The Hostage Heart

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…Hutch looked up at him. His eyes were hollows, tiny veins reddening them, lids swollen… “My… my mother… died.” Hutch struggled to maintain his position…  He looked at his watch. “He called over an hour ago already.”

“Who?” Starsky was confused, both by Hutch’s disjointed conversation and his reluctance to accept comfort.

Hutch looked into the distance. “My father.” He stood up abruptly. “I’ve gotta call the airline.”

“Okay.” Starsky followed him to the living room. “Make that two tickets…I’m going with you…”

 

The Hostage Heart was first published in 1991 in the S/H zine “It’s Love, Cap’n,” published by Extortion Press, edited by Constance Collins.

Special thanks to CPeterson who helped convert this story into a digital format. It was a particularly difficult job as it didn’t scan well. And special thanks, too, go to Keri who has an uphill struggle to keep me focused on archive tasks.

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by
April Valentine

 

Richard Hutchinson pulled his 1978 Cadillac Sedan de Ville into the driveway of his comfortable colonial home. He turned off the ignition but just sat for a moment, gazing at the rows of boxwood covered in deep blankets of snow. Under the frozen soil, bulbs awaited the warmth of spring. Angela had planted them last fall, lovingly covering each with fresh earth, telling him which were for daffodils, which were for tulips, where she was planting each color–and now he couldn’t remember. There was so much he couldn’t remember, so many words lost to time and sorrow, so many moments he wished he could bring back and hold. His eyes filled with tears. Though he could wait until spring to see where the daffodils and tulips bloomed, it wouldn’t be the same. And he wouldn’t see her face, her smile, as they emerged to greet the sun. Roughly, Richard wiped the moisture from his eyes. He climbed out of the Cadillac. Slow steps carried him into the quiet, darkened house. There was one thing he had to do before anything else. He had to make the phone call. The boy deserved to know.

He stood before the telephone table in the entry hall, brow furrowed, as he realized he didn’t know the number. For one instant, he nearly called Angela’s name to ask her, then shuddered. He shrugged off the feeling of grief, telling himself that she probably wouldn’t have known it herself. Her mind hadn’t functioned too well these last few months. Grimly, he rummaged in the table’s one drawer until he found the small volume containing addresses and phone numbers. He thumbed the pages, anguish pulling at him at the sight of her handwriting, going to the section for names beginning with ‘H.’ What he sought wasn’t there.

He flipped through a few more pages, then back to the beginning. There it was, on the inside front cover, just the first name and the phone digits following ‘Ken.’ A new emotion collided with his grief–anger and old jealousy. So familiar, it seemed easier to handle than the fragile despair. He clung to it as he dialed the number.

It was answered on the third ring. “Hutchinson.”

“Are you on duty, Officer?” Richard couldn’t stop the cold sarcasm.

“Who is this?” The voice was no less gruff now.

“It’s your father, Ken,” he told him, then waited.

There was a long silence. “Dad?” He heard his son swallow hard. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, obviously you know I wouldn’t be calling unless there was something amiss.”

A sigh. “Cut the crap, will ya? If something’s the matter, tell me.”

Richard closed his eyes, letting the anger go. “It’s your mother. She died this morning.” There, it was out, and he felt better.

“Oh, Dad.” The voice at the other end of the line lost its hostility. “How, I mean, what happened?” Ken wasn’t curious, the way a stranger would have been. There was an odd resignation in his question.

“Her liver,” Richard said briefly. “These last few months, she hasn’t been well… the doctors tried, but…”

“Oh, God.”

Richard heard his son swallow again, heard a quaver in the voice. He said nothing. What, after all, could be said?

“Did she…” Ken tried after a moment, “…did she suffer?”

Richard cleared his throat. Talking about this was hard. “No. No, she slipped into a coma toward the end. She just… just went to sleep.” He expected an answer to that, but Ken only sighed, sounding deeply fatigued. Resentment flared in Richard’s voice. “So that makes it all right? She’s dead!”

“I know, Dad. I heard you.” Cold patience. Richard hated that tone.

“You’re not blameless in this, you know.”

“Dad, I’m two thousand miles away…”

“That’s my point.”

“Even before I left home…”

“Shut up! Shut your mouth!” Silence. It even seemed that Ken was holding his breath. Richard grimaced. He could still make him tremble.

“The funeral is Tuesday.” He waited.

After a long pause, Ken spoke up, his voice thin but respectful.

“I’ll get the first available flight. I want to be there to help you…”

“I can take care of things. You just take care of showing up.”

A pause again. He could picture Ken’s face, the frown of pain, the downcast eyes. It felt better to take his own pain out on someone else. Especially when they deserved it.

“I’ll let you know when I’ll be getting in.”

“Fine, son.” One gentle reward. After all, Richard was human, too. “I’ll expect your call.”

“‘Bye, Dad.”

The connection was cut, but Richard Hutchinson sat still, gripping the phone in hands that wanted to break something. Angela was gone. They’d had their problems, but he had loved her more than anything else he’d loved. Perhaps she’d been the only one he’d ever loved. And it wasn’t his fault she was gone. Richard knew whose fault it was.

Starsky was humming along with the radio as he turned onto Ocean, already thinking of Hutch. He hadn’t seen him all day and it was after three o’clock on a rare free Saturday. They planned to go bowling and then catch a movie, just the two of them. Time together. Doing ordinary things, while extraordinary feelings grew between them. Something was changing, already had changed. We were always close, always liked to touch. But now, it’s like I have to touch him, be as close to him as I can get. And his hands can’t seem to keep away from me, either.

He pulled into a parking space and turned off the Torino. In the sudden silence, he smiled. Hutch was up there, ready and waiting. Maybe dressed in those impossibly tight tan cords. Starsky shook his head. We’re both crazy. But ain’t that just what love is all about?

One drunken night two weeks ago, the words had been said. They’d been tangled together on Hutch’s couch, sharing the last can of Coors.

“Getting your germs on my beer,” Hutch complained.

“I won’t give you germs. I love you.”

Wide blue eyes met Starsky’s own. All other emotion fled the smooth, fair face. “Love you, too.” And before he could come up with a witty reply, a moist, hot mouth descended on his own.

That sobered us both up.

Starsky sucked his lower lip into his mouth, remembering the feel of Hutch’s lips against his own. They’d kissed for long moments, only gradually realizing where their emotions were leading. Then they’d parted, shaking, stunned, holding each other at arm’s length as they contemplated the future. It had been a little embarrassing to talk about, for both of them.

The blond, normally articulate, had stammered and stumbled over his few words. His first ones were an apology.

“I’m sorry, Starsk. Don’t know what got into me.”

“Me neither. But I liked it,” He kissed the flushed lips again gently, briefly. “You did, too.”

A long, drawn out pause. Hutch didn’t look at him or at anything else in the room. He seemed to be looking inward, deep inside himself. Then his eyes met Starsky’s. “Yes. I did like it.” Starsky sensed a hesitation. He stroked the mussed hair back from Hutch’s forehead, watching as trembling lids closed. “It could be so good, babe.” Hutch said then in a whisper, “I… I think I want…”

“Me, too,” Starsky told him in a rush. “I mean, I think we both want it.”

Liquid blue eyes reopened to regard him tenderly. “You never cease to amaze me.” He smiled in a way Starsky had never seen before, peacefully, gratefully, yet there was a shading of something else that Starsky could not define. “Maybe we should stop right here.”

“Huh?” Starsky hadn’t expected that sudden turn. “I thought….”

“I mean,” Hutch hurried to elaborate, “I don’t have the world’s greatest track record in the relationship department. Maybe you oughta think it over.”

“I’ve known you for six years. Always liked what I see.”

“But….”

“Hey. Don’t start doubting yourself. Or me.”

Hutch’s arms closed around him swiftly. “Never you. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t wanta hurt you either.” He was quiet a moment. “Are you sayin’ that you want to forget it, or that we should slow it down a little?”

Hutch’s arms squeezed tight. “I don’t want to forget it.”

Starsky squeezed back. “Okay then.”

“Starsk? Promise me something?”

“Sure.” He delivered a soft peck to Hutch’s cheek.

“If I act kinda weird or upset or messed up or anything, could you be patient with me?”

“‘Course I can. Patience is my middle name.” He’d never been known for that virtue before, but resolved immediately to make it so.

“Thanks, partner. I….”

“What?”

“I don’t know. You ever want somethin’ real bad, and know you have to have it, but you’re scared of it, too?”

“I hear ya.”

Hutch sighed. “Then let’s take this slow, get used to these feelings before we get into anything real heavy. Okay?”

“Sure. Kinda test the waters?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Doin’ what we were doin’ a couple minutes ago was sorta nice.”

“Sure was…”

Starsky initiated another kiss and Hutch followed his lead. After long moments of pleasure, they parted. Starsky reached for the forgotten beer and downed the warm dregs in a gulp.

“Maybe it’s time I headed for home.”

“You sure?” Hutch asked. “Are you all right to drive, I mean?”

“Yeah. Didn’t have that many beers. Besides,” he smiled, “we said we were gonna go slow. I wanta get used to all this stuff, too.”

“Starsky.” The word held a world of meaning. Starsky knew he only comprehended part of that world, what he meant to Hutch. “I love you.”

He wondered if he’d ever be able to show Hutch how he felt about him.

“Love you, too.” He put his whole heart into the promise.

And so it had started, barely four months after John Blaine’s death and Starsky’s own painful realization of what life could be like for a man who loved another man. If someone had told him then what he’d be thinking today… He grinned, opening the car door and climbing out. They’d done a lot of necking and a little talking in the last two weeks, thinking about where they were headed. Starsky knew he was getting more and more comfortable with the changes in their relationship. Hutch was, too, he was pretty certain. He started humming again as he headed up the stairs to Hutch’s apartment.

He knocked once, then tried the door. It was unlocked so he let himself in.

“Hutch?” He looked around, not seeing his partner. He headed for the patio, anticipating the touch of full, warm lips against his own.

Hutch was seated on the bench, hands clasped between his knees, head down.

“Hey? Somethin’ wrong?”

A long shudder moved the slender frame and Starsky went to sit at Hutch’s side.

He laid a hand on a bowed shoulder, feeling the muscles contract at his touch, drawing away.

“Hutch,” he repeated, more urgently.

Finally, Hutch looked up at him. His eyes were hollows, tiny veins reddening them, lids swollen. As he stared at Starsky, they filled with tears.

The long throat worked. “My… my mother… died.”

“Oh, damnit Hutch…” Starsky slid an arm around him, wanting to draw him close. “When?”

Hutch struggled to maintain his position. “This morning, I guess.” He got his voice under control. “The funeral’s Tuesday. I should be calling the airport, getting my ticket.” He looked at his watch. “He called over an hour ago already.”

“Who?” Starsky was confused, both by Hutch’s disjointed conversation and his reluctance to accept comfort.

Hutch looked into the distance. “My father.” He stood up abruptly. “I’ve gotta call the airline.”

“Okay.” Starsky followed him to the living room. “Make that two tickets.”

Hutch looked at him in genuine confusion.

“I’m going with you. Dobey’ll give me the time off.”

Hutch’s eyes filled again. He reached for the phone. “I just… I just dread making this call. It’s gonna be hard to say I want to go to Duluth.”

Starsky took the receiver from his hand. “I’ll do it. Sit down or something. You look ready to drop.” He stroked Hutch’s shoulder with his free hand and this time the touch was not refused. Hutch slumped onto the couch as Starsky dialed the phone.

Making the arrangements didn’t take long. Starsky took care of it all for him, the plane tickets, the call to Dobey to arrange for leave for them both, a last one to secure a rental car on their arrival in Duluth. “That’s it. We’re all set. Plane leaves at seven tonight.”

Hutch dragged himself off the couch and went into the bedroom. Starsky followed. Hutch was staring into his closet as though trying to decide what he should pack. Starsky wrapped both arms around his waist, leaning against him, murmuring against the nape of his neck. “It’ll be all right. I’ll be with you all the way, babe.”

Hutch stroked Starsky’s joined hands. He cleared his throat before speaking. “I know. Thanks.”

“What’s a partner for?” Starsky gave him a little squeeze.

Hutch pulled out of the embrace, bending to lift his suitcase from the floor of the closet. Starsky sat down on the bed, watching the listless movement as Hutch began to pack.

“You wanta talk about it?” he asked carefully, sensing a deep despair in Hutch that was more profound than the fact of his mother’s death. When there was no answer, he tried again.

“How did she die?”

Hutch turned abruptly, glaring at him. “Cirrhosis of the liver,” he snapped.

Stunned, Starsky could only stammer, “Huh?”

“She drank herself to death.” Hutch sank down on the floor, the anger fading from his countenance. He looked up, eyes full of suffering. “I never told you my mother was an alcoholic, did I?”

Starsky shook his head. He wanted to go to Hutch, take all the pain away, but knew he couldn’t accomplish that. He clasped his own hands together in his lap, just looking at his partner, trying to let him know he cared. “That was one of the reasons I came out here,” Hutch sighed after a few moments. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t see her destroying herself a little bit more every day. I couldn’t handle the responsibility anymore…”

Starsky wasn’t sure what Hutch meant by that. “What about your dad? Couldn’t he do anything to help her?”

Hutch closed his eyes. When they reopened, he again seemed to be contemplating another world far away from the one he inhabited with Starsky.

“My father,” he said softly, “always said it was my fault she drank.”

Starsky didn’t know what to say to that. Too many feelings swept through him at the admission–anger that a father would try to place blame for something like that on his own son, concern that Hutch believed it, resignation as he realized that he must, and sudden understanding of a part of Hutch he’d never understood before. Is this why you seem to take the blame all the time when things don’t go right? Why even if it’s nobody’s fault things get screwed up, you say it’s all your doing? Oh, babe…

“Hutch,” he began slowly, “nobody is responsible for another person’s drinking. Especially not a kid. You didn’t…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Hutch abruptly went back to his packing.

Starsky grasped his arm. “Maybe you should.” He tried a smile. “Did you ever, you know, talk it through with somebody?”

Hutch just shook his head, didn’t meet his eyes.

“It hurt you a lot, didn’t it?” Starsky probed carefully.

The long throat worked as Hutch swallowed heavily.

Starsky patted the arm he held. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard. You don’t haveta.”

The shadowed eyes raised. The smile Hutch attempted was weak but Starsky was glad to see it. Hutch sat down on the bed next to him, at last drawing Starsky into his arms. The kiss he gave was shaded with grief and gratitude. It was the first kiss they’d shared that wasn’t passionate and full of discovery, but it felt very right, born of their years together and their longstanding ability to comfort each other with touch.

When they parted, Hutch stroked back Starsky’s curls, looking deeply into his eyes. “I’m sorry to bring all this down on you.”

Starsky couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t be an admonishment not to apologize. He nodded, offering a smile.

Hutch’s intense gaze never wavered. “I love you.”

The power of those words went straight to Starsky’s heart. Hutch’s love was a very precious commodity. He kissed him again, held him close. “I love you, too.”

They stayed locked in each other’s arms, just holding on, holding out the world for long moments. When they finally let go, Hutch seemed to have recovered a little. He was more himself as he finished his packing and preparations to leave. Starsky still felt bad for him, for the way his mother’s drinking must have messed up his childhood, for the grief he was now experiencing, but he was less worried than he had been. Hutch was strong. He’d already handled a lot in his life. He’d get through this, too.

Hutch checked his watch for the third time in the past five minutes. His partner had gone home to pack, and was due any minute to pick him up for the airport. The waiting was making Hutch edgy.

Should have told Starsky I didn’t need him to come along.

He rubbed a tired hand across his stinging eyes. But I do need him. So much hurt and heartache… Starsky had offered to be there for him and Hutch couldn’t turn him down. He was already hurting so much, feeling so much grief and guilt that he knew he needed him at his side, maybe more than he ever had before.

He got up from the couch and wandered out onto the patio, picking up the watering can and going through the motions of checking his plants one more time before leaving.

Mom loved plants… He tried to hold back the tears, but this time they wouldn’t stop. He saw her in everything green and growing, all the plants, the flowers he tended the way she’d taught him when he was a kid. Must have been about ten or so the first time she gave me part of the garden as my own. Until then, I didn’t much care about it…

Unbidden, a memory loomed out of the past. He was a small boy again, maybe five or six, riding his new bike up and down the driveway. That route grew boring after awhile, and the wide lawn attracted his eye. He turned to ride across the grass, enjoying the sloping descent that took him toward the house. Suddenly his mother’s flowerbeds were right in front of him. He couldn’t stop. The bike kept going. He hit the flowers, falling, the bike kicking up dirt and petals. Thorns from the roses scratched his arms and legs. He ended up face down among the crushed and ruined flowers.

“Ken! What are you doing?”

“Hey, didn’t ya hear me?” A hand brushed his arm and Hutch flinched, dropping the watering can. He turned to look into his partner’s eyes. “You all right?” Starsky asked him. “You look spacey.”

Hutch shook his head, rubbing a hand across his tear-streaked face. “I was just thinking.” How do you tell somebody you still I feel like a kid of six or seven sometimes? That the pain is still that strong? Push the right buttons and it all comes back. He sighed, trying to explain without explaining. “Remembering.”

The hand on his arm squeezed and Starsky’s voice was gentle. “You about ready? These babies a’ yours’ll be all right ’til we get back, I promise.” He bent to pick up the watering can and set it on the bench. Hutch let his partner steer him back into the apartment.

“Did you call your dad and let him know when we’re getting in?” Starsky asked as he hefted Hutch’s suitcase.

“No, I’ll just call him when we land. That’s soon enough. We’ll have a car, remember, so he doesn’t need to pick us up or anything.”

Starsky was looking at him a bit oddly, but shrugged. “Okay. It’s your town, buddy. Let’s hit the road.”

Hutch sat next to the window, disinterested in the pre-flight instructions from the stewardesses. Starsky was paying rapt attention, though, and when the voiceover was finished, he pulled out the magazines provided and began paging through them as though their contents were fascinating. Hutch wished he could escape his own thoughts the same way, but his mind kept returning to Duluth, the large house, the flower beds, the ones he’d ruined…

“Ken! What are you doing?”

His father’s voice–loud, so full of anger. The small boy picked himself up from the mess of torn and crushed flowers, ignoring the hurt of his scraped knees and hands. His heart started pounding. Father sounded angry. He ran…

The plane lurched as it hit an area of turbulence. Hutch pressed a hand to his stomach, feeling queasy and nervous at the same time. He signaled a stewardess and ordered a double vodka.

Starsky looked at him. “That’s not your usual style, is it?” The voice was low, but more curious than judgmental.

Hutch shrugged. “I hate flying. Especially when it’s to go somewhere like a funeral.”

Starsky smiled, patted his arm a little, then went back to his magazine.

I hate flying, Hutch mused, downing a large swallow of the drink as soon as it arrived, especially when I’m going home.

Starsky watched Hutch sip the liquor and then lean back against the headrest of his seat. The troubled eyes closed, but the lines in the face did not ease, even after Hutch had downed the rest of his drink. Starsky was worried. He’d never seen his partner quite like this.

Hutch had said very little about his family over the years, despite their closeness, and despite the fact that Starsky had shared practically every detail of his own family life with Hutch, both the good and the bad. Hutch had commiserated with him, laughed with him, in his tales of New York and of living in Los Angeles with his Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al. Starsky knew the details of Hutch’s marriage and divorce, about the house he lived in, the schools he’d attended, but it had all been told without giving away much about the parents who’d brought Hutch into this world. Once or twice Starsky had tried to draw out a detail or two, but Hutch had managed to turn the conversation away from his parents. Most of the time Starsky hadn’t even been aware of the skillful manipulation.

He must have had to do stuff like that for years if his mother was an alcoholic. Family members, even kids, get to be pretty good at laundering their family secrets so their friends won’t find out. Starsky watched his partner’s face. Even with his eyes closed and his pose one of quiet relaxation, he knew Hutch was wired. Occasionally, he looked out the window, peering as if to make out details from the ground below, or he checked his watch. As the miles passed and they grew closer to their destination, Hutch became more and more tense.

And Starsky didn’t quite know how to help him. Seeing Hutch like this did weird things to his equilibrium. Should he ask questions or just keep his mouth shut? Somehow, he sensed Hutch wouldn’t put up with much prying on this subject. Starsky decided the best thing to do was stay silently supportive and try to help Hutch through this as best he could. He was curious, though. Hutch looked to all the world like the golden boy who’d had the American dream for a childhood. Starsky already knew, as few others did, that he was driven by unexplainable forces, that he was more complex than the handsome exterior led others to believe. He had the feeling that this trip would provide him with some answers to the questions he’d always had about what made his partner tick.

The plane hit another air pocket, or whatever made it jump up and bounce. Starsky hated flying. He glanced at Hutch, saw that his friend’s hands were tightly clenched on the plastic cup his drink had come in. The large-boned fingers were too much for the thin plastic and the cup split. Hutch didn’t seem to notice, even when the jagged edges pressed hard into the flesh of his hand. It didn’t cut him, but Starsky figured it might, the way he was gripping it. He reached over, fingers skimming the tensed hands.

“Hey,” he whispered, eyes taking a quick glance around. The people opposite them were both asleep. To all intents and purposes they were alone, private. He brought up his other hand, soothing Hutch’s death grip on the plastic and pulling the broken cup away. Hutch came back to life, eyes opening, going to Starsky with a look of tortured need, hands grabbing for both of Starsky’s own. Their fingers twined, Hutch’s damp with nervous emotion. He looked about to say something, but apparently couldn’t. “It’s okay,” Starsky told him, still whispering. ”I’m here.”

The blue eyes searched Starsky’s, seeing deep and, he hoped, finding what they needed. Hutch nodded, tried to smile a little. Then he leaned back in his seat again, face toward the window, eyes closed. His hands stayed locked in Starsky’s clasp.

The headlights of an approaching car flashed through the living room window and Richard Hutchinson got to his feet, looking out through the parted drapes.

“Is that Ken?”

Richard turned to his sister, Ellen. “Probably. He called almost an hour ago.” He went to open the door for his son–and the friend he brought with him. Whatever made him think that it would be all right to include a stranger in this? As usual, Ken thinks only of himself.

The car came to a stop, both doors opening. Ken had been driving. He got out and stretched, his full height and blond hair clearly visible to his father’s watching eyes. So much like Angela… how can he be so much like her and yet make me so unhappy?

The other man climbing out of the car was not as tall or striking looking as Ken. As he headed toward the porch, the lights picked out dark, disheveled hair and strong ethnic features. Dressed in tight jeans and worn-looking sneakers, his walk was more of a prowl. All of his movements spoke of the streets and looked distinctly out of place in the quiet neighborhood of the Hutchinson home. As Richard watched, he came around the other side of the car, touching his son’s back and glancing toward the house. Ken shook his head, pausing a moment to squeeze the other man’s shoulder. Despite the man’s scruffy appearance, Ken was obviously comfortable with him. Then they both went to the trunk and lifted out their suitcases.

Ken came toward the house, eyes diffident, his gait measured as he looked up at the porch. Richard watched from behind the closed storm door. After a pause, Ken climbed the steps. For an instant, the eyes of father and son locked.

“Dad.” Ken’s voice stopped after that one word.

Richard held his tongue, wondering if that was all his son would have to say.

“Ken!” Ellen moved past Richard to open the door for her nephew. Her greeting seemed to release Ken from his hesitation and the younger Hutchinson came forward with a small smile. As Richard watched, his sister wrapped both arms around his son for a long moment, then urged him inside. Richard stepped aside to let them pass.

The other man, Ken’s partner, followed. Richard looked up into appraising blue eyes, but the man’s gaze moved quickly to Ken and his aunt, and Richard saw the eyes register concern.

“Aunt Ellen,” Ken’s voice caught Richard’s attention, “it’s good to see you.” The intonation was soft, subdued.

“Ken,” Richard spoke up. “How was your flight?”

Arm still around Ellen, Ken turned toward his father at last. “Not bad.” The cautious eyes met his briefly. “How are things here?”

“Under control.” Richard glanced toward the stranger in their midst.

“Oh,” Ken’s voice brightened. “Aunt Ellen, Dad… this is my partner, Dave Starsky.”

The newcomer acknowledged the introduction, shaking hands first with Ellen, then turning to Richard. “Mr. Hutchinson, I’d know you were Ken’s father anywhere.” The smile was genuine.

Richard shook the offered hand, noting the strong grip. “Ken resembles his mother more than he does me.” He produced a smile for the occasion. “Welcome to our home, Dave. I’m glad you could come with Ken on such short notice.”

“Hey,” the detective said expansively, eyeing Ken, “I took an oath not to let this guy out of my sight.” His eyebrows wiggled and Richard caught the trace of a blush cross his son’s cheeks.

Ellen chuckled out loud. “Your partner’s quite a charmer, Ken.”

“Yeah, well, I told him to be on his best behavior, but sometimes he just doesn’t listen.”

“It’s late.” Richard interrupted the jovial conversation, thinking it unseemly under the circumstances. But manners prevented him from saying so in front of his son’s guest. “Is there anything you’d like to eat or drink before retiring?”

Ken looked at him, smile fading. “No, thanks, Dad. We ate on the plane. I am kinda beat. What time do you want to get started in the morning?”

“You take your friend upstairs so he can get settled in the north room,” Richard directed. “Come back down and we’ll discuss a few things then.”

“Okay.” Ken turned to pick up the suitcase he’d put on the floor in the foyer.

“Good night, Ken.” Ellen called as the two of them headed for the stairs. “Dave, if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“Thanks, ma’am. Goodnight.”

Richard watched as the dark-haired man followed his son up the stairs, then returned to the den.

To Starsky, the reunion seemed somewhat anti-climactic. He sat on the bed in the “north room” Hutch had led him to, listening as his partner moved around in the room across the hall. Hutch had been strangely quiet since their arrival at his former home. Starsky was quiet, too, trying to get a bead on how things worked here.

It was nothing like he’d expected. Aunt Ellen seemed nice, though her cordiality had been a little strained. That was understandable under the circumstances. But Hutch’s father, though perfectly polite and hospitable, had been another story. He’d stood aside, never touching his son, though he hadn’t seen him in a couple of years, and despite the fact that his wife, his son’s mother, was dead. Strange. I always thought Hutch’s family was almost as touchy-feely as mine. He’s never seemed too reticent about touching me, or others for that matter. But his dad never hugged him, or even shook his hand. Even at a time like this? His father seems like a cold man.

Starsky thought about the elder Hutchinson. He’d told him he’d know he was Hutch’s father anywhere but that hadn’t been strictly the truth. He’d been anticipating someone with as striking looks as Hutch himself, a man who looked as refined as the house he lived in. But although there was a resemblance, Hutch’s father was of shorter and stockier build than his son. He looked not like a cultured businessman, but a well-dressed longshoreman. Though probably past sixty, the man was burly, hard-bodied with a strong, no-nonsense grip and quick, intelligent eyes. His hair was blond, but a duller, thinner version of Hutch’s and his eyes were a lighter, less intense blue. His face was lined and tough, as though he still spent hours working in the sun every day, with creases that might be from smiling, but instinct told Starsky that might not be so. The suit he was wearing had to cost a couple of hundred dollars, but the man in it looked as though he were still trying to forget his less auspicious beginnings.

Wonder what he thought about Hutch becoming a cop? Probably expected him to be a second-generation company president or something. His bein’ a cop must remind dear old dad of his roots too much.

He slipped off his sneakers, thinking he was glad he’d brought boots along since the ground outside was covered with snow. The Adidas hadn’t been a problem so far since the driveway and sidewalk of the Hutchinson digs were neatly shoveled. Now, however, he padded quietly across the well-polished wood floor to Hutch’s room across the hall. His partner was unpacking methodically, back turned as he unloaded shirts and ties from his suitcase into the drawers of a French provincial dresser.

“This your old room?”

Hutch straightened suddenly, dropping a blue necktie. “Huh? No. It’s down the hall. I just…” He hesitated, uncharacteristically. “I just wanted to be close to your room.”

Starsky gave him a slow smile, moving to clasp his partner’s waist in both his hands. “Then why didn’t you just put me in your old bedroom? We could share, couldn’t we?”

Hutch’s face blanched. “You have to be kidding.” He turned from Starsky, bent to pick up the tie from the floor.

“Of course I’m kidding.” Starsky pursued him, touching his shoulder. “Lighten up, Hutch.” He grinned at him, trying to relieve the tension. “How many rooms does this place have, anyway?”

“Only six bedrooms,” Hutch answered, relaxing slightly. “We used to get a lot of company.” He glanced around aimlessly. “Guess we’ll have some this weekend, too.”

“Beats a hotel,” Starsky observed. “But, like I said, why didn’t you take your old room? You coulda put me next to that one, wherever it is.”

Hutch turned back to his unpacking. “Dad said he wanted you in the north room.” As if that explained everything.

Starsky mulled over his partner’s words, not questioning him any further. Hutch had emptied his suitcase. He closed it and slid it into the closet. His eyes touched Starsky’s briefly. “You need anything?”

Starsky shook his head.

“Goodnight, then. I… I’ve gotta go talk to Dad.”

Starsky read the fatigue in his partner. “Don’t stay up too late. You look exhausted.”

Hutch attempted a smile, touching Starsky’s shoulder lightly. “Okay. You get some sleep, too.”

Starsky watched him go. Hutch moved quickly despite his tiredness. Must not want to keep the old man waiting. Guess he just wants to get it over with. He went back to his own room, moving his suitcase from the bed to the floor. His own unpacking could wait until morning. He pushed the door almost all the way closed, leaving a small sliver of light leaking in from the hall so he’d know when Hutch came back upstairs. Slipping out of his clothes, he turned down the double bed and crawled under the covers.

The large house was quiet for some time, and though Starsky tried not to give in to his own fatigue, he began to think he’d not be awake to hear Hutch return to his room across the hall. Eventually voices filtered by the distance came to his ears. They sounded sharp, disapproving, but though rather loud, he couldn’t make out individual words. Once he detected Hutch’s voice, stridently saying, “I’m sorry.” He remembered the revelation his partner had provided that afternoon and winced at the apology in his voice.

What was his father doing to him down there? Starsky felt like going down so Hutch would have somebody on his side, but decided that might not be the wisest idea. Hutch could fight his own battles with his relatives, and Starsky was sure he wouldn’t want him prying into whatever they were arguing about anyway. But whatever was going on, he knew he already resented the man who had fathered Hutch. He determined to be vigilant in the next few days–Hutch might need back-up from his partner. Starsky drifted off to sleep, still hearing the harsh voices as they argued in the night.

“Starsk. Wake up.” The soft whisper brushed Starsky’s ear. It was accompanied by a strong hand squeezing his shoulder. He groaned, rolling over, and opened bleary eyes to look up into Hutch’s morning-bright gaze. “Wha’… what time is it?” His mouth was pasty and his throat felt like he’d slept with his mouth open. A glance at the window showed it was daylight, but not by much.

“It’s seven-fifteen,” Hutch answered, still in a whisper. “Get up.”

“You look ridiculously wide awake for this hour,” Starsky informed him. He attempted to roll over and re-close his eyes.

“C’mon!” Hutch shook his shoulder this time.

“What do you want?” Starsky turned back to look up at his tormentor and found he had to smile. There was something about all that shiny, blond hair and that wide-awake face that just couldn’t be ignored. He reached up, catching a handful of the sleek hair, wishing he dared to grab a kiss. Hutch dared. He bent down to Starsky’s lips, sharing the taste of wintergreen toothpaste. Starsky wrapped both arms around his partner’s neck. When the kiss ended he admitted he was awake. “Okay. Just tell me why you’re up so early.”

“I want to go jogging. Get up and come with me.”

“You crazy? This is Minnesota, not L.A., dumbo. We might ski for exercise, but we can’t go jogging.” Belatedly, Starsky glanced over Hutch’s shoulder, checking to see if the door was closed. It was.

“The streets are all cleared.” Hutch stood up, pulling the covers off Starsky. He headed for the door. “Be ready in ten minutes.” Then he paused, turning back, and Starsky caught a vulnerability in his eyes. “I gotta get out of this house for a while. And I want you to come with me. Please?”

Starsky sat up, running a hand through his curls. “Sure. Ten minutes.”

With a grateful smile, Hutch left him to get dressed.

Wearing both the sweaters he’d brought under his leather jacket, Starsky found Hutch in the foyer, pacing. He wore a red wool hat, a red scarf wound around his neck and a navy pea coat Starsky had never seen. “You dig that out of a steamer trunk?” he asked, running his hand along the rough wool of the coat.

Hutch grinned, then looked Starsky up and down. “You’ll freeze like that,” he announced. He went to the hall closet and dug out a scarf and hat for Starsky.

Starsky accepted them but didn’t feel like putting them on. “They’re green. They’re dorky.” Hutch didn’t answer. “Hutch,” he said plaintively, “these things don’t go with my image at all.”

“You want an image or frostbitten ears?” Hutch was already opening the door. At the first blast of Duluth air, Starsky pulled the hat down over his ears and wrapped the scarf around his neck. Then he followed Hutch out into what felt like sub-zero weather.

They picked their way down the driveway, then Hutch set off at a brisk pace down the street. Starsky followed, eyes on the pavement, checking for hidden patches of ice. They went several blocks before Hutch spoke again.

“You may have noticed I don’t get along with my father too well.”

Starsky wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “How long did you stay up talking to him last night?”

“Talking? Dad doesn’t talk, Starsk. He informs, he instructs, he orders… but he doesn’t talk.”

“Hutch, lotsa people don’t get along with their parents.”

“Even at funerals?”

“Sure. My folks never miss a good fight, especially over funeral etiquette.”

“That’s not the same.”

“What time did you come up last night? I tried to stay awake.”

“I think it was two o’clock. Maybe two-thirty.”

“And you still woke up at the crack a’dawn?” He looked closely and saw the evidence of the late night in lines of fatigue around Hutch’s eyes.

“Yeah, well… guess I didn’t sleep too much.”

“Don’t let him get to ya. We had a long flight. Both of you are under a strain right now, anyway.”

Hutch sighed, not answering right away. Then, “What did you think of him?”

Starsky shrugged. It was difficult talking while running, especially while gasping in chilly breaths. “He seemed nice. He probably just gets on your nerves because he’s your father.”

“Nice.” Hutch mused. “You know, that’s what everybody says.”

“Hmm?”

“Dad has hundreds of friends. Gets along with everybody. You should see him at parties–always making sure all the guests have a good time and plenty to eat and drink. Shit.”

Starsky pulled up short. “Hutch?” His partner jogged to a stop a yard ahead of him but didn’t turn. Starsky walked up to him, touching his arm. “What? I did hear you two arguing last night. What’d he say that’s got you this uptight?”

Hutch was staring down at the ground. He sighed, voice turning antagonistic. “Well, for one thing, he wants me to get a haircut before the funeral.”

Starsky checked the impulse to ask, is that all? then thought about how such a demand would feel to Hutch, a grown man over thirty. He looked at the heavy mass of blond, all tangled from the wind as it stuck out from under the red hat. Don’t listen to him, he wanted to say. I’ve been fantasizing about running my fingers through it, about feeling it trail down my chest, down my thighs… But he didn’t know how to say things like that out loud to Hutch yet. Instead he asked, “What’d you say?”

“I said I’d wear my hair any way I wanted. He told me it was disrespectful to Mother. I told him I had to keep it like this because of my job. That gave him an opening to spend another forty-five minutes on the trouble with being a cop.” The words sounded bitter, lifeless. Hutch stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and stood staring into space.

Starsky moved closer, his own hands similarly hidden, and nudged Hutch with his elbow, then leaned hard against his slightly taller partner. “Hey,” he said softly, repeating the nudge, “don’t take it so hard. Just nod and mumble to him and do as you damn well please. You’re not a kid anymore.”

“I know.” Hutch looked away. “But sometimes I feel like I am.”

There was something in his voice as he said those words that made Starsky hurt for him; defeat, as though he’d tried for a very long time to please the man he’d sat up last night arguing with. Starsky opened his mouth to commiserate, but Hutch abruptly pulled away from him, turning to head back to the house.

“Forget it. I’m just sounding off. Don’t mean to lay all this on you.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Starsky said, following him. “Didn’t come along ’cause I thought it was gonna be a vacation in the Bahamas.”

Hutch glanced at him, smiling then, and looked around at the neighborhood.

“You cold? Wanta run some more?”

He looked so much happier, Starsky beamed at him. “Sure. Why not?”

Richard pushed back the drapery from his bedroom window to check the sky. He hoped it would be clear today, so that the gloom in his heart wouldn’t be compounded by gloom in the atmosphere. The sun was up, the sky was blue. Looking down toward the driveway he saw two figures walking, breath puffing before them in the clear air. Kenneth and his friend. Richard watched, curious to see the two of them together. It seemed to him that Kenneth was as much a stranger to him as the other man. Had he ever understood his son, ever felt his son understood him? Between Angela and the boy there had always been understanding. He used to watch the two of them, burning with jealousy at their laughter and shared secrets. Their bond had been instant and complete, and Richard had felt himself the outsider. Any attempts he had made to invade the closeness between them had felt ineffective and awkward. He had no idea how to relate to a baby, to a young boy, to a teenage son. And now that the son was a man… it all seemed too late. What would be the point? Angela was gone now.

The two of them were walking in step, measured paces that seemed effortless in their symmetry. How easily they moved together, like choreography. As Richard watched, Starsky nudged Ken with an extended elbow and Ken responded by shoving his shoulder against Starsky’s. Their eyes met and it was obvious they were laughing. Anger rose up in Richard’s chest to see the pleasure on his son’s face, with his mother so recently dead.

But then something caused Ken’s face to darken. He looked away from his partner, bleakly, as though remembering the circumstances of his visit here. Starsky reached out, bringing an ungloved hand up to Ken’s shoulder, stroking along the back of his collar, under the too-long hair. He kept his hand there, on the nape of Ken’s neck, until he turned back to him. The two then stood staring at one another, apparently without uttering a word, for a long moment. Finally, as Richard watched, his son put a hand on his partner’s free arm, sliding down over the leather jacket sleeve until he encountered the other man’s wrist. A quick squeeze and the touch was broken. As one, the pair turned to continue up the driveway to the house. Richard left the window, perplexed. Kenneth hadn’t so much as offered to shake his hand upon their reunion. Basically undemonstrative, Richard had never felt comfortable with open displays of affection or emotion. From whom had his son acquired the ability to touch that way?

The front door opened and he could hear their voices. Richard decided he should go down to greet them, to play the host. Two strangers were in his house–one, he had known since birth, the other was one he wasn’t sure he wanted to know at all.

“Ken, for the last time, everything is done. The casket, what she’ll be wearing, the time… it was my place to do those things, not yours.”

“I’m not saying I should have done them, I’m saying I would have been glad to help you. You shouldn’t have had to do all that by yourself.”

“I’m perfectly capable…”

“I know you are. Did you ever think that I might have wanted to be a part of those decisions? She was my mother.”

“She was my wife!”

Starsky got up from the breakfast table, not wanting to witness the argument Hutch and his father were having. They’d been going around on the subject for the last half hour and he could see neither one would give an inch. Hutch had offered to help his father organize the funeral. His father had done everything himself. It was done. What was the point in arguing? He had intended to adjourn to the living room. But Hutch’s eyes turned immediately toward him. He didn’t say anything, didn’t change his tone of voice, but Starsky knew what he wanted. He stopped in the doorway, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. Hutch returned his gaze to his father once more. Starsky felt himself dismissed.

He wandered into the living room where he found Hutch’s Aunt Ellen. As soon as she’d finished breakfast, she’d come in to arrange the bouquets that had been delivered. Starsky stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“You can come in and sit down,” Ellen said pleasantly, looking up. She nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “That may take awhile.”

Smiling uncomfortably, Starsky accepted her invitation, finding a seat on the Victorian couch. “Sounds like you’re used to them having it out.”

“Well, it has been a few years since Ken’s come home. But yes, they never did see eye to eye.”

Starsky thought that over for a moment. “Hutch, Ken, that is, never talks much about his home life.” He hoped to gain some insight. Perhaps Ellen could help him figure out the father-son relationship.

She hesitated, again glancing toward the kitchen. Hutchinson voices could be heard. “We’re all a pretty private bunch,” she answered, enigmatically.

“Hmm?” Starsky made a sound of encouragement.

Ellen looked at him, then quickly down at the flower arrangement in her hands. “Private. We keep family business to ourselves.”

Starsky cleared his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was prying.”

She was cordial again. “I know. It’s okay.”

“It’s just… he’s my best friend, y’know? I’d like…” He shrugged, then decided to open up to the woman in the hope she’d open up to him. “Seems like he’s gotten more uptight the longer he’s here. Did something…? I mean, if something caused a rift between them…”

Ellen placed the bouquet on the ornate coffee table. “His father and I both had a strict upbringing. Richard is the way he is and Ken made his choice. He seems to be satisfied with that. I suppose, from his point of view, that was what he had to do.”

The comment told Starsky little, except perhaps that Ellen thought his choice had been the wrong one. He let the subject drop but continued to consider it privately. The strict upbringing Ellen spoke of seemed to have influenced Mr. Hutchinson in raising his own son. Something had gone on in this house, besides a mother’s drinking and a father’s blame. He didn’t yet know what, but a strong inner voice, the one that made him a good detective, said the buried secret could be discovered. It was just a matter of time.

Lonely. Hutch walked through the rooms of his boyhood home, and all he could feel was loneliness. It echoed within every room, lurked in every shadowed corner–memory and present, past and future. It was the history of his childhood, the legacy of his mother’s passing.

The upstairs hall was quiet, dark, drapes pulled to shut out the winter sun. He came to the room at the far end of the corridor and cautiously pushed open the door. His mother’s room. Silent. Empty. Full of more loneliness now than Hutch could have imagined.

She’s always had this room, or so it had seemed to him, despite the fact that his father slept in a room further up the hall. Sometimes, surely, the adult Hutch knew, they did sleep together. Sometimes, he remembered, his father had called her name in the dark of night, plaintively, angrily or beseechingly, and her door had opened. Her footsteps had padded down the hall, his door had opened and closed. Sometimes their son had felt better, reassured that life was normal, when they were in his father’s room together. Other times, it had only made him feel more alone.

Legs pounding, heart throbbing, Kenny fled into his mother’s room. She was on the bed and didn’t see him come in. Another nap, he realized. He slid under the bed.

Footsteps in the hall. Father. They stopped, opened the door. Kenny could see his father’s shoes, standing just within his mother’s room. They stayed for just a minute, then turned to go, closing the door.

He tried to think back to when he first realized his mother drank. It must have been after his birthday party that time. What was I, nine? When she came in and yelled at the kids and told me not to act like a spoiled brat. Her attitude and behavior had been so shocking, Hutch had run from the yard. Nobody mentioned it to him at school the next day, but he’d suspected they all remembered. He’d decided that he shouldn’t bring kids home so much anymore.

After the party, he’d found his mother in her room, sprawled across the bed. She was crying and he hadn’t known what to say. He just stood there, eyes wandering around the room. And that’s when he’d noticed the vodka bottle on the nightstand. It was empty.

“Kenny, Kenny… Mommy’s so sorry,” she murmured over and over. “I was just not feeling well. You understand, don’t you, sweetie?” She raised up a little, grasping his arm with her well-manicured hand. He nodded, even though he hadn’t understood at all. “That’s my big boy.” She sank down on the bed again, rolling over. “Mom’s going to take a nap now, Kenny.”

Hutch remembered backing out of the room, scared, confused, and knowing that his father would offer no explanation. At nine, he already knew better than to try to talk much to his father.

“Your father’s a busy man, Kenny. He doesn’t mean to be so short-tempered. You have to try to be a good boy…”

He’d had to grow up quickly. His mother’s drinking worsened during his pre-teen and teen years, and more and more Hutch had to take charge of the things his mother couldn’t manage. Shopping, laundry, care of the flowerbeds she still treasured. He tried to cover for her when his father was on the warpath, furious with her drinking the days away. More often than not, his ire would fall on Hutch then, when the boy could not truly handle all the adult concerns his mother was ignoring.

“Ken! I told you… What did you do all day, you ignorant, lazy, son-of-a-bitch?!”

“Hey, I been lookin’ for you.”

The soft voice made him turn. With difficulty, Hutch pulled out of the past.

“Your dad says he’s ready to leave for the funeral home. You okay?”

“Sure.” Hutch looked at Starsky, saw the eyes full of concern, the attempt to understand they always showed.

He made himself smile, trying to assuage his partner’s worry.

“C’mon, then,” Starsky said. “I’ll stick with you at the funeral home, if you want.”

Like glue, I’ll bet, Hutch thought with weary gratitude. I’m not alone. Starsky’s here. Starsky’s here. Maybe if he repeated that over and over it would be enough. Hutch followed his partner out of the room.

Richard watched the two men as they stood before the open casket. Ken had his hands on the edge. From this distance they looked clenched, as if he were holding on tight to keep himself from touching the body. Or perhaps raising them in violence. He’d looked as though he wanted to smash something this morning, Richard remembered. He’d never seen quite that same fire in Ken’s eyes as he had today at the breakfast table. He’d seen defiance, hatred and incredulity, but never that blaze of assurance he had somehow acquired in his years away from home. Last night it hadn’t been there, either. Grief has made him compliant, though he’d still argued. Perhaps now, as the shock of his mother’s death wore off, he was regaining some control. Or perhaps, Richard thought, eyeing the other man at the casket, the one with his hand at Ken’s elbow, this friend he’d brought along was providing some support.

The dark and light heads were close together as an intense conversation seemed to pass between them. Ken was looking at his partner, then his eyes strayed back to the casket. Starsky leaned even closer, then touched him, a hand finding the middle of his chest. Ken dragged his gaze away from the face of his dead mother once more. Then the two of them moved away from the casket, taking up positions across the room. Immediately, two people came up to Ken, and Richard watched his son shake their hands solemnly and introduce them to his friend.

Richard turned his attention to the matter at hand. He was gratified to see so many turn out to pay their respects to Angela. The presence of all those relatives and friends was proving an emotional experience for him and he had to fight hard to keep the tremor from his voice, the moisture from his eyes. He glanced over at Ellen. She was crying unashamedly, talking to a friend of Angela’s from the club she used to attend. If he weren’t a man, maybe he too could find release in tears.

After a moment Ellen seemed to regain control. She stuffed her handkerchief into her purse and walked over to speak to Richard.

“All the flowers are so lovely, dear. You must feel good to see how many people loved Angela.”

Richard nodded, agreeing.

“I love the piece Ken had made for the casket. She always loved white roses.”

Richard frowned. “I told him the proper color for an arrangement like that was red.”

“Oh, Richard,” Ellen sighed, reaching out to straighten his tie in a sisterly gesture, “you chose everything else–the headstone, the casket, the clothes Angela is wearing, the music for the funeral. Kenny wanted to do just one thing his way.”

“Ken is selfish. He always was. And it was my place to make those selections. I told him so before he came out here. I don’t know why he was surprised when it was all settled by this morning.” He rubbed a hand across his chest, the stress was making it ache slightly.

“Why don’t you ease up on Ken, Richard? For heaven’s sake, I swear I don’t know how you maintain this animosity to him, especially at a time like this. He’s a grown man, not a little boy who won’t do things the way you want him to.”

Richard looked at his sister disdainfully. “You must have a strange definition of a man.”

“Don’t start that kind of thing again, either. He’s a policeman…”

“It’s possible to hide behind a badge, Ellen. Ken was always weak. A real man wouldn’t have to choose a profession that advocates violence to prove his manhood.”

Ellen shook her head. “You’re impossible. Ken is here trying to get along with you. Please, drop the battle stance with him. Can’t you?”

“He wasn’t here for his mother.” Richard stated the unforgivable violation his son had committed. “And I don’t have any intention of letting him forget that.”

“Remember this, too, then. Whatever you think of his character, Ken is a grown man…”

“Drop it, Ellen.” Richard quelled her with a look and strode away, intent on greeting the most recent arrivals at the funeral home.

Hutch looked up just in time to see someone else coming through the door. It took a minute for him to realize who it was. Gary Zimmerman.

Haven’t thought about him in years… Wonder what he’s doing now? He felt somewhat guilty that he’d lost touch with Gary after school. Dad was pleased, at least.

“Who’s that?” Starsky noticed the man’s approach.

“Old friend from high school,” Hutch told him, then smiled at the other’s approach. He held out a hand. “Gary. It’s been years…”

“Hutch!” The newcomer’s smile was tempered with appropriate sadness. “It’s good to see you, but I’m sorry about the circumstances.” He glanced toward the casket. “I always liked your mother.”

“She liked you too, Gary.” Hutch turned to include Starsky in the conversation. “I’d like to introduce my partner, Dave Starsky. Starsk, this is Gary Zimmerman.”

Starsky and Zimmerman shook hands and Hutch saw his friend appraising the handsome face and well-tailored clothes Gary wore. He was impeccably dressed, as always.

“Your mother’s sense of style was the greatest,” Gary was saying as he looked across the room again. “I could always depend on her to wear the most beautiful clothes, even to work in her garden.” His eyebrows raised. “But what is she wearing now? Is that blue serge?” The man sounded outraged.

“I know,” Hutch answered. “My father picked it out. But I believe it’s silk.”

“I’ll just go check it out, then.” Gary turned with a smile and headed to pay his respects to Hutch’s mother.

Hutch sensed his partner’s close presence. A hand tugged at his sleeve, but when he glanced over, he found Starsky still watching the retreating figure. “Hutch, that guy, Gary… is he…?”

“What, Starsk?” Hutch tried to smother a smile, but it came out nevertheless, tinged with fondness. “Yeah, he’s gay. Gary never was one to think he shouldn’t be flaunting it.”

“Never knew you had friends like that.”

“He was the only one,” Hutch assured him. “He never fit in, but he didn’t seem to mind. I guess he always knew what he was and accepted himself. He…” The thought he’d been about to voice died out.

“What?” Starsky asked, his eyes sympathetic.

Hutch shrugged. “He tried to help me accept myself, too.”

“Huh?” Starsky’s eyes grew wide. “Hutch?”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. Gary just… understood that it was kind of hard for me–my relationship with my parents, I mean. Dad wasn’t real supportive, so Gary tried to build up my confidence.”

“Seems like a good guy.” Starsky’s tone was approving.

Hutch nodded, wondering what Gary would think if he knew where his relationship with Starsky had been leading. That was better than thinking about the things his father used to say when Gary had been over. Then he saw that Gary’s arrival had been noticed by his surviving parent, and the scornful words he used to condemn came back to Hutch full force.

“Was that faggot over here after school again today? Have you been hanging out with that pansy?”

“Hutch?” Starsky’s voice, Starsky’s hand on his arm. He shook his head, running a hand over his suddenly damp face.

“I’ve gotta get out of here in a minute.” Hutch strode out of the room, leaving a surprised Starsky standing alone.

Though worried, Starsky let him go. It was only late afternoon on the first day of the viewing. How in the world was Hutch going to hold up while this went on tonight and another whole day tomorrow? Already he was on the ragged edge, grieving intensely, and blaming himself for the loss of his mother. Standing before the casket he’d been trembling with barely repressed tears, whispering words of apology as though she could hear. Starsky had tried to counter with reason, with the reassurance that the death could not have been prevented, but it didn’t seem to be doing any good. He’d never seen Hutch quite like this.

If he’d thought that coming here would explain some of the quirks in Hutch’s personality, Starsky had gained questions since their arrival, but few answers. He ticked off the facts he knew–his father blamed Hutch for his mother’s alcoholism, he was a strict disciplinarian and he may have belittled many of Hutch’s accomplishments. How had someone who had little support as a child become the strong, brave man that Starsky knew? The relationships must not have all been bad, he decided. He was just seeing these people at their worst, under the strain of grief.

Starsky had wondered what Hutch’s mother had been like. Seeing her in her casket, the resemblance to her had been remarkable. Her hair was the same rich blond as his, even if Lady Clairol had something to do with it these days, and her face seemed kind. Hers was a refined beauty and, to Starsky, it seemed that she had been the one to bring class to the family and imbue Hutch with that sense of style and class. Her side of the family did seem to be somewhat more sophisticated than those on his father’s side. Apparently old money had married into the money of a self-made man.

Hutch returned to the room, appearing in control. His eyes met Starsky’s for an instant before he moved to stand at his father’s side. They spoke and Starsky saw the older man nodding. Despite the arguments last night and this morning, the two appeared to be relating to each other normally now. Starsky let himself relax, figuring the undercurrents he had tried to interpret must have come from his overactive imagination.

He watched as Hutch’s father shook hands with Gary Zimmerman. As he had been all day, the man was polite, but brittle, and Starsky couldn’t tell if it was the effort at controlling his emotions that made him that way, or if it was dislike for Hutch’s school friend. It musta put his nose outta joint to know his son had a gay friend, especially back in the sixties when Hutch was in school. I know what my Dad woulda said…Starsky pushed the thought aside, moving to stand near Hutch once more.

The day and evening had been exhausting. Members of the Hutchinson family drove back to the house in several cars and Starsky felt somewhat out of place as all those relatives began taking their luggage upstairs. He didn’t quite know what to do or where to go as Hutch was taking over the host duties. His father looked pale and fatigued, and though he insisted he was all right, Hutch had urged him to sit down in the living room until everyone was settled.

Aunt Ellen and some other women relatives were puttering around in the kitchen, getting some food ready, but nobody seemed hungry. Starsky accepted a cup of coffee and sat nursing it, not really paying much attention to their conversation.

“I’m glad that at least Angela won’t be suffering anymore,” said one whom Starsky remembered had been introduced as one of Hutch’s mother’s cousins.

The woman at the stove nodded. “I hate to say it, but she brought a lot of it upon herself.”

“I know. She…” The woman’s words trailed off as she noticed Starsky sitting there.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, trying to smile with as much charm as he could muster under the embarrassing circumstances.

“You’re Ken’s… partner, is that it?” the cousin asked.

“Yeah. Dave Starsky, ma’am.” He shook hands with her. “We’ve worked together for years.”

“That’s nice.” The women went back to their tasks.

Starsky drained his cup. “Well, thanks for the coffee.” He smiled again and started toward the sink to rinse his cup, but it was taken from him by the motherly woman. He made a retreat from the room.

Wandering out into the large living room, Hutch and his father were nowhere to be found. Men and women he’d been introduced to, but whose names and relationships he couldn’t quite remember, were seated or standing around, talking quietly. No one paid much attention to him, so he found a seat on the couch and sat back. Again he was unable to avoid eavesdropping.

“Richard is holding up well,” said one grey-haired relative.

“He loved Angela,” his companion answered, “but he never could see that her drinking was his problem, too.”

Two older women set their glasses on coasters and settled next to Starsky on the couch. “Ken looks good,” the younger one said.

The other woman, who looked like she might be mother to the younger one, agreed. “He was such a sweet child.” Starsky smiled. “He was so good, always such a gentle kid.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Dora,” another woman voiced her opinion. “I remember some terrible tantrums he pulled at our house. Once he took a truck of Ricky’s and bashed it to pieces, for no reason whatsoever.”

“What?” The younger woman was clearly shocked.

“Children do things like that,” Dora replied. “Ken was always good at our house.”

“Well,” said the newcomer, “I always thought it said something about his true character. Still waters run deep, they say. I wasn’t surprised he left town after he got married.”

“I know,” Dora agreed. “He seemed devoted to Angela, but…”

“He was exhausted. That kid used to run this house.” She paused.

“Maybe that’s why he broke toys sometimes…”

The conversation drifted to other topics and Starsky was left wondering, trying to picture the Hutch these women had known.

I’ve seen him violent, angry, over-reacting… He can be moody. And if anyone’s picking on somebody smaller than they are, Hutch gets bent outta shape… Starsky considered that side of his normally gentle partner. Hutch seemed mild-mannered sometimes, especially if you didn’t know him well. I always thought he got furious with the people picking on the weak because his sense of fairness was offended. But sometimes it’s like some kinda knee-jerk reaction. Like he takes it personally. Would he ever understand Hutch’s complexities? Could he even ask him questions that would lead to answers? Hutch hadn’t wanted to talk about his home life, not even on this trip.

Starsky got up from the couch, deciding he ought to look for his partner. The way things were going lately, he didn’t want to let him out of his sight for too long.

He found both the Hutchinson men in the library. Walking into the room, Starsky felt some heavy conversation had just ended, and by the look on Hutch’s face, he guessed who’d ended it. What’s the old man on him about now? he wondered. With his eyes, he asked Hutch if he was all right.

“How are you making out, David?” the elder Hutchinson asked. “I hope you’ve found enough to eat and drink. I’m not quite up to being the perfect host, it seems.”

“No problem,” Starsky smiled, still eyeing his partner. “I usually make out okay.”

“Yeah, Starsk always finds the food.” Hutch managed a smile. “Why don’t you get something to eat, too, Dad?”

Mr. Hutchinson sighed deeply. “I don’t want anything yet. You go ahead, Ken.”

Hutch strode out of the room without a backward glance and took hold of Starsky’s arm as he went through the door. The contact felt good to Starsky, who followed his partner and stood with him next to the dining room table that was now covered with heaping platters of food.

The group of assembled relatives seemed more relaxed now, and the conversation was more casual. There was even a little joking and laughter as everyone found places to sit while balancing delicate china plates and cutlery. Starsky sat next to Hutch on the sofa, noting that his partner was beginning to relax now, too. With his father out of the room, he seemed more like himself than he had all day.

Hutch became the charming host of the evening, and the transformation Starsky watched was amazing. Prevailed upon, he told several stories about crimes he and Starsky had solved back in L.A. and all the listeners seemed to enjoy them. It wasn’t until an hour later, when his father finally came into the room, that Hutch subsided. Then he became quiet and moody once more, but Starsky realized that nobody in the room, except himself, seemed to notice the change, or if they did, to think it odd.

Everyone else was in bed, Hutch thought, as he trudged slowly up the stairs. He was exhausted. It was after two again, and again his father had kept him up talking, telling him how he should act the day after tomorrow at the funeral. He also had brought up a new topic–Hutch should quit his job in L.A. and move back to help his father out in the business. The more he tried to change the subject, the more his father kept on that one track. It was obvious he was angry with Hutch for not being home when his mother’s illness worsened. He seemed determined to convince him that his duty as a son now meant he should come back home to live and work with him.

He passed the door to Starsky’s room and hesitated, wanting to be with his partner so badly that he nearly opened the door and went in to him. But Starsky was probably asleep, he told himself. He was tired, too, but instead of going into his own room, he went down the hall to his mother’s once more.

Inside, he turned on a small, pink lamp on the vanity table and sat on the upholstered chaise lounge. There was a picture on the nightstand of himself as a small boy and he picked it up, trying to figure out how old he’d been when it was taken. He was smiling, probably because it was his mother who was taking the photo. Hutch put the picture down, then leaned back and closed his eyes. He should really get to bed, he told himself. But it was so good to just sit here and relax.

He peeked out from under the dust ruffle on the bed, and saw his father’s shoes disappear from the doorway. Safe. He hadn’t found him. The flowers were ruined, but his father couldn’t find him. Mother would wake up and tell him it would be all right any minute now.

“Ken! Where are you? You know you can’t hide from me forever!” The small boy shivered as his father’s voice, hard and angry, came to his ears. He wished his mother would wake up.

The heavy footsteps came back down the hall. Kenny held his breath, determined that no sound would give his presence away. His father entered the room this time, came to stand right next to the bed. Kenny’s heart was pounding so loud he was sure his father could hear.

The big man bent down on his hands and knees, lifting the ruffle around the bed. “There you are, you little bastard…” And a hard hand caught his own small wrist, dragging him out from his hiding place.

“Daddy, please… I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? You’re always sorry…”

He tried to pull his wrist out of his father’s grasp, but he couldn’t get free. It hurt. “Mom! Please wake up! Tell Dad I didn’t mean to hurt the flowers! Mom? Mom, please…!”

Hutch jerked awake, feeling cold sweat dripping down his sides. He sat up quickly, shaking his head to get rid of the dream. It had seemed so real. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. His father couldn’t do to him now what he’d so easily done all those years ago. He turned his gaze to the neatly made bed. His mother was gone, but what did that matter? She’d never really been there for him anyway. She hadn’t heard his cries that day when he’d wrecked the garden. Old anger toward his mother resurfaced and he let it push other memories from his mind. Anger, that’s the easy part. Hang onto that. He turned off the little pink lamp and closed the door to his mother’s room when he left.

Starsky slid a finger into his collar and ran it back and forth against his neck, easing the snug fit of the shirt and tie. Except for court, he couldn’t remember wearing a tie two days in a row for a long time. Restless, he checked to see how Hutch was doing, and when he saw him in quiet conversation with an older man and woman, he walked out of the somber room that contained the casket and into the hall.

His watch told him it was nearly four o’clock. The day had crawled by. Hutch and his father seemed to be getting along fairly well, so at least the tension hadn’t gotten any worse. But he felt Hutch pulling away from him, maintaining a distance that had nothing to do with how close or far away he was to Starsky physically. There was something in his eyes, sadness and grief and an aura of deep, yet controlled pain that Starsky couldn’t seem to get through. He wished he knew how to help his friend, but with Hutch pulling into himself that way, it was impossible.

“Hi.”

The warm, female voice nearly made Starsky jump. He turned around and found a pair of pretty, green eyes smiling at him.

“Hi.” A small hand was extended in greeting. “I’m Janet Mitchell. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Dave Starsky,” he said, shaking hands with her. “I’m Ken’s partner.”

“Yes, I thought so.” She smiled. “I believe you knew my brother.”

Suddenly the name clicked into place. Hutch’s high school buddy, Jack, who’d been under suspicion of murder in Las Vegas. “Yes. Yes, I did. We met just briefly…”

“Right before he died, I know.” Her eyes dropped momentarily. “The last time I saw Hutch was at his funeral.” She looked around the quiet lobby. “I hate these places.”

“Me, too,” Starsky agreed whole-heartedly, and garnered a smile from his new companion. “You know Hutch pretty well, then?”

“Kind of. I’m two years younger than Jack, so I didn’t really hang out with them or anything. I guess you could say I had a crush on him.” She glanced around as though to be sure no one was in hearing distance. “He was so cute…”

Starsky nodded, suppressing a smile of his own. He saw a chance to gain some insights into Hutch’s home life. “Did you know his mother and father well?”

Janet shrugged. “Not really. Once in a while both families visited back and forth. But his parents were always a little quiet. His mother seemed nice, but I could never figure out his dad. Guess I was paying attention because of the crush I had on Hutch, but he didn’t seem to like him much. And I couldn’t figure out why. I mean, Hutch is a great guy, always was.”

“His dad was pretty strict, I’ve heard.”

“Definitely. I think he used to come over to our house when his father was mad at him. You know, to kind of hide out until the storm passed. Once I heard him talking with Jack, and it actually sounded like he was afraid of his father…” Her words trailed away. “You know how kids exaggerate things. That all could have been in my mind.” She shrugged, smiling again. “It’s all probably water under the bridge by now, anyway. Hutch is a grown man, and he’s all his father has now.”

“Really.” He talked a few more minutes with Janet, and when she commented that she should be leaving, he went back inside to look for Hutch.

The blond was seated on one of the viewing room’s long couches, next to his father. The two looked to be deep in conversation, so Starsky didn’t disturb them. All water under the bridge… Just what is all that water hiding?

He stood before the men’s room mirror, killing time before he had to go out and face the people waiting to see his mother buried. Hutch ran the comb through his hair one more time, then took a good look at himself.

What do they see when they look at me? Do they remember the way I was as a kid? Do they wonder what I’m like as a man? As a cop? Do any of them even care?

What do I see? He looked intently into the eyes reflected back at him. Can’t fool myself, not here, not now. It’s all superficial. A slick exterior that hides a coward underneath. I’m a coward… face guns and knives and all the bad guys L.A. can dredge up… but back here, I’m scared to face people I’ve known all my life.

He hadn’t expected the near-reunion atmosphere the funeral was generating. He’d been too preoccupied with dealing with being with his father again and with his mother’s death itself. But so many people that he used to know had come during the last two days–Gary Zimmerman, reminding him of how vulnerable he’d once been, and of how cruel his father could be, how he reacted when someone didn’t fit the picture of what he thought a man should be. And Jack Mitchell’s parents and sister, reminding him of the pain of losing Jack all over again. Couldn’t help that old friend too well, either. If we hadn’t lost touch, maybe…Hutch sighed. And Van’s parents… coming here, looking at me as if I’m to blame for them not having any grandchildren. All my failures lining up to shake my hand…

He shook off the feelings of regret and remorse, telling himself that no one could change the past, that it was only the present circumstances that were making him see all the bad times and not remember the good. He smoothed his hair and looked himself in the eye, willing the courage he knew he possessed to give him the strong center he needed now. Then he walked deliberately back to face the people assembling for his mother’s funeral.

Starsky was about to head for the men’s room to see what was keeping his partner when Hutch finally came out. Starsky eyed him carefully. Hutch was in control, to all appearances. But Starsky could see what the others couldn’t–the tension in his clenched hands, the bunching of muscles in his cheek, the depths of mingled anguish and sadness in the eyes.

Hutch stood alone for a moment, eyes searching the room. He found his father, and for a moment, it looked as though he wanted to go to him. But then the older man’s eyes met his. Starsky watched the byplay. I don’t need you, the father’s eyes said plainly. Starsky gritted his teeth, knowing the pain that inflicted on his friend. Hutch is the best man I’ve ever known, he thought defiantly. Why don’t you see that in him? Why don’t you care?

People continued to mill around for a little while. Starsky moved closer to Hutch, his protective instincts fully operational. There were Vanessa’s parents, whom he’d been introduced to last night. He wondered where Hutch’s ex herself might be, but since Hutch didn’t ask them and they didn’t volunteer, he hadn’t found out. Just as well. Seein’ her’d be all he’d need…

Gary Zimmerman was back this morning, too. Starsky watched the man, finding it fascinating that Hutch had had a gay friend back before it was socially acceptable. How did that fit into the puzzle of his past? Did it have any effect on the direction their own relationship seemed to be heading?

What direction are we goin’ in, babe? Starsky wished he could ask. But his feelings had been put on hold as the tensions in Minnesota mounted. He couldn’t add to the problems his partner was facing, despite the fact that the love inside him was begging to be expressed. He wanted the right to wrap the man up in his arms and let him cry if he needed to, wanted to hold him until all Hutch ever felt was safe and good about himself. Wanted to kiss the beautiful mouth until nothing but the two of them remained in the whole world. Starsky promised himself that once they were back in L.A., he’d do his best to help Hutch forget the hurt he was enduring here.

He gazed around the room again, noting the reappearance of Jack Mitchell’s family. The sister waved at him when she recognized him, and he nodded back. Starsky wondered what Jack had known about the complicated Hutchinson family. It was too bad he wasn’t here to help Starsky piece that puzzle together.

Hutch was smiling tightly, shaking hands with a steady line of people dressed in somber clothes. One older woman was dabbing at her eyes, Hutch solicitously taking her elbow as he led her to the coffin. Starsky felt proud of him in that moment. That was the Hutch he loved, the one who could put aside his own feelings to look after someone else. Had his mother appreciated the son she had? Would his father ever understand? Starsky’s eyes went to the older Hutchinson. The large man looked just as he always had–sad, but in control–as though he were never plagued with the kind of doubts his son suffered. Go to him, Starsky thought at him. He needs you. Maybe even more, he needs you to need him…

Hutch looked so lonely standing in the center of the room, greeting people. Starsky moved toward him.

Hutch felt the walls closing in around him. It wasn’t that there were too many people, there were too many feelings. The room was crowded with memories, with sorrow and his own guilt. He should have stayed, should have done more, as his father believed. Then maybe…

He felt a light touch at his shoulder. Starsky. Close, yet not hovering. Available if he was needed. Hutch looked into his eyes and saw something he hadn’t realized before. Starsky knew what he was feeling because he’d been here. He’d lost a parent, too. The indigo eyes held sympathy and understanding. Hutch tried to smile back, but he managed only a slight grimace. The sympathy and understanding hurt almost as much as his grief.

It was time. The minister had arrived and the people were settling into the rows of chairs lined up in front of the casket. His father was already seated, with a space left beside him for Hutch. The rest of the seats in the row were filled with relatives. Hutch glanced at his partner.

“I’ll go sit back there with Jack’s folks and his sister, if that’s okay with you.” Starsky found his hand and squeezed it, then moved to take his seat.

Hutch watched him, thinking how his partner never failed to surprise him. For a guy who sometimes only seemed to know what behavior was appropriate on the streets, he could be oddly sophisticated. He moved to sit next to his father.

He slid into the folding chair, aware of all the people gathered around to pay their respects to his mother, and glanced to look at the face of the man who had fathered him. That large man, still so youthful despite his sixty-five years, seemed carved of stone. He sat still, holding all his emotions in, looking neither right nor left. Yet he must be feeling pain. One thing Hutch knew to be certain–he had truly loved his wife. And Hutch had loved his mother. He and his father had never shared much–couldn’t they at least share this pain?

He leaned close, whispering one word. “Dad?”

Translucent lids closed over light blue eyes. A long breath was drawn in, but there was no answer.

Hutch was aching inside. It hurt to lose his mother. To see his father in pain he could not express. To want to try to help that man, but to know he would always be shut out. Yet he had to try once more.

“Dad, I’m here. It’s okay. We’ll make it…”

“Shhh.” The sound was almost that of a scolding. The eyes refused to leave the casket, even to briefly glance his way.

Hutch subsided. Wrong again. He cared about his father, but he doubted the man knew it. Or maybe he didn’t want his son’s love. He’d never seemed to reciprocate it. They’d never talked about feelings, but he’d taught Hutch something about love nonetheless. Love was something that never worked out. If you showed it, you got hurt. If you went looking for it, chances are you’d find it in the wrong place.

The minister was speaking. Hutch tried to listen, but the words came at him from somewhere very far away. They offered him no comfort. The man beside him, stony in his silence, might find solace in those words, but they didn’t reach his son.

It was still early, but in Minnesota in the winter the light leaves the sky too soon. Richard Hutchinson nodded goodbye to the last of his guests, the friends and relatives who’d come to the house after the graveside ceremony. Ellen was staying tonight, but then she would be gone as well. The house already felt empty.

Ken was still here. Richard wondered if he had made his return flight reservations already. Probably. He’s looked ready to leave since the night he and that partner of his arrived. He may be anxious to get back to that cesspool he lives in, but he’s still got some obligations here. Richard stood at the window staring out at the snow-covered yard.

Footsteps behind him told him the object of his thoughts was nearby. Richard turned, noting the grim expression on Ken’s face. That was the way he’d looked all day. He hadn’t looked sorry to see his mother buried, just grim, as though he wished he were anywhere else, a million miles away, instead of at his own home.

“Dad,” he said as he approached. “I wanted to talk to you about when Starsk and I will be leaving.”

“There’s a lot to do here, Kenneth,” Richard told him immediately. “I don’t want to put away all your mother’s things by myself. It’s your place to help me do that.”

Ken’s eyes narrowed. “My place? Are you sure about that, Dad? You haven’t felt it was my place to do anything else.”

“Spare me the sarcasm. Do you have enough leave time to stay and help me or not?”

Large hands found their way into the pockets of the black suit jacket. “I have the time.”

“Good. It’s settled then. It shouldn’t take too long. Two days at the most. Then you can be going on your way.” Richard turned to stare out the window.

“Look, Dad,” Ken spoke up. “If you want me here, why are you acting like this? We… we’ve both lost someone we loved. We should be leaning on each other, not acting like this.”

Richard didn’t answer. Ken never had had any backbone. He stayed where he was for a long moment and eventually heard his son walk away.

Starsky was seated in the den, the color television turned to a football game. It was good to relax, put his feet up, feel normal again after the draining experience of the last few days. It would be great to get on a plane and head for home again. He needed it, and knew Hutch did, too.

“Hey, buddy, what’s the score?” The soft voice made him look up. He smiled in greeting and motioned his partner over to join him on the couch.

“Boston’s winning,” he reported. Hutch had changed into a pair of jeans and a dark green sweater. His hair was mussed from pulling the sweater on over his head. Starsky reached up to brush the pale gold strands back into place. Hutch’s eyes closed at the gesture and Starsky heard him sigh deeply. “How’re you holdin’ up?” he asked gently.

“Okay.” There was a space of silence. “Listen, Starsk. You may as well call to set up a return flight without me. My father wants me to hang around for a day or two to take care of Mother’s things.”

Starsky looked at him for a long moment. He wanted nothing more than to get out of Duluth, but he wanted Hutch to get out with him. “Hutch… do you haveta? This has been pretty hard on you.”

Hutch looked down at his clasped hands. “It’s been hard on my father, too.”

“Yeah, and I don’t see him doing any worrying about what it’s done to you. Tell him you can’t stay that long.”

“Too late.” Hutch picked at some lint on the sweater. “I really should stay and help him. I kind of… need to go through some of her things myself, anyway. It doesn’t feel… finished yet. Not like this. I… It’s the least I can do for her.” He watched the piece of lint float down to the couch as he let it go from between his fingers. “Do you mind leaving for home without me?”

“What would you say if I said yeah, I do?”

Blue eyes looked up at him quickly. “Starsk…” Don’t tease, they seemed to implore. I can’t handle much more.

“How long do you think you’ll need to stay?” Starsky asked instead, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

Hutch looked embarrassed. “Just a couple days.”

“I’ll call Dobey,” Starsky told him firmly. “We’ll stay until Friday.”

“Go home, Starsky. I really appreciate all you’ve done, but this has got to be a drag for you…”

“I told you, that’s not the point. If you need me, I’m stayin’.”

Hutch turned his face away, closed his eyes.

“I need you.” The admission seemed to cost him.

“Your dad want me to leave? Is that it?” He hadn’t felt thoroughly welcomed by the elder Hutchinson, but had no intention of letting that be the reason he left. That was all the more reason for him to stay here at Hutch’s side. He had begun to sense that if his father had him alone, the arguments the two had been having might get worse.

“He didn’t say a thing about it.”

“Too polite?” Starsky forced a wry smile. “Look, I came for the whole ride, buddy. He’ll just have to put up with me a little while longer.”

Hutch didn’t answer him, just sat there staring into Starsky’s eyes. Looking so deep… What are you searching for? Can I help you find it? I want to be what you need, babe.

“Relax, then,” Starsky told him softly. “Sit here with me and watch the game.”

Hutch settled into a more comfortable position, his feet up on the walnut coffee table. “Okay,” he said. He sounded almost shy. Starsky playfully nudged him with his elbow and actually earned a grin.

They enjoyed several hours of solitude, watching television, the normal activity easing the strain of the last several days. After the game a sitcom aired and Hutch actually chuckled once or twice. Starsky noticed that he seemed to catch himself, stopping quickly, as though he shouldn’t be laughing so soon after the funeral. Starsky remembered the feeling.

“Life goes on, buddy,” he offered softly, hand going to the back of Hutch’s neck.

Sad eyes turned toward him. “I know.”

“You’re gonna be okay.” The blond strands felt soft under his fingers. Starsky massaged the tense neck soothingly and felt Hutch gradually relax.

It was eleven-thirty when they decided to turn in for the night. Aunt Ellen had come in earlier to say goodnight, but Hutch’s father hadn’t been heard from for hours. Starsky switched off the TV and Hutch took care of the lights. They made their way up the stairs together.

Starsky watched Hutch move, the long legs incredibly sexy in the faded jeans. It had been days since they’d been really alone, days since their last kiss that morning in Starsky’s bedroom. He wouldn’t have minded being able to hold Hutch now, though the time and place wasn’t right. Or was it? They’d always been more physical than most friends in the first place. Hutch probably needed his closeness now, the comfort of a friend’s embrace. Starsky stayed near as the blond headed for his own bedroom.

“Feels like I’ve got a shadow.” The full lips were lifted in a half-smile.

“Just feelin’ lonely, partner.” Starsky stood before him, holding his gaze. “I could use a hug right about now. How ’bout you?”

The smile widened, Hutch’s eyes soft and bemused. He held his arms open.

Starsky moved into them, wrapping his own arms tight around Hutch’s body. They stood together, leaning into each other fully, the closeness so good Starsky sighed deeply. He heard a catch in Hutch’s breathing and pulled back a little to look into his eyes. They were wet, tears trembling at his lashes. Starsky didn’t know what to say.

“I’m glad you came with me, Starsky.”

“It’s okay.” He gave his friend a gentle squeeze and let him go, turning to enter his own bedroom. “Get some sleep, partner.”

Hutch nodded. “You, too.”

Starsky stepped inside his room, unbuttoning his shirt as he moved. He hoped Hutch would get some rest tonight. He looked tired.

“Ken? Where are you?” A muffled, familiar voice came from down the stairs.

Hutch came back into the hall. “Dad? I’m up here, getting ready for bed.”

“Well, come down here. I want to talk to you.”

Starsky stepped out, catching Hutch’s gaze. Hutch warned him off with a look.

“Ken!”

“Be right there, Dad.” Hutch shrugged in Starsky’s direction and headed for the stairs.

Shaking his head, Starsky returned to his room. He undressed, annoyed with the father’s thoughtless attitude. This time, when he went to bed, he left the door all the way open. If it sounded like Hutch needed him, he was prepared to go down and give the old man a piece of his mind.

Starsky reached up to take another box down from the shelf in Mrs. Hutchinson’s closet. The day had been a quiet one, each person in the house intent on their own tasks. Aunt Ellen had folded and packed all of her sister-in-law’s clothing, while Hutch and his father went through legal papers downstairs. Mr. Hutchinson wanted Hutch to box up the expensive collection of Hummel figurines, but Hutch had protested, wondering why his father would want all traces of his mother’s presence removed so soon. That argument had grated on Starsky’s nerves as much as the others. Finally Hutch had given in, stating that if his father didn’t want them, he’d take the figures to L.A. with him.

Starsky had kept busy upstairs, trying to distance himself from the static between father and son. He had cleaned out a desk in Mrs. Hutchinson’s bedroom, going through old photographs and copies of magazines dating back over twenty years, then started on the contents of the closet. He was beginning to wonder if Hutch’s mother had ever thrown anything away. There were boxes of bills and receipts pertaining to her husband’s business, all of them from years ago when she’d done the bookkeeping for him. Hutch had told Starsky that she’d stopped working and begun drinking more when his father made her quit.

His back protested as he reached high to snag the next box and he manhandled it down to the floor, the big shape awkward to hold onto. He sank down on the floor cross-legged and pulled the box open.

The contents of this one made him smile. These were obviously Hutch’s things, from when he was little. There were several Hardy Boys books, a couple of puzzles, a bag of old crayons, and a number of coloring books and sketch pads. Starsky lifted out the drawing materials and got comfortable with his back against the desk to page through the collections of drawings his partner had made long ago.

He couldn’t help grinning as he turned the pages. Hutch had always had an artistic side and it was obvious his talent had come naturally. He must have had an early interest in police work, too. The book contained a series of drawings of guns, of targets with bulls’ eyes. Hutch, always organized, had signed each piece on the back with his initials and age. The book Starsky was going through had been done when his friend was between eight and ten years old.

He seemed to have favored dark colors, lots of black and brown and red. And Starsky was surprised to find his partner had a somewhat morbid side, too. Following the pictures of guns was a series of people who’d been shot and lay bleeding on the ground. The best of them showed a man with blond hair face down in the dirt.

Starsky ran a hand through his hair, wondering about the propensity Hutch seemed to have had for violence at a young age. He thought about it and decided it was normal. He’d had a collection of models of horror creatures that he’d built and painted, and had spent nearly every Saturday at a horror flick when he’d lived back in New York City. And Hutch had grown up to be a cop, so Starsky guessed there was nothing odd in a young boy who’d drawn pictures of guns and wounded people.

He continued to page through the sketchbook. The pictures took a turn for the better when he’d turned to drawing landscapes and colorful gardens. There were a few representations of ships at sea, reminding Starsky of Hutch’s tales of being a sea scout. On the back of one particularly nice drawing, Hutch had written “To Mom.” Then there was a self-portrait, an awkward rendition of a skinny young boy with yellow hair. But Hutch must not have liked the way it turned out. He’d crossed it out with big black crayon marks. Still, the mother had saved and appreciated it.

Starsky checked to see how many more pages the sketchpad contained, thinking he’d better get back to what he’d been doing if he ever expected to finish. There weren’t too many but he was about to put the book away nonetheless.

He sat forward, reaching for the edge of the box, and the sketchbook fell open to another page. Here was another drawing done in shades of black and red and brown. There was a large figure–a man or a monster, Starsky couldn’t tell. But the larger figure was menacing a smaller one, a tiny boy with yellow hair who seemed to be sinking into the ground. A funny feeling went through Starsky as he looked at the picture. He forgot about finishing his job and turned another page in the drawing book.

This one had a house in flames and the same small figure standing outside, watching it burn. At one of the windows was a large, angry face. Starsky quickly turned the page. The small figure was shrinking away from the large monster in this one, too, and a huge, oversized hand was reaching for him. But behind the monster, Hutch had drawn a gun. It was aimed right at the monster’s head, as though to shoot in time to save the small boy. A final picture showed three figures in front of a house. There was a colorful garden on one side, but the remainder of the picture had been done in somber hues. The figure of the mother was lying down, as though asleep. The father stood large and blocked the door. And the small boy, drawn in tiny proportion compared to the others, seemed almost an afterthought.

Starsky put the book down and got to his feet, pacing across the room to look out the window. He gazed out, seeing a normal street in a quiet neighborhood, snow-covered just as it had been all week. It hadn’t changed; it was all the same. Starsky wiped beaded sweat that had formed above his upper lip, closing his eyes to think.

Only saw pictures like that once before. Back at Sergeant Peterson’s office in Protective Services, the time we helped her on that child abuse case. She’d let Starsky look at some of the drawings the kids had made for their therapists, drawings that depicted their families. All of them had been like the ones he’d just seen–morose, dark, forbidding, with pictures of huge tormentors standing over very small children.

Starsky leaned back against the curtain, running a hand over his face. His heart was beating fast, like he’d just been shot at without warning. Hutch had been treated like little Guy Mayer. Hutch had been abused. Hutch’s father had beaten him.

He couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Yet everything pointed to it.

Abuse… child abuse. A dirty word, something that only other people did, only inner city people, poor or uneducated people. But he’d learned that wasn’t so. Even nice people hit their kids. Even people in Duluth?

No. Not Hutch… Starsky gulped spasmodically. Nobody like Hutch should have had to endure stuff like that. Nobody who’d had that done to them as a kid could be as normal as Hutch… Could they?

What do I know? I’m no shrink. Normal people turn out to have big hang-ups every day. They turn out to have skeletons in their closets, problems that don’t show on the surface… secrets that come back to haunt them.

But Hutch is so level-headed, so kind and sincere. Wouldn’t somebody who’d been abused as a kid be mean-spirited… spiteful? Hutch is the trusting type, he sees the good in people, it doesn’t figure.

But maybe it does. How many times has he punched out a bad guy who’s picked on someone defenseless? How many times has he bullied someone he didn’t like? How many times has that loving guy I know as my partner done things that hurt–hurt me or himself? How many times has he fallen for women who are only out to use him?

He never said a word when we were on the Guy Mayer case. He looked as upset as me when he saw the marks on that kid’s back. But I talked about it. Couldn’t keep the revulsion from showing. Hutch was cool. He didn’t say a word. What was he holding inside…?

The more Starsky thought about it, the worse it seemed to him, but the more logical. Hutch’s mother had been an alcoholic. He’d had to take on duties far above his level of maturity and got no reward for doing so. His father seemed to hate him, never supported, never praised. Even as an adult, he treated Hutch like dirt, despite the fact that he was warm and hospitable to everyone else around him. And Hutch took more lip from him than he’d take from anyone else. It had been more than just long-suffering respect for his father. He’s afraid of the man? After all these years…? Starsky resisted the implication. Hutch had left home, put it all behind him. All that other stuff was in the past. But he remembers and it still hurts him. He tries to forget, but his dad keeps picking at him, so he feels like he did when he was a kid.

It was all Starsky could do to keep from going down the steps and confronting the man in his own living room. But he didn’t want to do anything that would end up hurting Hutch. And he still wanted to believe that the idea of Hutch being abused by his father was too far-fetched to be real. He went back to the box of mementoes and packed everything up, except the sketchpad. That he carried down the hall to his own room, where he slipped it into one of the dresser drawers. He couldn’t imagine asking Hutch about it, but he didn’t want to just leave it where it had been found. Starsky didn’t know yet what he was going to do, but he knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t just forget about the theory he had. If Hutch had been hurt that way, he needed help.

By dinnertime, the tension in Starsky had increased. He was getting jittery, the way he felt when a case was about to break open. The things he’d heard people say at the funeral, Hutch’s relatives and Jack Mitchell’s sister, seemed to want to fit the new pattern that was taking shape in his mind. Starsky kept telling himself not to think about it, but that was like trying to forget about himself. Hutch was his partner, his best friend. I love him. I gotta know…

Hutch was writing on a clipboard, making a complete list of his mother’s possessions. Starsky sat down next to him, watching him quietly. At last Hutch looked up. The smile he bestowed on Starsky was full of sunshine, as uncomplicated as if nothing had ever hurt him. It broke Starsky’s heart.

He moved closer. “How’d you like to get out of here for a while tonight? Maybe go out to dinner.”

Hutch put the clipboard aside. “I am kinda tired. Yeah. That’d be nice.”

At that moment his father entered the living room. “Dad? Starsky was suggesting we go out for a bite to eat.” Starsky had meant for just the two of them to go, but he couldn’t say that now.

Richard Hutchinson stopped in his tracks, looking first at his son and then at Starsky. His expression was neutral, hardly menacing. He sighed.

“I don’t feel up to going out, Ken. And I have to take your Aunt Ellen to the airport later. I’ll probably just make myself a sandwich. But if you don’t feel it’s too soon to go out socially, go on ahead if you want.” He delivered the speech without a trace of spitefulness, but Starsky knew a great deal of it was concealed under his polite manner.

Hutch looked as though he wanted to say something. Starsky put a hand on his arm and squeezed. When Mr. Hutchinson had left the room again, Starsky spoke up. “Looks like it’ll be just us, then.”

“Starsk, I don’t know…”

“He’ll be all right. Probably the man wants some time to himself.” Starsky looked pointedly into his partner’s eyes, making him believe what he said.

“I guess you’re right. Okay. I’ll go get cleaned up. I’m starved.”

With another fond smile, Hutch headed upstairs to get ready.

Starsky sat where he was, rubbing his hands together, lost in thought.

He felt like he was leading Hutch into something the man wasn’t ready for. Better be careful. This could all blow up in my face if I don’t watch it. But I gotta ask him some questions. Maybe it’s time he faced up to the answers.

Dinner was a nice affair at a good steakhouse. Hutch kept talking about Midwestern cooking and how much Duluth had changed since he’d moved, while Starsky put away a porterhouse cut with all the trimmings, baked potato with sour cream, salad and Milwaukee-brewed beer.

Hutch insisted on choosing the dessert. Starsky gaped at the huge slices of cheesecake smothered in cherries when they came, but reached for his fork. His amiable dinner companion did the same.

The meal was almost over. Starsky decided he could ask a question or two without upsetting Hutch too much. He smoothed the cherry topping across the cheesecake and didn’t meet his eyes.

“Hutch, are you okay? I mean, you said a couple of things about not getting along with your father…”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Didya… didya want to talk about it? I mean, if there’s anything you want to talk about, I’ll listen.”

Hutch drained the beer from his glass and met Starsky’s eyes. “What would I want to talk about?” His face told Starsky nothing.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Your mother had problems. Obviously so did your dad. It musta been rough.” He looked at Hutch, took a breath. “He seems like he yells at you a lot. Did… did he ever hit you?”

Hutch’s expression didn’t change. “Hit me? What do you mean?”

“Did your father ever hit you?” You’re not makin’ this easy.

“No.” Hutch shook his head, looked away. Then he turned back. “Why do you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” Starsky felt himself floundering. “I just wondered. He’s a big guy…”

“What’s that got to do with it?” The slightest amount of stress crept into his voice.

“Hutch, if he did, there’s nothing wrong with tellin’ me.”

“What’s there to tell? I… I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Starsky pressed.

“Okay, all right. Yeah, like most kids, I got smacked if I messed up. So what?” Hutch looked and sounded irritated.

“You got smacked? I thought you said a minute ago that you didn’t remember.”

“Starsky, what is this? I feel like a witness or something. Layoff, willya?”

“Hutch… I just get the feeling something’s goin’ on. I wanta help you, if you need it.”

“I don’t need that kind of help, buddy,” Hutch snapped. He turned away.

“Hutch…” Starsky pleaded. “Don’t get mad. It’s just that a lot of things people said the last couple of days… got me thinking… and if you and your father had a bad relationship, I mean, if he…”

“Starsky,” Hutch looked at him, the soul of patience. “What are you getting at?”

Starsky sighed. Somehow he’d been boxed into a corner. Okay. I’ll lay it out. “Did your father ever beat you?”

Hutch’s eyes widened. He gave a short laugh, as though shocked and amused. “Did my father… Starsky, where’d you ever come up with something like that?” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “I know we don’t get along real well, but that’s all it is.” He pulled the linen napkin off his lap, folding it carefully without looking up. “Really.”

Starsky watched him in silence. He’d asked his question and Hutch had denied everything. Starsky didn’t want to contradict him, to probe any more than he already had, but he couldn’t dismiss the issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe Hutch, he told himself. It was only that he was certain Hutch wasn’t telling him the full story.

You sound like you’re surprised, shocked, that I’d think such a thing. Hutch, I don’t know, you can be a pretty good liar, even when you’re not undercover. I just never thought you’d lie to me. Maybe the stakes were never this high before. Either it happened, and he doesn’t dare talk about it, or there’s something else that happened at the Hutchinson house. Whatever, he won’t let me in…

“Okay,” Starsky finally whispered, trying to shrug it off. “Guess I was barking up the wrong tree.” He sat staring at Hutch, willing his friend to understand where he was coming from.

Hutch met his eyes, smiling again. He put a hand out to cover Starsky’s own across the table. “It’s okay. I guess anybody’d think something rotten went down, the way he and I go at each other all the time.” He swallowed, then brightened again. “He didn’t win any prizes, but he wasn’t the world’s worst father, either. Mother’s… drinking… affected both of us. I guess neither of us handled it too well.”

Starsky turned his hand, his fingers clinging to Hutch’s briefly.

“Okay. Forget I mentioned it.” He put all his caring into his gaze.

Hutch looked back at him, and his eyes were grateful.

It was only ten o’clock, but Hutch said he was tired and went to bed early. Starsky looked as though he understood. Hutch had wished he could go to his friend, relax in his arms and let everything be all right, but he knew it wasn’t that simple. His emotions were on overload, however, and he needed most to get away, be alone, to rest.

The bedroom was chilly, so he pulled the bedspread up along with the blanket and lay shivering until the sheets warmed to his body heat. He could see out the window, the sky full of stars, the clear night looking like snow. He longed for L.A., heat and smog and snow only in the mountains. He wished he was home.

He turned over in bed. Home. Home is where the heart is. My heart… wants to be with Starsky… but it’s so hard… I can’t explain…

Words his father had said again came to him. “Have you been seeing that queer again, that faggot?” Those words, he’d heard them all his life. Anyone who wasn’t a man had to be a queer. “Why do you think grades are so all-important? A real man worries about sports and girls. Or are you a queer? I thought only queers were the valedictorians of their classes.”

But, Dad, you never came to see me play baseball, either… “Is he going to turn you into a faggot, too?” That was always your fear, wasn’t it, Dad? It became mine, too, did you know that? I was afraid of becoming what you hated so much, but it doesn’t look like I’ve been a success at being straight, either.“My son, a fairy. Goddamn fucking faggot! Kenny, the fag, the queer…”

There had never been anything but friendship between him and Gary Zimmerman, and he had told his father that.

Never believed me… Never trusted me… Never… loved me… He ached inside, his lonely soul crying for what it had never received from the parent whose acceptance and support he’d always craved. Why’d I ever care, why’d I ever try…? With him, it was always the same. He was sorry I was born.

“You good for nothing, lazy… I swear, if I had it to all over again, your mother would’ve had an abortion! You never should have been brought into this world, you ungrateful…”

Hutch willed himself to stop thinking. He’d left Minnesota, changed his life. Away from here, it worked. He felt okay about himself most of the time. He was good at a job he loved, he was needed, his life had a purpose. And no one knew what his home life had been like. Not even Starsky…

Except Starsky’s here now. I brought two worlds together, and that won’t work. I was safe… now he’s seen… I can’t let him talk to me about these things… I won’t be able to hold back… He couldn’t understand… No one could…

Safe. If felt so good to be safe. And he felt like a good man, a good person, when he could help keep someone else safe. People turned to him, needed him, and he could help…

He could help… until… Images flashed before his closed eyes… Jeannie Walton, she was running away and I said, “Run to me, I can help you,” but look what happened. I sold her, for a needle full of junk… Abby… she cared; it all seemed so good… until because of me she got hurt… Diana Harmon… how do I pick out the crazies? I couldn’t love her like she wanted… sorry… I don’t know how… Gillian… nothing’s gonna happen… none of the red balloons are gonna break… none of them… why couldn’t I see what you needed? Why did I fail you, too?

Jack… I tried to save you… proved you weren’t a murderer, but you ended up dead just the same… what good is it to have me for a friend? Starsky… what am I gonna do about you? I need… I need you… but someday I’ll hurt you, too…

His uneasy rest was broken. Hutch rolled over, only barely realizing he’d been asleep. He sank into the softness, eyes closed against the dark, and drifted into fitful slumber again.

The flowers were beautiful… they smelled so good… he rubbed his face in them… sneezing from the pollen… the flowers were all around, he was lying in them… oh, no! my bike… the flowers were ruined…

“Ken! What are you doing?”

He got up, running as fast as small legs could carry him. Mother’s room. She’s asleep and doesn’t see me. Hide. Under the bed. He won’t find…

The door opens. Heart pounding in fear and dread. Then footsteps carry him away… Safe… didn’t find me…

“Ken! Where are you? You know you can’t hide from me forever!”

Heavy footsteps returned, came close to his hiding place. “There you are! You little bastard…” And a hard hand caught his own small wrist, dragging him out from under the bed.

“Daddy, please… I’m sorry…”

“Sorry? You’re always sorry…”

He tried to pull his wrist out of the big man’s grasp, but he couldn’t get free. It hurt… hurt… “Mom, please… Tell Daddy I didn’t mean it… Please…”

He was being dragged down the hall, toward his own room. He hollered again for his mother and a hand slapped him across the mouth. He felt blood trickle down his chin.

“Get in there!” He staggered into his room. “Over there!” He followed the pointing finger and moved toward the bed.

He heard the belt unbuckle, the leather pulled out of the trouser loops. A hard hand pressed against the middle of his back and there was no escape. The first blow fell…

He bit his lip, tasting blood. He wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t cry.

Take it like a man… Screaming, crying wouldn’t help… that only made it go on longer… the belt hurt… wide leather strap, brought down by a man using all his strength… It hurts, it stings… please, stop… please… I’m not a bad boy… his behind was on fire… please, I’m sorry… it was an accident…

One last stroke and silence in the room. Only muffled breathing, a boy’s gasps, a man’s puffing from exertion… He reached back to touch his stinging flesh, drew his hand away wet with blood. That’s why he stopped…

“Just enough to bleed… that’s what teaches him a lesson…” Where had he heard those words? Late at night, in the hall? His father’s voice answering his mother’s questions? Why doesn’t she care, why doesn’t she stop him? Am I really so bad?

On and on… always the same… no talking, no understanding… only insults, bad names–faggot, pansy, worthless queer… only the belt when he didn’t do what his father wanted… I’m too big for that, Dad… I’m almost sixteen… don’t… stop it, you bastard… yeah, I’m mad… you can’t do that to me… no, don’t let him know, don’t tell him your feelings… make them go away by yourself… if you don’t talk about it, it never happened… get the bad guys instead… punch out the pimps who put fourteen-year-old girls on the street, shoot the killers, beat the bad cops senseless… stop the bad parents… get them, get them all…

He woke gasping. Dragging a hand over his face, he found it wet with tears. He sat up, shaking all over, damp with sweat. He looked for the clock and found it was nearly five. He shivered, his wet skin chilling. The bed was damp, the sheets too cold. He looked around, feeling disoriented. Alone… alone… he didn’t want to be alone.

Starsky. He got up, not bothering with slippers or robe and crossed the hall. His partner’s door was open.

Starsky’s eyes opened. Sensing some change in the room, he was fully awake, reflexes sharp as always, but he lay still, wondering if the disturbance was only something he’d dreamed. The sash was open wide on his window and cold light poured in. Not daylight. Moonlight on falling snow, an eerie beauty.

He rolled over, eyes going wide when he saw his visitor. Hutch stood there, close to the bed, hair a crown of disheveled gold in the half-light. His face looked ravaged.

“Hutch.” Starsky sat up, reaching toward him. “What’re you doin’ here? What’s wrong?”

Hutch moved then, coming to Starsky on the bed, arms wrapping around him tight. He was breathing in gasps, trembling all over, and he was very cold.

“Hey,” Starsky soothed, “what’s all this? You’re freezin’. How long you been standin’ there?”

He received no answer. He folded Hutch close, shocked by the chilled sweat of his soaked pajama top. “Babe…” He pulled back, stroked the damp face and tried to read what was in the bloodshot eyes. “Get that shirt off. Here…” He slipped open the buttons and eased the wet garment off the unresisting figure, dropping it onto the floor. “Get under these covers.” He moved over, making a space for Hutch where he’d been lying. “Come on,” he urged, pulling him in, “it’s warm in here.”

Still shaking, Hutch complied, his movements uncoordinated. Starsky slid close to him, thinking only of warding off the chill. He felt cold feet against him and covered them with his own warm ones. He pulled the blankets high, rubbing his hands over Hutch’s broad back. “There,” he whispered finally. “That better?” Hutch was still breathing hard. “What brought all this on?” He dared a kiss, pressing his lips against a damp temple.

“Starsky…” The voice was breaking. “I’m sorry… I didn’t, I mean…”

“Easy, take it easy. What are you tryin’ to tell me?”

“I… I’m sorry I got mad at you at dinner…” the quaking voice told him.

Starsky held him firmly, heartbroken with the realization that Hutch was about to admit he’d been right. “So, it is true?” he asked gently, “About your father…”

“No. No, it’s not!” Hutch tried to pull away. Starsky stopped him and he subsided, head dropping again to the pillow. “I just… I didn’t mean to get mad…”

“It’s not true?” Starsky whispered, thinking of the pictures in his dresser drawer.

Hutch shook his head, hands gripping Starsky’s shoulders spasmodically.

“What’s wrong then?” His hand found the crown of Hutch’s head, smoothing the hair into place, letting the cool strands glide through his fingers, trying to soothe. “You thinkin’ about your mother?”

A shaky sigh, a nod of the head.

“I know, babe. I know it hurts…” Starsky was annoyed at himself. He’d pushed Hutch too much at dinner, bringing up weird theories when the man was grieving. He drew Hutch’s head to his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” His voice went even softer. “Hutch, I love you.”

Hutch trembled, pressing closer. “Love you, too.” His arms tightened. “Starsk… I need you…”

The words seemed to tear Starsky’s heart wide open. He bent to find Hutch’s mouth and the two came together in a kiss that held enough power to drive all the demons in the world away. Hutch’s hands were everywhere, going under Starsky’s shirt, stroking and feeling, sliding down to grasp at his ass. He rolled over, pinning Starsky with his weight and Starsky wrapped his arms around the broad shoulders.

Their mouths parted finally, but came back together in the tenderest of kisses. Hutch’s hands tangled in Starsky’s curls, holding him secure. His hips began to move and Starsky felt the smooth hardness of Hutch’s erection slide against his belly. He parted his legs, wanting Hutch there between them, where he could grind his body against Starsky until he came. Hutch broke the kiss suddenly, pulling away to sit, gasping, at the side of the bed.

Starsky sat up, senses reeling. He touched Hutch’s shoulder and the man flinched.

“What? Hutch, what’s wrong?”

The eyes closed, the forehead creased with anguish. “I’m sorry,” he said without looking at Starsky. “I… it’s not… I can’t…”

Starsky touched his shoulder again, this time gently, and Hutch didn’t pull away. His heart was throbbing and he tried to steady himself, believing he understood what was in Hutch’s mind. “It’s okay. You’re right. Maybe now’s not the best time or place.” He bent to place a kiss on the smooth shoulder. “Don’t be mad at yourself. It’s late and you’re exhausted anyway.”

Finally, Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him. His eyes said he wanted to say something, but no words came.

Starsky tried to smile. “Come on. Lay back down. I’ll hold you like before.” He started to pull him close.

Hutch shook his head. “I’d better… go back to my room.” He got up, stooping to find his pajama top on the floor. He turned once more to look at Starsky, and the love and torment in his eyes were almost more than his partner could bear. He wanted so much to help his friend, but there was no way Starsky could get inside that mixed up blond head of his. He sat up too, getting out of bed to follow him to the door, very aware of the house they were in, Hutch’s father’s house, where they weren’t alone, where they contended with memories and old wounds that no one could talk about. Back in L.A., they could sort it out. Hutch would be himself again. I’ll love you enough to make you okay. Starsky couldn’t say the words out loud. He touched Hutch’s arm, offering a smile of reassurance.

Hutch disappeared into the hall and Starsky heard the door to his room close. He went back to bed, exhaustion making him seek sleep. He didn’t want to think anymore, but Hutch’s eyes were too much in his mind. What are you not telling me, babe?

Richard Hutchinson stepped back into his own bedroom. The sounds from the room down the hall had awakened him, and he’d stood in the shadows behind his door, listening, watching. The house went quiet again, and then his son appeared at the door to Starsky’s room. He was bare-chested, carrying his pajama top. His hair was mussed. He went back to his own room and closed the door.

Richard checked his watch. Five-thirty-five. He’d go back to bed now, but in the morning, he’d let his son know just what he thought of that kind of activity under his own roof.

Hutch was pacing, the confines of the room seeming like a cage to him. He felt hemmed in, trapped, barred by circumstances from doing–from being–what he wanted. Last night, all the old terrors had come to him–the physical pain his father was capable of inflicting, the mental anguish, the self-doubt.

I always wished I could be like Gary, just who I was and not care what anyone else thought. I used to envy him so much… He knew who he was, and I didn’t. My father said I wasn’t much of a man, but I knew I wasn’t like Gary, either. Why couldn’t I just be myself?

What would have been so wrong if I liked men more than girls? I never understood… Dad thinks it’s the worst, most disgusting thing a man can do, but it wasn’t that way for Gary.

And then Starsky came along… the strongest, most independent person I’ve ever known. He likes himself. God, it would be so good to feel that way. And when we got close it seemed so natural, so perfect. Life was getting to be the way it was supposed to. And then we kissed that night…

It was so good, so sweet… I felt like I was learning all the answers to all the questions I ever had. But I was scared, too… afraid that my father’s predictions were going to come true… I didn’t want to hurt Starsky… I love him… but last night, I just couldn’t…

Oh, God, help me…

Fear and anger and depression wound themselves tighter in Hutch’s heart until he didn’t know any more what he was feeling. His father’s condemnation, his mother’s neglect, it was as though he was seventeen again, back in this house, looking for answers and not finding them anywhere. He wanted to cry, he wanted to break something. If anyone said anything to him, he didn’t know if he could predict his response. He didn’t know what he might do.

Starsky finished dressing, wondering what he should say to Hutch now, in the cold light of day. Last night had shown him that his friend was far more confused and upset than he’d realized. He wasn’t sure how to help him, but he knew he had to try. It was nearly nine o’clock and Starsky hadn’t heard much so far in the huge house. Perhaps, if Hutch’s father wasn’t up yet, they’d have a little while to talk.

He stepped into the hall and crossed to Hutch’s door. It was closed, so he knocked lightly, then tried the knob. He peered inside, finding Hutch dressed and standing at the window, looking out at the snow-covered street. His hands were behind him, clasped together in a grip that looked spasmodic. Starsky wanted to go to him and massage the tension from between his shoulders.

Hutch turned suddenly, looking startled. His expression softened when he saw his visitor was Starsky, but he didn’t say anything.

“Morning,” Starsky offered, stepping further into the room. “How you feelin’ today?”

Hutch shook his head, rubbing fingers across his brow. “Okay, I guess.” His eyes had that far-away expression in them again. Starsky had to find out where he went when he wore that look. He had to keep him from going to that terrible place alone, without him.

“Listen, partner,” he began, moving closer to him, “we need to talk.”

Hutch seemed to lean further toward the window without actually moving away from Starsky. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“That’s okay. Forget about last night. I mean we need to talk about your father. Hutch, I know something happened…”

“Starsky, will you please leave it alone? The past is just that, the past. Leave it there, will you?”

Starsky spread his hands, shrugging. “No, I can’t. I can’t leave you hurting this way.”

“I’m all right.” Hutch faced back toward the window.

Starsky came to stand beside him. “No. You’re not.”

“It snowed again last night.” The voice seemed to come from a great distance.

“A lot happened last night.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want to talk about that.” It was clear that Starsky had struck a nerve.

“So what? I changed my mind.” Starsky pinned him with his eyes, knowing his look dared Hutch equivocate. “You came into my room because something upset you. What?”

A drawn breath. Squaring broad shoulders. “I had a bad dream. That’s all. Didn’t you ever have a bad dream?”

“Yeah. I’ve had them. And I always found talking about them in the daylight made me feel better.”

“Well, that’s you,” Hutch snapped. “Not me.”

“Hutch, why are you continuing to deny that your father used to hit you?” Starsky stepped closer to him, forcing himself into the other man’s space. “If it happened, you should talk about it.”

“What went on in this house is no one’s business.” Hutch looked directly into Starsky’s eyes as he said the words, but it sounded like something he’d learned by rote, something that had been drilled into him from many years ago. Starsky wouldn’t accept it.

“It’s my business if it’s tearin’ my partner to pieces. It’s my business if it’s gonna get in the way of us.”

Hutch turned away, moving as if he had to escape Starsky’s grilling. “Starsky, what’s getting in the way of us is just being here, in this house, this town. Okay, so I had a fucked up childhood. Does that satisfy you? When we get home again, I’ll be all right.”

Starsky faced his partner, eyes boring deep. “Will you, Hutch? Will you be all right? Have you ever been all right, really?” The wounded look those words produced made Starsky’s insides hurt, but he didn’t know any other way to get through Hutch’s protective armor. “If you want to wait, okay, I’ll wait until we get home. But then you’re gonna sit down and tell me everything, you hear? You’re my partner, and I’m supposed to know these things. I put my life in your hands on the streets out there. So you owe me this, buddy. You owe me!”

Hutch turned his face away, as though avoiding a blow. When he turned back, his eyes were full of fire. “I owe you! When haven’t I been there for you, buddy? That’s what I want to know! Have I ever let you down on the job? If I’m so screwed up, how come I’m such a good cop?”

“Hutch, come on. I’m not sayin’ you’re not a good cop. It’s okay, you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s your father that’s made you feel that way, but honest, babe, you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s what he did to you…”

But Hutch would not be placated. “Where do you get off coming at me with all these crazy theories, anyway? You’re no shrink…”

“I’m a detective,” Starsky fired back. “I have eyes. I can see what’s goin’ on around here. I listen to your relatives and family friends talking and I can tell something wasn’t right in this house.”

“This isn’t some crime you’re investigating. You’re way off base, Starsky, and I’m getting sick of it. Ever since you found out my mother was a drunk, you’ve been at me to talk… ‘Talk about it, it’s good for you…’ Well, I happen to think talking about stuff like this just makes it worse. If somebody wants to forget something, why keep on dredging it up?”

“Because there’s more to this than what went on with your mother. You know it and I know it.”

Hutch raised one hand, as if to hold back more of Starsky’s words. “Why, Starsky? Why are you pushing me this way?”

“I spent all of yesterday looking through stuff up here in her room, remember? She saved a lot of stuff…”

“What do you mean?” Hutch looked genuinely puzzled, yet stricken at the same time.

Starsky hesitated. He hated to throw those drawings he’d found in Hutch’s face, but he didn’t know any other way to get through to him. He knew he was right, yet a small voice inside his head told him to be careful. Maybe Hutch couldn’t handle being shown those drawings. He probably didn’t even remember making them, anyway. And one thing he’d said was true–Starsky wasn’t a shrink. He could be reading too much into them. But Hutch needed help, needed it desperately. He looked at the man, saw the pallor of his face, the eyes ringed by black circles, puffy from lack of sleep, the body showing the strain of the past days and the last few minutes, and he relented. He went closer to him, but made his stance less challenging, regretting the confrontational words.

“Nothing. Forget it. I don’t wanta make you feel worse than you already do.” Hutch looked at him with those big eyes, and Starsky moved to wrap him in his arms. “It’s okay. If you want to talk sometime, I’m here to listen. If you don’t…”

“We’ll talk,” the roughened voice said, close to his ear. “When we get back home. Okay, Starsk?”

He drew him into a deeper embrace, relief giving him a hollow victory. Hutch’s pain was so real to him, and all he wanted to do was make it go away. “Sure, babe. Whatever you want.” They stood there for a few minutes, holding tight to each other, and Starsky could feel their hearts beating together, so close they seemed to touch, to feed off each other, to live through each other.

“Kenneth! Where are you? I want to talk to you!”

The shout made Hutch flinch in Starsky’s arms. Starsky tried to hold him, but he pulled away, going to open the door and shout an answer into the hall.

“I’m up here, Dad. What is it?”

“Just get down here. Now!”

Starsky had followed him to the door. He didn’t know what to say, but he wanted to advise Hutch to ignore the shouted order. He touched his friend’s arm as he made to leave the room.

Hutch turned to him and the fire was back in his eyes. “It’s all right. I want to talk to him, too.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but the expression was more of a grimace. “Listen, Starsk. Do me a favor. Get out of here for a while, okay? Get in the car and go… to the store, or something. I need to have some time with him.”

“You sure?” Starsky asked. Hutch didn’t look up to having another major argument yet, but if he felt ready to confront his father about the past, that seemed a step in the right direction.

“Okay. I’ll make myself scarce. You want me to take more than an hour?”

“Maybe. I hate to throw you out like this, but…”

“Forget it. I’m a big boy. I’ll find something to do.”

Hutch flashed him a grateful look and started into the hall.

“Hey, partner,” Starsky said, catching his sleeve, “take it easy.”

Hutch met his eyes, touched his face, then headed down the stairs.

His father was in the den, sitting behind his desk, when Hutch found him. He stepped inside, hearing the sound of the front door closing as Starsky left. An outward calm descended over him, leaving fire deep within. All the old feelings of anger seemed to coalesce inside him and he glared at the man who was his father, drained from the conversation with Starsky but strangely resolved. If he could just keep control–of the situation, or myself, of Dad?–perhaps he could let the man know what the years of abuse had done to him. The thought of laying it out, making accusations he’d buried for too many years, left him quaking inside, burning with unchecked emotion, the need to stand up for himself withering under an irrational–or not so irrational–fear. That’s what had always happened before. The blatant injustice of his father’s attacks would leave him bleeding and vulnerable, defenseless. When he was little, he’d tried to hide, to avoid at all costs his father’s wrath. Grown up, he’d simply stayed out of the man’s way, daring only to argue about immediate issues, never to truly speak his mind.

“Was that your partner leaving?” There was an odd emphasis on the word partner.

“Yes,” Hutch said, stepping further into the room. “I sent him out for a while. I want to talk to you.”

The man must have recognized the edge in his voice. He stood up behind the desk. “You want to talk to me? That will have to wait.”

Hutch took another step forward. “Oh, no, it won’t. I’ve been waiting a lifetime to say some of these things to you.” His voice was shaking, and he tried to control it.

His father came around the edge of the desk, folding his arms as he stood before him. “I was awake at five o’clock this morning.”

Hutch just looked at him for a moment, not understanding what he meant. “You were awake…?”

“Yes. So were you. Isn’t that so?”

“Look, Dad. I have some things I want to say…”

“You were awake. And so was that partner of yours.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said ‘partner’ that way. What do you mean by that?”

“It’s a pretty polite term, isn’t it?” The man’s hard eyes seemed to pin Hutch.

Still not knowing what he was getting at, he felt his earlier resolve wavering. “It’s just like you to try to stay away from the real issue, Dad,” he said jeeringly, seeking the disdain that had always served him so well with criminals on the street. How many times had he wished it were his father there before him, powerless and subject to his ridicule?

“I try to stay away from the real issue? You’re the master at that, Kenneth. All right, I’ll spell it out. ‘Partner’ is a polite term for what you and this man are, isn’t it?”

A cold feeling settled in the pit of Hutch’s stomach. “What are you getting at?” His voice was low–he already knew the answer. Go ahead, try and push my buttons.

“You always liked to play the innocent. Pretty blond Kenneth. Nobody ever thought you could do wrong, did they? Well, we know different, don’t we, son?”

The big man took a step toward him. Hutch willed himself not to move back. “Yes, pretty boy. That’s what you are out there in California, aren’t you? With your long hair and tight pants. You thought you could hide from me, but you can’t get away with it.” He pounded a clenched fist into his other hand, voice rising to a shout. “I want you and your faggot lover out of this house!”

Hutch laughed out loud. “I’m not scared of that word anymore, Dad. I’ve known men you’d call faggot who were stronger than you’ve ever been.”

“Are you denying you and that Jew are queer for each other?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Hutch’s voice rose. “That’s the sin you always tormented me with. Well, Dad, it might have been true. Last night it almost was. But you screwed me up so good with all your insults and shame that I can’t do any better with a man in my bed than I can with a woman.”

Two beefy fists grabbed the material of Hutch’s shirt. “Shut your filthy smart mouth! I’m not going to put up with it any more than I’m going to allow you and some faggot fucking in my house!”

Hutch shoved at the hands on him. “You can’t talk that way to me anymore, Dad. I’m not going to put up with that!” He started to turn away.

His father grabbed at his shoulder. “Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you! Answer my question! Are you and that Jew a couple of faggots?”

“Shut up! Shut up! You’re not gonna insult Starsky like that, and you’re not gonna get me to say anything I don’t want to say! Our relationship is none of your business!” There was so much more he wanted to say, but he knew it was useless. His father never heard him anyway.

“I’m glad your mother is in her grave. She…”

“That’s it, bring Mother into this.” Hutch felt beads of sweat sliding down his spine, heat coming from deep within at the mention of his mother, grief and love all tangled up with disillusionment. He felt dizzy, out of control. “Well, she stayed out of most of our arguments anyway–I couldn’t count on her any more than I could count on you.”

“Your mother was a sick woman!”

“You made her that way!”

The stinging slap threw Hutch’s head back. Something snapped inside him and he raised his hand to his father, then froze. Mom, I need you. Why don’t you hear him hurting me…?

“It was because of you she drank,” the man spat at him, seizing on Hutch’s hesitation and using it against him. “You ruined her life and you ruined mine!”

“You were never there for her! For either of us!” Hutch unleashed his contempt, voice shaking from hatred and unhealed wounds.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “Why would she be there for you, you little spoiled pansy brat? You should have been drowned at birth…”

“Don’t you say another fucking word to me…”

Before he could finish, a fist struck him hard in the jaw.

Hutch staggered back a step. His father moved in quickly, throwing a second punch, this time to Hutch’s stomach. The pain short-circuited the defiance in Hutch’s breast. He faltered, throwing up his hands, a plea on his lips.

“Dad!”

“Faggot!” A blow to his solar plexus. He fell back, barely aware of the coffee table splintering under his weight. “Worthless queer!” His collar was grabbed. He rolled to his stomach, hands over his face. His stomach heaved, he felt faint.

“I’ll show you…”

Something ripped. …my shirt?

Fear was heat all around him… terror and shame made him small. The belt buckle… leather sliding out of the loops…

“No…” Leather cracking on naked skin… take it like a man…

“Please… please…”

Sweat beaded Richard Hutchinson’s face and he had to stop for breath. He stood there, looking down at his worthless disgrace of a son, shocked and angry that the fool had brought him once again to this madness. He was lying there, shaking, on top of the walnut table. Angela loved that table. Sickened by the sight of him, Richard kicked the silent figure in the ribs, grimacing tightly at the weak moan. He smoothed back his hair, wiping the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve, and slowly replaced his belt in its loops.

“I’m going to the office,” he said in a reasonable tone. “When I come back I want you gone.” Ken didn’t move.

Richard bent over him, grabbing a handful of sweat-plastered hair. Lids raised over unfocusing eyes. “You hear me?” Disgusting. What would your friends think if they saw you like this?

He let go of the thinning blond strands and the head dropped again to the floor. Ken lay insensible, mouth hanging open. Shaking his head, Richard went to the closet in the hall, pulled out his coat and walked through the door to his home.

Starsky negotiated the snow-dusted streets, locating Hutch’s neighborhood with an unfailing good sense of direction. He turned down the right street, sighting the house, anxious to find out how Hutch’s talk with his father had gone. He’d spent an hour browsing a local bookstore and going to pick up some groceries–coffee, juice, and other staples, and the locally baked sweet rolls that Hutch loved that he couldn’t get in L.A. Maybe the sight of them would cheer his partner up.

He was worried about Hutch. That’s putting it mildly… His friend often leapt before he looked, letting righteous indignation carry him without concerning himself with consequences. That he’d spoken of an intention of having words with his father after the emotionally wrenching conversation they’d just had surprised Starsky. Hutch hadn’t looked up to a conversation with Rosey Dobey when he’d left the room. But maybe it’s best that he strike while the iron is hot. I don’t think he’d give the old bastard a piece of his mind unless he’d been pushed pretty hard.

Thoughts of the older Hutchinson made Starsky’s hands clench on the steering wheel. What he did to Hutch is nothing short of criminal… if I ever get the chance, I’ll tell him to his face. It wasn’t often that Starsky felt this kind of hatred toward someone. All he wanted at the moment was for the next morning to come so they could get on that plane back home. Hutch was wrecked, exhausted, pushed past his limits, and God knew what another argument with his father had done in the last hour. I’m here, babe. I’ll help you pick up the pieces.

Starsky put the car in park and cut the ignition. He climbed out with his bag of groceries, eyes scanning the colonial home. In the snowy morning the house looked so comfortable, so sheltering. Who would think it was the dwelling of such an unhappy family?

He stomped through the inch or so of powder on the walk, noting a second set of footprints going out, besides his own earlier ones. Maybe Hutch or his father’d had to go out for some air.

Trying the front door, he found it unlocked, and switched on the light in the foyer. “Hutch! I’m back,” he called. He headed for the kitchen, glancing into the living room but seeing no one as he passed.

He spent a minute or so putting away juice and half-and-half and a couple of packages of cold cuts, noting that the jar of instant Maxwell House they’d been left with was still on the counter. Starsky rummaged in drawers until he found a can opener and busied himself with getting a pot of real coffee started. When it was busily dripping into the Mr. Coffee decanter, he wiped his hands on his jeans and called Hutch’s name again.

Still receiving no answer, he wondered if both the Hutchinsons had gone out. He hadn’t noticed whether the garage was empty when he came in, but it didn’t seem likely that Hutch and his father would go out for a drive together. Not without leaving me a note…

He headed for the side door that lead to the garage, passing the den on his left. The sight of the broken coffee table brought him up short and he went to look over the damage, senses bristling and on guard for danger. Seeing nothing amiss but the splintered table, he rubbed a hand over his face in puzzlement, chiding himself for overreacting like a cop when it was obvious there’d been no intruder in the house. But something went down… “Hutch?” He stared at the table. How did this happen? Looks like someone kicked it in… or maybe fell on it. His adrenalin kicked back in. Some kind of violent argument had taken place; neither Hutch nor his father had appeared since he entered the house. Starsky took off for the stairs.

“Hutch!” He bounded up them two at a time, seeing no one in the hallway or either of the rooms he and Hutch had used during their stay. “Hutch? Come on, man, answer me…” The door at the end of the hall, the one to Hutch’s mother’s room, was closed.

He tried the knob, found the door was locked. His heart was pounding, all kinds of crazy things going through his mind, none of them good. “Hutch!” He pounded on the door. “You in there?'” He listened, even going so far as to press his ear against the wood, but heard nothing.

But someone’s in there… does Hutch’s dad have a gun? Mind refusing the implications his fear was conjuring, Starsky threw his weight against the door. It opened on the second try.

He staggered into the dim interior, seeing nothing amiss at first glance. He’d almost expected to find two bodies, knowing how domestic disputes often ended up. He used to believe that sort of thing happened only among other people, but after this week he knew anything was possible. But the room showed no sign of violence. Only the dust ruffle on the bed was slightly disturbed.

He moved toward it, heightened senses taking in the odd detail. It was pushed out and up, yet pulled under in another spot. There were slight marks in the light dust that covered the hardwood floor.

Starsky sank to his knees. “Hutch?” A catch in his throat made the word hard to get out. He bent, tugging at the dust ruffle to peek under the bed.

“Hutch…” He started to touch the foot that was near him, but held back. “Hutch, you crazy…” He bit off the words, shook the hair out of his eyes. “Hutch. It’s me. Come on outta there…” This time he did grasp the foot, but Hutch made no response.

Starsky got up from his knees and rounded the bed, sinking to the floor on the other side. He lifted the obscuring cloth again.

Hutch’s face was in shadow, but what Starsky could see was enough to terrify him. The blond was ghost-pale, eyes open but unseeing, mouth lax, his expression incredibly blank. For a moment Starsky wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

Unable to say a word, he got his hands on one shoulder to pull and found the material looser than he expected. He got a better hold and began dragging Hutch out from under the bed.

The movement wrenched a gasp from the man, an unearthly sound that struck Starsky in his soul. What’d he do to you…?

Hutch was rigid, and his eyes squeezed shut, hands spasmodically resisting Starsky’s pull. He grasped one, but it flinched back from his touch, covering the ravaged face.

Starsky puffed from exertion. Moving Hutch was like dragging against the current. Frustration and anguish nearly made Starsky curse, but he managed not to, concentrating instead on getting Hutch from under the bed. He didn’t want to think about what forces had caused him to want to hide himself beneath it.

Finally he was free, lying wound in a ball beside the bed, limp again now that Starsky was finished pulling him. He bent, hands flitting over the sweat-soaked head, the nearest shoulder, the waist. Shirt’s torn, all the way down… What the…? At the touch of his hands, Hutch started trembling.

“Babe… what…? Jesus, talk to me…” This was too big for just emotional distress. There must be something… He pulled at the torn material of the ripped shirt.

It was dim in the room with the shades pulled, but Starsky could see. Welts covered the broad back, some of them bleeding. He broke into a sweat. I’ll kill the bastard! How could he…? “Hutch, Hutch, come on. You can’t stay down here like this.” He put his hands on the folded arms, lightly tugging, and Hutch groaned from deep in his throat, a sound like nothing Starsky had ever heard before. Confronted with the mental and physical abuse that had been inflicted, his mind kept throwing up blanks. What to do? What in God’s name can I do…? Shaking his head helplessly, he got to his feet, adrenalin kicking in. He made for the bathroom, thinking of first aid.

He shoved back the mirror that concealed the medicine shelves. Antiseptic? Salve? Ammonia… Hutch seems almost unconscious… He grabbed a couple of items, then turned to the linen closet, pulling out a couple of washcloths and towels. He soaked a couple in warm water and poured a dose of ammonia into another, then headed back to Hutch, piling the armful of stuff at the foot of the bed.

The blond hadn’t moved. Going to his knees again, Starsky waved the ammonia-soaked rag under his nose and Hutch drew away, moaning again, coughing as though he might gag.

“Atta boy, wake up for me.” Starsky pulled him a little further away from the bed and got his hands under Hutch’s armpits, lifting. This time Hutch was less resistant and allowed himself to be helped onto the bed. He curled on his side, looking as though he wanted to sink into the mattress. Still hiding, his hands weakly covered his face.

Starsky went to the window, raising the sash just a little. In the new light, the wounds looked worse. He bent over Hutch, gingerly stroking his head.

“Babe, we gotta get you to a hospital…”

“No…” Hutch croaked. Starsky cringed at the shame in his voice.

“Hutch, you need a doctor…”

“No… please… no more…”

Does he even know I’m here? He leaned closer. “Hutch, I gotta take you to a hospital. You’re hurt.”

Blue eyes surrounded by red lines focused on his face. “No… no hospital… I can’t…”

“Nobody’ll know…” Starsky cut off the statement. What difference would it make if nobody knew it was Hutch’s father who did this to him? He took a breath, looking more closely at the seeping injuries. The raised welts looked painful, but they weren’t life threatening and it shouldn’t be too hard to stop the sluggish bleeding. If that’s all there was to the physical damage. “Hutch… did he…” Words came too hard. “Are… are you hurt anywhere else?”

Hutch coughed again, hand trying to rub at his chest and stomach. Starsky pressed his own hand along the man’s damp side, lifting the torn shirt to see. Though it was hard to tell because Hutch kept flinching as he touched him, he felt nothing that meant broken ribs, but he could see the beginnings of mottled bruises. Refusing to speculate on internal injuries, he gambled that for the moment he could take care of Hutch on his own. First thing, take care of the shock… Hutch was cold. Starsky ran to the next room, yanking the quilt and both pillows off the bed. He carried them back, tucking the soft folds over the quaking shoulders, careful of the abraded back. He bent to pull Hutch’s boots off, folding the long legs so they both rested on the bed, feeling a flash of déjà vu. Huggy’s… you out of it from heroin withdrawal…Somehow even that abomination paled in the light of this new ordeal. He adjusted his position, using the pillows–raise the legs above the heart–and then stepped back.

He stood there, mind reeling without focus. Hutch’s father had beaten him. Abused him. What did he use, a belt? Is this what he used to do to him when he was a kid? Starsky felt sick, never having imagined the horror his eyes now confronted. It had been worse than he’d ever dreamed. And he’d never have thought it would get this bad between them now, all these years later. How did this happen? How did a sixty-five year old man do this to a man as physically strong as my partner? Why didn’t Hutch fight back? What kind of mental torture did it take to get him to where this could happen?

Where is he? A burst of anger in Starsky demanded action. He’d never learned whether the car was gone–maybe Hutch’s father was still in the house. When I get my hands on that monster… He charged from the room, fists clenching in rage, heart pounding with the need to inflict some pain of his own, pain that wouldn’t begin to repay the bastard for what he’d done to Hutch.

Finding the house empty did nothing to slow Starsky’s fury. Chest heaving, he stormed into the garage, staring around in disbelief that the car was indeed gone. Crawl away like the filth you are… I’ll be waiting when you get back… He drew a shaking hand across his face, amazed to find his cheeks wet.

What am I gonna do if I get my hands on him? Commit murder? Break a few bones? Have the man arrested? How’s that gonna help Hutch? Hutch… My God, how am I gonna help you…? Frustration supplanted Starsky’s anger for the moment. No matter what he thought to do, there was no action he could take. He couldn’t beat Hutch’s father to a pulp. He couldn’t take his partner to a hospital and foist the problem off on someone else, even if professionals might be equipped to deal with the damage. All he could do was try to help him himself. He ached to take the man into his arms and make all the hurt go away, but as he turned to trudge back upstairs, he knew he couldn’t even do that. Hutch could barely withstand any contact at all, and if Starsky wrapped his arms around him, he wouldn’t be able to avoid the ugly lacerations on his back. His eyes were blurred as he came into the bedroom again, and he vented a small portion of his feelings, wiping the tears away with a vicious swipe of his knuckles.

Moving to the side of the bed, he carefully touched Hutch’s head, fingers then sliding over one pale cheek. He wasn’t as cold as before, and this time he didn’t flinch away. Starsky took that as a sign of improvement. He cleared his throat before speaking, hoping to sound a little more coherent than he felt.

“Hutch? I better look at your back,” he explained in a whisper, realizing the words were an echo of what they’d had to ask of little Guy Mayer. He turned back the quilt and Hutch didn’t react as he lifted the torn shirt out of the way. He reached for one of the wet towels, using it gently on the livid welts, sort of blotting rather than actually washing them. Hutch hissed in a breath, but didn’t say a word. The welts extended all the way across his back, mostly on the lower part of it. The worst ones were concentrated there, and Starsky figured the shirt, even though it had been torn – deliberately?–had still given some protection up around his shoulders. The raised red lines descended all the way to the waistband of Hutch’s pants. The bleeding had stopped, and most of the wounds were superficial. Starsky looked at the broad expanse of tawny skin marred by the senseless brutality and hoped the injuries wouldn’t leave scars. Hutch’s beautiful skin… He drew back when he realized he was peering to see if there were any other old wounds that he’d never noticed on Hutch’s back. Does little Guy have scars? Or are all his on the inside, like Hutch’s too?

He put the towel aside and picked up a bottle of antiseptic ointment, reading the directions. It said it had anesthetic ingredients as well, so Starsky figured it would be good to apply it to the wounds. Hutch was lying there, barely breathing, fingers clenched in the bedspread, and all Starsky wanted to do was make him stop hurting. Apply with cotton or gauze. He got up again to check the medicine chest once more. There was a half-empty package of cotton balls, which he brought back to the bedside.

He felt awkward about doing this, fearing he’d cause more pain inadvertently. Hutch still hadn’t looked up or reacted much. Starsky could only guess at what must be going through his mind right how, but his expression was full of distress, as though ashamed to have anyone seeing him this way. Taking a deep breath, he soaked a couple of cotton balls in the ointment and bent over the lacerated back again.

As the cool substance contacted the wounds, Hutch made a soft sound in his throat, halfway between a groan and a whimper. “Easy, Hutch, easy,” Starsky cautioned. “I’m tryin’ to be careful.” The cotton stuck a little to the shallow wounds and Starsky felt strange as he had to touch them even more to lift the fibers out. He tried to hurry the job. “Almost finished,” he whispered. “There.” He sat there, used cotton in his hands, still faced with the horrible evidence of abuse and at a loss as to what to do next. He tossed the cotton in the trash and pulled the torn shirt-ends up to lightly conceal the wounds.

He bent, taking hold of Hutch’s shoulder. “How’s that?” he murmured close to his ear. “Any better?” He received no reply, and the pale face creased with pain didn’t change. For a moment, the anger flared in Starsky’s gut again. Hutch shouldn’t have to go through this–not the hurt, and not the horrible shame. His fingers clenched tight as he tried to contain his feelings and he quickly let go of Hutch’s shoulder. He didn’t want to transmit his own emotions to him and make matters even worse.

He looked around at the room’s feminine decorations and wondered about the woman who’d resided here. Didn’t she try to prevent her son from being hurt? What made Hutch hide up here under the bed that way? Thinking about what might be buried deep in Hutch’s memories gave Starsky the shivers. He wanted Hutch out of this house. He had no idea where his father had gone but he didn’t want Hutch around when he returned. Starsky wasn’t ready to look the man in the face yet, either. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from tearing him apart.

Gotta get us out of here. He wished they were in L.A. But their plane reservations weren’t until tomorrow, noon. For an instant, he thought about changing them yet again. He’s in no shape to get on a plane today, anyway. A hotel, then. He’d passed one on his drive around the suburban area earlier. He could gather their stuff together, pack the car and have Hutch out of here in no time. He looked at his partner, about to explain his intentions to him, but couldn’t bear to breach the shaky peace that had descended over him. His breathing was more even now, as though some of the pain was abating. Maybe some rest… Starsky got up, pulled the quilt up over his shoulders again and set about packing to leave.

He dug in the medicine chest until he found some painkillers and a bottle of Valium that had belonged to Hutch’s mother, packing those along with his other first aid things. He threw clothes into the suitcases and carried them down to the car, shivering as he went without his jacket to load up. He came back inside, glancing into the living room, and noticed the box of things Hutch intended to take with him that had been his mother’s. He picked it up and loaded it into the car, too. Finally he went back to the kitchen, and turned off the coffee maker. It felt like hours since he’d started that pot of coffee, but his watch told him it was only a few minutes after eleven. Starsky stood there, staring at the coffee pot without seeing it, mind still staggered by what had happened to Hutch while he’d been gone. He rubbed at his temples, feeling the beginnings of a massive headache. Never got around to eating breakfast. Why not… He decided to let Hutch rest a while longer, and poured himself a cup of coffee and made a sandwich. He took time to eat slowly, gathering his wits and energy for what lay ahead. When he was finished, he gathered a few food items into a bag to take with them.

When the car was packed, Starsky shouldered into his jacket and grabbed Hutch’s pea coat from its hanger, heading for the stairs.

He entered the bedroom again. Hutch hadn’t moved much, he’d just drawn up his legs, curling on the bed like a lost boy. Starsky sat down next to him, gently shaking his shoulder.

“Hutch, I packed up our stuff. We’re gonna get out of here. Okay?” He looked for, but saw, no response. “Hutch. We’ve gotta go. Your father–I don’t want us to be here when he gets back.”

That struck a chord. The blue eyes flew open and Hutch lifted his head, looking around wildly. “Where…?” His voice sounded raw.

“Aw, babe.” Starsky leaned closer, carefully spanning his shoulders with an arm. “He’s gone. I don’t know where. Let’s get outta here while we can, okay?”

“Gone…” Hutch’s white lips formed the words hesitantly, “…to the office… threw me out.”

“Huh?” Threw you out? What’d he do, order you to leave? God damn… “It’s okay.” He forced his voice to stay soothing, at variance with the rage mounting inside him. “Get up, Hutch. Let me help you.” He pulled down the quilt, grasping Hutch under an arm, and in a moment the blond was sitting on the edge of the bed, wincing with every movement. He passively allowed Starsky to help him on with his boots. The ripped shirt hung on him as he tried to shove his hair into place. Starsky gulped. “You… uh… you want to put on another shirt?”

Hutch looked down at himself in confusion but didn’t answer. Starsky just wanted to get moving and worry about everything else later. He reached for the coat. “Here, put this on.”

Hutch raised an arm, but groaned sharply, pulling out of Starsky’s clasp.

“Forget it,” Starsky said shortly. He bundled the quilt around Hutch’s shoulders and hoisted the man to his feet. Hutch swayed slightly, face going a shade whiter. He looked faint. Starsky took firmer hold of him, wrapping an arm around his waist, despite the injuries, and steered him out of the room.

Negotiating the stairs was no picnic, but they finally made it. Hutch seemed dazed, unable to comprehend what was going on. Maybe that was best, Starsky decided. Don’t let him think about this. He pulled the front door closed behind them, not bothering to see if it was locked or not. Eventually they were in the car, Hutch leaning against the passenger door as soon as it was closed. Starsky put the car in gear and drove away as quickly as he could with the snow on the driveway.

He checked them into a first floor room at the local Red Roof Inn, then had to repeat the awkward process of getting Hutch from one place to another. He hadn’t said a word on the way over. The continued silence and withdrawal concerned Starsky. Hutch had been on the edge before–his father’s attack seemed to have pushed him over. What kind of psychological damage that could leave him with Starsky couldn’t even speculate.

Starsky leaned in the car from the driver’s side and carefully shook Hutch. At his first touch, the blond gasped and flinched, throwing his hands up to cover his face. “Hey, hey…” Starsky shushed him, heart in his throat, “it’s just me. No-nobody’s going to hurt you, Hutch…” I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this to him… “We’re here. Let’s go in and get you settled, okay?” He went around to the other side of the car and opened Hutch’s door, lifting him out bodily.

The sunlight highlighted the tangled strands of blond hair and picked up a darkening bruise on the left side of Hutch’s jaw. Is that what happened? He caught you with a right cross? Shaking his head, Starsky pulled Hutch’s arm across his shoulders and struggled to keep him on his feet. Halfway to their room, Hutch slipped and Starsky barely kept hold of him. “Come on, Hutch, at least try…” He caught himself saying, then shook his head in chagrin. This wasn’t Hutch’s fault. Starsky was angry but he couldn’t take it out on Hutch. Too much had been taken out on him already. “That’s it,” he soothed instead, “you can make it.” Eventually he got him inside and eased him down on the bed. Hutch was shivering, trying to pull the quilt around him tighter. Starsky bustled around, adjusting the thermostat, carrying in their luggage, anything to keep moving and not have to think.

“There,” he muttered aloud as everything they’d need was finally unloaded. He looked at Hutch. It seemed like he’d done so little for him.

He went to the bed and knelt on the floor beside him, taking one limp hand in his. He wrapped the cold fingers around his own, rubbing the knuckles slowly. “Hutch,” he began in a gentle whisper, “you hear me? I… I just want you to know you’re safe here. It’s gonna be all right.” He stroked one errant strand of hair back from Hutch’s forehead. “You listenin’? It’s… it’s me, Starsky…” The lump in his throat felt awful and he was afraid his own tears would start again in a minute. “Come on, babe, try to talk…”

Hutch groaned, pulled his free hand up to cover his face again. The fingers Starsky held clenched convulsively.

“Stay with me, boy,” Starsky pleaded. “It’s gonna be okay. You’re safe… I won’t let anything else hurt you, ‘kay? Come on… tell me where it hurts.”

“S-Starsk?” the muffled voice finally came to him.

“Right here, partner.” Starsky leaned close, resting his forehead against Hutch’s.

“Mom…” The word was more of a sigh.

“Yeah?”

“Mom… was sleeping… she drank… and went to sleep… all the time…”

“Um-hum?” Starsky stroked the smooth cheek, avoiding the deepening bruise.

“And she…” the voice was quaking now, “she never… never came and… never came and got me…”

Starsky swallowed, thinking he understood. Dad came after you with the belt and Mom was sleeping off a drunk. Jesus, Hutch… how’d you hang on all these years? What in hell am I gonna do to help you now? He kept up his stroking, extending his touches to the bowed shoulders.

“I…” the strained voice went on, “I… tried to be good… but… but…”

“What, Hutch?” Starsky urged. Maybe talking about it will help. Get it off your chest. “You tried to be good…?”

A shaky, indrawn breath. “…but I was always… always bad.” There were real tears in the voice now, tears in the bloodshot eyes, falling on the bruised face.

“Ah, Hutch, don’t.” Starsky wrapped him close, unable to bear the tone of confession. Don’t talk, don’t say these things… don’t think about it at all anymore… and I’ll keep you safe… “Don’t, darlin’.”

The blond head raised a little, the drowned eyes looked up, focusing on Starsky. “I knew… knew if you found out… you’d know how bad I am.”

“Don’t… don’t say anymore.” Starsky pulled closer to him. “You’re not bad. You never were a bad person, Hutch. You’re…”

“You don’t know…” the anguished voice went on. “I tried… but I just couldn’t make it… I’m a fake, Starsk… and I knew… one of these days… you’d find out.”

“Shhh…”

“I didn’t mean to let you down…”

“No.” Starsky couldn’t take anymore. He pushed up from the floor, sliding into the narrow space on the edge of the bed, close to Hutch. He shifted the long figure, and every time Hutch reacted in pain, he winced too, but eventually they were settled, Starsky lying full on the bed, and Hutch wrapped secure in the circle of his arms, close against him. He threw one leg over Hutch’s lower half, needing as much contact as he could get, suspecting Hutch needed it, too. He pulled the quilt over them both, tucking it gently around Hutch’s back. The blond head was pillowed in the bend of his arm, resting on his chest. “How’s that?” he whispered against the cool forehead. “Better?” His lips pressed softly, offering a kiss.

Hutch’s fingers were clenched in the fabric of his shirt. “Starsk…?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t… don’t go…”

“Never. It’s all right now. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Hutch sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Shhh, try to rest.”

“Okay… ‘m tired.”

Eventually Hutch’s breathing evened out in sleep. Starsky held him for hours, needing the reassurance of the heartbeat that was still in rhythm with his own.

Starsky paced slowly along the motel sidewalk, trying to relax. It was only a little after ten o’clock, but it felt like the middle of the night. Hutch had slept for a while, but when he woke the peace of the motel room had shattered.

It had been rough going. Hutch had seemed withdrawn at first, saying no more than a cryptic “now you know” with his eyes averted from Starsky’s gaze. It had taken patient coaxing, and the reassurance that even having seen him strung out on heroin hadn’t made Starsky think less of him, for Hutch to start talking. Then, in an avalanche of words, he’d begun to tell Starsky everything. As the story of his childhood came out, Starsky realized it must have been something of a relief to Hutch after holding it in all those years.

They’d even talked about Guy Mayer and Hutch’s reaction to that case. “They didn’t call it abuse back when I was a kid,” was the solemn statement he’d made to Starsky. He admitted being shaken by the evidence of the beatings the boy had endured and that the case had dredged up memories he’d managed to repress for years. “It wasn’t that I forgot what he used to do to me,” Hutch had told him haltingly. “I’d just forced myself never to think about it. I thought I was coping with it, that it didn’t matter anymore.” That chilled Starsky, who was only now beginning to understand the devastating effects his father’s abuse and his mother’s alcoholism had had on Hutch’s psyche. He wasn’t sure even Hutch comprehended all the implications yet.

It had been hard to listen to the revelations, to watch Hutch as he alternately paced the room and sat despondent in a chair, as he fought back tears and as he lost the battle. Starsky had tried to remain close and supportive, and would have held him in his arms if it would have made things easier, but Hutch seemed to do better with a little distance between them. And despite the fact that Starsky now had a fairly clear picture of Hutch’s childhood, he suspected that there were many more details, so painful that Hutch couldn’t put them into words, still burdening his soul. Maybe he’d never be able to talk about those details, or maybe only a therapist could help him work through them. Starsky had watched him with an ache in his heart, fervently hoping that Hutch would consent to therapy once they returned home. The one time he’d mentioned that, however, Hutch had seemed to feel that talking to Starsky would be enough.

They’d been inside the dimly lit motel room for so many hours, Starsky hadn’t given much thought to the weather, or that they were still in Minnesota, for a long time. Now, pacing around like this in the cold night air, he felt somewhat lost. Back in that room was someone he cared about almost desperately, but Hutch might come out of it changed forever. ‘Who do we trust’ had taken on new implications as Hutch’s story was revealed and Starsky didn’t know what ‘me and thee’ was going to mean from now on. There were moments when he felt closer to Hutch than ever before, when he wouldn’t have traded Hutch being able to confide in him for anything. But other moments he wished they were anywhere else but here. A shootout didn’t seem as dangerous. And a tiny part of Starsky wished he’d never found out. He feared what bringing it all back could do to Hutch. Wouldn’t it have been better, as Hutch himself had thought, to bury the past, to move on as if it had never happened?

The most difficult thing for Starsky to control had been his anger. He’d had moments when he wanted to drive straight back to the house and take Hutch’s father apart piece by piece. How anyone could beat a child and tell him he wished he’d never been born was incomprehensible to him. And while he’d treated Hutch that way when he was small, the idea of using physical force on him now that he was an adult was even more shocking. The man’s wife, Hutch’s mother, was dead. How could he treat the only remaining member of his family that way? Was the man insane? Did he need to be put away? Considering what he’d done today, Starsky had almost suggested they call the police and have him arrested. And then he’d realized he still didn’t know the exact reasons for today’s violence. Maybe there didn’t need to be a reason, though. He hadn’t seemed to need very good ones when he’d hurt Hutch in the past.

At about seven o’clock they’d ordered in some pizza, and that had been their only break in the conversation. Hutch’s appetite was poor, but Starsky had made up for him, consuming the rest of the pizza and washing it all down with several cans of beer had been one way to vent his feelings. And after the pizza was gone, Hutch had started to talk again.

Starsky paused at the soda machines, checking his pockets for change. Hutch needed something soothing. His voice sounded so raw it hurt to listen to it. He had enough to get a couple cans of Coke, but after they’d dropped into his hands, he still didn’t turn back to their room. Instead, he wandered further down the walk, watching the cars speed by on the highway. The night air was clear and cold, but this stretch of road was lonely. He and Hutch shouldn’t be here. They should be back in L.A., where you knew who the bad guys were and you knew what to do about them.

His hands were getting cold. And he’d been away from Hutch for too long. Starsky turned and headed back to their room.

He managed to unlock the door without dropping the cans of soda and went inside, putting them on the table and rubbing his chilled hands together briskly. It was warm and steamy in the room. Hutch had gone to take a shower.

The bathroom door opened and Hutch emerged, wearing one towel slung around his hips and rubbing his hair dry with another. Starsky tried not to stare at the mottled bruises on his chest and ribs. Hutch still moved as though he was hurting, but Starsky didn’t want to call attention to his injuries.

“You’re back,” his friend offered quietly when he noticed Starsky pulling off his jacket.

“Yeah. I brought you some Coke, if you’re thirsty.”

“Thanks.” The blond’s eyes met his momentarily, then he went to his suitcase to pull out some clothes.

Starsky busied himself with crumpling the pizza box and gathering the beer cans into the trash. When he looked up, Hutch had slipped on a pair of underwear and was struggling to put a t-shirt on over his head.

Starsky’s earlier resolve not to mention his injuries disappeared. “You think you oughta be putting that on? Maybe some more of that antiseptic cream…”

“It’s all right, Starsk.” Hutch finished donning the t-shirt and looked up. “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

“You shouldn’t be hurting at all,” Starsky informed him emphatically. He pulled Hutch’s robe off the back of a chair and carried it over to him, speaking more gently. “Here. Don’t catch cold.”

“Thanks,” Hutch repeated, his fingers brushing Starsky’s as he accepted the robe.

Starsky stood still, waiting as Hutch looked into his eyes. A warm hand brushed the side of his face, then rested lightly on his shoulder. The blue eyes were trying to tell him so much that Hutch couldn’t put into words.

“It’s okay, partner. We’re gonna get through this.”

Hutch moved on, picking up his Coke and sitting down at the table to drink it.

“It’s kinda late,” Starsky observed. “You wanta go to sleep now, or do you need to talk some more?”

Hutch picked up his watch and looked at it. “I’m exhausted,” he admitted, “but I know I won’t be able to sleep yet… Don’t think I want to.”

“That’s okay,” Starsky said, joining him at the table and popping the tab on the second soda. “You know what a night owl I am.”

“Yeah.” A brief smile. “But this is one horror movie I bet you’d rather not have tuned in to.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s gonna end up okay.”

Hutch shrugged and sipped his Coke silently. He shifted in his seat, one hand rubbing gingerly over his stomach.

“You are hurting, aren’t you?” Starsky asked, suddenly certain.

“It doesn’t matter…”

“Goddamnit, Hutch. It has to matter!” He regretted the harsh words immediately, but still meant every one. “I think you ought to see a doctor.”

“I’ve been worked over before. It’s not that serious.” It was amazing. Hutch said those words entirely without sounding sorry for himself. Starsky understood why he wouldn’t want to dwell on what his father had done, but to just accept it, as if it were deserved…

“I still can’t believe he did that to you.” Starsky couldn’t contain his own anger nearly so well. “I can’t believe…”

“What?”

He’d been about to say out loud that it surprised him that Hutch hadn’t put up more of a fight, but didn’t know how to keep it from sounding like he thought Hutch had contributed to his own abuse. “Was it just ’cause he’s your father, Hutch? Is that why you didn’t hit him after he hit you?” he finally said quietly.

“I almost hit him.”

“But you didn’t.” Starsky watched the shuttered expression. “What did he say to you? How’d he get to you so much?”

“Can’t you leave it alone, Starsky?” Hutch pleaded.

“Hutch, listen.” He moved from his chair to kneel in front of his partner. “You’ve told me so much, don’t think I won’t understand the rest. He sounded mad when he yelled for you this morning and I know that you were already pretty upset from our conversation.” He had to look away from the anguished eyes. “I was pretty hard on you. I mean…”

Hutch’s hands found Starsky’s shoulders. “It wasn’t anything you said,” he whispered. “You made me see I had to deal with this. I wanted to tell him… I started to…”

“So he got mad when you tried to tell him how all that stuff when you were a kid messed you up?” He gripped Hutch’s knees with his hands.

“I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Should have known. His own agenda was always the most important one.” Hutch’s chin dropped to rest on his chest.

“Then, what?” The worry-creased face made Starsky’s heart ache.

“It doesn’t matter. He was wrong and I told him that.”

“Wrong about what?”

“He wouldn’t listen. Just like always. Like he wouldn’t listen about Gary.” Hutch spoke with his face averted.

“Gary? That guy that came to the funeral?” He watched Hutch’s expression intently. “Gary’s the one who’s gay, isn’t he?”

Hutch’s chest heaved. Starsky, still clasping his knees, felt the big body stiffen and tremble, as though a sudden adrenalin flow would pulse through Hutch and into Starsky himself. He understood the need to move, to release tension that couldn’t be contained. As he let go of Hutch’s knees, the tall man surged out of his chair and strode across the room.

As soon as he could get to his own feet, Starsky followed him. “What are you trying to tell me, Hutch?”

Hutch was pacing, arms wrapped around his middle.

“He was wrong about Gary. Is that what he wouldn’t listen to before? Or was he right? About you? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Hutch headed for the dressing alcove, leaning heavily on the counter surrounding the sink.

“Hutch, talk to me.” Starsky tried to soften his tone.

His partner had begun shaking his head, seeming lost in that world of his own. Or maybe the one his father haunts him from.

“Don’t you see?” he asked Starsky, looking at him suddenly with wild eyes. “Whatever I’d say, it’d be a lie. I couldn’t say yes and I couldn’t say no. But all he could hear was what he thought I was saying. What he thought I did…”

“Babe, slow down. You’re not making any sense here.”

“I couldn’t let him talk about you that way–he’d never understand.”

“Hutch?”

The blond turned again toward the sink, eyes taking in his own reflection. “Goddamn faggot,” he murmured. “Freaking pansy… no good queer…” The epithets took on the tone of a litany and Starsky’s blood ran cold. Hutch had said his father used to say he hated him, that he wished he’d never been born. He’d also said his father used all kinds of other insults, but Hutch hadn’t been specific. God, did he call him all those names, too? Shit like that could hurt a kid… He reached for Hutch’s shoulder.

“Weakling… faggot… can’t even take a beating like a man…” The words were torn from Hutch’s soul. His hand closed on a bottle of Starsky’s aftershave sitting on the counter. He brought it up, level with his face in the mirror. “No good queer!” He pounded the mirror with the bottle, smashing it, sending shards of broken glass flying. He dropped the bottle, grabbed for something else, and before Starsky could stop him, he had a chunk of mirror in his hand, again aiming for his shattered reflection.

“Hutch, no!” Starsky caught his wrist in a grip of steel. They struggled momentarily and he watched blood seep from between Hutch’s clenched fingers. The crazed eyes met his own and he stared Hutch down. “Hutch,” he ordered, “let go.”

Hutch’s hand dropped the broken shard, and he collapsed into Starsky’s arms with a groan.

Starsky got a better hold on him, clasping him around the chest, listening to the sobbing breaths. He’d thought Hutch was holding it together, but the man had been closer to the breaking point than either of them knew. “Easy, now,” he whispered. “Come on. Let’s go sit on the bed.”

Hutch was almost as bad as he’d been when Starsky’d found him that morning, trembling, muttering incoherently.

“Let me look at your hand,” Starsky soothed him, though he, too, was shaking inside.

The cuts weren’t deep, but seeing the blood seemed to agitate Hutch even more.

“I’ll take care of it.” Starsky was glad he’d packed the first aid things. He gathered some gauze bandages and antiseptic, then returned to the bed. He took hold of Hutch’s hand, carefully unclenching it to look for slivers of glass that might be imbedded in the wounds. Finding none, he swabbed away the blood and applied pressure to the seeping cuts, then bandaged them. He then found the Valium he’d brought along and took it and the can of Coke over to Hutch.

“Here.”

Blue eyes looked up, their expression regretful.

“Take one of these,” Starsky urged, handing the soda can to Hutch. He opened the bottle of Valium and shook one into Hutch’s hand. The blond looked at it, then shrugged and swallowed the pill. Starsky sat next to him again, one hand on his shoulder. Hutch sat for a moment, head bowed, eyes closed, intermittent tremors running through his body.

Starsky got up and turned off all the lights, save the one in the bathroom. He pulled the pillows off the other bed, bringing them and the quilt to where Hutch sat. He climbed back on that bed, arranging pillows behind his back and slipping off his shoes. “Come on,” he said to Hutch. “We’re gonna talk some more. It’s just gonna be you and me here in the dark, and you’re gonna tell me everything.

Hutch shivered, from emotion or temperature, Starsky didn’t know. “I feel cold,” he whispered.

“I can take care of that, too,” Starsky assured. “Come here.” He drew Hutch close, shifting until the other man sat between his parted legs. He threw the quilt over both of them, and, with arms wrapped around Hutch, settled him back against his chest. “How’s that?” he asked against a blond sideburn. “Just like on Lawman.”

“Hm?” Hutch asked.

“Lawman–remember that show? I don’t remember much specific, or even the characters’ names, but I remember two cowboys, out in the night, one of them hurting, and his friend holding him like this to keep him warm.”

Hutch sighed. “If this was a cowboy movie, you’d give me your boots…”

“Damn straight.” He stroked pale hair back from Hutch’s forehead. “You warm enough now?” When Hutch nodded, he went on, “Okay. Now you’re warm and you’re safe and you’re just gonna sit here real quiet and tell me.”

A long moment passed, the Hutch began with a sigh. “He always used to throw that in my face–that I was nothing, that I was weak, and that I’d never be a real man… and he started calling me fag and queer. It got worse when I met Gary. Guess he was sure that was gonna ruin me.”

“Um-hm?” Starsky responded, stroking Hutch’s chest.

“Starsk? Gary and I were nothing more than friends. Honest.”

“I know.”

“And Mom, she was drinking a lot, but she did try to support me.” He looked up at Starsky, his eyes very bright. “I don’t want you to think she was terrible, too. Without her, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“I know, babe. I know.” Starsky tightened his hold, stroking the tense body.

Hutch was silent for a while. Finally, his whisper came again. “He really hates homosexuals. That’s the worst thing a man can be, according to him.”

“How’s it make you feel, him calling you those names?” Starsky asked.

“I guess it proved he hated me.” A defeated sigh. “I was afraid maybe he was right.”

Starsky didn’t answer.

“I never felt that way about a guy,” Hutch went on to say. “When I was younger, I guess I believed all that crap he tried to teach me.”

“You don’t feel that way now,” Starsky assured. “Look how you reacted when John died.”

“Yeah… but sometimes I…”

“What?”

“Sometimes I thought maybe I should go that way, just to give him another reason to hate me.”

“Ah, Hutch…” Questions crowded in Starsky’s mind, but he didn’t dare ask any of them.

“Never did, though,” Hutch said, answering one. He stroked the arms Starsky had wrapped around him. “I dated girls.” The voice dropped. “Didn’t do too well in that department, either.”

“Come on,” Starsky cajoled. “You were gorgeous. Didn’t all the high school babes wanta date you?”

“I was a nerd with glasses.”

“Right,” Starsky snorted. “You were a gorgeous nerd with glasses. Blond, athletic…”

“I dated some,” Hutch admitted, “but I didn’t have much confidence.”

“What about Vanessa?”

“Met her in college. She was beautiful, from a rich family. I figured Dad couldn’t disapprove and for once I was right.”

“See?”

“Well… I fucked that up later on. Both sets of parents were pissed when we got the divorce.”

Starsky hesitated. “You ever think maybe some of your relationships got messed up because the way you grew up you didn’t learn how a real good one was supposed to work?”

Hutch seemed to press his cheek closer to Starsky’s chest. “No matter how I tried to change… I couldn’t fix things…”

“Shhh… things’ll get better now. It’s not too late, Hutch.”

“For some of them it is…”

“None of that.” Starsky rebuked gently. “We’re talking about your father.”

“You wanted to know what he said to me this morning.”

Starsky nodded, keeping his arms firmly around his friend.

“He saw me coming out of your bedroom last night.”

Starsky froze, knowing Hutch’s father must have jumped to an obvious conclusion.

“And he told me,” Hutch went on, “he didn’t want two fucking faggots in his house.”

How ironic… we didn’t make love… but we nearly did… I wanted to… didn’t you, Hutch? It seemed like you wanted to, needed to… but that hold he has over you, it was working even then, wasn’t it?

He looked down, trying to interpret the expression on Hutch’s face. He could barely see, but Hutch seemed to be off in that foreign world he’d been going to lately, the one Starsky knew he couldn’t follow him into.

“I told him he couldn’t scare me with that threat anymore,” Hutch continued, “but he kept up the accusations, calling you names… and I hated him for that. I told him I wasn’t much good whether I was straight or gay…”

“Hutch…”

“And then he said he was glad Mom is dead… and all I could think about was how she never stopped him. And he said it was my fault she drank, and I was queer, and I should have been drowned at birth…”

Starsky held the shaking body, understanding how the rest had happened. His father’s insults demoralized him, took him back to when he was younger and helpless against the bigger man’s strength. When his father struck the first blow, Hutch probably didn’t even put up a fight. Damn him! He held him close for a long time, saying nothing, trying to offer the comfort of his arms. Finally Hutch started speaking again.

“I looked at John Blaine and other gay men I’ve met, and they were nothing like the homosexuals my father talked about. I looked at my relationships and knew none of them were working, except for the one with you. Maybe my father had been right all along, but what if something he thought was horrible turned out to be something so good?”

Starsky drew him closer, understanding the kind of pain Hutch must have been putting himself through these last few weeks. Your father called you names, and you were scared they were true… you wanted me, but you were scared to mess this relationship up like all the others… Inadvertently, Starsky had made his troubled friend even more confused.

“Hutch, I don’t wanta hurt you…”

His partner didn’t let him finish. “I fell in love with you, Starsk… and right or wrong, I wanted to make love with you…”

It took a long time before Starsky could speak again. Hutch’s words had rung with truth, but he’d spoken in the past tense. “Hutch? What do you want now?”

The blond head rose. Hutch met Starsky’s eyes. “I don’t know, partner,” he said softly, slowly. “I just don’t know.”

“Okay,” Starsky finally answered, after gazing into those earnest, gentle eyes. “No rush. I’ll be here, one way or another.”

Hutch turned, wrapping both arms around Starsky’s neck and sighing against his throat. “I know.”

Both of them were exhausted. In a few movements they settled themselves more comfortably, sliding to lie down, still wound together on the bed, wrapped warmly under the quilt, Hutch’s arms still locked around Starsky’s shoulders. He dozed off after only a few moments, but Starsky stayed awake, feeling lonely, feeling like he’d found that strange, sad world Hutch went to when he looked so distant. Yet, held so close by the man who’d needed comfort, Starsky found his own solace in the mutual embrace. Hutch, who’d suffered more pain than Starsky had imagined, would always be able to make Starsky feel safe in his arms. Hutch was there for him, no matter how he’d been hurt. That was certain. That was very precious. Starsky stroked the soft blond strands for a long time, listening to Hutch breathe.

I didn’t lie, babe… I’m not goin’ nowhere… one way or another, I’ll be here for you… one way… or the other…

A narrow band of silver daylight slipped between the edges of the motel room curtain. It caught Hutch across the eyes, waking him, bringing him back to reality. He raised his head, confused for a moment until yesterday came back to him. He’d lost so much… Yet here he was in Starsky arms, where he’d slept all night.

Starsky had asked him what he wanted. Hutch hadn’t known last night. He still didn’t know this morning. But Starsky was constant–the one constant of his life. With who else could Hutch lie so close and feel safe and not vulnerable? With who else could he sleep wrapped in love without having to have sex? Maybe, Hutch thought, if he got his head together, maybe they really could have what they’d been dreaming about. Maybe, if I can forget all the old irrational fears…

Starsky began to stir and Hutch watched his face, fascinated with the process of waking. The brow furrowed, the noise twitched, the lips parted, looking as though they should be kissed. Before Hutch could decide whether giving in to that temptation would create or solve more problems, the strong body shifted, arms tightening around Hutch momentarily, fingers gripping him at shoulder and waist. Incredible blue eyes opened, looked at him, smiled at him. Hutch felt his own eyes misting in reaction.

“‘Mornin’,” Starsky greeted him, stretching without letting Hutch out of his embrace.

“Hi.” He pulled a smile from somewhere, moving to sit up. “Did I crush you during the night?”

“Nah.” Starsky stretched again, his long, supple body languid as a cat. He rubbed both hands briskly in his hair, as if it was necessary to scratch his head to wake himself up.

Hutch managed to sit up, despite the painful reminders of what he’d been through physically yesterday. His stomach and sternum ached dully, so did his ribs. The skin of his back felt sore and tight. And his right hand, the one he’d cut with the mirror, felt sore, too. His head ached with the aftermath of all the emotions. The small hurts were enough to dampen his lighter feelings.

“How ya doin’?” Starsky asked, close to him, one hand on Hutch’s shoulder.

“Okay.” He shrugged, and that hurt some, too. “All right, I guess.” With a groan he got up, then looked back at Starsky. “You slept in your clothes.” He felt like should apologize for that.

”’S’not the first time,” Starsky shrugged, dismissing it. “You need the john right away or do you mind if I…?”

“No, go ahead.” Hutch headed for the table and picked up his watch.

It was eight-fifteen. Behind him, Starsky moved quickly to the bathroom. Hutch pulled open the curtains, hoping that the light would help him cheer up. He’d put Starsky through enough yesterday–he wanted today to be better. It was chilly in the room, so he adjusted the thermostat, then pulled some clothes out of his suitcase. While he was dressing, he heard the shower come on, so he bundled into his jacket and headed for the motel office, planning to pay for the mirror he’d broken.

By the time Starsky emerged from his shower, Hutch had returned with two coffees and some doughnuts for their breakfast.

He’d slipped into Hutch’s robe and had buried his head under one of the white motel towels. Hutch sat in one of the chairs, watching the contortions he put his body through to dry his hair. Most people would probably look klutzy doing the mundane task. Starsky, of course, turned into poetry in motion. Shaking his head at the sappiness of his thoughts, Hutch opened his coffee.

“Hey, you got coffee!” Starsky noticed, having emerged from his towel. “And doughnuts!” He hurried over and selected a chocolate one, taking a big bite right away. “Mmm.”

“One thing I can always count on,” Hutch observed, “your appetite.”

“Man doesn’t live on bread alone,” his partner answered.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“‘s too early in the mornin’. Y’know, Hutch, we don’t have to head for the airport until ten-thirty or so. What’re we going to do until then?”

“Well,” Hutch said slowly, blowing on his steaming coffee, “I was thinking about going back to the house.”

“What?” Starsky dropped into the other chair. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Maybe not.” He took a bite of a sugared doughnut. “But there’s something I forgot to take with me.”

“What?” Starsky croaked. “I thought you packed up everything in that box. It’s in the car, you know. I got our stuff out of there pretty quick, but I did bring that box of yours.”

Hutch shook his head. “This isn’t in there. It’s a piece of Mom’s jewelry. Actually, it was her father’s to begin with. It’s a man’s sapphire ring. That first night we got here, I told Dad I was supposed to get it.” He dunked his doughnut in his coffee. “Of course, he disagrees with me.”

“Didn’t your mom leave a will?”

“Sure. Dad showed it to me that same night. But he doesn’t think he has to abide by it. Not where I’m concerned, anyway.”

“Look, Hutch, why not let a lawyer settle this, hm? I don’t think it’s worth going over there and seeing him. Don’t give him the chance to hurt you anymore.”

Hutch shook his head. “No. He won’t hurt me again, but I’m not leaving here without that ring. If I let a lawyer handle it, my father will keep it going for a year or more and by then he might get rid of the ring or something.”

Starsky took a long sip of his coffee. “You’re kinda determined about this.” He looked outside at the crisp morning. “Do you know exactly where the ring is?”

“It must be in her jewelry box.”

“Okay. ” He met Hutch’s eyes. “I’ll go over and get it.”

“Starsk,” he shook his head, “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t haveta. I’m offering. Besides, it makes sense, Hutch. You shouldn’t have to meet him face to face, and I’m your partner.”

Hutch watched Starsky’s eyes. “What are you gonna do when you see him? You said a couple of times last night how pissed you were.”

“Hutch, come on. What do you think I’m gonna do? I can handle myself.”

“I think I should go.” Hutch finished his doughnut and headed toward the bathroom, intending to shave.

Starsky came up behind him. “You don’t have to prove anything,” he said, hand on Hutch’s nape. “I know you could handle it, but why should you have to? Come on, Hutch. Let me do it for you.”

“Starsk…”

“It’s settled. It’ll be my party,” he said, squeezing Hutch’s shoulder.

“I don’t think I like the sound of that,” Hutch said warily. “Look, Starsk, I don’t know what kind of idea you have, but… I just don’t want you to get involved that way. That won’t solve anything.”

“Might make me feel better.”

Hutch sighed. “I appreciate that, partner, believe me. But… I just… I didn’t want you to know about all this in the first place. If you mix it up with him… there won’t be any part of my life he hasn’t tried to screw up. Anyway, this isn’t about revenge or anything like that. He’s… he’s my father, Starsky. I may hate him, but…”

He watched Starsky’s eyes and could see his friend understood. Finally, Starsky nodded. “Okay. Don’t worry about it. I’ll go in, tell him what I’m there for and leave in five minutes flat. Besides, with any luck he won’t even be there.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost nine. What time does he go to the office?”

Hutch shrugged. “I don’t know what his schedule is these days.” It was tempting to allow Starsky to help him. In truth, he wasn’t sure what seeing his father again would do to him. Right now he felt control, but he didn’t like the idea of exposing his vulnerability to the man again. “Okay, Starsk. I’d appreciate it.”

“Good. You finish gettin’ ready and I’ll head on over there.” He reached up and ruffled Hutch’s hair as he turned to pull his clothes from his suitcase.

As Starsky neared the house, he could see the Cadillac parked in the driveway. Hutch’s father was home. Starsky found himself becoming very aware of how he was driving, how the wheel felt sliding through his hands, of the precision of very motion he made. He took in every detail of the street, while paying attention to his goal, the Hutchinson home. That feeling of sharp attention he usually only felt when involved in a case, specifically when something heavy had a chance of going down. Headin’ for a confrontation–one way or the other… Part of him looked forward to seeing the elder Hutchinson. No, he wouldn’t go off like some hothead and beat the man up, but he’d certainly take the opportunity to let him know just what he thought of the way the man had treated his son.

He pulled into the driveway and strode up the front walk, noting again that the concrete had been freshly swept free of snow. The man treats his house better than he treated his own son. Just the thought of being in the man’s presence was making Starsky hot under the collar. He had no intention of sinking to this bastard’s level, but keeping it all strictly verbal was going to be tough.

He heard the echo of the doorbell while he stood outside, tugging the collar of his jacket up around his ears. After a brief wait, the door was opened. There stood Richard Hutchinson, and it was obvious Starsky was the last person on earth he’d expected to see.

“What do you want?” he said, dispensing with his phony good manners.

“I came to pick up something for Hutch,” Starsky met the older man’s eyes steadily. Not so different from any other manipulator I’ve come in contact with on the street. And you’re as much a criminal as any of them.

“I don’t think there’s anything here that he needs.” Mr. Hutchinson moved to close the door.

Starsky shoved his way into the house. “Look, mister, we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way. I came to pick up something of Hutch’s mother’s for him. I can be outta here in five minutes. What’s it gonna be?”

“You have no right to come in here and tell me you’re taking property out of this house. I could have you arrested…”

“All you rich bastards are alike, aren’t you?” Starsky scoffed, shaking his head at the man’s attitude. “In the first place, you forget, I am the police…”

“You’re a little out of your jurisdiction…”

“And besides the fact that I know the law, our brother cops are usually pretty understanding when something like this gets called in.” He shifted his weight, eyes taking in the entryway where they were standing, cataloguing small details. “In the second place, there’s a little matter of an aggravated assault that took place here yesterday morning. So go ahead, Mr. Hutchinson. Pick up the phone.”

Steel blue eyes glared at Starsky as the man tried to decide which of Starsky’s points he was going to answer.

“Kenneth would never…”

“Yeah, that’s what you’d like to think, isn’t it? But you’ve always underestimated your son. You have no idea what he’s capable of doing. If he did file charges, you’d be in pretty bad shape.” He moved in close, challenging the man’s personal space.

“I doubt if the police would be interested in a family argument,” he said with smooth assurance. “Things got a little over-dramatic, but then both Ken and I have tempers.”

“Over-dramatic? Is that what you call it?” Starsky wanted to laugh.

“Mr. Starsky, what goes on in my family is really none of your business. What is it that Ken wants?”

Starsky noted the change of subject, and for a moment thought about pursuing the original topic, but decided he might not succeed in keeping his own temper. Get the ring. Then give him a piece of your mind.

“It’s a piece of jewelry that Mrs. Hutchinson specified in her will that he should have.”

“All of the jewelry is in the safety deposit box at the bank.”

“I don’t think so,” Starsky contradicted. “I know where to find it. If you don’t mind, I’ll go up and get it and be out of your way.”

“You have no right to go rifling through my wife’s things.” The older man moved to block Starsky from ascending the stairs.

“You didn’t have any problems with me going through her things a couple of days ago. Look, man, this is getting real old. Why don’t you just let me go up and get the ring?” The eyes seemed to blaze a moment with undisguised hate. Starsky dropped all pretense of politeness. “You try to stop me,” he said in a low, dangerous voice, “and I swear I’ll press charges against you myself.”

“No court would believe…”

“Doesn’t matter what a court believes. Now what the folks readin’ about it in their morning papers think, that’s a different story.” He eyed him with cocky assurance.

Mr. Hutchinson still didn’t give in easily. Starsky watched the debate going on in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Go up and get the ring. It’s in the center drawer of my wife’s jewelry box.” He waved his hand toward the stairs, acting like he didn’t care if Hutch had the piece or not.

Starsky bounded up the stairs without a word. He was furious; couldn’t believe the man’s gall. Is that all life is to him? Some kind of power play? He strode down the hall, going straight to Mrs. Hutchinson’s room, thinking only of finding the ring. Yet, as he crossed the threshold, he couldn’t help flashing on what had gone on in this room less than twenty-four hours ago. Hutch probably didn’t even remember the details, and Starsky figured that was just as well. But the memory of Hutch hiding under that bed, hurt, broken in spirit, made Starsky seethe inside. It wasn’t right that someone could cause that much hurt, a lifetime of hurt, and not have to be accountable for it. In their line of work, he certainly came in contact with people like that, but that didn’t make it any easier to put up with. Before I leave, I’m gonna make sure that bastard hears just what I think of him. He found the jewelry box without difficulty, right on the maple vanity.

He pulled out the center drawer and immediately identified the ring, a star sapphire, set in gold. He picked it up from the velvet slot it had rested in, holding it up to the light. It was heavy, in an old-fashioned setting. This’ll took good on Hutch’s hand…

Starsky noticed a small, velvet ring box there in the drawer. He opened it, took out the smaller ring that was inside, and slipped the sapphire into its place, then dropped the box into his jacket pocket.

He looked around the room. He and Hutch had left it a mess, wet towels on the bed, cotton balls and junk in the trash can, but someone–Mr. H. himself?–had cleaned it up. Get rid of the evidence and you never have to face up to what you’ve done. Starsky wondered if something had been done about the smashed coffee table in the den.

He went back into the hall, wanting to be out of the house as quickly as possible, but before going downstairs, he went into the room where he’d slept the last few nights. There was something else he’d forgotten when he’d packed for himself and Hutch yesterday.

He pulled out the dresser drawer and found the old sketchbook. Maybe Hutch wouldn’t want to see those drawings, but something in Starsky wouldn’t permit him to leave them here. Who knows? His father might just throw them out like so much trash. But they mean more than that. They’re a record of a small boy’s feelings… proof that something went on here that never should have happened. Because of that, and more simply, because they were something Hutch himself had created, Starsky couldn’t leave them. He tucked the album under his arm and headed quickly for the stairs.

“Are you quite ready to leave?” Mr. Hutchinson was still on the offensive.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Starsky muttered, fastening the catch on his jacket zipper.

“What’s that?”

He paused, seeing the man nodding toward the scrapbook he was carrying.

“You said you were here to pick up a ring.”

Starsky looked the man up and down, thinking Hutch would have been proud of the contemptuous once-over he gave him. Was your father the inspiration that created that look of yours? “I forgot something else,” he said blandly, “something of Hutch’s from when he was little.” Go ahead, say something, he dared silently.

The other man glanced at the book and shrugged. “If that’s just some drawings Ken made when he was a kid, you can take it. It doesn’t have any real value.”

Starsky inhaled deeply, and took a step that brought him eye to eye with Mr. Hutchinson. “I’ll tell you what doesn’t have any value–that’s you. You have no value as a father. No value as a human being!”

“Really, Mr. Starsky…” Hutchinson started to step aside.

Starsky grabbed hold of the man’s necktie, fingers clenching around its knot. The steely eyes widened, but he didn’t look afraid. Starsky exhaled and let go of the tie, all his movements incredibly precise.

“I’m gonna tell you something, mister, and you’re going to stand here and listen to me.” He stepped closer still, forcing the man to focus on his intent gaze.

“I’m gonna leave here and I’m gonna take your son back to L.A. with me, and then I’m gonna try to help him patch his life back together. If he asks me, I’m gonna tell him never to speak to you again in his life. I’m…”

Unbelievably, Mr. Hutchinson interrupted him “I see you think you have quite an influence over my son. Your relationship with him must be…”

“Yeah, my relationship with him! I’ll tell you what my relationship with him is. He’s my partner. If you don’t know, a cop’s partner is more important than anyone else in his life–more than a wife or a parent, more than anything. I owe your son my life a dozen times already, and before we retire, I’ll probably owe it a dozen times more. He’s the best damn cop I’ve ever known and he has the most integrity of any man I’ve ever met. I wouldn’t want anyone else as my partner, on the street or anywhere else.

“I define the way we relate to each other as love. Yeah, that’s right, but you don’t know the meaning of that word! You never showed him any love as near as I can figure out. You returned nothing but hate for every bit of affection and respect he tried to show. Between you and your wife, I’m amazed the man grew up with any values at all. It’s a miracle he has any sense of self-worth!

“But he’s stronger than you ever imagined. You tore him down every chance you got, you rejected and abused him all his life. But you couldn’t keep him from turning out to be more of a man than you could ever hope to be.” Starsky drew a breath, trying to rein his more irrational feelings. Hutchinson was probably tuning out everything he said anyway. He took a step away, heading for the door. But he wasn’t finished.

“I’m going to tell you something else,” he said, turning fast to find Mr. Hutchinson close behind him, “only a fool would throw away what you’ve thrown away here. You know that? Look what you’ve done. You had a son any man would have been proud to call his own. He’s intelligent, handsome, athletic, honest, and caring. He took care of your wife when you couldn’t seem to. He would have taken care of you if you ended up old and in poor health. But you weren’t interested in having his love or his respect. For some insane reason, you hated him. You didn’t want him. Well, you’ve got your wish, Dad. You don’t have a son. ‘Case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t have a wife anymore, either.” At last, emotion flickered through the man’s eyes. “Here you are in this great big house… and you’re all alone… Think about that. You’re alone.” He stared into the hate-filled eyes and spoke the next words with pride. “You’re alone, and he’s going home with me.”

He turned, striding through the door, chest heaving with emotion.

Hutchinson hadn’t said a word, but he stepped out onto the porch.

“I hope the two of you will be very happy,” he said at last in a sneering voice.

Starsky stopped, turned back to him again. “You gave up any right you ever had to judge him when you hit your son the first time. I’d like to take you apart one limb at a time, but I respect his wishes too much to do that.” He turned, heading back toward his car. Hutch’s father said nothing, but Starsky had glimpsed his mocking expression.

Starsky paused. He adjusted the sketchbook under his right arm, making sure he had a good grip on it. He turned then, and in the same motion slugged Hutch’s father hard in the jaw.

The older man’s head snapped back from the blow. His feet slid out from under him and he went down on the wooden porch floor. Starsky turned and left without a word.

Hutch stood at the motel window, staring out at the bleak Minnesota morning without seeing much of the snow-covered countryside. His eyes were unfocused, wet with emotion. His heart and mind felt raw. So much had happened he couldn’t begin to categorize his feelings. They ran from grief and depression, through anger and embarrassment. He was embarrassed that Starsky knew, that he’d seen him so out of control last night. He couldn’t even really remember what had happened when Starsky had come back after his father had hit him. Perhaps, if he knew, Hutch decided, his humiliation might have been worse. But Starsky had seen it all, and he was still here. Hutch sighed, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. You’re too old for this, he told himself sternly, too old to cry… The same words in the voice of a child seemed to echo in his memory. Even at the age of ten, he’d been telling himself that same thing.

And I never learned. It always hurt. Not just the physical pain, but the pain of knowing he hated me. He never loved me. I should be used to that idea by now and not care one way or the other. But I can’t get past this… Can’t stop asking what if I’d been smarter, or stronger, or better… what could I have done to make him love me?

And that other question, too, a deeply held secret, almost-buried part of his heart went on to ask–if he doesn’t love me, why should anyone else?

And, if I loved him and it was wrong, is that because I can’t really love anyone?

Starsky pulled the rental car into its space at the Red Roof, noting that the curtains at their window had been pulled open. Hutch stood there staring out, and his expression looked so bleak it broke Starsky’s heart. He turned off the ignition and climbed out, unconsciously patting the pocket that carried the ring box.

He tapped gently on the door and it was opened after a few seconds. Hutch didn’t meet his eyes, though, or ask what had happened. Instead he went back to look out the window.

Starsky followed him, hesitant to touch him, despite the fact that Hutch’s forlorn look brought out all his tender instincts. “What’s so interesting out there?” he asked lightly instead.

Hutch sighed, shrugging. “I don’t know. It looks so… peaceful, I guess.”

“It’s not that peaceful, buddy. When that wind blows out there, it’s practically like the South Pole.”

Hutch cracked a smile, and shook his head, looking down at the floor. “Thanks, buddy,” he said softly. “You always manage to make me feel better.”

Starsky moved closer to him then. He wrapped his arms around the slender body from behind, and laid his head on Hutch’s shoulder. Light strands of gold hair dusted his nose, but he didn’t move. Holding him that way, he went on, “I got the ring for you.”

“Okay.” Hutch was quiet a moment. “Anything else? Was… my father there?”

“Yeah. He was there.”

Another brief silence. “Anything happen?”

“Nah. We traded words for a couple minutes and I used my charming personality to get the ring for you, and that was that.”

Hutch looked down at the arms circling him. “What’s this red on your left hand then, Starsk? Looks like you broke the skin over your knuckles.” There was only the barest hint of accusation in the soft voice.

“Oh, that.” Starsky didn’t pull away from his friend. “I slipped on the way down the driveway. Guess I caught myself and messed up my knuckles.”

“Oh.” Hutch didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he loosened the clasp of Starsky’s hands and took the left on in his own, bringing the knuckles to his lips. Then he turned in Starsky’s embrace, wrapping his own arms around his back in a desperately tight embrace.

Starsky held him wordlessly for a long moment. He stroked back the long and fine hair, closing his eyes and wishing with all his soul that Hutch wouldn’t have had to go through this. “You’re shaking, babe,” he finally whispered. “It’s okay. It’s all over now. It’s gonna be okay, Hutch. Trust me.”

“I do.” Hutch seemed to burrow in closer. “Last night, you asked me what I wanted.”

“And you said you didn’t know. That’s okay. Nobody’s pushing anything.”

“I know that. But you’ve got feelings that matter here, too.”

“Yeah, I’ve got feelings. I’m concerned about you. What do you want to do now, buddy?” Starsky asked him, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

Hutch stepped out of the embrace, looking out the window again. “Forget. Move on. Go back to L.A. and be a good cop.” He gave Starsky a long look. “Be your partner.” He looked as though he wanted to touch Starsky again, but held back. “If you still want me to be.”

“You’re the best cop I’ve ever known. The best partner….”

“Will you do something for me, Starsk?” Tension seemed to flare in the tall body. Hutch strode across the room, and Starsky turned to follow.

“Sure. Whatever you ask.”

“I’m not gonna want to talk about this every day. Will you let me be about it? Can you know and accept me the way you always have?”

“Of course I accept you!” Starsky rushed to tell him. “You know….”

“Not just that,” Hutch held up a hand. “Will you keep from mentioning it? Will you let me have those moments when I can forget?” He looked down, rubbing his fingers across his forehead.

Starsky moved in close again, willing Hutch to meet his eyes. When he had his partner’s full attention, he spoke very seriously. “I’ll do that,” he promised. “If you’ll do something for me.”

Hutch’s eyes registered anxiety. Starsky took hold of his wrist.

“Will you go see a therapist about all this? I don’t think you’ll be able to deal with this if you don’t, Hutch. I think you need to find out it wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that….”

“I know you’ve heard me say that, but I’m not sure you believe it. Growing up the way you did leaves scars, babe, and you need some help to really come to terms with it.” He sighed, looking away for a moment. How to transmit his urgency, his belief that this was what Hutch had to do, without pressing it so much Hutch pulled away? All he could do was say what was in his heart. “I’m scared for you, Hutch. You’re a good man, you’ve got so much you can give, but I know you can’t keep on letting yourself hurt the way you’ve been all these years.”

“I don’t want this in my record, Starsk. If I go to the department shrink, this could affect my career.”

“It’s affecting your career now,” Starsky countered. “Do you wanta beat up some abusive parent someday and get brought up on charges? Do you want to let this affect your judgment on the street? There’s more than just pain involved here, Hutch, there’s anger. You can’t take the chance of letting that anger cause you to make a mistake out there.” He paused, modifying his tone, bringing in another point. “Don’t you think this has affected the way you deal with relationships, Hutch?”

The blue eyes looked into the distance. “I know.”

“So you have to go into therapy.”

“Not in the department.” Fear crowded the determination in the voice.

“Okay. Fine. There’s plenty of shrinks in L.A. Your insurance will cover it.”

“I’ll pay for it out of my pocket,” Hutch asserted. “I don’t even want to take a chance of it showing up in my insurance records with the department.”

Starsky could concede that those concerns of Hutch’s were valid. Anything to get him to agree to the help he needed. “Okay. You’ll start looking for somebody when we get home.” Hutch didn’t answer. “Promise, Hutch. Or I won’t hold up my end of that bargain.”

“I promise.” The words sounded almost shy. Starsky rewarded him with a smile. The one Hutch returned looked wistful. “Starsk,” he went on, raising a hand to touch Starsky’s face. “About… other things… I don’t know… You know how much you mean to me. I… I love you… but I don’t know how good I’m gonna be at showing it. I… sometimes I don’t think I know anything about love at all.” The finely shaped, strong hands spread helplessly, the broad shoulders lifted in a sigh. “I don’t want to hurt you….”

Starsky folded him close, aching inside. The one thing of which he was certain at this very moment was that Hutch was capable of loving. Maybe he didn’t know that, or didn’t think he knew how. And maybe he would have a hard time showing it after all he’d been through as a kid and after this terrible week. But Starsky knew he could do it. Hutch’s heart was so big, so beautiful… It had been held hostage for too long. Starsky hoped he’d be the one to set it free.

“You’re gonna make it, partner,” he told him in a husky whisper. “We’ll make it. We’ll take our time, figure out where we’re goin’… maybe it won’t all come together the way we thought it might a couple weeks ago, but that’s okay. We got time.”

Hutch sighed. Starsky felt the warm breath against his throat. “You’re gonna need some patience, buddy….”

“You let me worry about that.” Starsky wondered what it would be like to be able to see into the future. If I could, maybe I wouldn’t be so easy about alla this. It is gonna be rough–he probably knows that more’n me. In my family, you said you loved each other, and everything was okay from then on. We love each other… but there would be enough hassles even without all the baggage he’s carryin’. Maybe the next couple months… or maybe even the next couple years… won’t be so smooth for us, but, damn it, he’s worth it.

Starsky admonished himself to remember that, in the weeks and months to come. He tightened his hold on the strong body so close to him.

“I’m gonna work hard,” the soft voice promised. And beneath that softness, that echo of vulnerability, Starsky heard the real Hutch that was still there. The fighter, the man who wouldn’t give up.

“Let’s get our stuff packed and head out to that airport,” he said, breaking the hug before things got too emotional. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to go home.”

Hutch managed a smile and Starsky thought that to look at him, no one would ever know what he’d been through. “Me, too, buddy. I’m ready for some good old L.A. smog.”

Richard Hutchinson swept away the snow that had been blown onto his porch by the wind that afternoon, and then stood in the doorway, leaning on the broom as he took in the wide street where he lived. This house had been his home for so many years… he knew all the neighbors, he had his place in the community. But now the street was quiet. It was too early for most people to be home from work, and those that were home were busy inside, perhaps preparing dinner. Richard realized he’d probably have to dine out again this evening. Most of the covered dishes relatives had brought were gone by now. He glanced toward the flowerbed. The snow had crystallized over Angela’s boxwoods, looking frozen, sterile. It was hard to believe that any of the bulbs planted in the ground there could survive ’til spring.

Survive ’til spring… Richard had things to do. He’d brought work home from the office last night. To occupy his time, keep him busy. He turned to go into the house.

The sound of a plane in the sky overhead caused him to hesitate. It was a jet, silver against the pale blue of the winter sky, and heading west. Perhaps it was the one carrying Ken back to California.

Richard squinted against the snow-reflected brightness. With Ken gone, he wouldn’t have to think about Angela being dead and buried. No one would be here to remind him that love had once existed, that love was gone. No one… would look at him with her eyes, ever again… He hurried inside and closed the door against a sudden chill. His jaw ached and so did his hip. He put the annoying aches and pains out of his mind, determined not to let them bother him.

“‘Case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t have a wife anymore, either.”

Richard shrugged out of his coat, deciding to go in and turn on the television, perhaps the cable news station.

“Here you are in this great big house–and you’re all alone.”

Perhaps music, instead. That would be a welcome change. He turned the dial on the expensive stereo, selecting an FM station.

“You’re alone, and he’s going home with me.”

Anger surfaced, and Richard strode to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a drink. At least he didn’t have to be careful about that, anymore.

The whiskey burned his throat on the way down. Drinking wasn’t a solution to one’s problems, but sometimes it warmed one when the day was cold…

You’re alone…

Richard Hutchinson drew the heavy living room drapes, enclosing his world in early darkness.