Undercurrents

985

Starsky finds out just why Hutch suffers from a bad back.

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“Dammit,” Hutch swore, gasping for breath, trying to stay as still as possible. Every movement—even breathing—hurt. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“Hutch? You okay?” He heard footsteps running towards him, then his partner’s blue Adidas sneakers skidded into view. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

“Did you get him?” Hutch stayed motionless, waiting for an answer.

“Nah. That kid moved like greased lightening. Either that or we’re showing our age, huh?” Starsky dismissed the punk they had been chasing with a shrug. “Come on, pal, let’s get back to the precinct. Our shift’s nearly over anyway.” He took several steps towards the car before realizing he was on his own. Spinning around, he looked at his partner. “Uh, Hutch, what’s with the statue impersonation? Are you trying to… oh shit, it’s your back isn’t it? What happened?”

His jaw tightly clenched against the pain, Hutch seemed hardly able to speak. “I was chasing him and my foot skidded on some trash. I must have twisted something trying not to fall. Give me a minute, it’ll ease up.”

“Yeah, sure. Come on, let’s get you in the car.” Taking Hutch’s arm, he tugged gently but stopped as he met resistance.

“Don’t.” Hutch’s face was pale and strained, every muscle locked into place as if to contain the pain.

“You can’t stay here, pal. Look, lean on me as much as you can, huh?”

Very slowly, Starsky was able to get Hutch moving. He heaved a sigh of relief as they reached the Torino. Propping Hutch up with one arm, he got the passenger door open and eased his friend inside. Hutch was barely able to help, and it was a relief to both of them when he was finally sitting in the car. Starsky got in and shut the door gently, conscious that every jolt would hurt his partner. As he started the engine, he looked across to see Hutch’s eyes closed, mouth tight with pain. Deep frown lines furrowed his forehead.

“I’m taking you to Memorial.”

“No! I don’t need to go to the hospital. Just get me home. I’ll be fine. It’ll wear off.”

“Hutch, for God’s sake, you can hardly move. I can’t take you home like this!”

“Starsk, just do it. I have no intention of going to the hospital over this. I don’t need to and I’ve told you, I’ll be fine.”

“Hutch, I swear, one of these days…” but Starsky reluctantly reached for the radio and logged them out before altering his direction to Venice. The traffic was heavy and he concentrated on the road, casting occasional glances at his partner as he drove. The journey back to Venice had never felt so long.

Starsky had to help his partner out of the car and support him up the stairs. It was evident from each indrawn breath that Hutch was hurting. Starsky led him straight to the bedroom and helped him carefully onto the bed. “Let’s get you more comfortable,” he said, removing Hutch’s light jacket and reaching for his holster. He left the tee shirt and pants alone, but pulled off his shoes and then helped his friend lie down, supporting most of his weight as he lowered him onto the mattress. Then he pulled up a chair, sat down next to his partner, and glared at him.

“Okay. Now you’re lying down, tell me what’s going on here. You know you should get this checked out. What if that guy had pulled a gun on you instead of running, huh? How would you have gotten away when you can’t move a muscle by yourself?”

“Starsky, calm down. I’ve told you, I’ll be fi—”

“Yeah, and that’s another thing,” he snapped back. “How do you know you’ll be ‘fine’? You taking up medicine in your spare time, huh?”

Hutch snorted in wry amusement, then winced as even that slight movement sent pain radiating through his body. “What spare time would that be, pal?” He watched his partner for a moment, then sighed. “I just need to rest. It’ll settle down again.”

Starsky jumped up and began pacing. Hutch was barely able to lift his head off the bed to watch him, but he could feel the intense energy crackling off the restless figure and groaned inwardly. He was not up to this, but it looked as if he wasn’t going to get a choice.

“Starsky, will you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.”

“You got something you take for this?”

Hutch just blinked at him, taken aback by the apparent non sequitur.

“Pain pills of some kind,” Starsky clarified. “Obviously this isn’t the first time this has happened, even if I don’t know about it, so you gotta have something to take. You don’t just lie there and suffer, do you?”

“Uh…”

“For God’s sake, Hutch,” and before he could say anything else, Starsky had whirled away and into the bathroom. Hutch could hear him muttering. He understood Starsky was cursing the circumstances that made his partner so reluctant to take any strong pain medications. Hutch knew with his intellect that there was little risk of awaking the need for a fix that had held him briefly, but so terribly, in thrall. His heart was another matter. He never, ever wanted to go through withdrawal again, and if that meant putting up with pain occasionally, that was a price he was willing to pay.

The sound of the bathroom cabinet door opening and his partner rummaging around brought him out of his momentary reflection. Starsky returned clutching a bottle of Tylenol. “Is this the best you’ve got?” Without waiting for an answer, he headed for the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. He shook a couple of pills out of the bottle and handed them to Hutch, who took them without protest. There was no point fighting Starsky over this, not when he was in this mood. The pills might help anyway. Accepting his partner’s help, he propped himself up enough to swallow the tablets.

“You hungry?”

“No. Look, Starsk, thanks for bringing me home, but I’ll be f—. I mean, you don’t need to stay. I’ll get some sleep and call you tomorrow.”

“No.”

“What d’you mean, ‘no’? There’s nothing more you can do. I appreciate it, but—”

“How come you never told me your back was this bad?”

“Can’t a guy have some secrets?” Hutch asked, trying to divert his partner, then sighed at the expression on Starsky’s face. “Look, it’s not like it happens a lot. And you know what the department’s like about back problems—a few days’ sick leave, and the next thing you know you’re facing retirement on disability. I don’t want that, and I don’t need it. It’s no big deal. I’ll call in sick tomorrow and maybe Friday if I have to. By Monday I’ll be all right.” He watched Starsky, hoping he had managed to stop the inquisition. His partner looked back at him steadily. Hutch could see in his eyes the moment Starsky decided to let it go—at least for now—and suppressed a sigh of relief.

“I’ll call Dobey, then I’m ordering a pizza.”

“Starsk—”

“Jeeze, Hutch, will you quit making such a fuss? I mean, look at you. How are you supposed to get to the bathroom on your own when you can’t even get out of bed, huh? I’m staying.”

Hutch knew enough to give in gracefully. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he knew Starsky was right. He couldn’t get out of bed on his own—at least, not without rolling over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. He needed help.

He called after his partner, who was heading for the phone. “Hey, no anchovies, okay?”

Starsky flicked a grin back at him and picked up the receiver.

~oOo~

Starsky lay on the couch, listening to Hutch shifting in bed and the muffled grunts accompanying each move. Frowning, he threw back the afghan and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. In the faint light coming off the street he could see the bottle of Tylenol sitting on the counter and grabbed it.

Keeping his movements as gentle as possible to avoid jostling his partner, he sat on the edge of the bed and touched Hutch’s shoulder. “Time for more Tylenol, buddy. Here, I’ll help you sit up.” Dropping the pills into the outstretched hand, he slid his left arm under Hutch’s neck and held the glass to his friend’s mouth. Once the pills were swallowed, he eased Hutch back down again, noticing the rock hard stiffness of his muscles. “Those are gonna take a while to work. How about I help you roll over and give you a back rub, huh?” He wriggled his eyebrows in what he clearly thought was an alluring manner. “No funny business, I promise.”

There was silence, and Starsky was aware of a strange quality to it, almost as if Hutch was bracing himself for something. The atmosphere between them had suddenly shifted, the way it sometimes did when they were about to go into a dangerous situation. The edge of fear could make everything seem brittle and too bright. Despite the darkness of the hour, and the quiet of the apartment, something was unnerving his partner. Badly. Starsky could no more ignore it than he could watch Hutch walk unknowingly into a trap.

“Hutch?”

“Uh…yeah, a back rub might feel good.” He struggled to raise himself on his elbows and roll over onto his front. Starsky clutched an arm to help him. Although Starsky had suffered many injuries during his years as a cop, he had never had back problems. Looking at the shape Hutch was in, he found it hard to believe that he’d be back to normal any time soon. It hurt to see his partner so incapacitated.

“You want to take the tee shirt off before I start?”

“I don’t think I can get my arms above my head. Can’t you just roll it up?”

“Okay.” Starsky pushed the fabric up his partner’s lean torso, easing the rigid body up slightly so the tee shirt lifted at the front and he could reach Hutch’s neck. His hands moved gently up and down Hutch’s back, feeling tension emanate in a solid mass from his partner. He concentrated for a few minutes on creating a soothing rhythm, making it clear with each soft sweep of his hands that he would not exert any pressure beyond this light touch. As Hutch relaxed a little, he couldn’t help blurting out, “How did you hurt your back?”

He felt the reaction instantly in the body beneath his fingers. The tension was back in full force, his partner’s rib cage expanding as he took a deep breath.

“Hey, relax. It’s only me. I’d always assumed you had some old sports injury or something, maybe from when you were in high school. How did it really happen?”

“Starsk, what difference does it make? It happened, okay, and I have to live with the consequences.”

Starsky’s hands didn’t stop their gentle motion, but mentally he froze. There was something more to what Hutch had said than met the eye. What…?

“What ‘consequences’, Hutch?”

“Starsky.” It was almost a growl, and the ‘keep-off’ tone had scared off many a street punk. But Starsky was no street punk.

“Look, pal, whatever this is about, you might as well tell me. Neither of us is going to get any sleep until the Tylenol kicks in anyway, so how about I just keep right on with what I’m doing and you start talking, okay?” Hutch was silent, and Starsky was just drawing breath to try again when he heard a faint murmur.

“What was that, buddy?”

“I hurt my back when I was a kid, okay? I did something really stupid.”

Starsky counted to ten in his head while deciding which of the several questions that sprang to mind he should ask first. He should have known this was gonna be like pulling teeth.

“How old were you?”

“Eight, I guess. Yeah, eight.”

“And this happened at home, did it?”

“Summer camp.”

Starsky’s hands stuttered for a fraction of a second before resuming their soothing motion. “Eight,” he repeated, keeping his voice level with an effort. “Your folks sent you to summer camp when you were eight? I didn’t even know they’d take kids that young.”

“Some did. ‘Specially if they were paid extra by parents who didn’t want to be bothered by their kids during summer vacation. Of course, being the youngest by more than a year meant I was left to myself a lot. I mean, they made sure I was there for all the activities, but no one wanted to pal up with the camp baby.” The bitterness was unmistakable, and Starsky’s imagination flashed on an image of a small, tow-headed boy, lonely amidst a crowd of kids.

“How long were you there?”

“I came back after about three weeks, but I was in the hospital for a few days after I left camp.”

Starsky swallowed painfully. The stress in his friend’s voice was palpable, and he half regretted bringing up the subject. But now he had, he knew he had to get the whole story out of his partner or Hutch would close up tighter than ever. It would be impossible to get him to talk about this again.

“What happened?” Consciously gentling his voice, he hoped to ease his partner’s tension enough to enable him to continue. Hutch, however, stayed silent. “C’mon, partner, talk to me”, he urged. “Whatever happened can’t get any worse by talking about it. It might even help. Just tell me.”

“Look, Starsk, I was the lucky one, okay?” the words were almost snarled. “Two kids at that camp never got to go home. A bad back is the least I deserve for what happened to them.”

“You trying to tell me you were responsible for two kids dying?” Starsky could hardly get the words out. He would never in a million years have guessed at something like this.

“Yeah,” spat out his partner. “Two kids died because of me.” He sunk his head into his folded arms. “God, Starsky, why d’ya have to make me talk about this? Nothing is ever going to make that right. Look, you need to get outta here, right now. Go home.”

“No way am I leaving.” Starsky stopped the massage and crouched down on the floor, head level with Hutch’s. “Look at me. Look at me, Hutch.”

Painfully, Hutch turned his head to look at his partner. Starsky gave him a gentle smile. “That’s right, blondie. Now listen to me, and I mean listen, with your head, not your heart. You were eight, right?” Hutch barely nodded, but at least his eyes remained on Starsky. “Are you telling me that if we were called to a crime scene where an eight year old boy had done something dumb—like, I don’t know, got hold of a gun his dad left lying around—you’d hold the kid responsible? Huh? ’Course not. Most eight year olds can’t even cross the road safely. They sure as hell aren’t to blame if something goes wrong. You know that.”

Hutch’s expression didn’t change, although Starsky was relieved that he didn’t look away. “You make it sound so simple, Starsk, but—”

“Hutch, whatever happened, you need to look at this from an adult perspective, not a kid’s. Remember what Cal and Rosie were like when they were eight? Cal got up to some pretty silly stunts, but did Dobey ever blame him? I mean, really make him feel bad? ’Course he didn’t. When Cal did something wrong, he made sure he knew about it, but he didn’t lay a big guilt trip on him. I know your parents were pretty strict, but you were only eight. Surely they couldn’t blame you? For God’s sake, they should have been looking out for you, not packing you off to summer camp in the first place!” Starsky’s indignation was so fierce that Hutch’s expression lightened a little.

“My head knows you’re making sense, Starsk, but… Look, all I knew was that I was with those two kids when they died, and there was nothing I could do to save them. If only I could have done something…” his voice trailed off. Starsky got off the floor and sat carefully on the bed next to his friend. “C’mon on, let’s you get turned over so you’re on your back, and then you can tell me exactly what happened, okay?”

Hutch regarded him for a moment, then nodded slightly.

~oOo~

The thin, serious looking boy bent low over the rope in his hand, struggling to remember the instructions for tying a simple reef knot. He looked up in triumph, the sun catching his white blond hair, but the smile faded as he realized there was no one there to share his success with. Oh yes, he was surrounded by a group of other boys at the camp, but they were all at least two years older and not at all interested in a ‘little kid’. In fact, most of them made it only too clear that he could drop off the face of the planet as far as they were concerned. It hadn’t occurred to them, and if it had they wouldn’t have cared, that he wanted to be there about as much as they wanted him there.

No, none of them was interested in his achievement.

Not that this was anything new. The eight year-old Ken Hutchinson was used to being on his own, but at least at home he really was alone. Somehow that was easier to bear than being isolated even while surrounded by other kids.

This was his second week of camp, and the days were almost bearable. The activities were designed for older kids, but he enjoyed the challenge except when he really couldn’t manage them and had to be shown again how to do something. The note of impatience that he heard in the instructors’ voices reminded him vividly of how his father sounded when he thought his son was not meeting expectations. It made him clumsy, and slower to learn. And then the other kids would whisper about him and laugh. The first week he had tried asking for help from some of the boys closest to his own age, but had soon learned not to.

So, while the days were all right, the nights were…well, the nights were bad. Despite the bright sunlight, a small shiver shook the boy’s thin frame as he contemplated the coming of evening. He had been put in with the youngest campers, and even though he tried not to get in anyone’s way, they resented his presence. Why else would they be so mean to him?

It started with small stuff—bugs in his bed, his clothes tossed around or hidden. He wasn’t used to it. He had no brothers or sisters. But he had heard enough about summer camps from kids at school to know that this kind of thing was fairly common, so he tried to ignore it. It was harder to ignore the teasing, but after a few long nights he hit on a good idea. He’d slunk out of bed as soon as he could and vanished into the woods around the camp. The twilight rustlings from the surrounding trees didn’t bother him half as much as what was inside the cabin. He snickered quietly to himself, thinking how much worse the wildlife was inside the camp than outside.

He had been camping with his grandfather a few times in the past, and felt comfortable out in the dark, watching the older kids and the camp counselors. Only when he felt sure everyone was asleep in their cabins did he creep back to his bed and allow himself to sleep.

His fingers trembled as he practiced the next knot. Sneaking out at night had worked, but not for long. The memory of the night he had been caught seared his consciousness.

Moving silently through the quiet camp, Ken headed for the cabin where he should have been asleep hours ago. Warily, he checked behind him, then all around. He eased the door to his cabin open and stepped inside. Instantly, a hand clamped tightly across his mouth. Struggling, he was dragged out across the camp and into the woods. His heart pounded wildly as something hard stuck into his back. A voice he recognized hissed at him.

“Stick ‘em up, dork!” Petey was one of his cabin mates, one of those who resented his presence most. Ken was fairly sure he was behind the insects in his bed, and probably the other tricks too. Petey’s sense of humor was pretty basic, and even in his fear Ken was not surprised to see him bent over with barely suppressed laughter.

“Thought you’d get away from us, didya, momma’s boy?” Frank was at least ten, taller than Petey, and to the slightly built Ken he loomed terrifyingly large.

They did no lasting harm, at least physically, but the young and only child of the wealthy Hutchinson family was unused to rough handling. Emotional coldness was part of him—he had known little else at home and to his immature comprehension it was normal—but he had never before been deliberately, physically hurt. The part of him that was still only a little boy was devastated by the beating the two older boys gave him. And yet, another part of him, never before wholly awakened, was angry and resentful. He did not deserve to be treated like this. It wasn’t his fault he was the youngest.

The fuse lit that night was slow-burning, but would have life-long consequences.

~oOo~

There was a long silence. Starsky thought Hutch was going to stop there, unwilling or unable to describe what had happened. Continuing to stroke Hutch’s shoulders with gentle hands, he tried to convey his presence and reassurance without breaking the mood. Finally, as the silence remained unbroken, Starsky murmured, “Hutch? You still with me?”

The pale hair on the pillow trembled with the inhalation of breath that was Hutch’s only response.

“Hutch? You don’t hafta go on with this if it’s too much, ya know.” His Brooklyn accent had grown stronger, and the sound of it roused Hutch slightly.

“No. I don’t think I could put it out of my mind now, anyway. It’s j-just hard. Give me a minute.”

“Whatever, pal. I’m staying right here.”

~oOo~

Since that night, Ken’s life had been hell. At every daytime activity, either Frank or Petey made sure to sit next to him. Their proximity made it much harder for the younger boy to concentrate on anything. His constant struggles only offered greater scope for his tormentors, and they seized it gleefully. Eventually, one of the camp helpers noticed and tried talking to Ken, but what could he say? He had to live with these guys, sleep in the same cabin as them, and no amount of adult interference was going to make that okay. So when the counselor asked him if everything was all right, he kept his eyes down and nodded his head. Even from here he felt the hostile gaze of the two boys on him. The counselor realized all was not well despite what Ken said, and for the next few days made sure to stay close to the camp baby.

But this only made the nights twice as bad.

“Hey, Kenny,” said Petey, making the abbreviation sound like an insult, “you got any money? Your folks are rich, aren’t they? I bet they sent you with a stash. Let’s have it, dork.” It was after lights out, and once again Ken had been dragged away from the cabin to the adjacent woods and roughed up. They made sure they didn’t leave marks for the counselors to see the next morning. Frank and Petey might be only ten, but they weren’t stupid.

His lungs heaving, Ken refused to speak. His mom had given him five dollars, but he wasn’t going to tell them, even if there was nothing at camp to spend it on. Grimly, he clamped his mouth shut, enduring the ensuing hair pulling and badly aimed punches.

Later the next day when he went to the cabin to find a clean handkerchief, he found every stitch of clothing and every single possession he had brought with him strewn over the floor, stamped with muddy footprints. The money was gone.

The pressure eased off for a couple of days after that. Ken didn’t know why, but he was grateful. The unfairness of it was what really riled him. He was tougher than he looked, skinny frame housing a spirit just beginning to learn he could tolerate pain. He hated it, but he refused to give into it. Even at eight years old, his sense of justice was already well-developed, and he felt a suffocating fury that these boys should treat him so roughly simply because he was younger and smaller. And because it pleased them.

It all went bad in a big way at the beginning of the third week. One night behind the cabin, Frank and Petey found out that Ken’s parents lived near Lake Superior, and that he had been out in his dad’s rowboat with him before. They decided to ‘borrow’ one of the camp boats. Since neither of them knew anything about boats, they decided that ‘baby Kenny’ would come with them.

Their chance came the next evening, and Frank and Petey grabbed it with both hands. Ken sat quietly in the cabin, writing a letter home to his mom, when suddenly the door banged open. Before he could move, Frank had hold of him. He hustled him out, towards the river.

“Show time, dork,” Frank said. “Now we’ll get to see if you really can row one of these things, or if you were just bragging.”

Frantically looking around him, struggling to get away from the bigger boy, Ken was struck by the deserted feel to the camp.

Petey waited near where the boats were tied up. He snickered, seeing Ken’s expression. “All the older kids are late coming back,” he informed their captive, smugly. “Someone said they got held up on their trip. So, time to have us some fun. Let’s go, kid. You can row us right down this pretty river.”

“Look, I don’t know…I mean, rowing on a lake is different,” Ken tried to explain. “There’ll be a current here—you can see how fast the water’s flowing. I might not be able to—“

“Oh, quit trying to get out of it, baby Kenny. You’re coming with us. Now.” Without further discussion, Frank pulled the younger boy over to the boats and dumped him into the nearest one, jumping in immediately after. Petey untied the rope and leaped in. They shoved away from the bank and handed the oars to Ken.

With no other choice, he started trying to row.

The water against the oars felt heavier than he remembered from before on the lake. The current was like a live thing, fighting the paddles. The combined weight of the three kids didn’t amount to much, and the rowboat sat high in the water, bouncing along the surface and bucking beneath him as if trying to get free. Setting his teeth grimly together, Ken struggled to control it, the heavy oars dragging hard at his arms. From the corner of his eye he noticed the sun, now heading towards the west, sending rays slanting like bars gleaming across the woods.

The trees drew closer on either side of the bank, shimmering in the setting sun. The boat traveled faster. He pulled harder at the oars, concentrating only on trying to keep to the middle of the river. The noise of the water grew loud in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the birds, the rustle of the wind. All he could hear was the slurp and crackle of the water as it smacked against the sides of the boat and rushed into the rocks edging the banks. He was deep inside himself now, oblivious to the increasing panic of his tormentors.

Petey and Frank, already high on the adrenaline rush from stealing the boat, were growing frightened. They had lost control over where they went, and when they stopped. Only one small boy stood between them and the rushing water.

They shouted at Ken to turn round, to pull to the side, but he didn’t respond. He kept rowing, a fixed, blank expression in his pale eyes. Nervously, Petey grabbed one of the oars, only to knock it out right out of Ken’s hand and into the fast-flowing water.

“You moron!” Petey screamed. “Now look what you’ve done!”

Ken felt the oar slip from his hand. Startled out of his near-trance, he pulled in a huge, panicked breath. With only one oar, he could only try to steer the boat to safety. Every instinct screamed it was no use, that he wouldn’t be able to do it.

The sound of the water around him changed, and he turned to look ahead. A large rock was coming up fast, right in the middle of the river. The boat was aimed straight at it. He screamed, trying to warn the others, shouting at them to jump.

Too late. The rock loomed larger and larger and then the boat slammed into it. He was flung into the water. A sharp pain crashed in on the side of his head and he gasped, swallowing icy water, chilling him from the inside out. The current tossed him and he swallowed more water, choking. He lost all sense of which way was up.

Then something snagged his clothes. The movement stilled. He pried his eyes open and looked for the other boys, but couldn’t focus. He was dimly aware of the sound of voices, but they came from so far away that his consciousness couldn’t hang on to them. Light faded from the edges of his sight, spilling over into the center, draining everything of color. Darkness filled his vision and silence swamped him.

~~~

Hearing returned first. A low murmur of voices, none familiar. Then the harsh smell of disinfectant. His nose wrinkled against it. A hand touched his forehead, and a gentle voice spoke his name.

“Ken? Kenny, are you awake?”

Blinking, he opened his eyes. A nurse leaned over him, smiling slightly. Hospital, he thought. I must be in the hospital. The memory of what happened flooded his mind, and instinctively he tried to curl up, to hide from it. A pain he had not realized was there stirred in his back, and he gasped.

“Just lie still, Ken. Try not to move, okay? You’ve hurt your back. It will be better if you keep still. Why don’t you try a sip of water?” She brought a straw to his lips, and gratefully he sucked. A few mouthfuls were all he could manage before his eyelids closed and he sunk back into oblivion.

Next time he woke up, the same nurse was there. She smiled at him, gave him some more water and reminded him about keeping still. Adjusting the sheets over him, she told him that there was a policeman there who wanted to ask him a few questions. Did he feel up to it? Puzzled, he nodded.

The officer who came into the room nodded at the nurse to stay, then sat in the chair by the bed and smiled. Ken smiled back uncertainly.

“Hiya, Kenny, how’re you feeling now?”

“Not too bad, I guess.”

“That’s great, Kenny. Now, there’s no need to worry. You’re not in any trouble or anything like that, but I just want you to tell me what you can remember about the accident. Do you think you can do that?”

The officer’s eyes were gentle, and their dark blue depths seemed to offer reassurance. Without knowing why, Ken felt he could trust this man, and he told him everything, not just about the accident but right from the start, when things first began to go wrong. Near the end, he began to stumble over his words, tiredness closing over him again. He barely managed to make it to the end of his tale before his eyes shut, but the images in his mind were still so vivid that he was unable to relinquish them. Sleep tugged at him, but his mind would not let go.

He heard the nurse sigh heavily, and the officer spoke up, saying, “Where the hell are his parents? Why aren’t they here?” Ken thought he sounded angry.

The nurse’s voice came nearer. Sheets were pulled higher and tucked in under his chin. “They were notified right away. His father gave permission over the phone for the operation, but said they wouldn’t be able to get here for several days.”

The officer’s reply was sharp enough to jolt the semi-conscious boy, “Their son nearly dies and has to have a serious op, he’s out of it for nearly three days, and they can’t make it? Guess they can’t be that bothered about him, huh? No wonder the poor kid was sent to camp for the summer. The two that died picked on him ever since he arrived, you know? I got it out of some of the other kids and the counselor thought something was going on too, but he didn’t do anything about it.”

Ken really wanted to stay awake, to hear more of what was being said, but the darkness was tugging on him harder now. He couldn’t fight it anymore.

~~~

It was the next day before his mom showed up, and Ken was so pleased to see her that at first he didn’t register what she was saying. He just laid there, holding her soft hand, content to let his eyes rest on her face. Tension he hadn’t even been aware of eased from his body, relaxing him in a way he hadn’t felt for weeks. The pain in his back was kept at bay with medication, and so long as he didn’t try to move he felt reasonably comfortable.

“…such bad timing, this happening now. You know, Kenny, I’d like to be able to stay with you, but the doctor says you’ll be here for another week before you can go home, and the Fanshaws are having their annual party on Saturday. It’s really important to your father that we be there, honey. It’s not as if I can do anything for you here, is it? The nurses will look after you, and when you’re ready to come home we’ll send George to collect you. I’m sure your father can spare him for one day, although he is very busy at the moment. In fact, honey, George is downstairs right now, and you know your father doesn’t like me to keep him waiting too long, so I guess I’d better head home. You get some more sleep, take care of yourself, and be good, now.”

After she had gone, Ken lay completely still for hours, his hand by his side, palm still curled upwards, as if holding a hand that only he could see.

~oOo~

Starsky thought the silence before was deep, but it was nothing compared to this. Deep within it, he imagined he could hear each beat of his own heart, every throb of Hutch’s. The sound of his partner’s mental agony screamed through his veins and into his soul. He was unsure whether he could speak through the tumult, but he had to try.

“Babe?” His voice was gentle, but he almost jumped as the sound left his mouth. Somehow he thought he’d have to shout to be heard, but the quiet syllable rang through the silence enveloping his partner. He tried again. “Babe. Tell me the rest.”

Hutch struggled for composure, swallowing. “One of the nurses finally told me what happened. Seems that the rest of the camp arrived back around the time we left, and some of them saw us in the boat. The camp leader wasn’t far behind us with some of the older boys he’d rounded up in a hurry to help. They saw our boat hit a rock midstream and capsize. I was tipped out of the boat as it rolled and caught by some branches on the bank. They searched for the others, but they must have been caught under the boat when it rolled. They drowned. They found the bodies a few days later.” The pause was brief, but what came after chilled Starsky to the marrow. “That’s it. F-F-Frank and P-Petey died and it was my fault.”

“Hutch, no way was that your fault! You were eight years old, for Chrissakes! Those kids bullied you into going! You tried to stop them, but they ignored you. What kind of lousy supervision did that camp have, anyway, that three kids could sneak off like that? And what the hell were your parents thinking of, sending an eight year-old off to camp in the first place?” He gentled his tone, conscious of the tense body next to him. “There are lots of people to blame for those two kids dying, but you ain’t one of them, pal.”

Hutch merely shrugged, but Starsky sensed he was listening at least. Resuming the forgotten massage, he asked quietly, “So what happened to your back? That was why you had to be in hospital so long, yeah?”

“Yeah. My back hit an outcrop of rocks at the riverbank. It chipped a couple of vertebrae. They had to operate at the hospital right away. The operation was successful, but they warned my parents there would always be a weakness. They did a good job. It gives me some trouble once in awhile, but it gets better.”

Starsky reflected on what his partner had not said. He was reluctant to take this any further tonight. Hutch was hurting, and raking up this old memory was almost more than he could take. But Starsky knew he would never have another opportunity, and there was something still unexplained. “Hutch, why do you feel like this was all your fault? I can understand you feeling bad about it when it first happened, but after all this time, you gotta see that you were as much a victim as they were?” He stopped, feeling the tremors shaking the lean frame beneath his hands. “Hutch?” he queried, gently. “What is it, huh? Tell me.”

The blond head shook in a clear negative.

“Did the cop come back and say something?” No response. “The camp leader?” Still no response. A thought struck him, and he blurted out, “Jeeze, tell me the other kids’ parents didn’t come and accuse you, did they?”

Another, barely perceptible, shake of the head.

“Then why…? Oh, my God.” He felt as though someone had just swapped his blood for ice. “Hutch, it was your parents, wasn’t it? What did they say?” He knew he was right before Hutch could react, some instinct insisting against all reason that this was the answer.

“Hutch?” he encouraged, softly.

Hutch’s entire body had gone rigid, the sore muscles in his back in spasm again, and for a moment he struggled to get a word out. As carefully as he could, Starsky wrapped his arms around him. “Hutch, tell me. It’s just words. Tell me.”

“W-When I got home, I was taken up to my room. The doctors said I needed to rest, and d-dad was still at the office. I h-heard him come in that night, but he never came to see me.

“I stayed in my room for nearly a week. M-Mom brought up my meals on a tray, but she was the only person I saw. She said that he was busy.

“By the time dad finally sent for me, I could walk pretty well using a cane. H-He wouldn’t let me sit. He said I had to s-stand to listen to him, like a man. He said it was my f-fault those other kids had d-died, because I’d let them bully me. If I hadn’t b-been so w-weak, they wouldn’t have picked on me. I could have told the camp s-staff what was going on. They would have s-stopped it. Either way, it was my f-fault. I let him and the f-family down.”

Hutch’s jaw clamped shut. Starsky knew how much he hated it when he stuttered. It rarely happened, and only when he was badly stressed. Starsky’s arms tightened around him, his own fragile composure cracking. “Dammit, Hutch, what kind of a father is he, anyway? What kind of man says that to his eight-year old son?”

Hutch took hold of the arms around him and tugged, wincing. “Starsky, let go.”

“Huh? I mean, c’mon, Hutch, you don’t really believe that crap. Do you?”

“Starsky! Let go. You’re hurting me.” He took a deep breath as the grip around him relaxed. “Starsk, just shut up a minute, will you?” Starsky’s tirade ceased and was replaced with muttering. Hutch ignored it.

It was odd, but when Starsky’s hold on him relaxed, he felt a commensurate relaxation of the iron band that held him from within. That iron band had been in place ever since he first woke up in the hospital, alone and scared.

Starsky’s earlier words replayed themselves in his head: Are you telling me that if we were called to a crime scene where an eight year old boy had done something dumb—like, I don’t know, got hold of a gun his dad left lying around—you’d hold the kid responsible?

He could almost hear the sound of the iron band cracking, rusting away to nothing.

“You know, Starsk, you’re right. It is crap.” He drew a deep breath. “I wouldn’t hold an eight year old kid responsible for an accident, however tragic the outcome. Nobody should. I wouldn’t send an eight year old away from home for weeks at a time, either.” He blinked up at Starsky. “I can’t believe I let Dad convince me it was my fault. Not that we ever talked about it since. It’s one of those things that no one ever talked about again. Most of the time I didn’t think about it, but every time I hurt my back it was there, lurking at the back of my mind.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that, don’t ya?” Starsky’s words were softened by a smile. “You shoulda told me about this years ago.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly a fond memory,” Hutch replied tartly, but Starsky could see that his face had lost the pinched look etched into it since he had wrenched his back. The pain was still there, but no longer shadowed by something deeper. And better still, Hutch was no longer stuttering.

“Listen, pal, I think you’ve had about enough tonight.” Starsky pulled the covers up over his friend’s shoulders, smoothing them gently. “That Tylenol should have kicked in by now. You try to get some sleep, huh? You’re already off the roster for a couple of days, and we’ll see how you’re doing after the weekend.”

“Okay. But I already told you, it’ll be…”

“Fine,” chimed in Starsky, and they both laughed.