscles hard as a rock with tension. “Come here, babe.” Starsky didn’t move, but Hutch could feel his need. “Come on, Starsk. Let your partner in on it, huh?”

With a choked sound, Starsky turned to him, eyes clenched shut in apparent denial of his dependency. Hutch wrapped one arm around the shaking back and drew him close. His other hand entangled in the dark head of hair and pulled it to his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

He could hear the frustration in the muffled voice. “I’m sorry, Hutch. I just can’t seem to stop this. I’m sorry…”

“Shhh… Don’t be. It’s all right. I love you. And I’m going to stay with you. Okay?” Whatever you need, babe. You’ve got it.

“Okay.” Warm breath from the whisper brushed his neck, and he could feel the taut body relax slightly. Gradually the throbbing heartbeat quieted. Without moving his face from its refuge in Hutch’s neck, Starsky said sincerely, “You’re a pal, Hutch.”

“Yeah, I know. Worth my weight in tacos, right?”

Starsky chuckled softly. “Well, give me time to think about it.”

They lay in silence for a while, the shivers dying as Starsky drew warmth from Hutch. It felt astonishingly good to lie here like this, sharing this moment of closeness as they had shared so much in their lives. His hands began a soothing stroking over Starsky’s bare back. Starsky shifted position slightly, and Hutch felt a gentle kiss in the curve of his throat. “G’night, Hutch.”

“Goodnight, buddy. Sweet dreams.”

Starsky’s arm curled around his chest.

With typical contrariness, Hutch’s body now refused to give in to the bone-weariness that should have knocked him out immediately. He was wide awake. Too tired to sleep, he thought wryly. He lay in exhausted serenity, content to hold Starsky, hands stroking him, soothing him into sleep.

The events of the past days had demonstrated to him in an earthshattering way just how much Starsky meant to him. He’d thought he knew; God knew there had been times when he’d thought he could never love this man more. Or hurt so much over him. He, the customarily analytic observer, had always accepted their empathic rapport without question. But this past weekend… It was as if he had been torn asunder. In addition to everything else, the psychic pain had been almost unbearable, as if Starsky were literally a part of him torn away. He still found it hard to believe his other half had been restored to him.

The body in his arms was warm and alive, the back muscles under his moving hands firm and well-defined. Starsk has a beautiful body. The incongruity of the thought, coming from him, brought him up short for a moment. Then his companion snuggled closer, shifting his head against his chest. The soft crown of curls was clean and fragrant and irresistible, and felt unexpectedly sensuous when Hutch rubbed his cheek against it. Of their own volition his hands resumed their stroking. He traced the scars that marred the perfection of the strong back — the badges of the suffering their profession had inflicted.

Starsky’s sleeping hand rose to tangle gently in Hutch’s hair. Hutch felt a rush of love and then, unaccountably, a sudden surge of sexual desire. Astonished at his body’s unexpected reaction, Hutch froze. What’s going on here?

He lay holding his friend and tried to understand his unanticipated physical response, examining their unique relationship and how it affected his life. He was stunned to realize that, in the final analysis, his world consisted of himself and Starsky. Me and Thee. Together all their daily lives, for years. Their challenges, victories, defeats, and dreams — all shared. All his energies, the deepest and best parts of himself, were devoted to the part of his life he shared with Starsky. And he’d never questioned it before. Blinded by the camouflage. Other friends. Separate interests. Women. In plenty, if he wanted. Only he didn’t much want to anymore.

There was a time when he might have felt differently, but the years had taught him a bitter lesson about the frailties of human relationships. And now he acknowledged to himself that he’d choose Starsky over anyone: lover, wife, family. Because Starsky was worth it, had proven himself true every day for eight years, as a partner, and as a friend. Hutch could only be grateful that Starsky had chosen him to give all that loyalty to. God knew he often didn’t deserve it. How could he not love Starsky?

And now, in a moment of stunned revelation, Hutch understood. David Michael Starsky was the axis on which his universe turned. No living being was or ever could be more important to him than the man nestled so trustingly within the protection of his arms. He filled every emotional and spiritual need Hutch could ever imagine having.

And suddenly he desired him more than anyone he had ever known. Longed to hold him close, to kiss him, to share their bodies and souls. To press his hungry body against the power and strength of that whipcord form and feel it respond to him. To show Starsky how much he was loved…

He was infinitely aware of the other’s body. His friend lay curled against him with his head pillowed on Hutch’s right shoulder, his face pressed into Hutch’s neck, his right hand still loosely clasped in Hutch’s hair. The hard, dark-furred chest and belly brushed against Hutch’s side with every sleeping breath. Hutch could feel the heat of his body.

I love you, he thought wonderingly.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Starsky mumbled his name. It stirred an instant response in Hutch. Rolling toward Starsky, he slid his other arm around him and embraced him tightly. Starsky cried out in his sleep at the pressure on his bruised ribs, and Hutch leapt back as if he had touched a live wire, to lie a safe two-and-a-half feet away from the cause of his agitation. His exhausted bedmate did not awaken.

Jesus, Hutchinson! What the hell are you doing? His heart was trying to batter its way out through his chest, his lungs couldn’t get enough air, and he felt his skin tighten with frustration. At the same time he was appalled with himself, filled with remorse. He’s hurt and he’s scared and he turns to you for comfort, and you come up with this! He wished he could stop shaking.

In the dim light Starsky looked so vulnerable, lying curled on his side with his right arm still extended toward Hutch.

He loves you, too. The idea came out of nowhere to fix itself in the forefront of his mind, and Hutch examined it tentatively.

David Starsky was a warm, outgoing man in love with life. He had many friends, many people who loved him, and whom he loved in return. But Hutch realized suddenly and with a sense of awe that this magical being had freely given his absolute allegiance to one man… Starsky was his. Unquestioning loyalty. Infinite trust. Seemingly boundless love. Starsky would throw his life away for him without thought.

He’d sell his soul for you. Hell, he loves you so much he’d probably do this. Could you ask him to?

Starsky made a small sound in his sleep and moved restlessly, eyelids flickering and dark brows furrowing as if in pain. The extended hand clenched and flexed. As Hutch watched, the sleeper’s eyes opened with a start. “…Hutch?”

“Yeah. You okay?” He stopped himself from reaching out to his companion.

Starsky was trembling again. “Whew, that was a nasty one.” He looked distinctly uneasy, and Hutch was torn between the instinct to comfort and the need to stay a safe distance away from the newly-tempting body.

Starsky’s gaze slid to the space beside Hutch before he seemed to consciously tear it away. He drew back his arm and curled slightly more into a curve, wrapping his arms across his stomach.

Unable to deprive him of the human contact he so obviously needed, Hutch moved closer. “Come on over here, buddy. I’ll keep the bogeyman away.”

Starsky hesitated, conflict plain on his face.

Hutch smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay, Starsk. What’s a partner for?” Trying unsuccessfully to hide his relief, Starsky slid to meet him halfway, settling self-consciously into the curve of his arm. He couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands. Hutch slipped his other arm around the slim waist, to show him it was all right to need a friend, and Starsky mirrored the gesture.

Eyes downcast, he murmured, “Thanks.”

”You already said that. You gotta stop repeating yourself.”

That got a wan smile and Hutch felt the tight muscles ease just a little. “Come on, now, close your eyes. You need some sleep. Beauty sleep,” he added pointedly.

“Nag, nag, nag.” Starsky closed his eyes. Over the next few minutes Hutch felt him slowly calming against him, and allowed himself the indulgence of relaxing into his friend’s embrace. He heard the timid sigh of contentment. They lay like young children, sharing warmth and comfort against the long night. Starsky’s breathing deepened and slowed as he slipped peacefully into sleep.

Hutch was left to lie and marvel at the depth of Starsky’s trust. All he needed to make things all right was Hutch’s touch. It was an honor to be trusted like that. He’d never do this with anyone else.

That kind of faith deserved cherishing, not betrayal.

Starsky needed him, and no one else would do. The events of the previous day had proved that beyond a doubt. He needed both emotional support and physical comforting. And Starsky was going to get what he needed. All of it. If Hutch held back to protect himself, he risked hurting his best friend. So Ken Hutchinson’s needs would damned well have to disappear, because they were getting In the way of the man he loved more than he would ever have thought possible. He would be whatever Starsky needed for now, and learn to live with unrequited desire later.

He held his sleeping friend, chastely now, and thanked God that he’d been given another chance. I swear I’ll take better care of him this time… never let anything hurt him again!

Exhausted though he was, it was a long time before he slept.

***

He awoke with the drugged, groggy hangover that follows too much sleep after too little. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Starsky. They lay side by side, facing each other, Starsky’s head nestled into the curve of Hutch’s extended arm, his hand resting flat against Hutch’s bare chest. Hutch’s own hand curled possessively around his waist.

He watched his companion sleep. The familiar face was matchlessly beautiful to him now — dark wings of brows, impossibly long eyelashes, strong nose, and dusky skin. The two moles were just another feature of Starsky’s unique beauty. And, framing it all, that incredible crown of silky, dark hair.

The slightly-parted lips beckoned him with a previously-unappreciated sensuality. What would it feel like to kiss his best friend?

Knowing he was taking foolish chances, he leaned to brush hot lips against the dark curls on Starsky’s forehead. Without forewarning, his traitorous lips pressed a kiss on the smooth warm skin.

Starsky moved against him, murmuring his name. When Hutch pulled back he could see a contented smile cross the sleeping face. Desire grabbed him by the throat again but he fought it down, biting his lips painfully, determined to honor the pledge he’d made the night before.

Resolutely, he maneuvered his arm out from under his still-sleeping partner and eased out of bed. The alarm clock said 12:10 p.m.

Discovering Starsky’s discarded clothes in the bathroom, Hutch balled the bad memories up and stuffed them in the trash. His face in the mirror was worn, eyes red-rimmed and bleary. With leaden limbs he began the morning routine. A shower perked him up enough to make the prospect of shaving bearable.

He was rinsing the remaining shave cream off his face when Starsky appeared in the doorway. His frightened look eased when he saw Hutch. “Oh. Uh, hi. Wondered where you were…”

“Morning, sleepy. You’ve got great timing; I’m just finishing up.”

Starsky’s smile was strained but game. “Oh yeah? Did you leave me any hot water?”

“That’s for me to know…”

Starsky looked much better this morning. Tired, as Hutch was, but alert. In touch. And his pupils were almost back to normal size.

Maybe he slept it all off. God knows it’s about time.

“How’re you feeling?”

Starsky took stock. “Okay. Lots better.” He smiled shyly at Hutch. “Thanks for being there.”

Hutch felt himself flushing. “No problem.” He took one last rub at his damp hair with the towel before leaving the bathroom. At the door he paused. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Pop Tarts?” his incorrigible friend suggested hopefully. “Froot Loops?”

Oh, yeah. Back to normal. “That’s disgusting.”

“Hey, why is it disgusting, just because my taste is different from yours?”

“That’s not a taste, it’s an aberration.”

“There you go again. Using those big words on me.”

“And don’t go pulling that ‘poor dumb cop’ routine on me, either. I know exactly how dumb you aren’t, remember?”

Starsky attempted his ‘What? Who, me?’ look, but his lips began to twitch and then he was grinning his old carefree grin. For the first time in what seemed like forever Hutch felt complete again.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Starsk. Eggs for breakfast and I’ll take you out for dinner. For ‘Welcome home.'”

Starsky allowed that that sounded like a fair trade and Hutch left him compiling a list of the most expensive restaurants in L.A.

Welcome home, Starsk. I love you.

 ***

Starsky was really going to be okay. He’d been perfectly coherent throughout breakfast and on the drive to his apartment. Quiet and thoughtful and at moments distant, but reachable. At times he positively glowed with warmth for Hutch. Cursed with his new awareness, Hutch felt as if he were walking a tightrope. Starsky was so open to him that it frightened him with the guilty power it aroused. It would be so easy to love him…

It’s the drugs. And gratitude. And don’t you forget it either.

The urge to claim Starsky for his own was rampant in him. He’d never realized he was capable of such depth of desire. Even with Vanessa… Again he suppressed the volcano of lust that suddenly seemed to be a permanent addition to his nervous system.

Starsky paused inside the door to his apartment. “They got me when I came in. I didn’t even know what hit me.”

Hutch hadn’t wanted to come here. He was afraid his companion would change his mind and decide not to return to Venice Place. He knew how Starsky could be when he felt vulnerable. Like a lotus, he would close up into himself, and he would not always let his partner in. Shamelessly Hutch exerted every ounce of the power he sensed he had over his friend to call Starsky to him mentally, to will him not to want to stay here.

Starsky didn’t seem to have any intention of lingering. He threw his shaving kit and toothbrush into a bag with a few clothes. He took time to trade Hutch’s rolled-up jeans for a pair of his own, but did not change out of Hutch’s white long-sleeved cotton shirt. To his newly-enamored partner, he looked like a gypsy prince. The white shirt was a perfect foil to his dark handsomeness, the faded jeans fitted snugly against his slim hips and thighs. And the way he moved…

Hutch couldn’t stop marveling at his new feelings for his old friend. Despite sincere efforts, his wayward mind kept returning to the subject. I get in bed with my partner last night and wake up with the love of my life. How did it happen? It was totally unexpected. Amazing. Shocking, perhaps. Certainly it went against everything he’d ever believed he wanted.

But in a way it made sense. The years as a cop had robbed him of his illusions, his idealism, and everybody who’d ever had a chance of reaching him in his private world. Until there was only one person left he really gave a damn about.

Who else knows me like he does? Who else in my life has ever loved me like he has? Unselfishly. Putting me before anyone else, even himself.

He loves me.

This was getting him nowhere. Starsky needed him, now. Needed him to be a friend.

Not a lover, you bastard!

***

In search of entertainment that combined tranquility with diversion, they went to a neighborhood park.

At this time of the afternoon all the children were either in school or at home napping. The playground was deserted, and they settled themselves on the merry-go-round. Starsky leaned back against the hand rails, forearms resting relaxed on his bent knees. He had rolled up the too-long sleeves of the shirt, and the raw wounds on his wrists were plainly evident. He rubbed at them thoughtfully, face inscrutable.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Midnight blue eyes rose to his, haunted. “Dunno. Not much to say.” He shifted restlessly, and Hutch knew he was remembering, against his will. With the instinct that seldom let him wrong he knew Starsky needed to talk.

“Must have been scary as hell.”

Starsky winced. Then he appeared to make a decision, and looked at Hutch candidly. “At first I wasn’t too worried. I had the extra handcuff key and I figured all I had to do was wait for my chance…” The whole story came out then, told with many halts and periods of thoughtfulness. Bailey’s sadistic threats and promises. The doomed escape attempt. The imprisonment in the closet and the vain attempts to free himself. Then the acid. He didn’t say much about that, but Hutch had seen enough — felt enough — to imagine what it must have been like.

Hutch sat silent through most of the recital, offering support by his attitude and occasional questions and comments. Starsky kept his eyes on the swing set, the spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his hands reminding Hutch unavoidably of his suffering. Hutch realized the torment that Starsky didn’t mention, would never expose to him.

He voiced it quietly. “And you were worried about me.”

Suffering was naked in the indigo eyes. A look of empathy passed between them as Starsky acknowledged the truth of Hutch’s statement and accepted his healing understanding.

Hutch made an effort to lighten the mood. “One thing I can’t figure out. Why did Alf and Don want me when they already had you? I couldn’t testify against them. But they risked everything to try and kill me, and they wound up dying for it.”

Hutch couldn’t translate the look on his companion’s face. “Don was scared of you. He said he knew that you’d track him to the ends of the earth for killing me. So he wouldn’t do it until he knew he was safe from you.” Starsky looked at him with an expression of naked tenderness that stirred him to the depths of his soul. So open… “I tell you, Hutch, I knew he was right and I was scared for you, but…” His voice was choked with suppressed emotion. “But it made me so proud. Y’know?” He ducked his head.

“Yeah,” Hutch answered with complete truth. “I know.”

They sat in silence, falling easily into the peace of their long friendship. Absently Hutch pushed his foot against the ground, and the merry-go-round began to turn slowly. He let himself relax, enjoying the day and the surroundings and the security of being with Starsky. The swings slid by on the perimeter of his vision, then the seesaws. And the sandbox, littered with toys. It was a peaceful place, a place of joy and laughter.

Starsky’s question startled him. “How did you find me?”

Hutch flushed. How could he explain what had led him to his friend? He dealt with the concrete first, brushing over the extraordinary. “AIf and Don were dead. But I knew you were still alive, and I knew you were close, so I just started looking.” He told about the mug shots and The Side Track and Dolores and the cashier who lived alone. Starsky listened quietly and when Hutch had finished, fixed him with an intense gaze.

“How? How did you know I wasn’t already dead?” He shuddered.

Hutch was at a loss for words. How could he explain his certainty? What could he say that wouldn’t sound crazy? Abruptly, he remembered who he was talking to. He’d never needed words to make this man understand before. And he had a right to know. No secrets from Starsky. Except one? taunted a small voice. He suppressed the thought. His partner was waiting, watching him with patient, loving eyes. Nothing but the simple truth for Starsky.

“I felt you. I was sitting in Dobey’s car at the roadblock, wondering where you were, and I felt you calling me.” The experience came flooding back. He knew again the chill of darkness, sensed Starsky’s desperate need. He hardly recognized his own voice. ”You were locked in and hurt and scared and I didn’t know where to find you…” With an effort, he wrenched himself back to the present. He sat against the bars of the merry-go-round, ice cold and sweating, just as before. Only this time Starsky was there, his warm hands clasped tightly around Hutch’s icy ones, eyes wet with unashamed love and concern.

“Easy, babe. It’s okay. I understand. I felt you, too…” They looked into one another’s souls.

The moment was too intense to hold.

Starsky released his hands and stood up self-consciously. “Come on, let’s walk.” Suppressed energy crackled from him. Without waiting for Hutch he strode toward the walkway, a lean, lithe figure in the dappled sunlight. Hutch hurried to catch up.

They wandered for over an hour, exploring the park from end to end, taking time to really experience the natural environment. Starsky looked up at him from his inspection of a delicate spider web. ”Yknow, acid really does give you a different perspective on things. Only trouble is, you can’t hold onto it later.” He sounded vaguely regretful.

Hutch looked down at the unguarded face that only he was permitted to see. “How are you feeling now?”

Starsky cocked his head, considering. “Okay, I think. Every once in a while I get a flash and I’m still a little sore, but I feel okay. The worst was at the hospital; once you got me out of there it was all right.” There was that look of love again.

If Starsky had set out to seduce him, he couldn’t have done a more effective job. His physical appearance, clothes, the surroundings, and above all the open tenderness on his face combined to captivate Hutch. He and Starsky had been partners for eight years. How was it that today the sight of him had the power to make his pulse race and his heart pound? Why hadn’t he ever realized before how sensual he was?

Would it be so wrong?

Starsky extended his hand to him. Automatically Hutch locked his fingers around the supple wrist, hauling him easily to his feet. Somehow Starsky was leaning against him and Hutch was achingly aware of his pounding heart and the warmth of him. He knew without a doubt that if he were to follow his impulses and kiss those beloved lips that Starsky would respond.

And what does that tell you, you stupid, selfish bastard? If he hadn’t needed you so badly to save his sanity…

The two men drew apart a little to regard each other self-consciously. He gave a final squeeze and stepped back. His mouth smiled. “Glad to have you back, partner.”

He couldn’t for the life of him interpret the expression on Starsky’s face. With a shaky half-smile, Starsky turned in the direction of the car. “Hey, let’s go down to Metro. I want to get this report over with and then forget the whole thing.”

”You sure you feel up to it?” His heart rate seemed to be returning to normal.

”Yeah, I’m sure.” Starsky gazed at him seriously. “I’m fine, Hutch. Really. The stuff seems to be pretty much out of my system. And it helped to talk about it. Okay?”

What else could he do but agree? As they walked back to the car, Hutch castigated himself. Right now he isn’t even capable of choosing what to have for dinner, much less deciding to turn his life upside down by starting a love affair with his partner. And here you are hoping you have a chance with him… A chance you sure as hell never would have had if he weren’t so vulnerable right now.

***

Starsky’s appearance was a surprise in the squad room. Hutch held back as their delighted colleagues descended on the somewhat embarrassed detective with handshakes, jokes, and congratulations. He found himself grinning with contentment as he watched Starsky dip Minnie Kaplan into a burlesque kiss. After all the fear and all the pain, his world had righted itself. Everything was as it should be again.

Probably no one but Hutch caught Starsky’s wince as his bruised abdominal muscles protested Minnie’s weight. He set the giggling woman gently back on her feet again and invited the raven-haired bombshell Sgt. Marinaro from records to “dip with Ramon.” Hutch felt a twinge of some uncomfortable emotion. Possessiveness? Jealousy? He rejected it decisively. Starsky was back and that was all that counted.

Captain Dobey’s voice at his elbow startled him. “Same old Starsky, eh? I didn’t expect to see you two back so soon.”

”Yeah. Well, he was feeling pretty good and wanted to come in.” The reminder of Starsky’s quick recovery lightened his mood again, and he smiled.

“I had men out at the Bailey brothers’ house this morning. They found ten kilos of sherm all packaged up and ready for delivery, a couple of bales of pot, and a small supply of acid and PCP. Oh… and a dead dog under the house. Probably been there about a week.”

Hutch was still reeling from the memory of the fear that fetid odor had provoked when Dobey’s next words made those feelings insignificant.

“Did you ever get it straightened out about his family problems?”

The events of the past two days had completely swept the issue from his mind. Now the peculiar sense of confusion and betrayal returned in force.

At that moment Starsky turned and noticed the pair standing by the door. He approached them with a cocky grin and a trace of his usual swagger. Captain Dobey moved forward to clasp his hand and extend a welcome, while Hutch stood frozen, absorbing nothing of the exchange.

The pair turned to him, and the captain remarked casually, “I got a call from a Dr. Simon this morning.”

Starsky didn’t make the connection. “Oh, yeah? Who’s that?”

“He’s the doctor who saw you in the Emergency Room last night,” Hutch enlightened him woodenly.

“He didn’t like you springing Starsky against medical advice. Wanted to know if I was running a police force or a mail-order medical school.”

Poor Dobey. Seems he’s always having to go out on a limb for us. “What did you tell him?”

The portly captain looked slightly discomfited. “I told him that where this particular patient is concerned, I’d trust your judgment over anyone else’s.”

Starsky had moved to stand close to Hutch. “That’s right, Captain. Hutch is all the doctor I need.” The smile he turned to Hutch conveyed love, trust, and gratitude; when he turned back to their superior his expression was businesslike. “Now, let me get at that report. My good-looking partner is taking me out to dinner tonight.” With an impish grin at the pair of them he bounced off to attack the paperwork.

Dobey went his way with a pleased countenance, leaving Hutch with the maelstrom of his thoughts. His exterior was as cool and calm as usual, betraying no trace of his inner agitation. Why, Starsk? Why did you lie to me? Something was seriously wrong. He had to know what it was.

Starsky sat at his desk, completing the report with his usual two fingered typing technique. He paused for thought and his eyes caught Hutch’s. Apparently oblivious to his turmoil, he sent Hutch an affectionate smile and returned to his typing.

Hutch functioned through a confused fog during the remainder of their time at Metro, and through the drive to the Pits. Huggy greeted Starsky effusively. For Hutch, he had some pointed remarks about friends keeping friends in the dark about what was going on.

Yeah, tell me about it.

After a few initial contributions, it was easy to sit back and let Huggy and Starsky carry the conversational ball. His silence passed unnoticed.

After the visit, they headed to a local steak house for dinner. They settled at a corner table and began to eat their salads.

As Starsky cut into his steak, he grinned and said, “Now this is what I call respect. You can show me how much you appreciate me anytime.”

Hutch shoved the useless sprig of parsley around his plate. He knew with sickening certainty that a confrontation was coming, and that it was going to be painful. He held his peace throughout the tasteless dinner, but he had little appetite for food or conversation, and by the time Starsky started on his cherry pie, he was beginning to eye Hutch uncertainly.

Hutch’s stomach flip-flopped. “Starsk.” His partner gave him a questioning look.

“Why did you tell me you were going to King’s Canyon with Celia?”

Starsky was absolutely still. Then: “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘What do I mean?’ I mean I called Celia Sunday afternoon looking for you and she said she hadn’t seen you in months!”

The waitress chose that moment to offer refills on coffee. Starsky accepted with alacrity, making a drawn-out production out of adding sugar and cream until the beverage was exactly to taste.

Stalling, Hutch thought. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

Oh, Lord. This is going to be another one of those tooth-pulling sessions. Hutch could hear the exasperation in his own voice and didn’t care. “Why did you lie to me, partner?”

Starsky recoiled and dropped his eyes to the tablecloth. Even in the dim light Hutch could see the color staining his cheeks. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

When it became apparent that nothing more was forthcoming, Hutch prodded impatiently. “And…?”

Starsky’s response was unintelligible.

“What?”

“Didn’t wanna mess up your plans.”

That was crazy. Starsky came first — had even before last night’s bombshell revelation. Hutch didn’t know what explanation he’d expected, but this certainly wasn’t it.

“I told you that didn’t matter. Caroline doesn’t matter. Don’t you know that?” Leaning forward across the table, he willed his companion to look at him, but the usual communication wasn’t working, and all he got was a noncommittal shrug.

“Okay, forget that. Tell me why you asked Dobey for leave. I know there’s no trouble with your family. Where were you going?”

And why didn’t you talk to me about it?

Hutch had heard the phrase about the blood draining from someone’s face, but never had he seen it more clearly acted out. The spoon dropped with a clatter and Starsky stared at him white-faced, the cut on his forehead a vivid red slash against his pale skin. As Hutch watched, the shutters came down over the midnight-blue eyes. Closing him out. Closing Starsky in to face whatever was tormenting him alone.

When Starsky spoke it was as if he were addressing a stranger. “It’s personal. I don’t want to talk about it.” He stood abruptly. “Let’s go.” Without waiting for a response, he turned his back and walked away.

Numbly Hutch picked up the check, fumbled for a tip, and went to the cashier to pay for the dinner. The food was a lump of lead in his stomach. Starsky stood by the glass doors, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, staring out into the late afternoon light. His isolation was tangible.

The ride back to Venice was accomplished in an uncomfortable silence that was broken only once, when Starsky suggested with unconvincing nonchalance that Hutch drop him at his place.

Without thought: “No.” He cut off Starsky’s protest in a burst of wounded anger. “Dammit, I said ‘No!'” Starsky subsided into tight-lipped silence.

Hutch was miserable. The man who shared the front seat was a sullen stranger, completely cut off from him. After the near-perfect confluence of the day, this sudden chimera switch to aloofness was almost physically painful. The abrupt withdrawal was frightening, and Hutch didn’t like it. He wanted his friend back, desperately needed to feel that closeness again.

Why won’t you let me in?

The charged silence held until the men were once again in Hutch’s apartment. Starsky yanked off his jacket and flung it at the couch. He Switched on the television immediately and settled on the couch, eyes glued to the screen. Richard Dawson kissed Marlene and casually insulted her husband. When Hutch flicked the set off, his adversary shot him a scowl and snarled a protest. “Hey, I was watching that!”

He didn’t bother to argue the point. “No games, Starsky. Out with it. What’s wrong?”

Starsky’s face had taken on that closed look that Hutch hated. He could see why that deliberately blank expression drove people crazy. Starsky used that face to hide behind, slamming the door between him and the rest of the world. But the rejection had almost never included Hutch.

So why now?

A previously unconsidered possibility struck, and Hutch went cold with fear. “Are you sick, babe? Is that what this is about?”

“No!” Starsky shouted, then looked surprised at the vehemence of his response. He shook his head decisively. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this, Hutch. Look, the Bailey case was pure shit from start to finish, and I needed some time by myself to get my head together. That’s all there is to tell — no big mystery.”

Hutch wondered if that were the truth, and resented Starsky for making skepticism necessary. Hurt by the inference that his company had been unwelcome, he struggled to remain clear-sighted. “Then why couldn’t you just say so? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Jesus, what is it with you? I needed some time alone, is that so strange? What I don’t need is you grilling me like I’m some damned suspect!” His left arm lashed out in a fierce gesture of rejection, dashing his jacket to the floor.

Why are you so mad? A heartbeat later Hutch saw it crystal-clear. You’re not mad, you’re scared!

He couldn’t take it anymore. Starsky was hurting, yet he seemed determined to keep Hutch in the dark. But Hutch was just as determined not to be excluded.

No, you stubborn ass. You’re not going to put me off this time. Whatever’s wrong, it’s tearing you apart, and I’m not going to let it.

He reached the couch in two strides, jabbing his finger in front of that resolute face. “Don’t hand me that shit! This is me you’re talking to. I know you, how you think. So don’t you dare sit there and tell me nothing’s wrong.”

“For God’s sake. Can’t you for once in your life mind your own business? Leave it alone!” Starsky managed to jump off the couch without touching him and strode into the kitchen.

He followed, relentless. “Tell me.”

Starsky was white to the bone, trapped. His glance darted around the room as if seeking escape, the desperate blue eyes the only color in his face. The pain Hutch saw there tore at his heart.

He reached out and clasped a rigid shoulder. “Talk to me, partner. Let me help…”

“Don’t touch me!” Starsky snatched himself away and backed off, hands held out in front of him as if to ward off a blow.

Hutch felt as if he’d been slapped. He stood there, shocked and sick, while Starsky turned abruptly and went out onto the sun porch. Hutch was beginning to feel as if he were following a pinball, ricocheting from room to room.

The afternoon sun cast geometric patterns through the slatted roof onto the back of the white shirt. Starsky’s voice held a strained quality that betrayed deep inner distress. “All right. I begged you to let it go, and you wouldn’t. So here it is… I’m quitting. Leaving the force. Leaving L.A. I’m going back to New York…”

This was a nightmare. It couldn’t be happening. His best friend, his partner, the center of his universe couldn’t be standing here telling him he was leaving. Repudiating him. His stomach felt as if he’d just dropped a hundred stories in a runaway elevator.

At last Starsky turned to confront him — formidable, mind made up. A stranger. Hutch’s mind was screaming, but his body was petrified. Including, apparently, his vocal cords. Nothing would come out past his constricted throat.

“Guess that’s all there is to say. Good-bye, Hutch.”

He was leaving. He was actually going to walk out that door, and out of Hutch’s life. Without any explanation.

Galvanized by terror, Hutch beat him to the door and blocked it with his body, shaking his head in frantic denial. “No!” A vision of living death loomed — life without Starsky. He was choking with fear.

The slim body challenged him. “I’m leaving.”

Fear turned to anger. He was not going to let Starsky go. Not without a damned good explanation. “The hell you are! Not until you tell me what’s going on!”

“Get out of my way, Hutch.” Deadly, now. It chilled Hutch to the soul to have Starsky look at him that way. Like an enemy.

”You want out, you’d better be ready to come through me.” It was so wrong, this conflict between them. It hurt so bad.

Don’t leave me. How could you leave me? “Do you really think I’d just let you walk out of here like this? For God’s sake, Starsky. I love you!”

The hard eyes flickered a little at that. Hutch was pleading, now. “Have I ever given you reason not to trust me? How can you walk out without giving me a chance to fix what’s wrong? How can you walk out?” he repeated helplessly, realizing with embarrassment that tears were filling his eyes.

Starsky looked as though he was going to cry, himself. The hard facade had slipped, and the face revealed was twisted with pain. “I can’t tell you, Hutch. I can’t… It’s better this way, believe me…”

“No. Dammit, we’re partners! We’re supposed to be together!” Hutch hesitated, afraid of revealing too much. But he was losing Starsky! “I need you.” I couldn’t live without you. “And you owe me. You owe me a chance to know the truth, whatever it is, and to make my own decisions. You’re my best friend. Nothing could possibly change that!”

“This can.”

No. Nothing. “Trust me.”

It was both a plea and a challenge, and it cut at last through the wall between them. After a long, solemn appraisal, Starsky shrugged fatalistically. He returned slowly to sit on the couch, unwilling but resigned, running his hand through his hair. One part of Hutch’s mind recorded the way the dark tendrils clung to his fingers.

“Something’s happened, Hutch… Things have been changing with me. I’ve been feeling things… different. I think it started after the Gunther case…” Hutch watched Starsky’s hands tighten into fists as he remembered, and felt the stab of shared agony. Starsky’s voice was harsh with pain. “Comin’ that close — it can really shake you up. I was in pieces… literally!” His abashed smile moved Hutch deeply. “But you were there to put me back together again.” Starsky ducked his head and turned away. In a burst of nervous energy, he jumped to his feet and paced restlessly for a few minutes, hands crammed into his pockets.

Hutch waited, knowing that, since he’d begun, he would get to the crux in his own time.

Starsky went into the bedroom and stood staring out the window, a sad, solitary figure in the dusk. The evening light struck his face and lit his hair and upper body in a striking chiaroscuro. Pale haggard profile and lean dancer’s body. Red highlights dancing off thick glossy curls. The planes and angles of his face gave it an exotic cast; his strong forearms showed dark against the turned-up cuffs of the white shirt. The rest of his body was in shadow; mysterious.

Hutch, following, was halted by the tableau, arrested by the beauty of Starsky’s form.

Why didn’t I ever see him like this before? Light and dark. Sunshine and shadow. My Starsky.

A surge of desire jolted through him like lightning, leaving him gasping with its intensity, and he stopped just inside the doorway, afraid to advance any further.

Starsky did not look at him. ”You were always there for me. And it always just felt so right, us being together. I didn’t mean for it to turn into this. I don’t know how it happened…”

Dawning realization. Impossible, blinding hope. Hutch stood transfixed, praying that his companion’s next words would set them both free.

Starsky turned from the window. His voice was matter of fact, resigned. “I… want you, Hutch.” His eyes raced to Hutch’s for an instant, darted away, then returned and held his resolutely. “You understand what I mean?” The intensity in his shadowed eyes, coupled with his manifest emotional pain, made his meaning clear.

“I know you’ll think it’s because of last weekend, but that’s not true. It’s been building up for months. Believe me, I’ve done everything I know not to feel this way, but…” He stopped abruptly and closed his eyes, lost for a moment in the privacy of his pain. Then he shrugged helplessly, casting Hutch a brief, shamed glance.

With an uncomfortable glance at the bed, Starsky returned to the living room and settled like a drawn bow on the edge of the couch. He rested his elbows on his knees and addressed his clasped hands. “I’m not gay. I swear I never even thought about… making it with another man before.” Bright spots of embarrassment stained his cheeks. “That’s why I was leaving. I wanted to get my head together, try to figure it all out.” He swallowed convulsively several times before continuing. “I didn’t plan to tell you. I know you’re not… I mean, I know you’d never… I… I… Oh, shit! I’m sorry. I’ve ruined everything.”

It all fell into place, then. All the little warning signals Hutch had been picking up on for months. That sudden period of withdrawal, and then the tension he had felt seething beneath the surface. And the need that his suffering friend hadn’t been able to suppress.

Hutch knew firsthand the pain Starsky was enduring, the burden of self-hatred, feeling responsible for the anticipated destruction of this most-precious relationship. Hadn’t he been tormented by that same fear? Until now. The doubt dropped away from him like a discarded cloak. Starsky wanted him. Starsky wanted him!

A surge of exhilaration bubbled through his veins. Everything was clear to him, now. The discovery that Starsky’s compelling responsiveness to him was not the result of trauma or drugs, that Starsky had wanted him for months, liberated him. No longer did he feel the role of guilty seducer. Starsky’s desire for him was real, as real as the hunger in his own body. It sprang from the heart of the man, not from some selfish action of Hutch’s. Starsky’s confession confirmed the rightness of his own feelings. To find his need mirrored in his comrade was a thing so right it stunned him.

They had been blessed with a love whose possibilities were as limitless as they were intoxicating. And he wanted it. Completion at last. The other half of his body and soul was within his grasp and he refused to let it go.

This is right. I’ve been looking for this all my life, and never could see that it was right under my nose. My Starsky.

He looked at Hutch, defeated now that his forced confession was over, and waiting for Hutch to condemn him. Hutch felt a rush of possessive desire, torn between the need to comfort his beloved and the drive to take him to his bed. Starsky was scared and confused and ashamed, and he wanted to run. But Hutch wasn’t going to let him. Hutch was never going to let him go.

Filled with determination, he crossed to the couch and dropped to his knees before him. Starsky would not look at him, just sat absolutely still, head bowed. Absolutely silent.

Don’t, love. Come to me. Let me take the hurt away.

He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to enfold Starsky in his arms, but instinct kept his hands at rest on his thighs. He spoke quietly but with conviction.

“I’m not gay, either, Starsk. But I want you, too.” Starsky’s eyes snapped up to his. Hutch reached up to gently brush away the dampness on his cheeks, his hand slipping into the tangle of dark curls. Starsky blinked but was otherwise immobile. ”You know what it’s like between us, what it’s always been like. I’ve never known any two people who understand each other the way we do. Like we’re the same person in two different bodies. That’s got to mean something. You’re half of my soul!”

Starsky watched him, wide-eyed. His face revealed nothing but confusion, but Hutch knew he was listening, thinking.

Hutch had never exposed himself this openly to anyone before. He felt a moment of naked vulnerability, but his need drove him on. No turning back now. And I don’t want to.

Starsky’s hair had always fascinated him. He rubbed the glossy ringlets between his fingers, cherishing their soft, springy texture. His questing fingertips traced the delicate shell of Starsky’s ear, just this much contact making his groin ache with desire.

Not yet. Not yet. Don’t want to scare him…

“Don’t you understand? I’m never gonna find anyone else I love like I love you. It’s crazy even to think of looking any more. You’re the only one, Starsk, the only one…” He looked directly into the indigo eyes, wet his lips quickly, and repeated, “You’re the only one for me. I love you. Just you. I don’t ever want anyone else. And you feel the same way.” He let his hand slip down from Starsky’s hair to his neck; long fingers gently stroked the silken flesh inside the collar, and Starsky trembled at his touch. “You know it’s only me for you, don’t you? You know it.”

Starsky seemed dimly aware that a response was expected from him, but didn’t seem able to make one. The silence lengthened between them. In his best friend’s face Hutch saw disbelief. Confusion. And desire?

Dammit! I won’t give you up! We both want this. And when have we ever cared about convention before?

He brought his left hand up to join his right at Starsky’s throat. His fingers encircled his neck, thumbs gently rubbing against the hollows on either side of the windpipe, holding him. Starsky arched his head back slightly, exposing his vulnerable throat to Hutch’s caressing hands. Open.

After a moment Hutch slid his fingers under the collar to stroke across shoulders and chest, erotically, temptingly. It felt wonderful. Starsky’s breathing quickened as Hutch’s fingertips danced lightly across the mat of hair, touching each hard nipple briefly before he withdrew his hands. Hutch ran trembling fingers through tangled curls and brushed Starsky’s cheeks with his fingertips, the fire in his own body growing with every touch. He looked into those dark-fringed cobalt eyes and felt himself drowning.

It was painful to tear himself away. Resting his hands on Starsky’s knees, he pushed himself to his feet, eliciting a barely audible cry of protest from Starsky.

It’s now or never.

Hutch went to stand by the bedroom door; Starsky’s eyes followed him, mesmerized. Hutch let all the years of love and caring fill his voice. “Come to me, babe. I love you.” He was outwardly calm, but inwardly praying.

He’s got to come. Please…

A purgatory later, Starsky rose smoothly to his feet and faced Hutch across the short distance. His beauty broke Hutch’s heart. Halo of curls framing solemn gypsy face. Lithe catlike body, wrists and supple hands relaxed now. He approached Hutch deliberately, pausing to face him from about a foot away. Then, in a gesture that seemed somehow deeply symbolic, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Hutch’s, leaning against him, yielding to him.

Unable to believe in this miracle, Hutch placed his hands tentatively on Starsky’s shoulders. His heart leapt in his throat when Starsky’s hands came up to rest at his waist.

They drew back to regard each other, both a little scared, both feverish with excitement. Hutch read his friend’s unguarded countenance easily. Wonder. Love and trust and, under the lingering confusion, a growing sense of peace. His hands rose to cup Starsky’s face gently. Slowly, tenderly, he placed his mouth against the waiting lips. Overwhelming need hit him with the impact of a freight train, and their world narrowed down to the contact between their mouths. He was achingly aware of Starsky’s firm lips moving against his, opening to him. The kiss was a revelation — a flawless blending of lips and tongues and teeth, a perfect communion of body and soul.

Gotta make it so good for him. Make it so beautiful he’ll understand how right this is. Ah, Starsk… I love you so much! He said it out loud. “I love you. Let me love you…”

He reached for his other half.

***

In the space of a few minutes, abject misery had been magically transmuted into unhoped-for perfection. His shining Hutch, who could surely have anyone he wanted, had chosen him.

Hutch had riveted him with those hypnotic eyes, had stretched out his mind and claimed him. And he found himself surrendering, abandoning custom and conscience without thought or regret, because Hutch wanted him to.

They stood beside the bed now, though Starsky could not have said how they got there.

Hutch was making the removal of his shirt one of the most erotic acts Starsky had ever experienced. Heated breath seared his ear as Hutch began unfastening buttons with shaking fingers. Firm, eager kisses progressed down the side of his neck to the hollow above his right collarbone as Hutch’s hands spread the shirt. He began sucking and Starsky could feel his tongue scouring the soft skin, tasting him. With a startled gasp he closed his eyes and let the tingle flow through him. Hutch trailed long fingers over his chest, tangling gently in the dark curls, and his nipples drew up at their touch.

Hutch was caressing him with both hands now — on his chest, back, and sides. Long incendiary strokes that did not soothe. The touch of those hands sent electric currents coursing through him.

The shirt fell away and eager eyes devoured him. Hutch shook his golden head slightly, as if in wonder, and Starsky realized with astonishment that Hutch was already consumed with desire.

“God, Starsk. You’re so beautiful…”

Starsky just shook his head. No one had ever called him beautiful before.

He felt as though he had fallen through the looking glass into an alternate reality. His mind was only beginning to accept that this was happening, that his beautiful Hutch loved him back. But his body knew, and it responded without volition to the wildfire Hutch stirred so easily.

One hand dropped to his belly to rub flat-palmed circles on the hard muscled abdomen, fingertips dipping provocatively below the belt line. Starsky gasped as his knees almost buckled. Hutch was watching him closely, apparently delighted by his response. When he realized Starsky was aware of his appraisal, he smiled radiantly, placed warm hands on either side of Starsky’s head, and drew his face up for a devastating kiss.

Kissing Hutch was such a deeply emotional experience that it was almost surreal. He wanted to absorb him through every pore, wanted to occupy the same molecular space. The mustache was unexpectedly erotic, emphasizing the undeniable masculinity of his chosen mate. They explored each other’s mouths with increasing fervor until at last survival won out and they parted for air.

Oh,God… Hutch was unbuckling his belt now, unsnapping his jeans. His cock was hard and tight and eager to be released. A quick glanced showed him Hutch was every bit as aroused. Then Hutch’s hand slipped inside and held him and his knees did give out. Hutch braced him and kissed him and maneuvered him down onto the bed, laughing joyfully. In no time, Starsky was stripped and was dazedly helping his soon-to-be lover with the removal of his clothes.

They had shared women before, a couple of times after an evening of partying had progressed to other things, and in the dark it had never seemed to make much difference whose hands were touching whom. So the idea of an aroused Hutch was not entirely foreign to him. Just the two of us this time, babe. And that’s the way it should be.

Starsky looked at him appreciatively. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. Just lean ribs and sleek firm muscles. Long body, long limbs, long throat. And that beautiful face wearing a fascinating mix of tenderness and barely-leashed lust.

Golden. Hutch seemed to glow with an incandescent inner light. To Starsky’s besotted eyes his pale hair in the dying light was a gleaming nimbus. Like an angel. Angels of the blond, Christmas variety had not been a part of Starsky’s upbringing, but he had lived in the real world, and sometimes, like now, there was no other word to accurately convey his best friend’s physical and spiritual perfection.

Hutch lay on his side, facing him, devouring him with burning eyes. His love for Starsky poured off him in almost tangible waves. With a wondering look, he reached out his right hand to lay it against the side of Starsky’s face, warming his cheek. The fingers slipped naturally into his hair. The touch felt so right, so perfect, that Starsky pressed into it. Impulsively he turned his head to kiss the caressing palm.

Hutch’s smile was full of shy delight, and in that moment his soul was laid bare to Starsky’s enraptured gaze. It was like seeing the truth and believing it for the first time.

Hutch loves me…. Oh, God… He really loves me. He closed his eyes with the enormity of it, finding it suddenly hard to breathe.

The bed shifted and Hutch’s lips were pressing against his eyelids, then his cheeks, then eagerly against his mouth, demanding and receiving instantaneous response. The mustache was alien, exciting. Hutch’s mouth tasted so good, like mint toothpaste and beer and Hutch’s tongue felt so good against his and so did his teeth… They were both left gasping when Hutch broke away.

Hutch’s cornflower-blue eyes could at times appear gentle and dreamy. Now they burned azure fire, compelling Starsky just as they had in the living room. He could never again withhold any part of himself from this man, and was unsurprised to discover that he didn’t want to. All that he was belonged to Hutch — no secrets, no holding back. No need for it. He was Hutch’s and Hutch was his and nothing better could ever happen to either of them. The words flowed out easily. “I love you.”

An expression of blazing joy transfigured the archangel face at the words.

Like I just gave him the Hope Diamond, Starsky thought in pleased wonderment.

Then Hutch was kissing him fiercely, breaking away only long enough to gasp out, “I love you, Starsk. Oh God, I love you so much.” As he pressed repeated kisses over Starsky’s face, neck, and shoulders, his hands descended with a touch like lightning to stroke his heated body. Starsky gave himself up willingly to the golden ecstasy engendered by those hands. He existed in a universe of pleasure — not thinking, not evaluating, just basking in the euphoria of acceptance, of complete trust, given and received.

While his hands continued their exploration, igniting fires wherever they touched, Hutch lowered his mouth and silently placed his warm wet lips over one of the little hard nubs on Starsky’s chest. His tongue explored it tenderly, then he began a gentle sucking. The heat of his mouth was absorbed by the nipple and spread in waves through Starsky’s chest and down to his stomach.

He was vaguely stunned by the intense pleasure building in him. A surprised gasp escaped, and Hutch raised hot, opaque eyes to his. Starsky could feel his friend’s arousal hard against his thigh. He had the impression that Hutch was exerting iron control over his own desires, taking it slow. Seducing him. The hoarse, determined words bore him out.

“Gonna make it so good for you, babe. I love you so much…”

His strong warm hand grasped Starsky’s erect shaft and Starsky arched back involuntarily, crying out at the unexpected pleasure of it. The hand began squeezing and stroking and pulling, and the loving mouth descended again to his chest. Starsky’s head rolled against the pillow and he clutched desperate handfuls of the sheet, seeking some anchor in the torrent of desire that was sweeping him away, overwhelming him. He moaned and writhed under the ecstasy of the wet tonguing and the fire igniting in his cock.

At first he was unable to do more than lie and receive Hutch’s love, but soon his hands began an exploration of their own. Hutch’s body intrigued him. The sleekness of the smooth torso in contrast to Starsky’s own dark hairiness was incredibly sensuous. He rubbed his palms over tiny rosebud nipples, pricking them to immediate attention. His hands slid down to Hutch’s hard-muscled belly, up the sides of his body, and around to his supple back. He dragged his nails experimentally across smooth shoulder blades. Hutch shivered in response and wriggled closer, his hips moving against Starsky’s side. A loving nip sent shafts of fire from Starsky’s nipple to his groin.

Starsky rolled to his side, causing Hutch to raise passion-blinded eyes to his. He couldn’t hold back a grin of sheer pleasure before fastening his lips on that sensuous mouth and engaging it in a deep, tongue-sucking kiss. While the kiss was still going on he gently and somewhat reluctantly tugged Hutch’s hand away from his genitals and pressed his body up close to Hutch’s. He put his arms around him and held him for the first time in passion, melding them from head to toe. Their erect cocks crossed and caressed each other as their hips began an involuntary rhythm, boosting them to another plane of sensation. Hutch’s arms grabbed hold of Starsky as if he were drowning. Their tight-pressed mouths could not muffle his helpless whimper of pleasure.

Starsky was thrilled at the response. The evidence of Hutch’s reciprocal need filled him with an intoxicating sense of power, tempered by protectiveness and infinite gratitude. Against all odds, he was being given the opportunity to show Hutch how much he loved him.

Anticipation was quicksilver in his veins and he almost laughed with joy. He began to tell his beloved what he felt, and as he spoke, he slid slowly down the long hard body. “I love you.” His tongue flicked a nipple. Hutch gasped and tangled his hands in Starsky’s curls. Starsky sucked each hard nipple briefly before continuing his downward path.

”No one else for me but you. You were right. Never could be…” He paused frequently to sample the excited flesh with licks, sucks, and enticing bites, loving the satiny texture of Hutch’s skin. “You feel so good to me…” His tongue tickled Hutch’s navel before being replaced by nibbling teeth.

Hutch jumped when Starsky’s hands settled on his buttocks. The long hard cock strained upward from a forest of flaxen curls.

Starsky grinned. Blondie, he thought affectionately. With no feeling of doubt or hesitation he took the head of the shaft in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it experimentally. Above him Hutch choked out his name, hands clenching in his hair. Knowing the effects of his actions on his loved one inflamed him all the more as he slowly lowered his mouth on the shaft. Hutch’s breath was coming in short, hard pants now.

Starsky focused all his attention on the incredible experience of Hutch’s cock in his mouth, concentrating on relaxing the muscles at the back of his throat, accepting him, shifting to improve the angle and thus making the passage deeper for him, beginning to be aroused by the pressure of the head against the back of his throat. He reached with one hand to caress velvety balls, rubbing them exploringly between gentle fingers.

Hutch was moving in his mouth, moaning helplessly, his hands now gripping Starsky’s hair painfully. Starsky felt Hutch’s pleasure as if it were his own. As the quivering hips withdrew, he rubbed the tip of his tongue along the underside of the shaft, squeezing the balls carefully at the same time.

With an inarticulate cry Hutch pulled away from him, hands pushing him away.

Starsky stared up at him in bewilderment. Hutch was sweating, shuddering uncontrollably. Starsky looked at the flushed skin and wild eyes and realized that the sensation had been too much for Hutch; he was ready to explode.

He spoke encouragingly, allowing his love to show clearly in his face and voice. ”Hey, babe. Why’d you stop it? It was just getting good.”

Hutch shook his head, obviously overwhelmed by the intensity of his feelings.

Second thoughts? Too late far that. Nothing can stop this now. And it’s right. “Thought you loved me.”

That got a reaction. Hutch flushed and answered vehemently. “I do!” After a moment, he repeated it. “I do, Starsk.”

Starsky slid back up the bed and put his arms around him. He kissed the wide mouth — gently at first, then more sensuously, nibbling at the soft lips and mustache. Hutch responded helplessly.

“And I love you, too. Now come here and let me show it.”

The need was burning again in Hutch’s hot eyes, and Starsky knew there was answering fire in his own. The next kiss was confirmation. No turning back now.

There was no hesitation in Hutch as he shifted so that his head was at the foot of the bed. His hands began an erotic stroking from Starsky’s flanks over his thighs and back again — sometimes lightly, fingertips barely brushing the flesh, sometimes fingernails grazed him, sometimes the hands were firm and demanding. Meanwhile he explored Starsky’s lightly-furred belly with his lips, teeth, and tongue. His warm mouth fastened on the tendon at the joint of groin and thigh and began a hard steady sucking. At the same time his hands gripped Starsky’s ass firmly, possessively. It felt incredible, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough…

In self-defense Starsky engulfed Hutch’s rock-hard sex with his mouth and set about performing some torture of his own. Seconds later Starsky’s merciful mouth enclosed him and with a moan of gratitude he sank his lips to the base of Hutch’s straining shaft.

It was an endless, oceanic merging. They clung together in the maelstrom, and he could never have imagined this kind of unity. Hutch was him and he was Hutch. And they came together, incredibly, endlessly, in a Niagara of pleasure, sharing the unexpected ecstasy as they had shared everything else. Together. At last. Always.

***

When he was next aware he was lying in Hutch’s arms, shaking with the intensity of the experience, tears of emotion clouding his vision. Hutch held him close, whispering comfort to him, and there were tears in his eyes, too. At first he was afraid that Hutch had misinterpreted his reaction, but as soon as their eyes met there was no need for explanation.

It seemed there was no need for anything but to lie there and hold one another in the strange silence of evening. Almost all the light was gone; the world had shifted to black and white. Time seemed to hang suspended as he lay in utter beatitude with the companion of his soul.

He was drowsing, sated body seeking sleep after the strain of the past four days, when he felt Hutch shift away from him and sit up. He followed quickly, grabbing for his wrist, afraid to break the spell. Hutch’s arms slipped around him and they held each other close, the comfort of the bodily contact both new and strangely familiar. He sighed with contentment and rubbed the side of his face against Hutch’s. Hutch returned the stroking. Several companionable, unself-conscious kisses later, it occurred to him to ask Hutch where he had been going.

“You need to get some sleep. I was going to get your pills so you can sack out.”

“Not without you.” The words were out before he realized he’d spoken.

Hutch’s grip tightened, and Starsky could tell from his voice that he was deeply moved. “No, not without me, babe. Never without me again. You can relax, buddy. I’ll never let you go.”

After a while Hutch got up to get the pills and turn off the lights and Starsky made a trip to the john and eventually they were reunited under the haven of the covers. They nestled together, arms and legs entangled, both needing to be as close as possible.

“This could get to be habit-forming,” he murmured, voice slurred with sleepiness.

Hutch pulled him tightly to his chest, holding him as if he never wanted to let him go. His voice shook. “I want it to be, Starsk. I want it to be forever.”

Starsky relaxed into the embrace and, finding his face pressed into Hutch’s long neck, took the opportunity for a taste of the succulent skin. ‘Yes,” he sighed in complete contentment.

***

In his dreams, everything was right. Hutch loved him; they had made metamorphic love. Euphoria at the perfection of the union warred with the conviction that it was all just a dream. His body slid inexorably toward wakefulness and he fought it, dreading the loss of that longed-for completion, even if it was only fantasy. Hutch was kissing him, mouth irresistibly sweet and gut-wrenchingly erotic, stirring hard-fought longings.

With the abruptness of a gunshot he passed from sleeping to waking. A warm velvet tongue snaked between his parted lips and teeth, initiating an intimate exploration of his mouth. He jerked back to stare disbelievingly at his startled bedmate.

Hutch reached to caress his face, sliding his fingers into his hair, china blue eyes aglow with love. “Starsk? Mornin’, babe.”

“It wasn’t a dream!” he blurted unthinkingly.

Hutch froze, color leaching from his face. Suddenly he looked scared to death. Hoarse-voiced: “Did you want it to be?”

Starsky wrapped his arms around his companion and held him close, discovering the tremor in the taut form. Hutch’s arms came around him, and Starsky pressed the side of his face to his friend’s, stroking, feeling the slight rasp of their morning beard growth, thinking he could never get enough of being close to him.

God, it feels so good to hold you, babe. Never thought I’d be able to…

He murmured reassurance into one silk-covered ear. “Are you kidding? I’d rather be with you than anywhere else on earth. I love you, Hutch.”

For a moment Hutch’s body went slack in his arms, and Starsky could feel the relief behind the strained whisper. “Thought maybe you’d changed your mind…”

Never. “No. I’m not gonna change my mind. I’m sure about this.” Hesitantly, “You?”

“Oh, yeah…”

They took it slowly, letting the rapport expand, beginning to learn one another in this new context, getting comfortable with their bodies’ mutual hunger. A new way of life was in its infancy, their frequent exchanges of smiles and shy whispered endearments reassuring each other that it really wasn’t a dream, but reality made perfect.

Starsky was euphoric, high as a kite, buoyed by newfound peace and a security he hadn’t realized was possible, hadn’t known he was looking for.

Forever. He said he wanted it forever.

Hutch and him — together, with no need to hide his feelings or censor his words. All his days to be spent with this man who had wrapped himself around his heart from the day they met. And the nights…

By nature pragmatic, Starsky wasn’t inclined to question the whim of Fate, especially when it had just handed him his heart’s desire.

Hutch was Everything. He had been the mainstay of his life for years and, most recently, had rescued him from Hell. He had been lost, and Hutch had found him. Out of control, and he had protected him. Terrified, and Hutch had understood his need. Had held him, told him he was loved. After that, he had been unable to withhold his heart from his comrade. And somehow an honest-to-God miracle had occurred and Hutch was his. Now he would never have to share his best friend’s loyalty with anyone else, or worry about losing him to one of those destructive female vampires he seemed to attract with such unerring accuracy. Hutch loved him, and now Starsky could take care of him, protect him from hurt as he’d longed to do for years, treat him as he deserved to be treated.

I’ll never hurt you, babe. I promise…

His beloved held him, whispering words of love and passion, enslaving his body with eager hands. How do you do this? All you have to do is touch me… I’ve never wanted anyone like this before — like it’s never gonna stop…

Beautiful Hutch, kisses sweet as honey, hands tender and demanding in turn, knowing just what he craved. They sought out all his secret, hungering places, and Starsky could deny them nothing.

When they were both burning with the fever Hutch turned in the bed and his hot wet mouth possessed Starsky, raising him easily to impossible heights of desire. One hand cradled his throbbing balls, while the other played moist-fingered in the cleft of his ass, teasing gently at the suddenly sensitive aperture.

Hutch’s cock in his thirsty throat completed the passionate linkage, sliding in and out easily, searching deep inside him, owning him. He dedicated himself wholeheartedly to pleasuring Starsky, heart and body open to him, and felt no sensation of choking. Rather, the act of reciprocation intensified his own excitement, as if Hutch were the amplifier of his pleasure. He gave himself to the experience, rejoicing as they flowed closer and closer together.

And then, just as he was poised on the pinnacle, ready to sail over the edge, Hutch thrust a long finger up into him, jolting him, arousing sensations he could never have imagined. The ecstasy exploded in a scream, most of the sound muffled by Hutch’s thrusting organ, and then he was cartwheeling into the abyss, drowning in exquisite release. Only marginally aware, he absorbed the force of Hutch’s orgasm, following hard on the heels of his own.

Once again Hutch held him while he shook with reaction. He sucked in oxygen with great choking sobs, fighting to regain control of his body, while his tender lover stroked him, petted him soothingly, kissed his wet face and brushed back his sweat-dampened hair.

“Little Death.” Yeah, they got that right, he thought disjointedly. He pressed close, burying his face in Hutch’s neck, wanting to become part of him.

There were just no words for the way making love with Hutch moved him. Later he’d want to share all the new emotions surging inside him, tell Hutch every day how much he was loved. But not yet — an uncharacteristic shyness held the words back. Right now he was grateful for the accord that made words unnecessary.

***

Being with Hutch now was an odd combination of the familiar and the foreign. They knew each other so well, were so accustomed to one another’s presence, that it really was like being two halves of a whole. He’d always felt physically comfortable with Hutch, able to touch and be touched. And it was not new to be jostling with him for bathroom space. He’d spent plenty of nights on that lumpy couch, and Hutch had equal experience with his, usually after an evening that left both men hung over, late for work, and in competition for the mirror. Even Hutch’s body was familiar to him, years of locker room showers leaving them with no reserve about appearing unclothed before one another.

Yet it was totally strange to watch him openly, admire his gracefully nude body with appreciation he didn’t have to conceal. Hutch was at the sink, brushing his teeth. Exercising his new freedom, Starsky reached out to grasp his shoulders, massaging gently. Blue eyes smiled happily at him in the mirror.

Hutch’s skin was so damned smooth; he loved the feel of it under his palms. He covered the long back in sensuous circles, pausing to trace the birthmark, moving around Hutch’s sides to cross over his chest in a possessive embrace. It was the most natural thing in the world to kiss that long supple neck, lips delighting in the unbelievable softness of the silky down at the nape, teeth testing the firmness of tendon under fragile satin skin. His hands fondled the contours of Hutch’s chest and belly, stirring his nipples to little pebbles.

Pressed against the lithe back, he felt the sudden unevenness of his breathing. Hutch spat out the toothpaste and rinsed his mouth quickly. “Keep that up, you’re gonna start a fire,” he warned, sounding as though he’d be glad to bring the kerosene.

Over Hutch’s bowed back Starsky could see his own teeth flashing in the mirror, felt his face break into a smile. It felt damned good to him to be able to turn his blond on like that, like Hutch did to him. Made him feel safe, told him in the most convincing way how right this was.

He stepped back reluctantly. “Let’s get a shower.” He caught Hutch’s eye in the mirror again and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “…First.”

Laughing, Hutch turned and kissed him. Briefly. To keep the fires down, he knew. Hutch adjusted the shower spray while Starsky brushed his teeth. His toothbrush thunked into the cup beside Hutch’s, looking right at home.

They met under the spray for a sputtering kiss, both laughing at the novel pleasure of it, running their hands over each other in sybaritic delight. By the time they had washed their hair and bathed each other, Starsky was ready to try some aquatic lovemaking.

Watching Hutch’s elegant long-fingered hands explore his body, Starsky was very aware of the ugly bruises left by Alf’s boots. But at least those would go away. The scattered patchwork of bullet and surgery scars was there for good, stark reminders of his mortality.

Hutch was tracing the marks with gentle hands, and his expression was sad. “I haven’t taken very good care of you, haven’t I?”

Dismay made his answer harsh. “Jesus! Are you responsible for the energy crisis, too?” He regretted the words instantly as Hutch recoiled. Full of remorse, he pulled the sleek, wet body to his and they held each other tightly, wet heads pressed close.

When they separated, Starsky gestured at his chest. “Hutch, you’re the best partner a man could ask for, but you’re not Superman. There’s no way you could have prevented any of this. If you could’ve, you would’ve, right?” He waited for Hutch’s irresolute nod. “Sure you would’ve. Just like I would’ve saved you from this.” He touched the scar on Hutch’s left thigh, where his leg had been pinned under the wreck of the first LTD. “Or Forest…” His fingertips rested on Hutch’s forehead as if to touch his mind. “All the hurt in here. Or this…” The thin line on his left shoulder, souvenir of Diana Harmon’s butcher knife. “That’s a guilt trip for you. You kept trying to tell me she was crazy and I just shrugged you off.” He forestalled Hutch’s protest. “That’s okay. I know you don’t hold a grudge. Never even blamed me. But I had to forgive myself. I fucked up and it almost got you killed, but it’s in the past.”

He clasped a cold shoulder. “There’s been a lot of hurt for both of us in the past. But Hutch, why borrow blame that’s not even yours?” Hutch shifted uncomfortably. “I swear if we were walking down the street and a piano fell on me, you’d feel responsible because it got me instead of you.”

Hutch’s expression showed him that the remark had struck home.

Starsky knew intuitively that it was time to lighten the mood. The point had been made.

“If you’re gonna blame yourself, at least do it for something that is your fault. Like wasting this shower, and turning us into giant prunes, and making me have to get all philosophical. Spoils my image, y’know?”

Sure enough, his big blond turkey looked guilty as he realized that the water was cooling rapidly. Then he grinned sheepishly. “Okay, Starsk, you got me. Let’s get out of here.” One last kiss and they exited the chilly spray.

Hutch’s earlier lighthearted mood had turned pensive. When he finished drying he wrapped the towel around his waist, so Starsky followed suit, reluctantly putting his reawakened hunger on hold, pacing himself to his partner’s mood. Hutch began to shave. Okay. Starsky hated shaving, but felt better with his stubble gone.

Hutch was dawdling with the blow dryer, and Starsky’s stomach was growling, so he made a quick trip to the kitchen. Over the years Hutch had loosened up a little; at least he wasn’t still chugging that sickening glop from the blender. Still, Starsky could see their remarkable compatibility would never extend to eating habits.

Got to get to the store today, get some real food. After all, I’m in a weakened condition. And it looks like I’m gonna need my strength. He grinned in happy anticipation of that lean runner’s body and the matchless delights it promised.

The object of his obsession came out of the bathroom and headed for the bedroom. Starsky grabbed a granola bar and followed. Hutch was sitting propped against the headboard, long legs stretched out before him, hair a feathery light halo, still wearing the damned towel. The brooding angel slanted a look at him from under lowered brows, face tensed in an expression Starsky couldn’t fathom.

Ah, Hutch… Hurting yourself already? Starsky didn’t expect it to be smooth sailing. Hutch was a deep, complicated man, given to frequent attacks of self-doubt and brooding depression. That’s why you need me, babe. To pull you out of those corners you think yourself into. I know you love me. And you want this. Why is it so hard for you to let yourself be happy?

He clambered onto what he already considered “his” side of the bed and leaned against the headboard. Taking a bite of the crumbly bar, he looked cross-eyed at the grains of rolled oats that had spilled onto his hairy chest.

Hutch pinned him with an accusing glare. ”You like to eat in bed.”

Unabashed: “Sure do. Watch TV, too. Why not combine your pleasures?” He gave Hutch his Rudolph Valentino look. “A loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou by my side…”

“And I’ll be fat, drunk, and in trouble.”

Starsky gaped at his bedmate for a moment before breaking into delighted laughter. Hutch’s affronted expression when he took another large bite of the bar egged him on. Putting on his best ingratiating-little-boy face, he began to whine.

“Aw, c’mon. Can’t we have the TV in here, please? For M*A*S*H*. And Bugs Bunny. Please? I’ll be good…” Further eyebrow gyrations blew the little boy character but emphasized the double meaning. “And we can get chocolate syrup… and whipped cream…” His index finger circled Hutch’s flat navel to illustrate the point.

Hutch batted the hand away. “No. And get out of here with that. You’re getting crumbs in the bed.”

Tight ass.

Starsky popped the last third of the bar into his mouth, chewing and swallowing leisurely. Brushing crumbs in the general direction of the floor, he spoke with great dignity. “That did it. I had something really terrific” — eyebrows again — “planned for you, which I guarantee you would have loved, but now you’re not getting it.” He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed as he spoke. “No more sexual favors for you, blondie.”

Hutch was on him before his feet touched the floor, dragging him back onto the bed, rolling across his chest, pinning him with his weight. Grasping Starsky’s head with both hands, he brought his face close, filling Starsky’s vision. Feral eyes glittering, Hutch growled softly, insinuatingly. “Do I have to prove just how easy it’d be to change your mind?”

The kiss that followed the threat was love and lust, command and entreaty, and made Starsky hunger for more, but pride made him twist suddenly, leaving a surprised Hutch easy prey for his hold.

His advantage didn’t last long and for several minutes they tussled energetically on the rumpled bed, enjoying the release of tension and the physical contact between their bodies. The towels didn’t make it past the first round.

At length previous experience won out and Starsky wound up face down on the bed, his left arm twisted up behind his back and held there easily by the victorious blond. A very undignified position. He squirmed futilely.

“Say ‘Uncle’.”

“Go to hell.” Starsky tried to twist away but Hutch settled astride his ass, left hand exerting pressure on the arm, right grasping his neck firmly.

“Say it.”

“No.”

Hutch shoved the already-taut arm up another of inches, and Starsky couldn’t suppress a yelp. “Ow! Cut it out!”

Carefully shifting his grip on the imprisoned wrist, Hutch bent until his face was beside Starsky’s. The ends of his baby-fine hair stuck to his sweaty face in dark tendrils. His lips grazed Starsky’s temple and cheek with tempting kisses before his wet tongue tickled an ear, causing a surprised quiver in his prisoner’s groin that increased with the warm whispered breath. “Not until you say it.”

Oh, yeah? That’ll be the day, buddy.

“Never,” he gritted out between clenched teeth. His shoulder already hurt, and he wasn’t sure how far Hutch was going to carry this macho game, but he had a stubborn streak a mile wide and he’d be damned if his smart-aleck partner was going to win so easily.

The arm was lowered a fraction and Starsky sighed at the relief from pain. Then Hutch was sliding down to lie full-length beside him, shifting him, reaching around to caress his chest, nibbling and licking at his shoulders.

Starsky’s traitorous body responded even as he struggled to escape. “Hey, no fair!”

“Haven’t you heard? All’s fair in love and war.” Hutch’s hand wandered freely over his chest and belly and thighs, arousing him without his will. A bite on his neck, then the warm mouth teased his ear again. “Which is it going to be, lover?”

If Starsky had wanted to escalate the issue from game to full-scale physical battle, he probably could have done something to prevent the familiarity, but suddenly he didn’t care anymore. Delicious lassitude crept into every limb. It felt so good… Hutch’s hand enclosed his cock and he couldn’t hold back a pleased moan.

Oh, God… It’s so easy for him… The part of his mind that continued to function marveled at the way his body responded to Hutch — instantly, involuntarily, totally.

Hutch was turned on, too. He could feel him hard against his hip as he shifted to straddle him again, releasing his hungry cock but still holding the arm pinned. The mustache brushed his cheek and ear; insistent teeth nipped his earlobe.

“I love you, Starsk.” Roving fingers in his hair set his scalp tingling, then drifted leisurely over his face — stroking, exploring, investigating every inch. “Do you have any idea how beautiful are?”

Ah, shit. Don’t do this to me. How can I be mad at you when you make me feel like this?

The tenacious hand slid slowly, excruciatingly, down his neck and around the aching arm, over his heaving side to his hip, and began to insinuate itself under his body, reaching for him. Past pride, he shifted toward the promise of pleasure, which increased the leverage on his arm and brought a fresh stab of pain.

All’s fair in love and war. Make love, not war. Even if his opponent/partner/mate had used damned underhanded tactics to win his point. I love you, too, Hutch, and I’d rather love you than fight with you.

“Uncle, you bastard.”

That seemed to satisfy The Grand Inquisitor. Releasing the hostage arm, he rolled to lie on the outside of the bed. Starsky turned his back to him, massaging his twisted shoulder. Hutch slid up behind him, fitting himself to Starsky’s body spoon-fashion. He placed his hand on the shoulder and began nuzzling the base of Starsky’s neck, planting hot-breathed little kisses in the curly down, making him shiver. Hutch’s hand stroked his back lightly, apologetically.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“‘S okay.” He pressed back against the comforting warmth. Hutch had lit some fires before, and they were still smoldering. It felt good to lie held by Hutch this way, so perfectly fitted together.

A familiar hand slipped around under his arm and began rubbing his chest and abdomen, tweaking his nipples to little knots before sliding down to grasp his eager cock. Hutch was setting him flying again, caressing hands drawing joyful responses from his highly sensitized skin. Nestled safely in the curve of his beloved’s body, Starsky stroked his left hand eagerly along the other’s ribs, flank, and thighs, intoxicated by the reality of loving Hutch.

He knew what Hutch wanted. And he was willing to go along with the game plan. The moment during their earlier lovemaking when Hutch had done what he had done had kindled an intense hunger that was only negligibly tinged with apprehension. On some level he had known that it would be like this for him if it ever got started, had been scared of it before he’d even understood what it was. An insatiable craving for unity with Hutch. A thirst he’d never be able to slake…

Their relationship wasn’t going to stand still. They’d get to this sooner or later, and he knew instinctively that it was going to be very, very good. He didn’t see any point in worrying about who was on top at any given moment. What did it matter, when they were the same person, anyway? He didn’t mind going first, and he knew without need of words that Hutch wanted this very badly. Needed to prove something to someone — himself, or Starsky, or both of them.

He didn’t worry about any of that. He just loved Hutch. And whatever that involved, he was willing to go along with. He knew how Hutch could be. Sometimes something would spook him, and he’d get a little crazy for a while. Those times you just had to coax him through, and carry him, if necessary, until he found his footing. That was just part of the give and take that had always made them what they were. Perfectly matched.

He felt surrounded by Hutch, as if they were merging into each other. As they moved together, he could feel Hutch’s hard shaft pressing into the cleft of his buttocks, igniting his imagination. The rush of anticipation was almost painful.

With an effort of will, he halted the pleasurable rhythm. “Hutch.”

A moment later Hutch paused, too. “Hmmm?” His lips nibbled Starsky’s shoulders, mustache tickling sensuously.

“Love me.”

Hutch was pressed up against his back and Starsky was suddenly aware of Hutch’s pounding heartbeat passing through his spine, reverberating through his body, and of his own echoing it.

“What did you say?”

Starsky rolled and sat up to face his mate. Hutch was beautiful in his arousal, smooth athlete’s body tense with excitement, throbbing heartbeat visible on his naked chest, eyes glittering with driving need.

Starsky swallowed hard. “Make love to me. I want you to.”

Hutch sat up, too, propping himself on one long arm, face reflecting conflict. “S-Starsk… Are you sure you want it like this?”

As if he were inside his body, he felt Hutch’s raging desire. His eyes were dilated almost to black, his sleek body wet with perspiration. The restraint must really be costing him.

He leaned to press his face against Hutch’s, gratified when the contact was returned, loving the contrasting textures of soft cheek, rough sideburn, and silky hair.

“I want it every way with you. I want us to be so close, like we’re inside each other, body and soul…” He felt the flush begin, and reminded himself that he didn’t need to hide from his other half. Shyly: “Sometimes it feels that way already, y’know?”

Hutch’s response was all the reassurance he needed. Love filled clear-sky eyes and he clasped Starsky’s hand tightly, bringing it up to his face, rubbing against it in a manner Starsky recognized instantly — the reflection of his own need to merge with his lover, become one with him.

Hutch kissed the hand and smiled a tender, heart-stopping smile. “I do know, babe.”

It felt so right to be understood so perfectly.

***

The demon of self-doubt was Ken Hutchinson’s bête noire. It had been his constant companion from childhood. At times it slumbered and he would be lulled into thinking he had beaten it, but it always returned.

This incredible new love left him utterly defenseless. The unity he now shared with Starsky was more addictive than any drug, and now that he had finally found him, had experienced that soul-fulfilling oneness, he was haunted already by the dread of losing it. In the midst of the greatest joy of his life, the black beast had reawakened to torment him with the evidence of his inadequacy. Starsky’s loving words in the shower had eased his deep-rooted sense of guilt, but the mood of uncertainty remained. And Starsky’s offhand, teasing threat to withdraw sex had given the fear a focus.

In some hidden, insecure part of himself he was afraid Starsky would change his mind, regret his actions. His conscious mind knew it was irrational, knew the depth of Starsky’s commitment to him, but the other voice asked how something this perfect could last, and he was driven by a compulsion to own Starsky, to have him in a way that no one ever had before — to set his seal on him, so that he’d never want anyone else.

And, with the oneness of their minds, his alter ego accepted his need, shared it. Was freely offering that very possession.

Starsky was quivering against him, indigo eyes burning darkly. Unequivocally male, but willingly acquiescent to his partner’s desire. Hutch caressed the fevered body, and Starsky arched into the touch.

Once again their desire fed on each other, knowledge of Starsky’s passion igniting his own like gasoline on a flame. His hands explored the tempting ass, enjoying the unfamiliar feel of firm male buttocks.

The compliant body tensed.

Don’t worry, babe. Not yet.

He planned to make damned certain that by the time he was ready to enter him, Starsky would be too insane with pleasure to experience any pain. He stretched out beside his comrade, guiding him to lie backwards in the curve of his body. It felt perfect. Natural. Right.

How could he have loved Starsky for so long without ever foreseeing the potential for a physical manifestation of the bond that had always linked them? Now that he knew, he would never be able to survive without it.

His excited cock nestled between rounded cheeks, but he resisted the drive to push into the cleft. He slipped both hands around Starsky, one caressing his furry chest, the other descending to rub erotic circles on the firm, flat stomach. Thick dark hair tickled his face, and he kissed the back of the strong neck, where curls changed into silky down. Inhaling Starsky’s special scent, he began biting his neck, not gently.

With an “mmmmm” of pleasure, Starsky moved back against him.

When Hutch shifted his lips’ attention to one curl-covered ear Starsky turned his face, eyes closed, offering easier access. The tip of Hutch’s tongue began an exploration of the outer ear. As Starsky shivered, Hutch pressed his lips to breathe into the opening, wanting to make love with words as well as actions.

“I love you, babe. So damned much… Gonna make you fly…”

His hand slid down to the warm cock, already firm, but hardening more when he held it. His other hand found one of Starsky’s erect nipples and, having discovered his sensitivity there, he dusted it lightly with the tips of his fingers, gently but firmly, as though filing his nails against it.

Starsky moaned low in his throat and pushed back against him again, hips beginning a rhythm that ignited Hutch. Without volition he began a counter-rhythm, gut tightening with anticipation.

Soon…

“Magic man,” he whispered. “You set me on fire. Can’t help it…”

Starsky’s cock was swelling in his hand and his breath rasped painfully. Hutch kept up the rhythm of hand and hips, embracing his beloved with his other arm, alternating endearments and heated kisses. Surrounding him with his love.

“Oh God…” Starsky moaned, somehow adding a tantalizing side-to-side motion to the back and forth action of his hips that made Hutch press uncontrollably against him. An inarticulate cry of need escaped Starsky’s parted lips, and he reached back to cover Hutch’s upper leg with his own, pushing back against him, opening to him. “Now…”

Stretching awkwardly for the bedside table, Hutch fumbled in the drawer for hand lotion. When he placed his hand on Starsky’s ass Starsky rolled onto his stomach, and Hutch moved to kneel between his legs, shaking with eagerness.

Knowing himself to be very close to losing control, he drew in deep breaths, forcing his body to calm. He placed his hands on the slender hips and pressed a tender kiss into the furred hollow at the base of the spine. Starsky’s body hair excited him; he loved the feel of it under his lips and hands and body, so different from his own smooth bareness.

“I love you,” he repeated. Every time he said it the wonder was as new as before.

“Love you, too,” Starsky managed to choke out.

Sweat was running down his brow; he bent forward to wipe it on the pillow. His counterpart seemed to be ready and his own need was ravening, but still Hutch did not want to go too fast. This was much more than sex, and it was too important to take any chances with.

Soon…

He squeezed some of the lotion into the palm of his left hand, then dipped the fingers of his right into it. With his slippery hand he began stroking Starsky carefully. Starsky cried out again at the increased sensation.

With his other hand Hutch located the ring of muscle and circled it gently, lubricating the tight opening. Starsky was trying to press into his palm and his fingers at the same time, and when Hutch’s middle finger slipped inside, he shuddered and whimpered, obviously liking it as much as he had earlier. When Hutch began to move the finger around in slow circles, stretching the opening, Starsky’s sob was beseeching.

“Oh God, it’s so good… Please, babe, I want you inside me. Do it now, Hutch!”

Shuddering with anticipation, Hutch withdrew and shifted to kneel squarely behind Starsky. He stroked his excited cock a couple of times, lubricating it, before pressing the tip against Starsky’s anus.

Starsky was propped on elbows and knees, as relaxed as he could be in his state of volcanic excitement. His willingness increased Hutch’s geometrically, and he thrust forward, unable to wait any longer. After only brief resistance, he was halfway in.

Starsky’s head whipped back, eyes wide with some emotion Hutch couldn’t identify, a sharp cry erupting from his lips.

With his last ounce of control, he made himself wait, resuming his stroking of Starsky’s cock, determinedly ignoring the delicious sensations that summoned him to complete the possession. His patience was rewarded as the staccato pants slowed and Starsky began to move his hips back tentatively against the intruding shaft.

Hutch moved carefully, and when there was no protest, he sank at last and with a cry of great joy completely into his beloved’s body. Starsky’s hoarse voice echoed his own. After a tension-charged interval for Starsky’s body to adjust to Hutch’s bulk, they began the ritual of passion, bodies moving in perfect balance, as if they’d been practicing it for years.

He never wanted it to end, but every motion pushed him higher and higher, consuming him, stealing his mind away and leaving only sensation. His craving for Starsky was voracious, an addiction that would never ease, and the high was sweeter than heroin. Wildfire snaked through his burning body, igniting every nerve ending with the hunger for more unity, more rapture, more delight. Completion felt as though it would never come; he just stayed hovering there on the brink until it seemed his whole existence was concentrated in the feel of his cock inside Starsky.

He felt Starsky’s orgasm with his whole being — the sudden interruption of gasping breath, the warm pulsing flow into his hand, and the agony-ecstasy of internal muscles clenching uncontrollably around his own cock as Starsky cried his release. Hutch’s eruption flowed like molten lava coursing through well-defined body channels, into his stomach and groin and cock.

“Starsky. Starsk… Oh, God, I love you…” My beloved is mine and I am his…

He hovered breathless, speechless, mindless for what seemed like forever, falling at last to lie in a sweaty uncoordinated heap on top of his equally incapacitated companion.

Starsky seemed to be having trouble breathing, and Hutch realized vaguely that his weight might be contributing to the problem. Quickly he rolled aside. After a moment, Starsky shoved himself shakily onto his side and lay, heavy-eyed and dazed, chest heaving.

The story of their passionate act was written over his face — an irresistible mixture of discovery, awe, and love. Exactly what Hutch was feeling. Looking down at Starsky’s sweaty body, semi-erect cock glistening, Hutch knew they had only begun to explore the possibilities between them.

Gradually his breathing and heart rate began to return to normal. Starsky flopped a limp arm over to clasp his hand. Hutch, still speechless, brought the hand to his lips and kissed the scarred knuckles. He was lying on one of their damp, discarded towels, so he used it to clean himself and Starsky before collapsing again.

At last Starsky drew a deep breath and intoned wonderingly, “Holy shit! And they say this is good for your heart?!”

The irreverent declaration left Hutch staring in mute surprise, until the aptness of it struck him and laugher came bubbling out. The most transcendent sexual experience of his life, and his prosaic partner was worrying about his health. It was perfect. Starsky gave him a scapegrace half-grin and began to chuckle himself. His beautiful blue eyes were drowsy with satiation, his lips parted. Hutch couldn’t resist that mouth, and his companion seemed more than willing to share kisses. He came into Hutch’s arms and settled against his left side.

Next to my heart, where you belong.

Starsky shifted his head and whispered lovingly into Hutch’s ear.

“Mmm?” He tightened his arm.

“That was incredible. Thanks for making it so good.”

When Hutch turned to look at him he ducked his head, blushing. Hutch was overwhelmed. Starsky was thanking him? He couldn’t think of anything to say but “I love you,” so he said it, and that seemed to be plenty.

Starsky lifted his face for another kiss. Hutch would never get tired of the taste and feel of him, so right in his arms. They cuddled cozily together, content just to lie in peace.

After a while, though, Hutch’s Puritan upbringing began to assert itself. “We oughta get up,” he mumbled reluctantly. “It’s almost ten.”

Starsky’s response was to pull the covers up over them both and settle back into the curve of his partner’s arm, hooking his left leg over Hutch’s. “What’s your hurry, blondie? We’re on vacation, aren’t we? ‘Sides, I’m a convalescent.” And he smiled up at Hutch, sleepy-eyed, looking utterly content.

Can’t argue with that logic. “Mmm. Okay. And as your keeper and private duty nurse, I guess it’s my job to make personally sure that you get your rest.”

“Took the words right outta my mouth.”

And, at least for the moment, fear was vanquished.

***

Hutch awakened to the never-to-be-taken-for-granted security of finding his other half safe in his arms. They were lying in what promised to be their favorite position for sleeping — facing each other, heads side by side on the pillow, arms and legs intertwined. He liked it. They were always touching and it was a simple matter to reach out and kiss Starsky any time he wanted.

He put this theory to the test. Starsky responded to him even in his sleep, lips and teeth parting, tongue tasting his with increasing eagerness. Then he was awake and pulling back to smile a delighted smile.

“Wow. Nice way to wake up.”

Hutch’s contentment spilled over into an answering smile and he kissed him again.

Starsky rolled onto his back and stretched thoroughly. Then he drew up his right leg and rested his left ankle on the knee, and for the next few minutes was seemingly absorbed by the idle motion of his foot under the covers.

Quietly: “What’s it gonna be like, Hutch? Us being together…”

The first of a thousand questions that had to be asked. And answered. And some of the answers were bound to be painful.

He responded carefully. “What do you want it to be like?”

The meditative silence was followed by a shrug that clearly communicated his friend’s uncertainty. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought much about it… details, y’know. Never thought it’d happen…” Watching Starsky’s profile, Hutch caught the little smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I want this, that’s for sure.”

His right hand settled on Hutch’s thigh, patting reassuringly, before his expression grew serious again. “Other than that… At least for now, I don’t think I want this to change the way we live our daily lives. I want it to be like before, only with no one between us.” Starsky hesitated and seemed to fumble for words, still not looking at Hutch. “I mean, I want us to keep our work lives and our private lives separate.”

“You don’t want to tell anyone about this.”

Hutch felt Starsky stiffen before shifting his face to him, propping himself on an elbow. Vivid eyes bored into him. “I’m not ashamed of us. I just don’t want to have to take a lot of shit.”

The supplicating caress of his palm against the side of Hutch’s face aroused a secure glow, and he rubbed against the hand like a cat.

Starsky continued, earnest. “Do you believe me? What we’ve got is too special to have to defend it to creeps like that bastard Simonetti. Can’t you see what he’d make of it?”

Touched by his friend’s intensity, Hutch hastened to reassure him. “It’s okay, Starsk. I agree.”

”You do?”

You shouldn’t be so surprised, babe. Don’t we usually think alike on the really important things?

”Yeah.” He brushed at the dark curls on Starsky’s forehead, just enjoying the feel of them between his fingers. Starsky settled back into his arm, resting his hand on his chest. “We don’t have to solve everything right away. This isn’t something either of us ever thought about before. It’s gonna take time to work on what it’s going to mean to us. I think we ought to just go slow for now and see what happens.”

The relief in his companion’s eyes told Hutch he had handled it right. They both needed time. Forty-eight hours ago the idea of Starsky as a lover had never occurred to him. Twenty-four hours ago it had been an impossible dream. He desperately wanted time for them to find their own way, time for the bond to grow and strengthen before subjecting it to the stress of outside opinion.

“I imagine Huggy will figure it out on his own, and that’s okay.” Hutch paused, and Starsky nodded agreement. “Dobey might, too. But the Cap’s backed us up for years, and I don’t figure he’d stop because of this as long as we don’t put him on the spot. And if we’re reasonably discreet, I don’t think anyone else will know. Hell, we spend most of our time together, anyway. Internal Affairs gave up trying to make anything out of us years ago.”

If they were careful, it would probably stay that way. Surely, after all this time, they’ve got better things to do than to investigate who we’re screwing!

Starsky let him know he had had enough of serious discussion by rolling abruptly to sit astride him, driving the air from his lungs, and trapping the explosion of his breath with a forceful kiss. “Come on, lover. Don’t want to lie around in bed all day, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, he bounced off the bed.

***

”You left it?”

“Well, I had more on my mind at the time than your crummy wallet,” Hutch returned defensively.

“Crummy wallet?!” Starsky’s voice rose an indignant octave. ”You’re talking about my ID, credit cards, car registration, money…” On a mournful note: “picture of my mom…”

“Okay, okay. Give me a break. We’ll go pick it up now, okay?” Hutch slid a corduroy jacket over his shoulder holster and eyed his companion disbelievingly. “Are you really gonna wear that?”

“…Besides , you gave it to me!” Starsky finished in sulky triumph, as if there had been no interruption. “…Wear what?”

“That.”

“That” was an ostentatiously purple T-shirt adorned with a large, brilliant yellow “happy face.” Only Starsky’s version had not two, but one lone dark eye, positioned in the center of the forehead. The logo emblazoned around the circle proclaimed “Happy Mutants for Nuclear Energy.”

Starsky’s Beretta, discovered undamaged in the wreck of the van and retrieved from Metro the day before, looked especially incongruous next to the clichéd inane grin on his chest.

Starsky appeared to consider whether to be offended. He settled for a mendaciously sweet smile. “It’s a political statement. My partner says I should take a more active interest in current events.”

“I’m gonna puke.”

“Good thing you haven’t eaten breakfast, then. Less to come up.” The irrepressible maniac topped this insensitive comment by adding, “Which reminds me… I’m starved.”

***

Hutch kept an uneasy watch while Starsky retrieved his wallet from the Outpatient Department secretary, half-afraid that the persistent Dr. Simon would be lurking somewhere to pounce on him again. Starsky seemed to share his eagerness to be gone, and they bounded down the steps outside the ER with the relief of schoolboys escaping the principal’s office.

***

In the IHOP parking lot, replete with blueberry pancakes, Starsky announced that he’d had enough of riding around in Hutch’s trashy car. With the indulgence born of new love, Hutch drove him to his apartment uncomplainingly, and they set off in separate cars to drop the LTD at Venice Place. As usual, Starsky drove like a bat out of hell, and Hutch soon gave up trying to keep up with him.

Alone with his thoughts for almost the first time since his life had turned upside down, Hutch couldn’t keep his mind from worrying at his situation.

Gillian’s shocking duplicity and violent death had left a gaping wound in his psyche that had refused healing. Since that catastrophe he hadn’t let anyone get really close. Except Starsky. And now he was well and truly caught.

Starsky was boisterous, impulsive, corny, irritating, determinedly bourgeois… and male. He was also courageous, tender, generous, an uninhibitedly sensual lover, and completed Hutch in a way he would never have believed possible. He couldn’t control his hunger for Starsky — his need for the understanding and acceptance he represented. Couldn’t maintain the emotional shields that had protected him, however inadequately, for years.

He had learned from the cradle what it took to survive in life — or at least, life as heir to the Hutchinson dynasty. A charming smile, good manners, and complete conformity to the holier-than-thou Hutchinson image. His earliest emotional memories were of a nightmare struggle to satisfy rigidly defined expectations, fraught with terrifying falls from grace. He had learned painfully to act the part imposed on him, and to conceal any discrepancies between the performer and his role. A chameleon existence, it had left him with the conviction that substance took a poor second in importance to form.

He’d believed that until he began to mature and could no longer accept his family’s values unquestioningly, until finally he’d fled — in search of freedom, in search of self. He’d sought identity and worth in college first, and later in the police force. In Los Angeles he’d escaped, finally, the disaster of his marriage, determined to make his own life.

But damaged. In dark moments he believed himself to be flawed beyond repair, beyond redemption.

He’d learned to play his role, had even obtained a measure of peace, but happiness in personal relationships always eluded him. And each fiasco reinforced to him that the real Ken Hutchinson would always be a disappointment to others. Not what the outside package promised, whatever the hell that was. And the dark beast nodded knowingly at every failure, reminding him that he was undeserving of happiness, unworthy of being loved.

Yet, along the way, David Starsky had dropped into his life. And stayed. Nobody had ever gotten to him, inside him, like his mercurial alter ego. Their minds had meshed right from the start.

Starsky knew things about the inner Ken Hutchinson that he’d never have revealed to anyone else, had supported him through some of the worst times of his life, seen some of the cold iniquity of his soul that he hated to acknowledge even to even himself. At times that blackness had spilled out to hurt Starsky. His “kill the messenger” response to the ugly truth of Gillian’s death was a minor injustice compared to the unforgivable cruelty of his faked amnesia.

That was an all-time low, even for you, Hutchinson. …And Kira. You hurt him badly, and for what?

It had been more than a case of thinking with his gonads, but he’d never been able to explain his betrayal to his own satisfaction. Until now.

Holy Mother. Was I jealous even then? Could it be that I didn’t want Kira at all — only wanted to keep her away from Starsk? This new possibility felt uncomfortably credible.

Yet, in the face of all his failings, and against all logic and common sense, Starsky loved him. Understood and accepted him. Stayed with him through bad times and worse.

I’ve given you reason to leave me a dozen times. But you never do.

This morning, his other half had yielded to him in what Hutch still could not help but see as an act of dominance and submission. Yet Starsky had not been diminished by it. Instead, he glowed with such deep inner peace and satisfaction that Hutch wondered others weren’t struck by it. Oh yes, Starsky loved him.

So why couldn’t he just accept the happiness he’d been given? Why was he still so afraid that somehow he’d lose it?

Why wouldn’t the black beast cease its prophecies of doom?

***

The new shopping center was huge — a mammoth monument to the spirit of American capitalism. Occupying seventy acres of prime Los Angeles real estate, it represented a huge monetary outlay, and the financial backers had spared no expense in its Grand Opening Week. The first clue as to the magnitude of the promotion appeared in the form of pink and orange trams ferrying eager customers from the vast parking lot to several mall entrances.

Lambs for the slaughter, Hutch thought cynically, stalking resolutely along at Starsky’s side. Why did I agree to this?

They paused in the main entrance for an initial survey. The inner mall was everything large sums of money and generic taste could make it — a glass, chrome, and day-glo carnival set dressed with banners, mirrors, giant modern art sculptures, and nursery-grown trees. It was peopled with clowns giving away free balloons and candy, roving entertainers, and a large cross-section of California humanity. Hutch wondered if Sodom and Gomorrah had been like this.

Starsky was wired for action — bright-eyed, grinning happily, bouncing up and down on his heels in anticipation. Starsky: The Born Consumer. Perpetually, childishly intrigued by life, he was always open to the new idea, new experience, new possibility. And somehow he dragged Hutch, who should have known better, along in the wake of his enthusiasm.

“Look. Ultra-lights!” With a tug on his arm Starsky made a bee-line for a prototype of the latest sporting craze.

Only in California. Intrigued in spite of himself, Hutch followed.

The display had drawn quite a crowd, but Starsky squirmed easily to the front, admiring the Eiper MX with single-minded fascination. The contraption reminded Hutch forcefully of a lawn mower with wings — the single seat, engine, and controls looking fragile, like a child’s toy. Neither the lower structure nor the lightweight red, blue, and yellow Dacron wings looked capable of supporting a man’s weight.

Starsky was in love. Hutch could see all the signs. He circled the aircraft, avid eyes absorbing everything, so intent that he bumped into a middle-aged couple and almost tripped over a small child before coming down to earth. His eyes found Hutch and he came to him through the crowd, face alight with enthusiasm.

“Come on, let’s go find out about it.” Without waiting for an answer he grabbed Hutch’s arm and pulled him toward the store.

Hutch could not resist that contagious enthusiasm. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Starsky slanted him an impish look. “Wonder if they come with two seats?”

The store was small — narrow and deep, walls devoted to racks of esoteric equipment and accessories, and displays from various hang-glider and ultralight manufacturers. Eiper. Pterodactyl. Weedhopper.

Hutch examined the photo exhibits while Starsky spoke to the sales representative and collected stacks of brochures. In a small room at the rear of the store, promotional films showed continuously.

Hutch stepped inside the empty booth to watch, wondering if this would prove to be one of Starsky’s flash-in-the-pan enthusiasms or would actually reach the point of implementation. After viewing footage that demonstrated the capabilities of the little aircraft, he began to see the appeal of the sport. Other than hang-gliding, it was the closest man had gotten to the intimacy of a bird’s flight.

He felt Starsky’s presence before he moved to stand beside him. After a minute a warm hand sought his tentatively in the darkness of the booth and he curled his fingers around Starsky’s, moved by the gesture. In footage from the Oshkosh Air Show a covey of ultralights swooped and glided with the freedom of huge multicolored birds, and Hutch began to wonder if this might not be worth looking into for himself.

With their customary accord, they were ready to leave at the same time. As they made their way to the front of the store, Hutch turned to smile at his companion. “So what did you find out?”

“They give lessons out at Brackett Field. And you don’t even need a pilot’s license!” Hutch knew Starsky was already imagining himself at the controls of one of the little aircraft. If it had an engine, Starsky could master it.

They stood together, watching the Eiper. Starsky’s voice was soft, audible only to his lover’s ear. “They do come with two seats…Will you come fly with me, Hutch?”

The flippant response that leapt to his lips died unborn as Hutch recognized the emotion underlying the question. Warmed by the uncharacteristic romanticism, he answered in the same low tone. “Anytime, babe.” Their eyes exchanged the touch their hands were prohibited from making.

It felt so good to have Starsky at his side again, moving through the world with him, constant as his shadow — linked to him somehow even when physical distance separated them. Their rapport seemed deepened, but otherwise unchanged, and the familiarity of it soothed Hutch’s insecurities.

Progress was slow, as both men found ample to interest them. Accustomed to Starsky’s mercurial attention span — easily attracted and just as easily distracted — Hutch simply slipped his mind into neutral as circumstances warranted and patiently accompanied Starsky as he meandered an erratic path through a camera shop, import store, and candle emporium.

Though he would never admit it, Hutch loved the childlike quality that was so much a part of his best friend, enjoyed following along like an indulgent parent while Starsky sailed through life — a curly-haired Peter Pan.

Seeing him like this, so open and full of life, one would never suspect his darker aspect — cold and deadly in Hutch’s defense. His constant guardian, ready and willing to die — or kill — for his sake. Hutch’s heart rested secure and proud in that knowledge.

An hour later they were coming out of a wine shop when Starsky froze, an expression of utter fascination stealing over his features.

What now? Hutch followed the rapt gaze.

Merlin’s Cave. The shop was on a corner about fifty feet away. In the window display a facsimile of the wizard himself, dressed in a flowing, star-gilded robe, drew shoppers’ attention to an artful assortment of magic tricks.

Starsky had always been intrigued by magic, and Hutch had sudden visions of being the dupe while his amateur conjurer tried out a new assortment of half-baked illusions.

“You can forget any tricks that involve saws, or knives, or me giving you my watch or money,” he warned.

Starsky smirked, picking right up on the gambit. “Actually, I had you in mind for the beautiful blond assistant.”

That’s one I owe you, Hutch thought, turning red while his companion snickered. He curled his lip menacingly and gave Starsky a shove, and they started for the shop.

“Sgt. Hutchinson? Is that you?”

The middle aged, limp-haired woman in the Chick-Fil-A uniform was familiar, but Hutch couldn’t place her. He ran the blushing face through his mental file, stalling with a leading, “Mrs…?”

“Walton. Helen Walton. You remember last summer, my son Jimmy…?”

Neither Starsky nor Dobey nor Hutch himself had been comfortable with the idea of Hutch on the street while Starsky was out of commission after Gunther’s assassination attempt. Hutch had spent the months of Starsky’s recovery filling in as needed for other departments. During a two-week sojourn in Juvie, Jimmy Walton and three companions had been arrested for blowing up mailboxes with cherry bombs. It had been the sixteen-year-old’s first brush with the law. Hutch had dealt with the teenaged prankster and his mortified mother. The next week he’d been in Burglary and had thought no more about the incident.

“Of course I remember you, Mrs. Walton. This is my partner, David Starsky.”

She greeted Starsky politely, then turned again to Hutch. “Sergeant,” she began timidly. “I’ve been thinking about trying to call you, but I didn’t want to bother you… But since I ran into you today…” Hesitating, she glanced uncomfortably at Starsky. “Could I speak with you alone for a minute?”

“Well…”

“Hey, Hutch, how about you meet me at the magic shop?” Starsky interjected tactfully.

Civility allowed only one response. “Okay, see you in a few minutes.”

Starsky’s look conveyed his understanding. With a brief farewell to Mrs. Walton he was gone, striding off through the crowd, leaving Hutch unaccountably lonely. Resolutely he turned his attention to the woman, guiding her to stand in the recess by the escalators.

It took her ten minutes to thank Hutch again for all he had done for Jimmy, and to reiterate how hard it had been on her son since his father left. From there she progressed to the great effect whatever Hutch had said had had on Jimmy, elaborating on the extent of her son’s new leaf. Hutch tried to maintain a polite interest, but his thoughts kept returning to Starsky.

Finally she got to her concern. Jimmy was planning to apply to U.S.C. after graduation. Did Hutch think the incident would hurt his chances?

Five more minutes were invested to reassure her, and for her to realize she needed to get back to her booth. Hutch grimaced ruefully as he rejoined the flow of traffic.

So scaring the shit out of you worked, eh, Jimmy? Just goes to show that life is full of happy endings…

He allowed his mind to dwell briefly on his own happy ending, and this morning’s intimate, uninhibited sharing. That hard animal body writhing with desire for him; Starsky’s cries of ecstasy and the tears of emotion that followed…

He passed Merlin’s Cave and had to backtrack.

Through the window of the store he could see his comrade leaning on the counter, curly head bouncing like a demented poodle as conferred enthusiastically with the sales clerk. She was young, shapely, very attractive, and Hutch could tell by her expression that she was thoroughly charmed by Starsky. As she responded to something Starsky had said, her hand came to rest on the sleeve of his denim jacket. Starsky didn’t pull away, and was smiling at her.

And the dark beast snickered an “I told you so.”

Suddenly cold and with a sick, hurting feeling in his stomach, Hutch turned away and sank onto a bench, trying to identify the cause of his powerful reaction — over-reaction — to a casual encounter.

So what did you think? That no one would find him attractive any more? God, how could they resist? Defensively: So he likes to flirt… Doesn’t mean anything. If we’re going to pull this off, we’ll need to act the same way we always have…

Will he only be “acting”?

Starsky’s words came back to him, now in a frighteningly different connotation. “I don’t want this to change how we live our daily lives.”

Will he still want women? Hutch wrapped his arms around his aching stomach.

Contrary to every ingrained defense of his wounded heart, he had dived recklessly into this relationship — blind, deaf, and dumb to everything but his need for Starsky’s love.

And it had been so damned good… Perfect. Like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Their lovemaking had infiltrated Starsky even deeper into his soul, so that now it really would kill him to lose him. He struggled to reject the thought. Starsky loved him. He shouldn’t have needed this morning to prove it.

But what did that love mean to his partner? It was hard for Starsky to verbalize his feelings. He preferred to adopt an attitude of flippant toughness, relying on Hutch to understand the unspoken. And Hutch was an expert on interpreting David Starsky — fluent in the silent language of posture, movement, and gesture; the code of an averted gaze, a twitch of the mouth, or a minute change of expression in hooded eyes.

Hutch had counted on their sensitivity to one another to carry them through the potentially difficult period of learning how their new love would alter their lives.

The question of fidelity had never occurred to him. Their minds had seemed so perfectly in tune that he’d taken for granted that everything that had happened between them meant the same to Starsky as it did to him.

He wanted no one but Starsky for the rest of his life.

But suppose, for once, he’d misinterpreted the enigma that was Starsky?

Will he still want women? Makes sense — he’s always loved the ladies. It’d probably be smarter, too. Keep up a smoke screen…

The thought of his Starsky leaving him to go out with someone else, sharing smiles and laughter — and more? — with someone else, twisted his stomach into icy knots.

Gradually he became aware that a pair of jean-clad legs had been occupying the same spot before him for an indefinite period of time. His gaze slid upward over the bulge of crotch and past the vacuously grinning T-shirt to the unsmiling face of his partner. Starsky’s sharp eyes seemed to see right into him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Starsky sat down beside him, setting a bulky black plastic shopping bag on the ground. “You look sick.”

“Thanks a million, buddy. What’s in the bag?”

Starsky dismissed the diversion with an impatient shake of his head. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah… I’m not sure…

Hutch suddenly became aware of the crowds swarming around them. Confused and embarrassed, he shook his head. “Not here. Okay, Starsk? Maybe later…”

Starsky observed him silently for a long moment, expression solemn. Finally he nodded reluctant agreement. “Okay.” He rose to stand over Hutch. “Just don’t forget you’ve got a partner, Hutch. You don’t have to go it alone anymore.”

***

Like a cloud passing over the sun, the incident shadowed the enjoyment of the day. After only a token effort at continuing the window-shopping expedition, both men were ready to call it quits. Stepping into the afternoon sun after the fluorescent dimness of the mall was like rejoining a different reality.

Starsky inserted the key into the Torino’s ignition but did not start the car. Instead he sat back against the seat, forearms resting on the wheel, eyes ahead, face calm. Waiting with deliberate intent.

The silence grew uncomfortable. Hutch knew that Starsky expected, and was entitled to, honesty, and he struggled against the familiar impulse to conceal his fears, deny his weakness. Torn by the conflict, he sat miserably mute — ashamed to have to ask for reassurance but desperately needing it, dreading to have his fear given substance, certain that in one way or another he was going to end up making a fool of himself. Exposed.

“Don’t hide from me, Hutch. Please…”

The appeal rebuked him. Starsky had been so open with him that to return any less would be betrayal. Subduing the craven urge to avoid the issue, he blurted out the question that had been burning in his mind. “What about women?”

“What?” Starsky turned a surprised face to him.

“I need to know if you’re still gonna want… need women.”

Honest confusion hardened into the familiar protective mask. “Are you saying you do?”

“No! No, Starsky, that’s not what I meant at all.”

The stony face relaxed a little. Starsky’s defensive interpretation of the question caught Hutch by surprise. He had been so wrapped up in his own insecurity that it hadn’t occurred to him that Starsky might also be vulnerable.

“I told you last night. I don’t want anyone but you. But… I know how much you like women, and you’ve always liked variety…”

Starsky’s expression gave no clue as to his thoughts.

Compelled to self-destruction, Hutch stumbled on. “It’d probably be smarter, too. Keep up appearances…” He couldn’t continue without his voice breaking, so he clamped his jaw shut and waited.

The roof didn’t fall in.

Starsky sighed. His hand settled on Hutch’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, and his voice carried a gentleness he didn’t grant to many. “Ah, Hutch, what am I gonna do with you? I don’t know where you get these crazy ideas.” He shook the shoulder chidingly. “Look at me.” He held Hutch’s gaze, face serious, as his hand rose to clasp Hutch’s nape — soothing, gentling him. “I said some things last night, too. Remember? Number One: Everything you feel for me, I feel for you, too. Second, there’s nothing I need that you don’t give me. Third, I love you like crazy. Okay?”

Hutch nodded self-consciously, aware of the heat rising in his face and the stinging behind his eyelids. He was almost surprised that nothing catastrophic had happened. “I feel like such an ass…”

Starsky’s sober mouth relaxed into a crooked smile, and he released Hutch’s neck with a final squeeze. “Shit. You are an ass. But then so am I, so who can complaIn?”

Hutch shrugged and shook his head, grateful for Starsky’s patience and compassion.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“I’m glad you told me what was bugging you, so we could get it straightened out.” As they had in the shower, Starsky’s fingers came to rest on Hutch’s forehead. “I don’t always know what’s going on in here, lover. You have to help me out some, y’know?”

As Hutch nodded again, one of the ubiquitous trams deposited a group of package-laden matrons close to the Torino. With a final stroke across Hutch’s forehead, Starsky turned to start the engine, dropping the serious mood with characteristic abruptness.

“I’m starved. Wanna go to Huggy’s for dinner and some pool? My treat,” he added magnanimously.

“Sure, why not?”

As they drove downtown, Starsky returned briefly to the earlier topic of conversation. “You’re right about keeping up appearances, though. So from now on they’re gonna hear a lot at the station about my fantastic way with the ladies. But that’s all it’ll be, just camouflage.”

“All talk and no action, huh? Just like always…”

***

The evening passed in familiar, reassuring camaraderie, laying another of Hutch’s concerns to rest. He’d needed today, needed to be certain that nothing had been lost, and that they could still function as independent beings. The unforeseen sexual chemistry between them was stunning, but he didn’t want it to be at the expense of their easy friendship or working partnership. It was, after all, the remarkable compatibility of their personalities that had drawn them together, and kept them alive and united through years of danger and changes.

Starsky was in his hustler persona tonight, full of cocky braggadocio, apparently undeterred by being down a game in eight-ball. He chalked the cue jauntily and lined up the bank shot that would win the game for him. “Eight ball, corner pocket.”

The cue ball struck the cushion and ricocheted into the black sphere, nudging it into the designated receptacle. Unfortunately for Starsky, he had misjudged the force of his stroke and the cue ball followed, rolling across the felt at a tantalizingly slow pace to drop inevitably into the same pocket.

“Scratch!” Hutch called triumphantly, moving to select his next shot.

Huggy Bear sidled up to the table as Starsky, growling, spotted the eight-ball.

“Another fight to the finish, eh, amigos?” He flashed a teasing look at Starsky. “Don’t tell me the great Los Angeles Fats is in trouble?”

Starsky rubbed his ribs expressively and muttered mournfully about·”…recent injuries sustained in the line of duty.”

Hutch, who had seen Starsky’s physical fitness graphically demonstrated in his bed, was unsympathetic. “Don’t mind him, Huggy. He’s always been a sore loser.”

“You’ve still got four balls on the table, hotshot,” Starsky retorted irritably, slipping completely out of his earlier blasé role.

Hutch laughed and sank the seven-ball.

At this point Anita summoned Huggy to settle a dispute at the bar, and with a commiserating grin at Starsky, he left to referee the quarrel.

Hutch had an ulterior motivation for winning this game. If Starsky won, they’d be tied, and his competitive friend was bound to insist on another game. He, on the other hand, had enjoyed the evening but found himself increasingly eager to take Starsky home and love him again.

As he bridged the cue with his left hand, the light glinted off the rings on his little finger. He’d been aware of them several times since being reunited with his partner, and he was sure Starsky had also noticed, but he was held back by a strange reluctance when he thought of returning them.

The chrome yellow one-ball sank obligingly into the pocket, followed by the four. Hutch was left with an easy shot on the eight-ball to win the game. “That’s three to one, Starsk. Had enough?”

Their eyes met across the table and held as Starsky read his mind. The current practically sizzled between them, and Hutch felt the tingle down to his toes.

“Enough of this,” Starsky agreed huskily. “Let’s go.”

***

In the haven of Venice Place, the two men stripped off their jackets and guns. Hutch reached out and Starsky came into the embrace, matching his body to Hutch’s, fitting perfectly into the circle of his arms. He stroked the side of his face against Hutch’s in that gesture that seemed to come so naturally to both of them. The intimacy held more of comfort than of passion, and they held one another in silence for long benevolent minutes, neither making any move to advance the action.

“I love you,” Starsky murmured into his ear.

“I know,” Hutch sighed, surprised when the words were out at the despondency of his tone.

Starsky’s arms tightened around him, offering solace and strength. ”Yeah, you ‘know’ it. But you don’t really believe it yet, do you?”

No impatience. No censure. Just unconditional acceptance of Hutch’s reality, even though he knew that Starsky was mystified by his continuing reticence.

That makes two of us.

Perhaps self-exposure was becoming a habit. It was easier, this time. ”You’re in love with a fool. I know I should be able to just accept things, but… You’re the finest thing that’s ever happened to me, Starsk. Being with you… It’s perfect. I should just be enjoying it, but instead I keep thinking about what’s gonna happen when… if it all falls apart. It scares me to need anyone as much as I need you. If I lost you…” I couldn’t take it, babe. Not from you… Bitter confession: “I’ve fucked up every relationship I’ve ever touched.”

Starsky thwarted his instinctive withdrawal by tightening his grasp, guiding Hutch’s head to rest in the curve of his neck and shoulder. He was silent, apparently absorbing the words, but his fingers caressed soothingly.

After several long moments he murmured in a barely audible voice, “Eureka…” He clasped Hutch’s shoulders, narrow face set in that intense expression that was so well-known to him. ”Who did this to you, Hutch? That fucking family of yours? Why are you always so ready to take the blame? I’ve known you for a long time, buddy. And I knew a lot of those bitches, too. Jesus, it’s your godawful taste in women that’s your worst fault! You ain’t perfect, but you ain’t all bad, either, y’know.”

Starsky held Hutch’s face between his hands like a precious chalice, placing comforting kisses on his lips, cheeks, and forehead. Tenderness had somehow altered his voice, mellowing and softening it. ”You’re not dealing with one of your flaky ladies now. You don’t have to be scared anymore. I got no illusions to shatter. I know what I’m getting, and I want it. I want you, Hutch. Just the way you are.”

With instinctive perception, he had struck right to the root of Hutch’s insecurity. Something alone and afraid inside flinched from the light.

“I know you’ve been hurt before. And it’s hard for you to risk it again.” Serious blue eyes stared into his, as if the very intensity of the gaze could communicate the truth of his words. “I’m not gonna go away. I’m never gonna leave you or hurt you or betray your trust.”

I know you believe what you’re saying, Starsk. But nothing lasts forever. Something always goes wrong…

As if the words had been spoken aloud, Starsky answered his thoughts. “Right now this is all talk — just more promises, huh? But… Can you trust me, Hutch? Just give me time to prove it to you. You won’t be sorry. I can make you happy…”

The unvoiced entreaty underlying those last words smote Hutch with new awareness that, in casting his lot with his partner, Starsky had placed himself in great jeopardy, both personally and professionally.

Are you scared, too, babe? This is all new to you, too, and I’m not making it any easier for you. But you’re right here, dusting off my britches and wiping my nose. Strong for me when I need you, like you always are. He buried his face in the dark curls, inhaling the hint of sweat and sandalwood.

Starsky’s hands had been moving over him as he spoke, butterfly-soft strokes over his back, arms, and shoulders. Now he tugged Hutch’s shirt out of his belt and slid his arms up underneath, pulling him even closer. “It’s gonna work out. You and me, babe. Nothing can beat us.”

Starsky was a damned good kisser, sensitive and inventive. His tongue licked quickly across Hutch’s upper lip, then underneath to skim his teeth before entering his mouth, where it coiled around his tongue, coaxing him into sharing the game. Desire slid singing through Hutch’s veins and slipped out as a soft moan into Starsky’s welcoming mouth. It was going to happen again, and he shivered in anticipation.

Starsky’s fingers worked deftly at Hutch’s buttons, opening his shirt while his eager lips continued their seduction of his mouth. Breaking away, breathing raggedly, Starsky steered him toward the bedroom, voice a husky whisper. “Come on, cougar. Gonna show you something…”

“‘Cougar’?”

Starsky was blushing again. “That’s what you remind me of, kinda. All sleek and gold and graceful…”

Hutch’s apprehension had vanished somewhere, unnoticed and unmourned. He grinned, pleased at the unexpected imagery. ”You never cease to amaze me.”

Starsky turned to him, leaning back in the circle of his arm, eyes gleaming with what looked like equal parts mischief and desire. “Partner, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

***

Hutch sprawled naked on the bed, enraptured gaze surveying Starsky’s body. God only knew how Starsky did it, but he was absolutely fit — lean and hard and tan, the pale silvery scars partially concealed by dark body hair, manhood lolling half-erect between sculpted thighs. Hutch’s mental set had always been geared toward appreciation of the feminine form. But now he could see nothing beyond the dark male beauty of his warrior/lover.

The balance of power had shifted between them with familiar ease, and Hutch settled back, content to let his other half take the lead.

Starsky knelt beside him, eyes raking him with open admiration. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful.”

Hutch knew what he looked like. Not beautiful, he thought, but not homely either. His appearance had definitely been a mixed blessing, bringing both unearned privileges and unrealistic expectations. But if his face and body pleased his beloved, what more could he ask?

Starsky built his desire slowly, deliberately, seemingly determined to explore every part of his body with the multi-sensory approach. He seemed to know just what to do to arouse him, as if he was linked somehow to Hutch’s nervous system. Confident hands ran firm exploratory caresses down his belly and thighs, making him squirm with pleasure. That incredible mouth licked, sucked, and bit a random path down his throat, up around both his collarbones, and down across his smooth chest to fasten eagerly on his left nipple. It hardened under nibbling teeth, and Hutch gasped and arched his body against Starsky’s.

Starsky looked up at him with avid, glittering eyes. “I love the way you taste.” He bent to sample the other nub.

Starsky’s hands were like quicksilver on him, each touch burning like fire, each caress stroking him to his soul. Starsky was loving him, and that was such a miracle it wasn’t as hard to keep himself open as he had feared.

Until Starsky, a part of him had always stood apart during lovemaking, on guard. Especially with Vanessa. The sex had been fantastic but they’d hurt each other in every other way, until in the end he’d get out of her bed feeling as if he had been swimming in a cesspool.

Starsky was introducing him to love without fear, and for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to be unguarded during sex.

Starsky’s natural body temperature seemed to be higher than Hutch’s, and when he was aroused, he radiated heat like a furnace. Hutch writhed helplessly under those hot hands, drunk with desire, desperate for more contact. He opened unfocused eyes to discover Starsky observing him intently, an unfathomable expression on his face.

Starsky moved to kneel between his legs, spreading them, stroking maddeningly up the soft inner surface of his thighs. Hutch ached for more, but the hands slid back down the fronts of his legs to his knees. He heard himself moaning low in his throat. Starsky picked up on it and shifted so that each of his arms crossed a thigh, holding Hutch open to him. His tongue swabbed a meandering path up the underside of Hutch’s erect cock from balls to head. Hutch thrust upwards and warm lips brushed the head for a moment, only to withdraw.

He had to concentrate to get enough breath control to speak. “Come on, Starsk…”

The lips kissed the tip. Hutch groaned in frustration and gripped Starsky’s shoulders. After an eternity the mouth descended to enclose the head for one ecstatic moment, then pull away again. Hutch’s incipient scream was transformed into a choked sob of pleasure when the hot mouth sank slowly, sensuously, to the base of the shaft. Starsky’s talented tongue swirled against him on the outstroke. And down again, warm wet just right.

Oh God don’t stop. Don’t stop now… Just as he was relaxing into the rhythm, he was abandoned again.

“Hutch.” Spoken so quietly it took a moment to realize something was expected of him.

“What?” he managed to pant, more out of instinct than understanding.

“Say ‘Uncle’.”

It didn’t register at first. “What?”

Starsky crouched between his parted thighs, body taut as a bowstring. Once again Hutch saw him as gypsy — mysterious, dangerous, with a touch of the enchanter about him. Starsky reached to stroke him with one heated hand, causing him to arch involuntarily, while with the other hand he fondled his own erect shaft.

His tone was soft. “Say ‘Uncle,’ Hutch.”

Through a haze of passion he saw how neatly the tables had been turned. Starsky was waiting, watching him with fever-bright eyes.

Years of conditioning asserted themselves and he resisted. “No.”

Starsky flinched at the refusal. Then he smiled indulgently, almost parentally tender, and lowered his head again, fastening his mouth on the tendon between groin and thigh.

Hutch jumped as teeth sank in — not hard enough to be really painful, just enough to make his treacherous cock stiffen even more. Starsky began to suck, scouring the tender skin with his tongue, shooting urgent messages of need straight to Hutch’s cock.

Damn you! Why are you doing this? “Starsky…” It was a warning growl.

The compelling eyes lifted again. “Say it. You know you will…”

Without waiting for an answer he began a casual fondling of Hutch’s now-desperate sex with his left hand. Even as he tried halfheartedly to pull away, Hutch suspected the struggle was lost. His mind had resisted capitulation automatically, but his body had no such scruples. It knew what it needed.

When the mouth took him again, he clutched Starsky’s head in a desperate attempt to hold him. There was no resistance until Hutch was climbing again, sweating and tossing his head in helpless surrender. Then abruptly Starsky pulled away.

Hutch did scream this time — not loud or long, but definitely a cry of pain.

Starsky waited, implacable. “‘Uncle,’ Hutch.”

In a sudden circumrotation, Hutch’s resentment of his tormentor transmuted into impatience with himself. Why are you fighting so hard, anyway? Can’t you give him the same thing you were so desperate to have? Absolute trust. Total commitment. The bedrock of what he needed from Starsky. And it was all his, he realized suddenly, if he just had the courage to risk his heart once more — abandon pride and self-defense — and return it.

“‘Take what you want,’ said God. ‘Take it and pay…'”

When he looked at that beloved face it was easy. Turning his back on fear, he clasped his shaking hand over Starsky’s where it rested on his belly. ”’Uncle,’ Starsk. I love you.”

The expression on Starsky’s face would have made it worth shining a moon in Dodger Stadium. He fell on Hutch, pressing grateful kisses all over his face, then slid down his chest with the clear intention of providing the pleasure he’d been withholding.

Reckless with emotional liberation and a kind of fearful anticipation, Hutch grabbed his arm. “Wait.” Starsky sat back and looked at him expectantly. “Love me?”

“Yeah, you know I do.” Bewildered.

“No, I mean, make love to me.” Hutch rolled over to illustrate.

He heard Starsky suck in a sharp breath, and craned his head to look at him. Starsky’s eyes were dark with desire, and his hand shook when he reached to touch Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch couldn’t tell if the tremors rippling over his own body were born of expectation or apprehension.

Starsky stretched out beside him and ran one hot hand from the nape of his neck down over his shoulders and back to caress and explore his ass. Hutch forced himself not to flinch, but he couldn’t deceive his lover. Starsky snuggled closer, unhurried, smiling gently, hugging him and nudging kisses onto his sweaty temple. Calloused hands stroking his face and hair made Hutch feel secure and so loved…

“Don’t be afraid, I’d never hurt you. C’mere.”

Hutch turned into the embrace. “I know that. Sorry.”

“Shh…We’ll take it slow, like you did with me. I promise you, you’ll like it.”

Starsky was, as always, true to his word. He wooed Hutch so slowly and so skillfully that all fear was forgotten in greed for more sensation. By the time lubricated fingers slipped into the tight opening, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted more than to feel Starsky deep inside him.

You own me, David Starsky. Everything I’ve got, all that I am… it’s yours. Just let me please you…

Starsky entered him in one slow smooth stroke. It felt like being pierced by a fiery dagger. He gritted his teeth, choking back the cry, fists clenching the sheet — determined not to ruin this for Starsky. But the necromancer who shared his bed, his body, and apparently his mind, waited completely motionless, allowing his shocked muscles time to adjust to the unfamiliar bulk.

“Easy, love. No hurry. We got all night… Feel me inside you, babe? It’s gonna be so good for you. No hurry now…”

A warm hand reached under Hutch’s rigid body, stroking him, making him forget fear, cajoling him into pleasure. And then it began to feel really right to have Starsky inside him, as if the union of their hearts was being consummated in the joining of their bodies. He pushed back against the intruding presence of his own volition, wanting to share all of himself with his soul’s twin.

With a pleased moan Starsky began to thrust slowly, deeply, filling him with love. “God, you turn me on.” Starsky’s voice, thick with passion, sent a thrill of excitement coursing through him. “I love you so much, Hutch. You’re the other half of me, y’know. Never gonna let you go…” Breathless moments later: “Now I see what it was like for you.”

Hutch moaned in empathy at the whispered words. He remembered what it had been like to be inside that hot, tight tunnel. Now he was getting the chance to share that experience with Starsky, and was also learning the appeal of being possessed, of giving himself fully with no holding back.

In his wildest dreams he had never conceived of pleasure like this — gladness eclipsing all else, building inevitably toward a blinding conclusion, a fiery death. His universe centered in Starsky. Together they slipped the bonds of their individual selves and became one being, minds and bodies irrevocably joined in infinite communion.

He was mindless, barely able to understand the hoarse command. “Come with me now, Hutch.” His body obeyed instantly, swept away in the tidal wave of sensation. It went on forever, until he died with the sweet perfection of it…

…to be reborn again in his truelove’s arms — winded, drenched in sweat, and completely incapable of movement. As totally satisfied and satiated as he had ever been.

He was only semiconscious, held in a weird stasis of sweet surfeit — like floating in honey. In a moment of tenuous lucidity he wondered if his bones had dissolved in the merging. Help, I’m melting…

“Hey… hey, you okay?”

The urgent tone of the half-understood words snagged his fragmented attention. He dragged open leaded eyes and let his head fall back from Starsky’s shoulder in order to focus on his face. The familiar visage was flushed, tousled… beautiful. And worried?

Finally, he got his voice working. “Huh?”

Starsky was touching his face and hair tentatively, in that fluttering way that was usually reserved for the first seconds after danger, when he sought to reassure himself of Hutch’s safety or to determine the extent of his injuries. ”You all right, babe? Huh?”

God, yes. Couldn’t you tell? He hoped the sappy grin spreading across his face conveyed even half of his satisfaction. He felt like the cat that ate the cream. A gallon of it. “Wow.”

Succinct but effective. Starsky looked surprised, then pleased. His hand on Hutch’s face and hair grew more confident. “That good, huh?”

Hutch nodded against the strong shoulder, giving up the struggle to keep his eyes open. “Better…”

After a while Starsky kissed him and shifted his head gently onto the pillow. “Be back in a minute.” Suffused with the languor, Hutch mumbled assent and sank again into the pleasant state of lethargy.

Sometime later Starsky was back again, sponging Hutch’s sweaty body with a deliciously cool cloth. First his face, then his chest, arms, legs, and back — cleaning him from their lovemaking, leaving him refreshed and marginally more alert. He lay with closed eyes, basking in the solicitude. It was an unfamiliar feeling, being taken care of like this. Yet it felt absolutely right.

He and Starsky were like Janus, the ancient Roman god of beginnings and endings, portrayed as having two faces. Two aspects of a single entity. Matched. Equal. Interchangeable and inseparable. Already it was hard for him to remember why he’d ever doubted it. No more misgivings now. Only joyous anticipation of the rest of their lives together.

“Are you alive in there, or is that smirk just painted on?” Starsky’s chuckle was tender — intimate — as he stretched out again, and when Hutch looked once more it was to find Starsky’s indigo eyes twinkling at him. The familiar current flowed between them, enfolding them in the security of its exclusive link, intangible but nonetheless real.

Starsky reached for him. “Come here, love. Let me hold you while you sleep.” Hutch was moving into his arms even as he spoke. Starsky’s left hand returned to his face, fingers sliding through his hair. “Silky,” he stated quietly. “So soft…” The caress continued, asking nothing, nudging him closer to sleep.

Contrition tweaked him for conking out like this. “Don’t know why ‘m so wiped out,” he murmured apologetically.

The rough chest vibrated under his head as he chuckled again. Hutch felt the pressure of lips in his hair. “Stoned on love,” murmured Starsky. “Me, too.” His arms tightened briefly around Hutch. “Hush, now, and go to sleep. I got you safe.”

My lover my brother my heart… The outside world was slipping quickly away, leaving them to drift united into the peaceful oblivion of sleep. It’s really gonna be right. Just like you said, babe. Together we can have it all…