Seven Minutes

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Starsky’s missing, Hutch is looking, and a battery-powered radio is helping — sort of.

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The rain started again, steady this time, drumming relentlessly on the shoulders of his baseball jacket, reverberating heavily on the hood and roof of the Torino. It stung the exposed skin of his hands and cheek with ice-like droplets and quickly pried the heat out of muscle, fueling up his already dread-cold core with icy fear. His heart pumped harder in response, throbbed the blood beat into his ears, and pushed a stream of heat up behind his eyes. Bleak, black hopelessness shrouded him, squeezing out the dim light of the alley, allowing shadows to rise up and whisper ominously to him in a language he could not decipher. The cloak of darkness enveloped him, pressed down harder, black fingers gouging his eyes, his chest, and his brain, seeking entrance to the place where he held his most precious thoughts. Peeling and probing, it exposed the innermost part of him that only his partner knew.

The grip tightened, twisting and tearing through muscle and sinew, deeper and deeper, robbing him of sight, voice and sound, obliterating every sense but touch — and inner feeling. He strangely welcomed the grief, for it was a place that shielded him from the outside forces demanding his attention.

Taken hostage — that’s what the reports said. A robbery — shots fired.

A cop taken.

His partner.

Hurt.

Hutch collapsed against the rain-soaked driver’s side of the Torino and pressed his body to the door, seeking solace that he knew would not come. A raw wound inside him now oozed, not blood or serous fluid, but ribbons of fear and anguish that sucked the strength from him. Starsky…

His fingers stroked the rain-beaded red finish of the car, trying to heal the window under his chest of the melon-sized break and corresponding spider cracks, willing Starsky back into the seat, hoping that his hug would make his partner appear — and the blood on the window disappear. But without Starsky the car had no life; it was just a discarded skin, forlorn and silent.

God, please don’t let him be dead. Please, no — not this way…

A hand touched his arm. Hutch jerked in surprise. For a long second his ears buzzed with protest over being forced to function.

Detective Jack West nodded an apology through the weak smoke of the cigarette he was working on. Rain peppered the shoulders of his dark sports jacket and frosted his already salt-and-pepper hair.

“Dobey’s here — though you’d want to know.”

The space surrounding Hutch suddenly burst to life again, against his wishes. Voices and motion, muted, mumbled and directive, mixed with the hum of human activity, scrambling for order in his brain. The sights and sounds flowed about the shadowy area cut with twin white beams of headlights and revolving red emergencies — red and white, like Starsky’s Torino. The palette of stark colors — white, gray and black punctuated swaths of brilliant red — was a minimalist tableau of bloodletting that cramped Hutch’s gut.

The rain pelted his face in a persistent cold drizzle, and he was glad to scrub at the fresh streaks that were fast mixing with the wetness already collected there. Then grabbed Jack’s sleeve. “Tell me again.” Again, because maybe he missed something important, something he needed to know…

Jack sighed. “Hutch, we’ve already been over it–”

“Again, Jack,” Hutch commanded.

Jack backed off. He flipped open his notebook. “Eleven thirty-seven p.m.,” he droned, his voice dry, his syllables clipped. “Dispatch sent out a notice of a two-eleven — liquor store robbery.” He jerked a thumb behind him toward a rundown building. “Starsky radioed in his location and offered to assist with the call. Eleven thirty-nine — he called back in to say he was on the scene. Eleven forty-six — the area patrol car responded to the call, found the store owner dead and the cash register empty. They scouted the area and found the car here, still running but empty. They recognized it, did a brief search, then called it in. Nothing — he’s gone.”

“Gone where?” Hutch shot back, then cut off the emotion welling in him. Seven minutes — just seven minutes and it was over. He exhaled hard, forcing police procedure back into his brain. They had to find Starsky. “Witnesses?” he asked.

“We’re searching area apartments now.”

Hutch looked up, his icy blue eyes piercing Jack to the darkness. “That’s it?”

“Hutch, we’ve only been on the scene–”

“You’ve been on the scene longer than me and you don’t have crap!” Hutch shouted in frustration. He whirled back around. The broken car window twinkled at him, the facets of crackled glass a thousand and one prisms of glittering light. Someone had connected with this window…

Why hadn’t Starsky turned off the police radio in his car? Just grabbing a few groceries on the way home, he’d said as they’d parted after their evening shift. Ran out of most everything…couple days off are going to be nice…

Unnatural anger surged in Hutch, anger borne of raw, cold fear. He wanted to scream at Starsky, grab him and rattle him, strike him and shout at him for being so careless…

The wound inside him sucked up the feeling, swallowed it in a mighty gulp. There was no Starsky to shout at, or to rattle…

“Hutch!” called a man on the ground, a few yards beyond the front of the Torino. He was crouched in the Ford’s headlights. Mark, with the crime lab.

Hutch hurried forward. Something — anything… “What’ve you got?” he asked, his body cutting into the smoky beams of light.

“I got blood.”

Hutch shifted so that his shadow slid to one side. He saw it — a splash darkening the dirty pavement. “I want it typed,” he stated, strangling back his bubbling panic.. “There’s more on the car window.”

Mark probably already knew that, but he only nodded. “Here,” he said, dropping an object into Hutch’s hand. An empty bullet casing. “Looks like a thirty-eight caliber. Who carries the S and W — you or Starsky?”

His own Magnum suddenly felt like five hundred pounds strapped to his left side, adding to the already lopsided feeling he carried.

Hutch carefully handed the shell back over. “Starsky,” he confirmed in a terse voice then stood.

He walked a few paces, hands running over the tired skin of his face, pondering. Starsk had assisted with a robbery call. Now he was gone. His car had been left behind, the engine still running.

The driver’s window was broken, blood was there and on the ground, along with a spent shell.

Someone had taken him.

Some had taken a cop — his partner.

The blood — Hutch knew it would come back with Starsky’s type identified.

Who and why? Random or planned?

It had started with a call to dispatch. Who had made it?

He strode back to Jack. “Who made the call for help?”

Jack shrugged. “Dispatch is all tied up — is there a full moon behind this rain or something?”

“Dammit, Jack!” Hutch grabbed the other man’s shirtfront, raindrops splattering their faces. His fingers tangled in Jack’s tie, pulling hard. “Do you know what we’re looking at here?”

Jack gurgled but somehow wrenched free. “I know,” he gasped, swallowing and rubbing at his throat. “Dammit, Hutch — I know how you feel. Look at all the guys here. We’re working as fast as we can. We’re combing the neighborhood, rousing everyone from their sleep looking for answers. Help us out here.”

Jack was right. Procedure was being followed. Hutch nodded in understanding but did not apologize. “Get someone back to Metro — check on the tapes of that call,” he said as a large black man in a hat and raincoat approached — Captain Dobey. “Maybe it will help.”

“Will do.” Jacked backed away and quickly melted into the rain-streaked scenery.

Hutch tilted his face upward again to greet the sting of the rain.

His partner was out there somewhere.

Hopefully within the Bay City limits.

Hopefully still alive.

Hopefully unhurt.

Hopefully…

“Check the car,” Dobey directed by way of greeting. “See if anything is missing — might lead to a clue.”

The Torino — Starsky personified. How many hours had they spent together in this car that Hutch so hated? Hours spent honing a partnership so strong they were like one. Hutch knew the Torino like he knew his partner, top, bottom, inside and out. Dobey was right — he’d know if anything was missing. Numbly he followed the broad form of his captain.

———————————–

He had no sense of time, just of dark space before him and within him. They had stopped talking a while ago. Now they were dragging him; his body flapped against their legs, bouncing and jarring, seemingly devoid of bones. His sluggish brain made his attempts to fight them off sickly in manner.

They shoved him down, kicked him. Sensations of cold and pain accosted him. Nausea rolled over him; instinctively he curled up against it. His body’s defense mechanism kicked in, taking over for his flagging brain. Breathe, breathe, shivers to get warm…

They grabbed his left arm and held it. He heard a jingling of metal parts, a metallic scrape, then a vise closed over his wrist and bit hard. His brain registered the sound — the pinch of his own handcuffs.

“There, that’ll hold ‘im.”

“Who’ll find ‘im way out here? Man, he’ll die–”

“Who cares? Does any one of you care what happens to this pig? He’s alive, ain’t he? Ain’t that what you wanted? Someone’ll come — the pigs always find their own — the smell holds them together.”

Starsky shifted, groaned and blinked. The darkness was still there but he could make out a mass of blurry legs in front of him.

“Let’s go.”

“But–”

“Come on! We’re leavin’, an’ if you ain’t coming then t’hell wid you. Stay here an’ babysit the cop, ‘n then get your ass hauled t’jail!”

Footsteps tramped away, scuffing on wet pavement. Starsky rolled up, tried to sit, but only got his head a few inches higher. His vision dimmed, came back…one set of legs wavered before him.

“I hate you, cop.” The voice was tortured, emotion willing aside the anger.

Something clattered to the ground and was swallowed up into the shadows. The legs moved and disappeared.

Silence rolled into the space, drifted down over him and landed in the shadows. The air stirred, and became sharp and cold. Then it moved.

The darkness rose up over Starsky in a slow-moving, oncoming wave. It ate his feet then chewed away his legs. Blackness wiped out his right arm, consumed his torso. Starsky felt it pause just before his chin; it swayed, mesmerizing him with its snake charmer dance.

Then it swooped down and blinded him, filling his eyes sockets, his nostrils and his ears with cold black vapor. His scalp tingled as it penetrated, ropy fingers worming through his brain, tamping out any sense of awareness he had gained moments before.

He let go and gave in, his last cogent thought a prayer that he’d wake up again…

———————————–

“Anything?” Dobey asked as Hutch backed out of the Torino.

Hutch was frowning. “Radio’s gone.”

“Probably got ripped off,” Dobey grunted and looked about the rundown buildings surrounding them. “What else?”

“No.” Hutch shook his head. “The car unit is still here. One of the battery units is missing.” He held up the mate.

“Just the one?” Dobey questioned.

Hutch nodded then shrugged. “No one mentioned finding it.”

“Maybe Starsky took it with him?”

“Why?”

Dobey threw up a large dark hand. “How should I know?”

These units had a short range — two, three miles at the most. And if the other unit wasn’t on then this one might just as well be masturbating — it took both for a successful coupling, so to speak. Right now the thing in his hand was just a lonely transistorized lover, waiting for her mate.

Something was niggling him. Hutch stared at the mute radio, then thumbed the dial.

The single red eye of the ‘on’ light glowed smartly at him and then the thing spoke in a burst of static. Feeling a little foolish, Hutch nonetheless pressed the transmit button.

“Starsky?” he asked into the microphone.

Static hissed a gibberish response.

“Starsky?” he tried again.

Nothing.

The faint flicker that had been hope withered within Hutch’s heart.

Nothing.

Dumb idea, anyway, but without anything to go on…

Dobey’s look was sympathetic. Hutch sighed and turned the dial to shut the radio off, effectively closing her glowing eye and silencing her brash mouth lest her batteries run out and she died right there in his hand.God, no, don’t die…

“Hutch!”

Jack appeared out of the shadows, a fresh cigarette glowing a small circle of red just below his nose. He pushed a skinny man with close-cropped red hair in front of him.

“The caller,” he explained, coming to an abrupt stop, his grip on the bony man’s jacket still tight. “Danny.”

Hutch stuffed the radio into his pocket and stepped up to the smaller, younger man. Danny’s little eyes looked everywhere, but never landed on anything. His limbs convulsed independent of each other, making him jerk like an errant puppet. “What did you see?” Hutch demanded of him.

Danny twitched. Needed a fix, Hutch guessed, of either alcohol or drugs.

“Hey, I did it for Benny, okay?” Danny let out in a rush over pale, thin lips, finally meeting Hutch’s hard stare. “Benny’s always been good to me, lets me sleep in the back. Gives me some of the old stuff…” he ducked his head and swayed back and forth. “What am I gonna do now?” he asked of Hutch.

Hutch sucked in his impatience. “What did you see?” he repeated in his voice of professional calm. He touched Danny’s rain-soaked sleeve. “Danny, it’s important…” It’s about my best friend, my partner, he wanted to explain, but couldn’t get the words out.

Something in his voice must have revealed his feelings, for Danny bobbed his head and opened his mouth. “Kids — a gang of ’em. They was robbin’ Benny. One came into the store — he had a gun…took the money right outta the cash drawer…ran back out. An’ then the cop shows up, in the red car. Hauls out, says he’s the police an’ shoots his gun in the air, like this…” He gestured and recreated Starsky’s pose with exactness. “Bam!”

Hutch could not stop his cringe. “Go on,” he croaked over a thickening throat.

“Well, the kid heads back into the store an’ goes out the back way — and he shoots Benny, see? So the cop heads for the alley, an’ the rest of those kids — those crazy kids — they jump him. They jump the cop. They’re all over him, punchin’ an’ fightin’…an’ then the kid with the gun — he shoots at the cop!”

Danny shook his head, splattering tears. “The noise — screamin’ an’ swearin’. Screamin’ ’bout killin’ a cop. An’ Benny’s layin’ there dead — dead, y’understan’? My best buddy dead…”

My best buddy…shot — killed…dead…

“What happened next?” Hutch scraped out over a dry tongue. Danny stood mute, shaking. Hutch rattled him hard. A worried Jack grabbed his arm to make him stop. “What happened?” he insisted, fear marking his words with a brittle edge.

Danny responded, “They dragged him into their van an’ they took off — them goin’ one way an’ the police car comin’ the other. They took that cop with ’em — an’ they left my Benny for dead…” He scrubbed at one eye and let out a sob.

Hutch felt like doing the same.

What had they done with Starsky?

——————————————-

A glowing orb hovered above him; the brightness strengthening and then receding as though he was bobbling on a swing, back and forth, back and forth…Was he moving?

The rhythmic swaying continued, now playing havoc with the connection of brain to gut; nausea rose up from his belly and into his throat, hot and sour, working past his gag reflex, demanding exit.

Starsky shut his eyes; the cool darkness that greeted him quelled the taste in his throat and it subsided. But he didn’t want to stay in this internal darkness. He wanted to be outside of it, to be back into awareness, back into a world in which all human things existed. Out there was real, tangible, touchable…

His capacity to feel rose a notch and held. He slitted his eyes and breathed, working to process the intake of his senses to his mushy brain. Broad elemental sensations came first — pain and cold, then wetness. His intelligence sorted them to localized body parts — head, ribs, and leg — even as it worked to quiet the drone in his ears and clear his blurry vision.

The light above him came from a gray-coated bulb of dim wattage wearing a rusted tin shade resembling the brim of an old-fashioned sombrero. The circlet of light illumined his head and chest but reached no further, leaving the rest of him in swaying, shivering shadows. He sensed more than saw the narrow doorway he was huddled in, a scant shelter from the damp breeze blowing in around him.

Starsky tried raising his head, but the hot streak that flashed from neck to temple made him gasp and squeeze his eyes shut. Well, one eye closed in response; the other was swollen and stiff where blood had leaked into soft tissue. Double wonder that he couldn’t see too well…

He tried to reach up to finger the bruise but his left arm was ensnared in something that bit into his wrist when he moved. He pulled, and a clank echoed in return. He asked his right hand to investigate, and it reported what he dimly remembered — he’d been handcuffed to something in this doorway — it felt like a pipe of some kind. Awkwardly he dug two fingers into the front pocket of his jeans — empty. The key was gone.

He tried to move his whole body, whereupon his head promptly banged, his ribs protested, and fresh fire leapt to life in his right calf. Starsky’s right hand again investigated and crept down the leg of his jeans. The fabric was stiff — blood. The limb shrieked at his touch, and accompanying lines of pain rattled down to his ankle. Had he been shot? Maybe…

Terrific. Beaten, bruised, bloody and handcuffed. Starsky gingerly eased his head back and closed his eyes. The dull light swaying above him seeped through his eyelids, forcing him to turn his face toward his shoulder and a shadow lingering there. Just where was he, anyway? Some part of the city, maybe. A dark part, from what he could tell, although his eyesight made it difficult to survey his surroundings.

And quiet, too. The last time he’d remembered, it was Friday night — was it still? If it was the weekend, then this place was probably closed until Monday.

Unless it was abandoned property…

A dark wind gusted into the alcove where he hunched and rattled the bulb above him. The modest pool of light shivered, splashing fragments of illumination onto the peeling wooden walls of the doorway, tilting at shadows that seemed to come alive in the air.

Rain, Starsky noted glumly without opening his eyes; the scent was unmistakable. Beaten, bruised, bloody, handcuffed and now rained upon. How many hours until daylight?

“Hutch,” he called in rough voice to his partner as the image of his best friend arose behind his eyes.

Hutch would now know he was missing. His partner was likely rattling the cage of every snitch’s roost for leads. He’d be snappish and short-tempered; he’d be barking at anyone in his way, his worry evident in his glare and his rigid form. Hell, Hutch probably had all of Metro, including Captain Dobey, involved in a search. Starsky found comfort in the thought of his partner’s fierce determination. Hutch would drop from exhaustion before he gave up searching for his partner.

I’m here, he said silently to the vision of his friend that settled in his mind. Hutch, I’m here…

———————————

Two hours — two long hours.

The blood from the cracked car window had been typed — O negative, same as the splatter on the ground.

Starsky’s blood type.

The bullet shell was also typed as Stasky’s thirty-eight.

Jack had the Torino driven back to the police garage for another going over. The coroner had taken Benny’s body downtown. Danny had also been given a ride to the drunk tank, but not before he’d provided a vague description of the van — gray and rusty, with part of the front grill missing. No plate number — probably stolen. The kid with the gun was black and slender; the rest of the group was of mixed ethnicity. A gang of some sort…

Cops were still canvassing the area, looking for other witnesses who might have seen or heard something. But after two hours…

Hutch closed his eyes and again shut out the activity around him. He found Starsky’s presence inside him, in that chamber near his heart. Starsky, with his dark curly hair and dark blue eyes, his frayed jeans and his scuffed blue Adidas. Hutch pushed aside his hurt from the physical loss of the man and mentally reached out, trying to reach across a network of mental airwaves, not unlike the radio in his pocket, and pick up a signal from Starsky.

Partner, where are you?

—————————————

He’d been dreaming that Hutch was looking for him, had heard his partner’s voice calling to him from afar. Hutch’s face, rain-washed and worried, peered through the cloying darkness, searching. Around him pulsed red and white lights, blinking, blinking…sirens screamed and wailed in the air, calling to each other as Hutch called to him — calling and calling…

Starsky shook off the dregs of the dream as a blast of wind-driven rain swept over him. He was cold, wet and now stiff, thanks to this forced position. Damn, what a warm bed would do for him now… Painfully he straightened, his muscles complying only in degrees despite his brain’s repeated commands to flex. At least his thoughts were more ordered, although every time his eyesight wavered his mind scattered bits of comprehension all over the inside of his head like vengeful fingers tearing through a freshly completed jigsaw puzzle.

Snippets of realization chattered at him as he worked into full awareness: the empty holster still strapped to his right side; the starched stiffness of his jeans at the pain-filled area below his right knee; a bruised elbow, sore ribs and hip; a torn lower lip that tasted of blood when he slid his tongue over it. And the weighted bite of the handcuff twisting into the flesh of his torn wrist. Not exactly the best of situations to be in.

Having completed his shift, Starsky rested again to allow the pain and freshened nausea to subside to manageable levels. His blurry, one-eyed gaze watched the heavy rain shower pepper the toe of his left Adidas sneaker, but he was too exhausted to ask his leg to draw his foot back into the doorway. He hungrily envisioned various forms of warmth: the thick dark comforter covering his bed; the rosy all over flush of a few beers; the blast of the Torino’s heater. Hutch’s welcome face floated above him, all blue eyes, fair skin and blond hair, warming him further. Starsky fell into the protective arms held out to him, and his pain was lifting away…

Something broke into his line of vision, drawing him back from his reverie. A small hunched form, a whiny snuffling, and a long tail…

A rat — dammit!

Starsky shouted and shook his foot at the waddling creature; it gave a surprised squeak and darted into the black shadows of the large empty yard across from him. Rats, evil creatures of his childhood — he hated ’em, hated their humped backs, their wormy tails, their beady glowing eyes. His head pounded as he watched the rodent zigzag out of sight. There was probably another one nearby, maybe more than one. Terrific, just waiting to investigate, maybe try for a nibble…

What was that?

There, out in the yard, not far from the doorway…

Rats quickly forgotten, Starsky eased forward a little. He blinked, tried to squint. Damn this light…

His eyesight cleared a fraction. He sucked in a breath and stared hard. Still there…

The transistorized police radio.

He could not recall why he had grabbed it as he’d barreled out of the Torino — it wasn’t of any use without someone handling its mate, or unless it was patched with others into the same frequency. He’d stuffed it into his jacket pocket when he encountered the robber so that he could use both hands on his gun and draw a calm bead on that kid…

It must have fallen out of his pocket — or maybe they had dropped it after they’d pawed him over. Was that broken parts littering the space around it? No, maybe just flecks of pavement glittering in the washed out light. If it was intact…

It was just sitting out there, pretty-as-you-please.

Spurred by a quick injection of hope, Starsky rolled forward to reach for it. His right leg collapsed under him just as he was jerked back by the unforgiving handcuff.

“Dammit — damn you!” he cried through a shimmering wall of pain and tears. He had swallow hard to regain control of the fire in his leg, but continued to eye the radio with hate and hunger. Irony welled in him. It was free while he was shackled. It needed him to give it life, and he needed it to save his life. The physical distance between them might as well be miles as yards.

He watched it, willed it to move, to jump up and turn itself on. But it just lay there on its side, resting ever so calmly in a shallow puddle of shivering ripples glinting in the thin light of a utility pole lamp far across the ragged, empty lot. It was silent, and so patient. Waiting, just waiting to be turned on, to be used.

He thought he heard it whisper to him on the blowing wet wind, its voice a long, luring hiss of femininity. Coooome and get meeee…

Starsky stretched out his sneakered foot, the toe soaked through to his sock underneath — not enough. He yanked on the cuff again, but it was snug on his wrist, and bit at him afresh. The other bracelet, however, rattled around the pipe to which it was attached. Probably an old gas or water line, or maybe steam.

Right now that radio was his buddy, his best friend — if only he could reach it. It just needed touching and stroking. Soon it would hum under his fingers, croon back to him as lovingly as the weekend date he was going to meet first thing tomorrow…

Tongues of pain were still licking his leg. That kid had shot him — he hadn’t even fallen and the rest were on him… He shook off his drift. The pain didn’t matter. He’d puke his guts out to get that lover of a radio. She wanted him, needed him. And dammit if he didn’t need her, too. She’d open that red eye of hers, rev up her batteries and do his bidding.

He shifted his hips and raised himself up. He drew up his good knee, planted his heel and dragged his sorry ass forward. A wave of pain drenched him in heat and sweat. He grabbed onto the determination it generated, converted it into strength to move again. Propping himself up on his free elbow gave him purchase that he put to good use. He crawled, crablike, measuring success in inches, his good leg folding and unfolding like some drunken inchworm, his leaden butt scraping across the pavement. His head pounded in time to his heartbeat, but he refused to take the time to scrub at the sweat chilling his aching forehead. All he had to do was snag that radio with his foot and push it up to his hand — and pray that it would work. Help was just a button away…

The rain had stopped but the broken ground was stippled with swaying puddles. With little ability to change course he doggedly splashed through them, tee shirt riding up and exposing flesh to air and cold rainwater, the seat of his worn jeans absorbing wetness like a diaper.

The yank of the handcuffs told him he was at the end of his tether. The pipes angled up and away toward a bunch of meters nailed to the siding of the building, allowing him out of the doorway but not much farther. Starsky rolled to his left side, neck straining to hold his throbbing head at an angle where he could see the radio and gauge the commands to give to his foot. He worked the soaked toe of his sneaker against the radio, infinitely glad that he was as much left-legged as he was left-handed.

The radio moved, the plastic covering slurping through the gritty puddle.

It took hard minutes of pushing and nudging, first working one end and then the other in and out of his jiggling shadow, straining hard to keep his head up off the wet ground, but he finally got the unit up by his knee. From there he inched it to his waiting hand where his shaking fingers closed over the rain-slicked face.

Sighing with accomplishment Starsky dragged the radio up onto his chest, cradling it like a lost child recently found. He sprawled in physical relief, pain washing over his flagging defense, dimming his awareness, but he didn’t care. He had it. He had the sweet baby right in his hand…

Presently he realized that he had to reverse his actions and get back to the doorway. Clumsily he raised himself up and scooted backward, his grip on the radio deathlike. His right leg started to drift uselessly to one side. He let it go and dragged himself back, struggling against the extra weight created by the uncooperative limb. His elbow slipped just as he gained the protection of the alcove and he fell back, barely avoiding a lump on the head from connection with the ground. Muscles quivering violently, he thrust himself back one more time; the swaying light greeted him with thin cheer.

He collapsed inside the doorway, feeling the results of his jaunt in every body part. He didn’t know how long he lay there, but when he could move again he found the radio still in his grasp. His good leg seemed was still cooperative, so he brought it up to create a half-lap for the unit to rest in. Cold fingers crawled over the plastic face and sides, searching for the switch that would bring it to life. After two sweeps his thumb encountered a dial; he turned it.

Power.

A red light, a single tiny eye, glowed at him. A welcome burst of static followed, the vacant airwaves as sweet as any song. Yes, thank you…

It blinked — once, twice, then fluttered coyly — and went out.

“No!” he strangled on a rift of emotion and frantically shook it.

It chirped. Starsky thumped it against his breast. Water — it had to be water that had seeped inside… Come back, my love…

The hiss of airwaves returned. The light flickered, blinking like a sleepy, sultry eye, and then glowed. Starsky counted a sweaty twenty seconds but its red bloom remained steady.

Every inch of his skin was slicked in sweat; the fabric of his clothes clung to him, further constricting his movement. A shiver skipped up his spine and rattled him so hard that the radio bounced in his lap. Starsky gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. A cramp was catching his leg. “Stay with me,” he gasped to the one-eyed electronic courier. “Stay with me, you beauty — time to help…”

He found the transmit button and pressed it. The static quieted and held, waiting to dispatch his message. Please, let someone be listening…

That internal darkness was pulling at him again, forcing him down into its unfathomable hole. Starsky batted at it but his reserves were low. It filled him as before, sucking at the comprehension inside his brain, emptying the spaces dry.

Starsky brought the radio to his lips and spoke to it.

He wasn’t sure if he made any sound.

“All done here?” Dobey asked.

Hutch nodded. Might as well head for the station to see how Jack was piecing together the case. He blew out a breath that vaporized in front of his face, then made his way to his Ford parked haphazardly near the mouth of the alley. Damn but he was cold. He’d be lucky to have the defroster kick in before he reached Metro. There he might find some hot coffee, and maybe there would be a dry shirt in his locker…

His left foot suddenly caught on a patch of broken pavement; his ankle twisted and he was thrown off balance. The radio slipped from his hand and skittered across the ground. It hissed angry static — the drop had turned it on.

Hutch cursed his clumsiness and retrieved the unit, feeling guilty that he had let it drop; it was like a piece of Starsky, having been taken from his car. He shook it to clear it of stray dirt, then thumbed the dial toward the ‘off’ position.

“…utch?”

A voice, faint and garbled. Maybe he didn’t even hear it. Maybe it was his ragged imagination…

Hutch threw aside his straining logic and accepted his intuition. He pressed the transmit button, his heart swelling up to choke off the breath in his lungs.

“Starsky?”

He let go and waited, the long seconds pounding to the thud of his heart both up in his chest and down low in his gut.

His partner’s voice wavered in over the static. “S’me. Hutch…?”

“I’m here,” Hutch fairly shouted, instantly attracting the stares of the nearby cops. They began to drift in, enclosing him in a protective circle that kept Starsky’s words whispering in the air above them. Dobey leaned in close, his bulk brushing Hutch’s arm. “Starsk, are you okay?” Hutch asked in a rush. “Where are you?”

“Hutch…”

Hutch jammed a thumb on the transmit button. “Starsky, where are you?” he demanded into the receiver, lips almost kissing the plastic.

He let go of the button and waited for the response. Static filled his ear. He tried again. “Starsky?”

Again he let go — static refilled the receiver.

Then it burped.

“Dunno…” came Starsky’s voice.

God, he was alive, he was talking. He was here, somewhere, within transmission distance. Oh, God, thank God… Hutch began to pace in an attempt to keep his quaking limbs under control.

“S’dark,” Starsky said. “…cold…”

“Where are you?” Hutch repeated. Breathe, he commanded himself as the crime team moved closer to listen. Calm — don’t let him hear your fear…

“Can’t — can’t tell,” Starsky mumbled, his voice dropping away. Had he dropped the radio?

Hutch swallowed, searching for some moisture in his throat. “Buddy, are you hurt?” he croaked.

“S — some…”

The men gathered around Hutch shifted — some murmured. At Dobey’s glare they all stilled, fists knotting, cigarettes burning untended. All ears strained to hear.

The static dropped and Starsky’s voice came back, ragged and edged with pain. “Gave me a clout on th’ head,” he reported. “Closed up one eye…”

Hutch knew the tone; Starsky was clinging to the sound of his voice, trusting that this air wave connection was the thing that would bring the partners back together. Starsky was alive, he was talking. It was okay; they’d find Starsky. Talking was the key. Starsky would listen to Hutch’s voice, and they’d find him. The radio, this one-eyed wonder, would lead them to his partner.

“What else hurts?” Hutch prodded softly.

“It all hurts,” Starsky quipped and Hutch felt a twinge of relief at the retort.

“Tell me,” Hutch softly urged, as much to learn the extent of his injuries as well as his location.

“Okay, I’ll give ya the rundown…” Starsky’s verbal musing was again familiar, a half-mumble he often used when working on a vexing issue that required thought. It sounded so good coming from him right now. “Only got one eye working…feet are wet — my ass is, too, for that matter. My arm — it’s cuffed to some pipe — they locked me up good — took the key…and my gun. Guess I’m stuck till you come an’ get me, partner.”

His longest sentence yet — he was getting his bearings…

“Do you know where you are?” Hutch asked. Sweat prickled the back of his neck and he rubbed at it.

“…my leg…” Starsky continued.

Something picked up inside Hutch; a cold quiver danced across his belly. “What was that? Say it again.”

“My leg — kid shot me in th’ leg — it’s been bleeding…”

The chill surged with flood speed. The blood on the ground… “How bad, you think?” Hutch managed to choke out.

“Can’t put any weight on it. S’okay if I don’t move…”

Cold and blood loss, wounded and unable to move….

A burst of static issued from the radio; Hutch jerked it away in surprise, then recovered and hit the button. “Starsky? Starsk?” He could not stop his voice from rising in tone and volume. “Starsk — answer me!”

Starsky came back. “S — sorry,” he chattered. “Damned thing got dropped in a puddle — prob’ly wet — affectin’ th’ battery…”

Dobey touched Hutch’s arm. “We can’t have him waste power.”

Hutch nodded. “Starsk, give me some landmarks. What do you see — anything? Can you hear anything?”

“Besides the rats scratchin’ at my feet?”

Hutch almost smiled. Starsky hated rats, literally did a little “rat dance” whenever he encountered them that consisted of foot stomping and arm milling, along with a string of swears in two languages.

They were okay — there were coming back to where they belonged, voices, hearts and minds connecting to each other, even if they couldn’t actually see each other — the radio would do the trick…

“Don’t let ’em nibble,” he offered in weak humor.

“Sure…”

Police training kicked in — Hutch knew had to keep his partner focused on the situation. “Any buildings nearby, buddy?” he asked.

“Yeah…across th’ lot — dark — nobody’s home…factories maybe? Think I’m in a doorway…got one lonely light bulb for comp’ny — and this radio.” Static crawled across the air he moved with the unit still in the transmit mode. “It’s quiet — dead quiet. Get outta here, you! Sorry, damned rat tried for a shoelace…”

Dobey prodded Hutch again. “We can replace the batteries on this unit — he can’t on his…”

The captain knew that they needed to hear each other because without physical nearness, and with one injured, the radio was the only thing that could keep them connected, if only by voice. Dobey understood their partnership because he’d once had the same sort of relationship. But with the life of Starsky’s radio uncertain, they had to get as much information as they could without draining battery power. Hutch suppressed his desire to offer comforting words and instead turned to obtaining details.

“Starsk, d’you think it’s the factory district?” he asked. “No apartments? Can you make out any signs on the buildings?”

“Tol’ja,” came back the thickening voice. “Nobody’s home…gone away for the weekend…Hutch, I gotta rest — for a sec or two…”

“Stay awake,” Hutch urged. “Count for me, okay? Got anything to count over there? Maybe multiplication tables — you know, One times one, one times two…”

“Got it…shuddup, ‘kay? I’m not goin’ anywhere — I’ll check back in a few minutes…”

A collective sigh of consternation rose up from the group huddled around Hutch and Dobey. They had Starsky married to them via this pair of radios, but his location was a huge unknown. How to find him? He could be as near as two blocks or as far as two miles — either way, it added up to a lot of shadow-filled space in which to search for a lost man who was injured and cold, clinging to them only by batteries. Hutch scrubbed at the back of his neck and paced. His brain dug into furious thought but no clean ideas could eke through the fuzziness coating his mind. Dimly he heard Dobey barking directions, demanding a map of the city and the names of unit sector captains in the area.

Hutch’s radio burped. “Hey, s’at you?” Starsky asked. “Just heard a siren…”

Dobey twitched. “That’s it!” he bellowed. At Hutch’s puzzled expression he explained excitedly, “We’ll break the city in quadrants, use only one siren at a time — and wait to see if he can hear it.”

Hutch gaped at him. Break up the city — only one siren…for all of Bay City? What about the hundreds of calls the regular units were responding to on a busy Friday night — or was it now Saturday morning? It couldn’t be done — the city was just too damned big.

Dobey was thinking too hard — or maybe not at all.

“Captain…” Hutch frowned, unsure how to deflate his superior’s bizarre idea.

“You got a better idea?” Dobey shot back.

“Captain, the city…”

“We’ll start from here and work and outward perimeter — that radio can’t extend beyond four miles. Keep your partner awake and listening. Come on.”

——————————-

“Hey,” Starsky said into the radio.

Hutch quickly answered — how long had it been? Ten — no, twenty minutes? They’d barely begun circling the area in Dobey’s car with two patrol units trailing behind. “Right here — you okay, huh? Keeping dry?”

“I see something…”

Hutch’s heart tripped over his hope but he forced his brain to slow down and keep pace with his tongue. “What — what is it? What d’you see?”

“S’under me — a sign, no…”

Under him? Hutch thought of delirium; then, as he glanced at the windshield wipers clearing the windshield, considered hypothermia — all this rain, cold and blood loss…

“Describe it,” he urged his partner, his brain screaming for enlightenment.

A scratchy sound came as Starsky held onto the transmit button and moved — wasting precious battery life, Hutch silently despaired.

“It’s something in the floor… y’know, like them old-fashioned storefronts?”

Hutch desperately wished he understood. “How’s it look?” he coaxed.

“…initials in the floor…”

“What? Starsky, tell me what you see.”

Hutch closed his eyes, tried to find his partner’s thoughts and cursed the distance between them. He wished they were on the telephone with no time limit. Then they could so easily connect. This limited battery life was preventing them from operating as one. They were just voices in the darkness — but voices reflecting faith in each other.

“Describe it,” Hutch urged his partner, groping in his mind for a vision of what Starsky was seeing.

The radio spoke static again before Starsky replied.

“Okay,” he said, his voice rising and fading as he moved. “There’s a design on the floor — I’ve been sitting on it. Like them fancy stores where they put the initials in the walkway — fancy…like a Hollywood star…”

“What’s it say?” Hutch prompted, wishing he were there to view it for himself. “Give me paper and pen,” he told Dobey, and began to root around the front seat.

Dobey withdrew both from an inside breast pocket and handed them to him. His other hand, Hutch noticed, had tightened on the steering wheel.

“Fancy…” Starsky was saying, running his syllables together again. Blood loss or concussion, hypothermia…they all ran through Hutch’s mind again, stabbing him with freshened worry. “Little squares — tiles…”

“Mosaic?” Hutch asked, finally capturing an image from his partner into his mind. Stay with me, Starsk, don’t rush it…

“Yeah, that. Color’s not too good…dark — this light’s not too great, either…Green, red…maybe yellow…looks like a badge — a shield — there’s initials…”

Hutch had switched the battery unit to his left hand and was now sketching rapidly with the tiny pad balanced on his right knee. His pen kept sliding off the edge of the pad, and only the fleeting light made by a passing streetlamp gave him an idea of what he was drawing.

“M and T,” Starsky said. “The M is on the top — capital letters — no script…”

“Anything else?”

A pause. “No.” Dejection rose up in the airwaves.

“It’s all right,” Hutch soothed. “It’s something — we’ll run it down.”

“Only thing…keeping my ass anywhere near dry…”

“Thank God for that, then,” Hutch weakly joked.

“Easy for you to say.”

“Ask him about the siren,” Dobey said, slowing to make a corner.

“Heard him,” Starsky replied as Hutch shifted his finger on the transmit button. “Nothin’ yet, Cap’n.”

“Keep listening,” Hutch encouraged before signing off.

Dobey was on the car unit, barking out orders to dispatch to come up with a list of any businesses with the MT initials and a corresponding shield logo. “You think the ‘T’ stands for Trucking?” he asked Hutch.

Hutch threw up a hand. “Maybe that, or Transport.”

“Let’s try the warehouse district,” Dobey suggested. “Might put us in the vicinity. I’ll call the North Sector and see where they are in the grid.”

Anything — something — please.

Please…

—————————————–

Hutch was convinced they were circling the same blocks. Through the rain-streaked window of Dobey’s car all the buildings looked the same — dark boxes of few lights. Apartments, stores, some occupied, some empty. Large and small but the same nonetheless. Nothing so far — Starsky hadn’t reported hearing any siren near him.

Dobey’s car unit broke into the silence, announcing a patched call for Detective Hutchinson.

“Hutch,” came Huggy Bear’s voice. “Heard what went down. What can I do?”

Huggy — why hadn’t he thought to ask…? Hutch checked his watch — the luminous dials glowed two-fifteen. Huggy would be closing up about now. Was the word already on the street about Starsky? If so, would those kids return and kill him? Urgency refilled Hutch’s gut with a cramp.

“It was kids in a van,” he told his friend. “Gray panel number — maybe unpainted.”

“Any word from Starsky?”

“He’s got a radio — called in — doesn’t know where he is. They handcuffed him to some pipe…” Hutch couldn’t stop the next words — Huggy would understand. “He’s hurt…”

Silence filled the dead air between them. Then Huggy’s voice came back. “Starsky’s a tough hombre, Hutch. He’ll hang on. Anything else?”

He’s tough — he’ll hang on… “He thinks he might be in the warehouse district. He mentioned a company logo — a shield with the letters M and T.”

“Okay, I’ll get on it.”

“Hug…” Hutch’s gratefulness was so huge it could barely get past his lips.

“Shuddup, Hutch,” Huggy’s voice said with a grin. “What else would I be doing at this hour ‘cept helping the two best cops in Metro? You tell Starsky to hang on — I’ll ferret out something.”

“Thanks, Hug,” Hutch managed and signed off.

Dobey turned right and they headed down another dark street — they all looked the same…

“If anyone can glean some obscure information, he can,” Dobey said of Huggy.

“I know,” Hutch nodded. He wiped a hand across the window to clear the smear of fog forming there. I just hope it’s in time…

“Hutch.” Starsky’s voice, edged with emotion.

Hutch brought the radio to his lips. “Yeah, buddy?” He was glad he didn’t have to talk and drive. He wanted his full attention on every word his partner issued.

“I’m — I’m cold…it’s raining again.”

He felt Starsky’s rising fear, sensed the pain and cold settling over him. “I know it is, buddy,” Hutch soothed. “Hang on, okay? We’re coming.”

“Now would be a good time to beam me up.”

“Still working on the transporter, buddy. Hang on. We’re on our way.”

“I’m gettin’ hungry.”

“Yeah? For what?” Worry nibbled Hutch’s insides — Starsky was drifting…

“Somethin’ hot ‘n spicy…”

“I’ll have a bowl of chili waiting for you, then,” Hutch offered. What he’d really do is ply his partner with soup and special tea, foods meant to warm and comfort. Then he’d bundle Starsky into bed under a pile of blankets and play mother hen, watching while his partner slept to be sure of the rise and fall of chest. But if thoughts of a bowl of chili would mentally warm his partner, then Hutch would not deprive him of the image.

“A nice warm bowl,” he continued, scratching at an itch below his collar. “It’ll warm you right up.”

“You sure you got the ingredients at your place?”

“I’ll buy what I need special, just for you,” Hutch offered, wondering if he’d ever made the concoction — how hard could it be?

“Thanks,” said Starsky.

“Sure.”

“You sound awful worried,” Starsky observed. “Stop rubbin’ your neck.”

Hutch stopped and flushed at Dobey’s grunt of amusement. “How’d you know I was doing that?”

“You always do that when you’re worried,” Starsky told him with a dollop of confidence in his voice. “Bet you chewed out a few asses, too, when they called you to the scene — huh?”

Starsky’s perception was just too eerie sometimes, especially so when discussed from afar. “Afraid Jack West got the brunt of it,” Hutch admitted.

“I keep tellin’ ya, Hutch, you gotta control yourself. You can’t keep antagonizing the ones I need…”

Just like that time last year when Bellamy had shot him full of poison and Hutch was railing at Cheryl for not having a miracle cure. Well, the threat of losing your partner and best friend had a nasty and somewhat unethical effect on a man…

Hutch pressed the transmit button and dropped his pretenses. “I need you to keep me from going crazy,” he confessed, throat burning with honesty as the radio passed along his words.

“Don’t I know it,” Starsky declared. A moment of silence passed while they shared the emotion circling behind their words, then Starsky said, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Hutch, so you can talk to me all you want. But I’d really appreciate you not taking your sweet time in findin’ me. The rats aren’t too friendly, and I’m kinda cold…”

Hutch’s heart flipped with worry. “We’re on our way,” he said with conviction.

——————————————————–

Drip, drip, pucka drip
My heart is just about to slip
Come back come back don’t leave me here
Don’t have enough to shed a tear
Rain rain
I’m going insane
And there’s just the bulb to blame
Water water everywhere
Leaking through my underwear…

The radio bubbled to life.

“Hey, Starsk?” came Hutch’s voice.

Starsky broke off from the tune he had been humming but his mind still threaded words together. “Still here,” he responded with giddiness, wondering what he could add to strip me down/warm me up…

“You okay?” Concern lowered his partner’s voice by several degrees. Starsky recognized the tone as the one they both shared when the subject was personal between them. Hutch was really worried…

“Sure,” Starsky retorted, fighting to keep a sinking feeling from invading him. Someone’s spirits had to be kept up. He’d be found — it was just a matter of time — and a lot of patience on his part. No need for Hutch to go punching out a few walls over it. Easy, easy — easy as pie/apple, chocolate, cherry, too/some for me and some for you…

“I’m just sitting around,” Starsky told him. “Singin’ to myself — rain songs.”

“Oh,” said Hutch, and Starsky could hear him decide whether to stay with the topic or push for another one. “Like, ‘rain, rain, go away, come again some other day’?”

Good — he’d accepted. Starsky didn’t want to drop the imagination game just yet — it held off his worry, gave him something else to think about besides never being found in this suddenly gigantic city of darkness.

“Who’ll stop the rain?” Starsky sang back in his best CCR imitation, despite his fresh bout of shivering. He wiggled his left foot, then thumped the sole of his sneaker on the ground to get the circulation working again.

“I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain,” Hutch answered back, not quite singing but close to James Taylor’s crooning style. Of course, with Dobey in the car beside him …

“In the early mornin’ rain…” Gordon Lightfoot, eat your heart out…

“Kentucky rain keeps comin’ down…” There, almost like Elvis.

“Rainy night in Georgia,” Starsky warbled, rocking like Ray Charles at his piano.

“Someone left my cake out in the rain…” Smarty pants, he’d tried “MacArthur Park.”

“Raindrops keep falling on my head…” Literally — wonder if B.J. Thomas ever had that happen to him?

“Rainy days and Mondays always get me down…”

The words swept a fast shroud of depression over Starsky, piercing his loony imagination. Reality slammed through his mind’s doorway. He slumped back, then squinted up at the dim bulb swaying above him — game over.

“I hate you,” he growled to the swinging light, then addressed his partner. “You’d better get here before Monday,” he said into the radio.

Hutch’s frustration came in loud and clear over the silence. “We’re trying, buddy,” he finally said in the low tone he’d used a moment earlier. “Hear anything yet?”

“Dead quiet,” Starsky responded; a measure of bitterness had slipped into his voice. Stupid game; he really had been going off the deep end. “Like a graveyard…”

“No cars? No horns or machinery running?”

Thanks for trying, partner. Starsky eased his throbbing head back. “Nothing,” he said.

“How’re the rats, huh?”

“I think they gave up.” He hadn’t heard any scratching for a while — maybe he wasn’t tasty enough…

If he could only reach inside the radio and grab Hutch out of it…Starsky closed his eyes, imagining Hutch there beside him. When his partner next spoke, it would be like he was right there — so close — he needed Hutch, needed to see him, to touch him, to hear his voice right in his personal space, like always…Hutch, this is bad, really bad…

“Starsk, can you see anything — anything at all?”

A lump was working up in his throat, pressing against his tongue. Heat seared his eyes, threatening tears.No, don’t cry — it won’t help…

“Starsk — you okay?”

Wrestling to keep Hutch’s presence alive beside him, Starsky responded to the voice that was so close it was almost his own. The encouragement was as much for him as it was for his partner.

“There’s a lot beyond me,” he managed in a shaky voice. Damn, that’s all Hutch needed to hear…He plowed on, imagining the radio as his partner and not the little one-eyed, battery operated unit clutched in his hand. It was now Hutch close beside him, listening to him with that steady, blue-eyed gaze of warmth settled on him. Hutch, offering up his own brand of love to him… “There’s buildings all around, not too tall — it’s hard to see — it’s too dark, dammit!” he snarled as a ribbon of anger fluttered up past his dejection. He yanked on the cuff holding his left hand, knowing it was useless but needing to do something to combat his entrapment. His wrist chattered in pain. When the pain waves skipped up to his elbow he stopped pulling.

His angered energy slinked away.

Starsky pushed the transmit button. “Hurry up, will ya?” he complained. “I’m goin’ stir crazy waiting here.”

“Keep listening for a siren.” Hutch encouraged. “Hey, how’s your head? Your leg?”

“They both hurt,” Starsky dully replied and closed his eyes to more darkness. “Lemme alone for a bit. I’ll call back…”

The tune “Singin’ in the Rain” danced through his brain, replete with images of youthful Gene Kelly frolicking through romantic, glittering puddles. Starsky imagined him falling face first while the music soured to a stop.

Rain was blowing into the alcove again.

Starsky drew up his knee, thrust his free hand into his lap — and waited.

Hutch jerked awake — how could he have dozed off? He glanced quickly out the windshield — still dark — then glanced at his captain.

“Nothing,” Dobey told him. “It’s only been a few minutes.”

“Shouldn’t have been even that,” Hutch grumbled. It had only taken seven minutes to create this ordeal, but it was taking hours to find Starsky. Hutch adjusted his position in the seat but his head continued to ache, producing a sour burn in his stomach that threatened to climb up his throat. Hutch willed it away — there was no time to stop and puke out his worry — that wouldn’t do Starsky any good and would be damned embarrassing in front of Dobey. Besides, he didn’t get carsick; driving with Starsky had cured him of that. Anyway, what could he choke up? He hadn’t eaten in hours. It was just this headache — maybe Dobey had some aspirin on him — that would help.

Thick silence filled the car anew. Nothing, Dobey’d said. Nothing, nothing…Where was Starsky? How could those minutes become hours?

The police radio, which had been mute, now issued a fresh direction for Dobey, instructing him to meet a man on the corner a couple blocks away.

“Repeat that?” Dobey growled as his foot pressed on the accelerator. They hurtled down the darkened street empty of traffic, the two squad cars keeping pace behind. They blew past two red lights without comment and continued, eating up the pavement in a matter of seconds. “Who the hell–?”

“Huggy,” Hutch interrupted, squinting through the rainy window. He could just make out a white cap bobbing in the headlights some distance beyond. “Pull over, Cap.”

“Why can’t he just call like normal people…?” Dobey started but was already slowing down.

Hutch almost smiled. Dobey would complain no matter what Huggy did, but he knew why Hug had kept off the airwaves — The Bear had information to pass over that could jeopardize his connections to the street if broadcast.

Hutch had the door open before the car rocked to a halt but almost regretted his actions — his gut lurched. But the blast of damp air greeting his face was fresh against the recycled oxygen of the defroster. For a second his head stopped pounding, allowing him to swallow back his nausea.

Wet and shivering, Huggy Bear climbed into the back seat. Hutch shut the door but cracked open the window — the slipstream of air wrapped around his forehead like a wonderfully cold compress and further soothed the pounding between his eyes.

“It’s a new gang,” Huggy reported, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Been hitting liquor stores and small mom-and-pop groceries. They just picked up a gray van last week. Leader’s name is Checker-T. He probably shot the store owner.”

And Starsky.

“Where do they roost?” Hutch asked him.

“Somewhere near the rail yards. From Benny’s store they could’ve driven past the factory district…” Huggy shrugged. “Maybe Starsky’s there?”

Hutch understood the meaning of Huggy’s hesitation: if Starsky had been stashed at the vast rail yards, they might never find him…. His stomached clenched but he forced it aside.

Huggy climbed back out of the car. “There’s still some talk on the street,” he said, leaning on the door in. “I’ll call you if I hear anything more.”

“Thanks, Hug,” Hutch told his friend as Dobey pulled away from the curb. He grabbed the armrest to keep from sliding into his big captain. Somehow he had better seat control in the Torino; ruefully he realized that he’d learned to anticipate Starsky’s driving habits, as well as the big Ford’s response. Driving with Dobey was like driving with his father — he didn’t dare make any comments, despite the rebellious attitude of his stomach. Besides, he didn’t get carsick…

“Get on the horn and start explaining,” Dobey ordered, big hands tight on the wheel as he pulled a sharp left.

Hutch dug his fingers into the seat cushion, swallowed hard, and then picked up the microphone. He couldn’t get sick now, not when they finally had something. If they got to the right area then maybe Dobey’s siren idea would indeed work.

——————————————

The cramped position, the pain, the rain and cold made Starsky tired, and damnably so. He’d tried Hutch’s suggestion of multiplication tables until the simple equations floated out from his mind and before his eyes; there they broke up, numbers cartwheeling end over end, the equal signs going vertical and the multiplication signs pairing like paper doll cutouts. He went back to singing, but that only lasted until the tunes started sounding like they were being played in reverse on his stereo. There was some disconnection happening between his brain and his mouth, he realized, so he shut up and tried to trace a path to the kink in his mental highway. But the inside of his head turned into a cartoon-like scene of flat brown road, bright green bushes and gaudy, over-sized, hot-pink flowers. Any moment he expected some Loony Toon character to pop up and wave at him. Then it all swirled into a muddy color and he was falling onto a a patch of blue grass…

He dozed in a space made of twilight and shadows, dreams and memories. He searched for comfort, for faith and hope. His awareness became timelessness, everything and nothing, substance and vapor…he floated comfortably, neither hot nor cold, unable to move. Sight and sound became internal, welled up from within himself…

Janey O’Sullivan — she captained the rival stick-ball team and the dodge-ball team. No matter that she was an Irish Catholic lass in a neighborhood predominantly inhabited by Jewish families. The backyards where their tenements met — no more than a tiny square of dirt each —did not hold the same barriers as their street addresses. Besides, they mingled every day in class at public school, even if there were invisible lines demarcating lunch tables and recess space.

Janey led a group of kids that constantly slipped through battered backyard fences to play in the middle of 84th. Theirs was a friendly rivalry, for they were still a few years away from the tenets of discrimination as honored by their parents. Janey had traditional red hair and freckles, neither of which was allowed ridicule; more than one bloody nose had resulted from such taunts. Davy Starsky himself had earned an additional pair of bruised shins for questioning the combination of gender and athletic prowess. No one argued with Janey over her heritage, her gender or her sports ability.

“Let’s play.” She was twirling a battered playground ball in her hands.

“It’s raining,” he shook his head and glanced up at the leaden sky, gray and dirty-looking, leaking rain in a fine shower that frosted their hair and coated their skin.

“So? Chicken? ‘Fraid of melting?”

“I’m not afraid of anything, Janey O’Sullivan and you know it!”

“Sure you are — everybody’s afraid of something.”

“And what are you afraid of?”

She shifted and worked up a grin. “Don’t hafta tell you.”

“Now who’s chicken?” he jeered. Girls — they could be so confusing.

“Well, I’m not afraid of a little rain.”

He shrugged. “Can’t play today — hafta go home and watch Nicky.”

“So go get him and come back.”

“Can’t, I said.”

“Why not?”

“Ma told me to keep him inside — he’s still sick.”

The shower turned quickly over to a hard rain. It clattered in the street, pounded on parked cars, battered overturned trashcans, insistently beating at the evidence of human existence.

“Well, then, I’ll see ya,” she said through the silvery mists rising up from the cracked, warm asphalt under their shoes, yet made no move to leave.

“What’re you gonna do?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “Dunno.” Then she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I hate you, Dave Starsky.”

His mouth dropped open in surprise. “What for?”

“For everything. Least you got a place to go.”

“You can go home.”

“Sit in the hallway till someone comes with a key?” She gave a small shudder. The rain was soaking them, creating big blotches on their clothes, slicking skin and sticking to eyelashes. “Big kids hang out there…ain’t all that safe.”

Big kids, older boys maybe. Troublemakers.

Stay at my house, he wanted to say, but knew the Starsky rule — no friends in when the adults weren’t home.

“I’ll ask Mrs. Pulaski if you can come inside,” he offered. Mrs. Pulaski was the super’s wife and generally friendly, at least at this time of day.

“No…forget it. You’d better go.”

He didn’t want to go — didn’t want to leave her in the rain, all alone. Did she really hate him? Just for being able to go inside on a rainy day?

“Ain’t you got anyplace to go?” he asked her.

She shrugged and bounced the ball; it gave a hollow thwank and splattered rain against her bare leg, splashed more onto her worn brown shoes.

“I’ll find som’place,” she said.

“Davy!”

His mother.

“Get out of this rain now! I have to leave in five minutes!”

He dug deep into his jeans pocket, extracting the nickel he’d found on the way home. He’d planned on spending it later — a nickel could buy a good amount of penny candy, even though he should give it to Ma for her “family cup.” But an unexpected find like this was just too good to give up to his mother. Now, he realized, he didn’t want it.

“Here,” he said, pressing it into Janey’s grubby, damp palm. “Go to Sheffield’s — if you buy something he’ll let you stay inside for a while.”

She stared at him. Rain dotted her nose and cheeks on top the freckles scattered there.

“David — now!”

He moved. “I gotta go. Buy some candy ‘kay? All for yourself. Go, all right?”

He kept backing away, watching her standing there. Finally she looked down at the coin in her hand.

“I hate you, Davy,” she called back, and he knew that she didn’t really. Then she turned and splashed back up the empty street.

I hate you.

I hate you… that’s what that kid had said as they’d dragged him here.

Janey O’Sullivan melted back into his store of memories and a new whispering rose up before him. Starsky blinked — was the fog in the air or only in his mind? Was there someone standing…?

Hate you…

He straightened and squinted. There was a shape — he saw two legs…

He leaned forward, tried to touch.

Hate you…

“No,” he scraped out over a sluggish tongue.

You’ve got everything…

“No,” he said again, fingers stretching through the mist. “No, I don’t…wait, please — don’t go…”

Got it all — I hate you…

The legs moved.

“Please,” he gasped, yanking on the handcuff, struggling for a few more precious inches. His leg cramped and he went over, flapping like some suffocating fish. “Please help…my — my partner…Hutchinson — Metro. Tell him…please.”

Can’t help…

They were punishing him because they thought he wouldn’t understand, but he did understand. He knew the taste of poverty, of loneliness and discrimination, of the temptation of the streets. It seemed like he had it all that day with Janey, but he didn’t, he really didn’t.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Call — tell someone…”

God, it was cold — he was cold. Where was Hutch?

“I can’t help,” whispered the voice from the dark. “I can’t help you, cop.”

Footsteps scuffed away.

“No!” Starsky cried. “Don’t hate me…”

The fog swirled to a standstill, filling in the space that only seconds before had held a body, a speaking, living being. Rain pattered softly on the ground, echoing its sympathy for him.

Don’t hate me, Starsky wished, too tired to utter the words. I know — I understand…

———————————

He jerked awake; the radio — his precious companion — clattered out of his grasp and slid down the incline of the doorway.

“Starsky?” it asked. “Buddy, are you there?”

Janey…no. Starsky rolled forward to retrieve it.

“Starsk?”

Hutch, a little impatient.

Starsky reached for the radio but floundered in pain and pushed the thing when he intended to grab it. In a heartbeat it had slid out of the doorway and into the rain.

Starsky swore at his clumsiness. His loneliness clung to him, and traces of his memory dream were woven into the feeling. What if he was left here? What if Hutch didn’t find him? He’d die, then, trapped like some animal in a trap. Would he go insane? Would it take him days to die? What if he somehow cut off his hand and crawled to freedom? Surely someone would help a bleeding man crawling on the road? Wasn’t there a story about a Good Samaritan? Surely…

“Starsky? Talk to me.” Hutch — insistent now, his voice reflecting his worry at the long jag of silence.

Starsky’s numbed fingers brushed the radio. He scooped it up and sprawled. Rain battered his face, fresh and cold. Damn, but he was tired.

But afraid, too. The darkness…

“I’m here,” he gasped into it, wriggling back into the dim pool of alcove light, dimly reassured by the glow of the radio’s functioning red light. “Hutch…”

Hutch — his partner and best friend.

“You okay?” Hutch asked, his voice warm with caring. “What took you so long to answer?”

Warm, so warm…his voice like a heated blanket being draped over him. “Dream,” Starsky said over a heart straining to be comforted by the cloak of Hutch’s voice. Why was he so scared? Everybody’s afraid of something… “Had — had a dream…”

“Oh…” Hutch’s tone was skeptical. Then he asked, “Was she pretty?”

Starsky laugh made him shake with relief. It was so damned good to hear that voice; he needed to hear it so badly…

“She was ten years old,” he replied. “Kid I knew back home…Hutch…” Please keep talking, please. I need you — I’m afraid. I’m scared… “There was someone else…” Or had it only been the fog?

Hutch’s answer was sharp. “Somebody was there?”

“Maybe…it seemed like…” Starsky shivered. “Thought I saw…”

“Starsky, relax, okay? Take a breath — what did you see?”

Believe me, please. “Thought I saw someone — I dunno.” Help me, Hutch, cuz I’m afraid. It’s cold and it’s dark and I can’t get loose. I’m going to die here if you don’t find me soon. Don’t let that happen — please find me, please— I don’t want to die alone…

“Hear anything?”

Hutch’s questions cut off his rampant thoughts, momentarily confusing him.

“Wh — what?”

“Did you hear a siren?”

A siren…Starsky lifted his head and closed his eyes to concentrate, but Janey jumped back into his mind and tugged that lurching fear back up beside him. He curled himself inward, wrapped himself around the radio, wishing it could return the empathy he craved.

“Hutch…”

“Listen — listen for me.” Hutch’s voice, calm and soothing. Starsky turned to it like a compass pointing toward true north. Hutch knew his fear, understood his feelings. “Listen for a siren, Starsk,” the radio spoke to him and for a moment, it had transformed itself from a one-eyed bundle of transistors to his partner. It was not just an armless, legless, plastic box of wires containing one red eye and a large mouth but Hutch, his tall, blond partner, all flesh and alive — here beside him…

Hutch wanted him to listen. Starsky obeyed, straining to hear above the rain drumming on the pavement and the wind whistling through a break in the wall above him. Wait, was that a wail out there in the blackness…?

“Maybe,” he said to his partner. “Way off…Hutch, it’s been a while now…”

“We’re on our way,” Hutch soothed. “Keep listening for me, okay?”

———————————————–

“Captain…”

Dobey ignored the call from the patrol unit waiting behind him. These young rookies were so hot for excitement that they couldn’t even wait a few minutes. True, one their own was down and hurting, but they had contact with Starsky and were working in a professional and methodical fashion to find him.

They all were feeling anxious about finding Starsky, none more so than Hutch, who had up until a few moments ago managed to keep what Dobey knew was raging fear in check. But the stress of worry, the dark and the rain, the cloying air from the defroster — first warm and then cold, always damp — had eaten at Hutchinson. He’d gratefully dry-swallowed aspirin from a stash Dobey kept in the glove compartment, but it hadn’t helped. Even in the fleeting flare of passing streetlights, Dobey could see him looking increasingly green. When he’d tersely requested that the car be pulled over, Dobey knew that the headache he’d been nursing had spilled over — literally. He felt a tug of sympathy for Hutchinson. He and Starsky’s partnership was not unlike the relationship he once shared with his own partner; he understood how one could bleed if the other was cut.

“Captain…” The patrol unit tried again. “Is he all right?” the driver asked.

Dobey finally responded. “His partner is missing, Carter,” he growled into the microphone. “Do you think he’s all right?”

He hung up just as the door opened. Hutch eased back into the passenger seat, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes.

“Thanks, Captain,” he said softly, shaking fingers skimming over his damp forehead.

“Here.” Dobey held up an opened roll of mints. “The peppermint might help.”

Hutch looked at him, nodded despite the fresh flush sweeping his cheeks, and took one. Sympathy and understanding was mutual — Dobey knew how Starsky and Hutch operated, knew of the raw hole inside Hutch. Dobey had been there — he knew about the fear of losing the person you loved more than anyone else in the world.

“Ready?” Dobey asked.

Hutch shifted and took a breath. “Yes.”

Dobey took his time pulling away from the curb and smoothly straightened out the tires. He switched the defroster to a cool setting. Hutch opened the window on his side and turned his face toward the wind, wondering he was seeing a sliver of dawn peeking out from under the gloom.

They went back to their search.

———————————

Was it growing lighter? No…

Yes…

The batteries were going; the last time he’d radioed Hutch about hearing the siren he’d only heard half the reply. He’d selfishly left it on for too long. But he so needed to hear Hutch’s voice, to know his partner was coming to get him. The siren seemed to be working, only it didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Or maybe his hearing was going…

Starsky shook himself and shifted. He had to stay awake, had to because Hutch was coming for him. His partner would be here anytime. Tall and blond and handsome, Hutch would reach out to him, soothe his hurts and ease his fear with his warm presence and caring touch. And just when Hutch was feeling most vulnerable, sitting there with his partner safe in his arms, Starsky would demand a promise of the coveted bowl of chili. Oh, yes, it would be a priceless moment, yet typical of their way with each other. Starsky had to stay awake to deliver the punchline. Hutch would be expecting it and might even try to get one of his own in first. But blood and bruises were not going to keep Starsky from coming up with a zinger. All the better if Hutch was not expecting anything. Just to see the look of surprised delight on his face….

The sound of a siren came in on the gust of wind that rattled into the alcove; it sound strong coming from this direction, but sound carried so easily in a breeze. Starsky straightened as best he could and tried to peer about. Yes, the yard was growing lighter — maybe daylight would put the rats to bed. There still wasn’t much to see. He lifted his face and tried to see the sky. It was brighter.

The thought of blue skies and scudding clouds gave him a sense of homecoming. Things will be better in the morning… That’s what his ma always said, and he’d never believed it until just now. Things were going to be better. Hutch was coming for him — he was right behind that siren. It was going to be all right. He’d be found — he wouldn’t be left to die alone. And even if he did die Hutch would still find him, take his body back and not let him get chewed by the rats. Hutch was coming. Even his pain was dimming. There was no need to worry now. His partner knew where to find him. Hutch was on his way. Starsky practiced his one-liner and laughed softly to himself. A bowl of chili…

Fear had sucked Hutch dry, and hurling his guts had left him shaky and gray. But his brain kept screaming at him from inside his aching head, urging him to think, to hope, to move, to worry. The grayness leached out of his skin into the space around him, reducing sight and hearing. He wallowed in this muted existence, wishing it would all just fade to black like one of those old movies his partner loved so much. If he faded away then he wouldn’t have to endure any more emotional pain, wouldn’t have to face the hole growing ever larger inside him. What was he without Starsky? How could he work? How could he live? What would he do without his partner?

No! He pounded the armrest. No, it wasn’t going to be like that. His imagination was gone haywire, filling him with empty dread and thoughts that had absolutely no substance. For a moment Hutch felt ashamed of his feelings of resignation. How could he even consider that it was hopeless? Starsky was lost out there and was relying on him to be found — how could he ever give up?

Hutch straightened in the seat; the grayness before him lifted a little, washing the space in the front seat with pewter light. He glanced out the windshield — the glass was nearly dry. Outside the shadows had lifted considerably and the empty neighborhood was taking shape in the form of pavement, streetlights, sidewalk and long buildings. God, it had been hours. How could he have worried about those seven minutes all those hours ago? Behind the buildings streaming by the car window the sky was brightening, escaping from its leaden shroud by shooting streaks of orange and yellow into the purple-soft sky. The damning rain had finally moved off.

Something flickered inside Hutch — something alive. It rooted, took hold and spread inside him. He sensed it — Starsky was close by…

Dobey’s police radio issued notice of a patched call — Hutch grabbed the microphone.

“Got a call from a kid,” Huggy reported. “Said he knew about the missing cop.”

Starsky thought he’d seen someone…

I’m here, he heard a voice in his mind. Hutch…

“I wasn’t sure if he was playing it straight,” Huggy was continuing, “but then he mentioned those striped Adidas…”

I’m here…

“Where?” Hutch demanded into the microphone. “Where is he?”

“Ferry Street — big block of warehouses–”

“Get off that call so I can give some damned directions!” Dobey shouted at him.

Hutch hung up and radioed his partner.

“Hutch…” Starsky’s voice, clogged and fading came from the radio in his hand. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been waitin’…” he rasped. The rest was lost in a buzz of static.

Hutch felt his partner’s shiver and shuddered, too.

“What do you see?” Hutch persisted with soothing persuasion. “Which way is the sun coming up?” Beside him Dobey was ordering the units playing tag behind them over to Ferry.

Starsky managed a snort. “Sound like a Boy Scout…S’dark still…” Static dissolved the rest — the batteries on his radio were going. He came back, fainter. “S’a flag.”

“What? A flag? What kind — where is it?” He waited as the patrol car behind them opened up the siren. “Starsk? Did you hear that?”

“What…?”

“Did you hear that siren? C’mon, buddy, hang in there…” Hutch radioed to the car behind them. “Try it again,” he told them. “Longer this time.” I know you’re here, buddy…I can feel you…tell me — talk to me — come on…don’t give up…

“He’s slowing down…” Dobey fretted as the siren screamed a full-throated wail.

The radio in Hutch’s hand crackled. “S’at you, Hutch?”

Something further rippled through Hutch. “Did you hear it?” he shouted into the radio. “Starsk…?”

“S’at you drivin’ my Torino?”

Dobey’s hand grabbed his shoulder. “Look, a flag — and the roof behind it!”

A dilapidated billboard listed to one side on a roof across from them. The faded and peeling paper desperately announced a long-ago business — MACON TRANSPORT. A shield logo feebly decorated the space before the name.

“M and T,” Hutch muttered. “Again!” he yelled into the car radio and the siren shrieked in response. Hands shaking, he switched to the mobile unit in his right hand. “Starsk…”

“You playin’ games?” Stasky’s voice reprimanded, hoarse and fainter still. “Mus’ be right ’round th’ corner.”

“We’ve got him!” Hutch whooped into the car radio.

Dobey hurtled the car forward. “Tell those units to find a way around the building,” he barked.

I’m here, he told Starsky as they followed a black and white patrol car into a large decrepit yard of weeds and potholes.

“Let me out,” he commanded of Dobey and shoved the door open.

His legs, cramped from too much time spent in the car, got an instant case of the shakes. He stomped to get the circulation moving and then started walking through the yard, his breath rising in puffs before him in the clear sharp air. Dobey and the two pairs of uniformed cops spread out behind him.

“Detective Starsky!” called one, and the others started shouting, too. Their calls echoed off the building walls surrounding them. They walked gingerly, as if afraid that their footsteps might make too much noise over their already loud voices. Necks craned to check every shadow, every space and crevice that might hold a man. How long had it been — just a couple of minutes? Starsky was here — Hutch knew he was here. But where…?

There’s something blue just outside a rundown doorway.

A striped Adidas sneaker.

Hutch ran.

“Starsk?”

Carefully Hutch brought the slumped form forward, his hand catching the lolling, curly head and supporting it. God, his face…

The radio slipped from Starsky’s slack grip and clattered to the ground.

Starsky twitched and clawed for it. “Hey…” he cried, drawing up out of his exhaustion.

Hutch caught his flailing hand and squeezed it. “It’s all right,” he soothed into his partner’s ear. “Starsk, it’s me. I’m here. Look…” With his other hand curved tenderly around the purple-black cheek, Hutch tilted his face up — a tortured sapphire gaze met calm sky blue ones.

Blood had leaked from a cut near his nose, and his lower lip was torn. Grit smeared his filmy brow. His right eye was swollen shut, the ugly bruise underneath supporting a mass of red gore. Panicked conclusions again darted across Hutch’s mind: fever, concussion, blindness…

Recognition rolled across Starsky’s tortured features. He swallowed hard and worked up a feeble grin. “Hey…” he mumbled. He let go of Hutch’s hand and found his sleeve. “Hutch…”

Relief, a pain in itself, flooded Hutch. “Yeah, it’s me. Hold on — more help is coming.”

Starsky leaned into him. “M’fine now.” He shivered.

Hutch welcomed the weight and scooted close to cocoon his partner in his embrace. But when he saw the work of the handcuff, he quickly rooted for his own key. Wrapping both arms around Starsky to keep him supported, he one-handedly snapped it open. As Starsky slipped into the curve of his arms, Hutch reached for the blood-dried leg of the jeans.

Starsky sucked in a breath and slapped at Hutch’s wrist. “Thanks…hey, leave that for th’ paramedics. S’all right.”

“Let me see, all right?” Hutch tucked Starsky’s freezing cold hand into the shallow pocket of his jacket to warm it, further connecting them to each other.

Dobey’s footsteps stopped beside them. “Ambulance is on the way,” he panted, then handed over a blanket from his trunk. “How is he?”

“He’s a mess,” Hutch choked out.

Dobey grunted and crouched to fix the jumble Hutch was making of the blanket.

Starsky’s head tipped back to view his partner’s face. Already the warmth from Hutch’s broad body was working into him, easing some of his cold. “Cut it awful close this time,” he got out over a thick tongue. His hand swept over the face of the radio. “Batteries were all but dead.”

“I’d have found you even without that radio,” Hutch bravely declared. Already the raw space inside him was healing, the burn in his gut receding with a wash of confidence.

Starsky grimaced when he wanted to grin. “So, when do I get my bowl of chili?” he asked.

Hutch’s vision swamped but he worked up a smile on trembling lips. “You had to ask, didn’t you?”

“Had to,” Starsky agreed, and then let go of the last of his reserves and blissfully collapsed.

——————————————–

“You got him?” Huggy asked.

“I can walk…” Starsky weakly protested but didn’t exactly resist the two sets of steadying hands upon him.

“No, you can’t — here…” Hutch slipped an arm about Starsky’s waist and gently took on his partner’s weight. “Lean on me. Use your good leg…”

Freed from guiding Starsky, Huggy ran up the stairs to Hutch’s apartment, Starsky’s bag swinging from one long brown hand. Hutch heard the rattle of the key in the lock — good, almost there.

They would have been home two hours ago but for a lost prescription, a lag at the pharmacy and the usual freeway snag. Now it was dark. Hutch found himself worried and irritable, while Starsky was tired and giddy. Huggy, resplendent in a purple and lime green silk outfit that had no business being worn in public, let alone a hospital, seemed to be the only buoyant one of the group. He was also being eerily confident, taking charge of Starsky’s belongings and getting them packed, verifying all his paperwork (hence the discovery of the missing prescription), securing a space for Hutch to park the car, running into the pharmacy to get the damned prescriptions filled and doing about a hundred other things that Hutch kept forgetting about. All Hutch wanted to go was get his partner home and to hell with everything else.

He’d been disconnected from his partner for too long, first by the hours spent searching for Starsky, then the days following while his partner recovered in the hospital. That first sunny afternoon he’d spent holding Starsky’s hand while his partner slept off the effects of anesthesia from surgery for the bullet wound, reveling in the relative quietness of the room and the reassuring breaths of the man who was closer to him than any other. Even the array of dripping, blinking, bleeping medical equipment hooked to Starsky did not bother him. He was out of Dobey’s car, Starsky was found and his wounds repaired…even the damned linoleum floor was a wonderful sight to look at. All the better was the healing going on inside his own soul that calm afternoon, the fear and anguish that had carved out a space inside him slowly filling in and making him whole again.

But leaving Starsky at the hospital had reopened the fearful wounds, despite the two days he’d begged off from work to stay close to his partner. He’d managed to doze in the chair beside Starsky’s bed on the first of the two nights. But the second evening brought a shift change of night nurses, one of whom clearly understood hospital policy and her authority to enforce it. She had two orderlies paged and Dobey’s number in her hand when he protested his leaving. So he’d slunk out muttering oaths under his breath, passed the two said orderlies, burly louts both of them, and slouched his way to the elevators. No shift change had reoccurred, so he’d glumly settled for traditional visiting hours. But every night when he trudged through the parking garage to his car, that hole inside him leaked, and manifested itself into magnificent nightmares that woke him with Starsky’s name on his lips. After two more days, quick-healing Starsky noticed enough to jibe him for his bedraggled appearance, though his own was looking on the haggard side. Starsky had apparently had a few bad dreams of his own that punched through the pain medication and snatched away precious hours of sleep.

Starsky had been eager to leave the hospital, but with the leg wound still healing, the concussion skewing his equilibrium and his left hand out of commission, he’d never be able to take care of himself. Hutch had agreed to care for him with the caveat that Starsky stay at Hutch’s apartment. That way Hutch would ensure that his partner would take his medication, attend physical therapy and otherwise properly mend. And this set of stairs was steep, leaving Hutch feeling fairly certain that Starsky wouldn’t try and take them on himself — at least for a few days. You couldn’t really corral Starsky, anyway — he had too much energy to stay down for long. Probably what kept him so coherent during his ordeal. But for now Hutch suspected that Starsky wouldn’t mind a little coddling — they’d finally both confessed to their disturbing nightmares. That seven minutes that had caused their hours of separation and worry, even after a week of healing and togetherness, still clung to them. They needed to be alone with each other to heal their emotional wounds and reaffirm the trust that had held up under rain and pain, time and darkness.

“Anybody drive the Torino?” Starsky asked as he wobbled up another step. Apparently the pain medication had kicked in. “Needs running…”

“I left that to Huggy,” Hutch told him, fingers digging into Starsky’s belt. Was his partner always this thin?

“Running sweet and mean,” Huggy said from the open doorway of the apartment above them. “I’ll take you for a ride in a few days — if you’re a good boy and eat all the sprouts your mama feeds you.”

“Nothin’ doin’,” Starsky called back up. He looked up and sent his weight to his heels. Hutch floundered at the shift. “Soon as I can I’m gonna get those keys, and a pizza, heavy on the pepperoni…Hutch, what’re you doin’? It tickles…” And he gave a silly little laugh that caused him to slip further.

“I’m going to drop you…” Hutch exclaimed, struggling to keep his increasingly uncoordinated partner in his arms. “Huggy,” he called, “a little help.”

“Whoa!” Starsky declared as his feet left the step and he was eased, chair fashion, into Hutch’s and Huggy’s arms. “Hutch and Huggy,” he sang. “Huggy ‘n Hutch…”

“He’s out of his head,” Huggy observed, turning to make it through the doorway.

“Then maybe he’ll sleep,” Hutch grunted, working around the furniture to the bed located at the back of his apartment.

“And maybe you will, too,” Huggy said, the trace of worry in his tone reflecting his concern for his friend.

They eased the injured Starsky onto the bed Huggy had hurriedly turned down. While Huggy adjusted the pillows, Hutch gently swung Starsky’s feet up onto the mattress and began unlacing his favorite footwear, the blue Adidas, now showing effective wear from the night spent on his feet in the rain. That telltale blue color — that’s what Hutch had spotted after all those hours of searching…An unexpected lump formed in Hutch’s throat — those damed blue Adidas — thank God–

“Comfortable?” Huggy asked, frowning at the drawn look crossing Starsky’s face.

Starsky waved his right hand, almost catching the bending Huggy in the nose. ” ‘S fine — good to siddown.”

Hutch looked up and shook his head. He dumped the last sneaker onto the floor and kicked them both under the bed, then drew up the blankets.

“You hungry?” Huggy asked Hutch. “I’ll see what I can fix up.”

“Chili,” Starsky murmured.

“No,” Hutch told him.

“I’ll ignore that,” Huggy returned and swung off toward the kitchen.

“Hutch owes me,” Starsky called after him, then settled back with a pleasant sigh.

“Cozy enough?” Hutch asked his partner, reaching out to wipe some of the slickness away from Starsky’s temple.

“Mmmm — ‘s good — thanks.” Starsky’s eyes closed, revealing dark smudges underneath. Apparently he’d had more than just “a few nightmares” while in the hospital. Warm yellow light cast by the bedside lamp further softened Starsky’s face and added some color to his pale cheeks. “Gonna sleep for a week.”

“I hope so.”

For a moment memories of that cold and rainy night slithered back through Hutch, the dark fear resurfacing and depositing itself in shadowy corner of the room. There it hovered, gloating. Hutch took a protective step closer to Starsky; his partner’s steady presence eased the jig working inside him and he relaxed. It felt good to be here by his partner’s side. He glanced back at the corner but it seemed now empty.

“I don’t think she really hated me…”

“What?” Hutch started out of his reverie. “Who, Starsk?”

“Janey…said she hated me that day but I don’t think she really did.”

Who was this, Hutch wondered, someone out of his dreams?

“You think she hated me?”

Hutch grinned down at his best friend. “Starsk, who could hate you?” he lightly teased.

“Yeah,” Huggy chimed in, poking his head back around the corner. “You got a face any mother could love. Coffee?” he asked Hutch.

“Please,” Hutch answered and watched him leave again

“We were friends, you know?” Starsky was saying. “Kept each other goin’ — wasn’t always that good back then.” He grunted, a little emission of pain, then eased further into the covers. Hutch moved to find the prescriptions.

Starsky spoke again. “I don’t think that kid hated me,” he said. “Do you?”

Hutch rummaged in Starsky’s bag for a bit and came up with two pill bottles that he deposited on the bedstand. “Well, sometimes funny things happen when it’s dark,” he said, and glanced at the black window near him. Were shadows moving out there? “People get scared and lonely. They fear what they can’t see.”

“I knew you was comin’,” Starsky told him, blinking at him. “I was okay as long as I could hear your voice.”

Hutch halted his fretful placement of prescriptions and eased onto the bed beside his partner. “It was the same for me,” he admitted softly.

The silence that fell between them reflected their twin thoughts about those dying batteries. The radio had been their only tangible link to each other in that dark, rainy night. That air wave coupling had held off their fear, allowed them to maintain their faith to find each other.

“Dobey’s siren idea wasn’t so bad after all,” Hutch said, and worked up a grin. “Not sure if I’m going to tell him that, though.”

Starsky snorted. “He’s probably taking all the credit for saving my life. I’ll have to get him a thank you gift.”

“He drives worse than you,” Hutch told him.

“I heard about you hurling — maybe now you won’t complain about me.”

“I didn’t say that, buddy,” Hutch warned with a smile. “Although it’s been nice to get into a common, everyday car and not take any corners on two wheels…”

“I use all four tires on all corners,” Starsky reported, pride seeping through his sleepy voice.

“Sure…” Hutch grinned again. Better to let him think he was winning than to let him rouse up and argue because he’d surely raise a demand for chili again.

The coffee was brewing; it’s welcome aroma wafted into the room. Hutch could hear Huggy foraging through cupboards for something to go with it. A bite to eat would be good, something that hadn’t been stuffed into a paper sack or pressed into a Styrofoam box. Pasta maybe, with some wine, and then end with the coffee…although if Starsky’s nose got any whiff he’d probably be asking for chili…

“Guess that’s the difference,” Starsky was saying. He hadn’t moved but apparently his brain was still humming.

“Difference with what?” Hutch asked. It was really hard to follow Starsky’s drug-induced, fragmented thoughts when his own were hardly any more put together.

“I can trust what you’re saying even if I can’t see you. Cuz I know you. That kid, he didn’t know me, he just knew what I was — a cop. And to him, cops are bad — so I was bad. So that’s why he said he hated me.”

Was that the rattle of pasta shells pouring from the box? Hutch listened again then smiled; the Bear must be reading his mind.

“Janey didn’t hate me, either.” Starsky’s voice, softer and slurring more, issued from the bed. “She just didn’ know how to say thank you. Couldn’ say it, I guess. Lotta pride, tha’ girl. Covered up her fear…” He did shift then, an unorganized motion of arms and legs that ended with a little rock from side to side. He raised his voice. “Hey, Hug?”

A lid slammed on a pot and then Huggy’s lean frame ambled into view. “Yes, Oh Wounded One?” he inquired with a little bow.

Starsky let off a silly chuckle, then stopped to concentrate over his next words. No wonder they wanted him home, thought Hutch, if these meds made him prattle in so. But damn if his thoughts weren’t right on the mark. How could he be so lucid with all that stuff in him?

“I wanna meet tha’ kid,” Starsky told Huggy. “C’n you arrange that?”

“So you said before,” Huggy shrugged; apparently he did not have any trouble following Starsky’s thoughts. “I can ask, my man, but he might not accept the invitation.”

“Tell him I want to thank him — he saved my life. Want him t’know that som’one’s grateful for him bein’ around. Took a lotta courage to come back. Kid like that, he’s askin’ for help…”

Shame punched Hutch. He should be grateful, too. Without that kid and with those batteries dying…He’d have to thank the kid, too, even though the youngster might not truly understand how much it meant to have Starsky back by his side. But maybe the kid did understand…

Starsky let off a long wide yawn. ” ‘Kay, enough for me. I’m goin’ t’sleep.”

“You’d have done that an hour ago if you hadn’t talked so much,” Hutch good-naturedly declared. He slipped off the bed and straightened the covers, then gave his partner’s shoulder a warm squeeze. “Want me to turn off the light?”

“Hmm, sure,” Starsky mumbled.

A comfortable blanket of darkness fell across the room as the light was extinguished. Huggy was back in the kitchen, this time setting the table.

Deep gray shadows stole across the bed, wrapping Starsky in a cocoon of healing sleep. Hutch turned to go.

“Hutch…?” Starsky asked out of the darkness, his voice edged with apprehension.

Hutch swiftly turned back. “I’m right here,” he called softly back with full reassurance.

He thought he saw his partner smile. “Just checkin’,” Starsky murmured. “Night, Hutch — chili tomorrow, and don’t forget.”

“Night, buddy,” Hutch answered. And no, I won’t forget.

 

END