This story is set immediately after the finish of “Murder on Voodoo Island” Part II. A little darker than what I’ve written in the past, but that’s just the direction the story went. An extra special thanks to Theresa and Kass for helping me meet my self-imposed August deadline. Thanks for the beta and home for my fic, as always. Any remaining flubs are mine. If you want to drop me a line about the story or just S&H in general, I’d love to hear from you at veniceplace12@verizon.net! Happy reading!

Aftershock

By Kate (CMT)

Starsky frowned as he trailed Hutch from Chief Godfrey’s office. Nothing had made sense from the moment they’d landed on Playboy Island, so it should have come as no surprise when the airline he’d talked to only ten minutes before, now told him their earliest flight wouldn’t depart for another four days. A “records glitch” the booking agent politely informed him when he complained he’d been told there was a flight leaving later that night. Suddenly the seats Hutch had booked on a DC-10 three days out looked like the only available tickets. So much for a quick exit from the island.

Any other time Starsky would have enjoyed the delay, even found a reason to prolong it. He and Hutch were in the center of a lush island paradise, surrounded by blue-green tropical waters, sparkling beaches and scantily-clad women. What man in his right mind wouldn’t want to be stranded as long as possible? Sun, water sports, recreation and more beautiful women than he could count, all within a step from their hotel room. He was living every man’s fantasy, so why did he feel uneasy? And why had his normally upbeat partner - - who had done nothing but rant about how he wanted to enjoy himself ever since they’d landed on the island - - suddenly go from being buoyant and chatty, to tight-lipped and sullen?

‘Cause of Papa Theodore.

Starsky grimaced. The man the locals called the “Haitian Blood Drinker” had escaped from police custody only hours after being escorted to prison. How he’d managed it was still a mystery. Starsky would have liked to chalk it up to ineptitude on the part of the local cops, but feared Papa Theodore really did command some strain of malevolent power. How else could he have bewitched him into attacking Hutch - - an event Starsky still couldn’t recall except in foggy bits and pieces?

He chewed on his bottom lip, letting the sun-baked heat of late morning wash over him. After just a few days on the island, he’d grown used to it, reveling in the cooling breezes that blew from the ocean. It was almost eleven o’clock, the sleepy island community waking to the lazy pace of another day. No one rushed in the small city, fretted over looming deadlines, or kept a schedule of must-do appointments. Life on Playboy Island was slower, self-indulgent and gratifyingly peaceful.

Starsky didn’t have time to appreciate any of that, however, for his single-minded partner had set a beeline for the hotel. Hutch looked a little too intense to be thinking about fishing, his body rigid, thoughts racing helter-skelter behind his light blue eyes.

“Hey.” Starsky jogged to his side, flashing a quick smile. He’d played the part of instigator in Godfrey’s office, hoping to get a rise from Hutch with news of Papa Theodore’s escape but hadn’t really meant anything by it. He’d just wanted to ruffle his friend’s always precise and unflinching feathers, something he rarely succeeded at doing. He hadn’t expected Hutch to do more than raise a single eyebrow and tell Godfrey his men needed a refresher course in prisoner transport. That would be Hutch - - college-bred, far too educated to believe in superstition, folktales and mystical religions like voodoo. Except he’d done a complete 180, growing nervous, and that was glaringly out of character for Mr. It’s-Just-Superstitious-Nonsense Hutchinson.

“Hey, what’s the hurry?” Starsky tried again. “I thought we were goin’ fishin’?”

He hated to fish. Freshwater, saltwater, man-in-the-moon water, it didn’t matter - - one was just as bad as the other. But he was still feeling guilty for attacking Hutch and wasn’t above going the extra mile to make his friend happy. From the time they’d crawled out of the ocean after that ugly incident on the cliff, Starsky had felt the compelling need to touch. To make sure he hadn’t hurt Hutch. On the beach and even in the jungle below Thorne’s house, he’d struggled to reinforce their bond through a pat on the shoulder, a lingering touch on the arm or back. Realistically, those exchanges were more for himself than Hutch. He couldn’t remember what he’d done on the cliff but wanted to make sure Hutch understood how sorry he was. They’d argued in the past, on two occasions had even traded a single blow, but never like this. Never with the intent to viciously hurt, to kill. One exchange had been staged. During the other, Hutch had been out of his mind with grief over the loss of the woman he’d loved.

If I could only remember what happened on that damn cliff, Starsky thought sourly.

“Hutch?” His fair-haired friend still wasn’t answering, causing Starsky’s bubbling anxiety to escalate another notch. “Huggy’s got that hunk-a-junk boat rented for the rest of the day. We could take it out again . . . even if the thing does sound like a garbage compactor on steroids.”

“Sure, okay.” Hutch spoke a little too quickly, almost breathlessly. His eyes were still straight ahead, fastened on the hotel. It was hard keeping up with him when he fell into a purposeful fast-walk. His legs were just too long, giving him the advantage of height and speed.

“Hey, slow down, will ya?” Starsky complained. “It’s not a race!”

“Huh?” Hutch blinked as though waking from a fog. He flushed guiltily, only then realizing he’d been plowing ahead at a marathon pace. He sent Starsky a flighty smile. “Sorry, buddy. What were you saying?”

Starsky frowned. “I was talkin’ about goin’ fishin’. Huggy rented that boat for the whole day. Aren’t you the one who’s been complainin’ about wantin’ to enjoy yourself ever since we landed on this island? I thought maybe you’d want to go back out on the ocean with a couple of rods. Our S.L.O.B. cover’s blown. Might as well enjoy ourselves as two cops playin’ tourist.”

“Yeah, okay.” Hutch’s comment was preoccupied and quick. No offhand remark about how much Starsky hated fishing and large bodies of water in general. Not even a semi-acknowledgement that the dark-haired detective had been anxious to get off the island. Distracted, Hutch rubbed a hand over his throat, grimacing slightly. “You know if Huggy’s got any fishing gear?”

“He rented that boat fully equipped, remember? You’re the one who told him to put the lines out while he was waiting for Godfrey.” Starsky’s frown deepened into a heavy scowl. It wasn’t like Hutch to be so absentminded.

His friend gave another inattentive nod and rubbed his neck again.

“What’s the matter?” Starsky felt a burgeoning prickle of alarm. “Your throat hurt?”

“Huh? Oh - - no . . .” Hutch shook his head.

“Hey.” Starsky laid a hand on his arm, drawing him to an abrupt halt. The blond-haired man threw him a quizzical glance, emotions, thoughts and feelings carefully shuttered away behind a veil of gold-tipped lashes and sky blue eyes.

“You okay?” Starsky asked. I tried to kill you, I know that. And the guy who plotted the whole ugly mess is runnin’ around loose. If you’re pissed or worried spit it out, but don’t do this silent number on me.

Hutch feigned nonchalance. “I’m fine Starsky.” One brow rose into the fringe of his bangs. Just a few days on the island and already the sun had lightened his fair hair with beach-washed strands of platinum and white. With a deeper tan, Hutch could easily look the part of island surfer. As it stood now his fairer skin carried the reddish hint of a mild sunburn.

“So you’re okay . . . hangin’ out for another three days?” Starsky persisted. He decided to skip tact and go directly to the heart of the issue. “It doesn’t bother you Papa Theodore’s runnin’ around somewhere, likely pissed as hell we ruined his plans?”

Hutch gave a short laugh. “Starsk, come on. It’s the twentieth century. You think I’m gonna worry about a voodoo witch doctor when I can be soaking up the sun, drinking margaritas and relaxing on a fishing boat?”

“Who said anything about margaritas?” Starsky smiled despite the semi-insistent voice that told him Hutch was being evasive. He still hadn’t let go of his friend’s arm. His fingers tightened over sun-warmed flesh, feeling the hot slick of perspiration courtesy of a tropical sun. I didn’t wanna hurt you. Whatever he made me do . . . whatever I tried to do on that cliff . . . Hutch, you gotta know I’d never hurt you, babe. Wish I could find a way to apologize, but I don’t know what I’m apologizin’ for. I can’t remember a damn thing.

As if interpreting his anxiety, Hutch flashed a dazzling smile. “You really gonna fish, Starsk?” He swatted Starsky’s hand. The casual swipe was enough to make the other man release his grip. “I thought you hated anything that involved a rod and a reel?”

“Shows how much you know.” Starsky started walking again, feeling slightly better. At least Hutch wasn’t rubbing his neck anymore. Did I try to choke him? “I’m broadenin’ my horizons. Might even earn me one of those Ocean Scout things.”

Hutch chuckled. “Sea Scout,” he corrected, falling in at Starsky’s side. “And I think it’ll take more than an afternoon on a boat to make a sailor out of you.”

+++++

Starsky didn’t think there were enough afternoons in the world to make him comfortable on the ocean. Fortunately Huggy was in control of maneuvering the boat, steering them out into the blue sea until the white stretch of beach was only a speck on the horizon. He could see the jutting silhouette of their hotel rising above the shorter bulk of assorted luxury condos, upscale lodgings and glittery nightclubs. From a distance, the shoreline looked ragged and gray, a cardboard cutout rimmed by sparkling sand. Waves lapped gently against the hull of the boat, the only sound but for the occasional cry of a sea bird and the muted beat of reggae music wafting from the aft speakers.

Starsky fidgeted with his rod, undecided if he should check the bait again. He opted for a swig of beer instead, setting his can aside with a grimace. There was nothing worse than lukewarm alcohol after it had baked in the sun. He debated about getting a fresh one from the cooler but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He’d lost track of the amount of time they’d spent on the water, tooling from one end of the ocean to the other, all of it looking the same fishless blue to him.

A glance to the front told him Huggy was fiddling around in the driver’s seat, trying to rig his rod with fresh bait after getting snagged by a mammoth clump of seaweed. Hutch had sprawled on the deck near the motor, forsaking his rod completely. Stripped, except for a pair of belted white denim shorts, he was lying on his back, stretched comfortably on an oversized beach towel, eyes closed, body lax. Starsky knew he’d fallen asleep some time ago, and although he was loathe to disturb him, he also knew if Hutch didn’t move soon, he’d end up looking like a lobster tonight.

“Hey, Blondie, you better get outta the sun or roll onto your stomach.” Starsky pulled on his line, feeling it bob up and down. He still hadn’t figured out how to tell the difference between an actual ‘hit’ and the normal drag from ocean current. He’d already made a fool of himself twice, convinced he’d hooked Moby Dick only to find a clump of seaweed dangling from his hook when he’d wrestled his line in.

“Hutch,” he said loudly, noting his friend hadn’t moved. “I ain’t gonna tell you again. Don’t expect me to rub menthol shavin’ cream all over you when you can’t sleep tonight ‘cause you got fried.”

“My man, you wanna be kinky, don’t advertise it,” Huggy called from the front of the boat. “What you and the Nordic blond do on your own time is your own business, but the rest of the world don’t gotta know, you dig?”

Starsky laughed. He took another swig of his beer before remembering the sun had toasted it into something oven-hot and nauseating. “What’s wrong with you, Hug? You never heard of using menthol shavin’ cream on sunburn?” He spat the taste of aluminum and curdled hops from his mouth. “Eases the sting.” Shooting a perturbed glance at his friend, he broke his own rule about not repeating the order. “Hutch, will ya roll onto your stomach please?”

“Mother Hen Starsky,” Huggy said with clear amusement. Standing, he moved to the side of the boat and shook his line over the rail. “Guess all that stuff with Thorne wore out Mr. Fit-and-Perpetually-Healthy.” Drawing back, he angled a cast over his shoulder, grinning when his freshly baited hook plopped beneath the waterline. “I thought your better half over there was the one who wanted to play Swiss-Family-Robinson and fish for dinner?”

“Me too,” Starsky muttered.

Hutch shifted and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the crook of one arm. If any of them had a right to be tired, it was Starsky. He was the one who’d tossed and turned all night, plagued by nightmares, courtesy of Papa Theodore. The only reason he was out on the water to begin with was because he thought Hutch had wanted to go fishing. His blond friend had lasted little more than an hour before abandoning his rod and opting for a mid-afternoon nap in the sun. Starsky would have preferred to be back at the hotel, lounging around the pool or hanging by the beach bar, even playing another round of golf . . . anything but the water. He wouldn’t mind trying the jet skis down at the lagoon, but this sitting on a boat, trying to nab a fish from an ocean full of assorted fintails was like digging for a needle in a haystack.

“What time ya got?” he said to Huggy.

The black man shrugged. “Time enough to know we’d starve to death if we had to do this for real.” He blew out a long sigh and shook his head. “Just so you know . . . I left a mighty fine fox this mornin’ just to haul this vintage tub onto the water for your sorry behinds. Much as I like you two, I’d rather be spending my time with my own personal vixen, if you know what I’m sayin’. Seems to me the Viking prince could be takin’ a beauty nap anywhere . . . like on the beach or in his hotel room.”

“I hear you.” Starsky stood and stretched. He’d been thinking pretty much the same thing. He guessed it was already after three o’clock, and it would take them at least another hour to reach the marina and dock. Although their cover had been blown, the S.L.O.B. boys were still being friendly with them and had invited them to a closing night party at the hotel. Tomorrow the rubbish conventioneers would pack up and leave, but tonight they were celebrating in style with a live band, extensive buffet, open bar and girls. Starsky was hoping to go back, maybe take a quick swim, then clean up and shower before the party started at seven o’clock.

Reeling in his line, he gave a jerk of his head to Huggy, indicating he should do the same.

“What about - -?” Huggy nodded to Hutch, lying oblivious at the rear of the boat.

“He ain’t even gonna know,” Starsky said quietly.

“I heard that,” a muffled voice responded.

Starsky rolled his eyes but indicated Huggy should get the boat underway. Setting his rod aside, he walked to the rear and sat on the deck near Hutch, his back against the side. “So are you really tired, or are you just bein’ anti-social?”

“I’m enjoying the sun, Starsk.” Hutch didn’t bother to move, his face still buried in the crook of one arm, voice muffled. The reddish tinge of too-much sun was more prominent on his back than his chest. Sighing, Starsky looked around for the small duffel bag he’d brought. He’d packed it when he’d thrown beer into the cooler, bringing along a few snacks, some local newspapers and sunscreen. Normally Hutch was the one who thought of details, but his friend had grabbed nothing more than a towel, looping it around his neck.

Spying the duffel a short distance away, Starsky stretched to the side and snagged it by the handle. Dragging it close, he fished in the open mouth until he located a small tube of sunscreen. He could feel heat on his own skin, knew that his shoulders had already crisped a little, but he had the natural protection of a darker complexion.

Upending the tube, he squeezed it in the center, depositing a quarter-sized glob of white goo in the middle of Hutch’s back. Caught off guard, Hutch hissed in a breath and jerked onto his elbows. “What, the - -”

“Quit your whinin’. It’s just sunscreen, and I know it ain’t cold.”

“No. It’s hot, Starsky. I’m already sweating here.”

“Well maybe you wouldn’t be if you weren’t playin’ rotisserie in the sun.” He gave Hutch a shove between his shoulder blades. “Lie down and let me get some of this on you.” Frowning, he rubbed the sunscreen over Hutch’s back, working it into his shoulders, smoothing it down to the line of his shorts. The scent of coconut oil and jojoba filled his head, making him think of long ago vacations on the Jersey shore when his parents had packed him and Nicky up for a weekend at the beach. Something tightened in his stomach.

Hutch had relaxed again, his cheek resting on crossed arms, his face turned away from Starsky. Huggy shifted the old boat into gear, revving the motor to life. It cut through the water, leaving a streak of bubbling white foam in its wake. The rumble of the engine drowned the music coming from the speakers and vibrated up through the deck. The ugly thing in Starsky’s stomach clenched down hard. His hand stilled on Hutch’s shoulder.

“My dad took me boatin’ once,” he said through the sudden lump in his throat. “Out on the bay, off the Jersey shore. I was ten . . . right before he died . . .”

Alerted by the change in his tone, Hutch rolled onto his back and sat up. His eyes narrowed in studied concentration but he didn’t say anything. Trying to gauge his friend’s mood, he wet his lips. “Starsk?”

“Jersey.” Starsky gave a soft snort. “That was a lifetime ago.” His right palm was slick, coated with lotion. He wiped it dry on his denim cut-offs. “I think that’s the only time I ever liked the water. Just me and him . . . not fishin’ . . . just ridin’ . . . he even let me drive the boat. It was just one of those small things . . . like a john boat, but with a deeper vee. He got shot two days later. Never have liked the water since.”

“We didn’t have to come out here,” Hutch said quietly.

Starsky cast a glance to the front of the boat. Huggy had his back turned, concentrating on driving, giving them the luxury of a few minutes of privacy. Starsky had once heard voices were magnified on the water, but he knew as quietly as they were talking, Huggy couldn’t overhear. “Yes, we did . . . ‘cause he can’t get to us out here. ‘Cause I ain’t gonna lose you like I lost my dad.”

“Starsky, nothing’s going to happen - - ”

“You’re damn right. I don’t think he likes water. I think that’s why the spell broke when we fell. I ain’t gonna let him do it again.”

“Who?” Hutch’s voice had thinned, growing hoarse at the edges. Self-conscious, he rubbed his throat.

I did try to choke him. I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed for all I was worth.

“Papa Theodore.” The damn bastard. “I’m only sorry I didn’t hit the SOB harder when I had the chance.”

Hutch forced a smile. Starsky had known him far too long not to recognize that it was staged. “Starsk, will you forget about that guy? Let Godfrey worry about him - - ”

“ - - not till you tell me what happened on that cliff.”

“What’s it matter? You weren’t yourself.”

“I tried to kill you.”

“Damn it, Starsky, we’ve been through this.” Irritated, Hutch reached aside, gathering up his sunglasses and shirt. “I told you, you didn’t hurt me.”

Wish I could believe you.

Starsky watched as his friend shrugged into his shirt with clipped movements. Hutch slipped his sunglasses on, gathered up his towel and walked to the front of the boat on the pretext of saying something to Huggy. Dejected, Starsky leaned his head back against the hull, craning his neck to watch the sky pinwheel overhead.

Papa Theodore had made him attack Hutch. What was to prevent the voodoo priest from doing it a second time? Wouldn’t he try that much harder to overcome the disgrace of failure? Not only had Starsky and his partner broken the curse of the death dolls, but Starsky had knocked him cold. That was something a man as puffed up and proud as the Bokor couldn’t let go unchallenged. The only way he could reclaim the reverence and fear of the native islanders was to destroy the two men who had upstaged him. He already had a direct link to Starsky. What would happen if the next time Starsky really did choke Hutch to death? What if he couldn’t stop himself, if Hutch couldn’t overpower him, if - -

Groaning, he scrubbed a hand over his face. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t hurt his friend again. His mind was stronger than that, he was stronger than that. But Hutch was acting edgy and nervous, not at all himself, and that was making Starsky more than a little panicky.

Hooking a hand over the rail, he pulled himself to his feet and walked lurchingly to the front. He’d never quite gotten the knack for moving when a boat was under speed. “Hey,” he called to the two men under the canopy, one fair and sunburned, the other dark and ebony-skinned. “Who’s up for a round of jet skis?”

+++++

For someone who didn’t like the water, Starsky was surprised that he actually wanted to race around on a jet ski. Of course it was a little like putting his Torino on the ocean . . . a beefed up, customized, flashy machine that oozed horsepower and speed. Huggy declined, running off to see his “foxy lady” when they docked, but Hutch agreed with the same preoccupied air he’d used when consenting to go fishing.

Starsky had hoped to get some kind of competitive rise out of him, but Hutch was mostly quiet, nodding when Starsky spoke to him but otherwise staying silent.

Maneuvering the jet ski was harder than Starsky initially thought and he spilled it in the lagoon three times before finally getting the hang of it. Hutch, on the other hand, who’d grown up on the shores of Lake Superior and was naturally athletically inclined, made handling one look effortless. They spent an hour on the water, during which time Hutch actually seemed to be enjoying himself, before turning in the rentals and heading back to the hotel.

“Not too bad for a guy from Brooklyn, Starsk,” Hutch said as they entered the lobby of the hotel. “A little work and you might even make a sea scout.”

Starsky felt the cool rush of air conditioning wash over his sweat-slicked skin. Despite spilling the jet ski a number of times and getting dunked in the process, he was still looking forward to a dive in the hotel’s pool. His dark hair had mostly dried, coaxed into tangled curls by the hot afternoon sun. All in all, he felt considerably better than he had that morning. Hutch seemed relaxed, his smile easy and genuine, even if his voice sounded a little hoarse.

“Another hour and I woulda put you to shame, Blondie,” Starsky countered. “You grew up on water skis. I’m at a disadvantage.”

“Hey, lookee here - - it’s Night and Day!”

Starsky stopped, turning on his heel at the sound of their “undercover” names. Jerry Perry and Bill Hill were striding across the lobby, each with a Playboy “attendant” hooked on their respective arms.

“Now you boys weren’t thinkin’ of cuttin’ out on us, were ya?” Jerry asked, halting them just outside the hallway to their room. “It don’t matter a hill of beans whether you’re cops or garbage men, long as you’re here to have a good time. Right, honey?” He grinned suggestively at the shapely brunette attached to his hip. Starsky saw that her name tag read “Paradise.” The blonde clinging to Bill Hill was just as shapely, wore the same black-and-white skimpy bikini with stiletto heels, and bore the name “Trinket.”

“Uh . . . sorry about that,” Starsky said with a grin. He shrugged, looking from Hutch to the bubbly foursome. “ . . .I mean about the name thing.”

“You mean lying?” Bill asked bluntly then let loose with a guffaw that was picked up and echoed by Jerry. “Hell, we don’t care. Fact is, I told Jerry from the get-go you were the sorriest excuse for garbage men I’d ever seen. Knew you weren’t in the trash business, ain’t that right Jerry?”

Jerry’s head bobbed up and down. “Right as rain. We just wanted to make sure you boys are still coming to the big S.L.O.B. shindig tonight. We figure havin’ cops as honorary members is a good thing. I mean those gals - - Silkie, Easy and the others - - who’da known they were tangled up in that Thorne mess? It’s been the talk of the hotel all day long. You boys might not know it, but you’re royalty around here. Gotta have you at our bash.”

“Okay.” Hutch gave a quick nod. “We’ll be there.”

“Not soundin’ like that you won’t.” Bill poked a finger at him. “What’s the matter? You gotta sore throat? No time to be gettin’ sick and missin’ our party.”

Self-conscious, Hutch cleared his throat, raising a hand to instinctively rub his neck. “I’m fine. We just came off the ocean . . . jet skis.”

“Ahhh!” Jerry elbowed Bill with a grin. “Playing it fast and loose, showboatin’ for the fillies, huh? Isn’t enough doin’ the macho cop thing.”

“You know how it is,” Starsky said, trying to hurry the conversation along. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, getting another guffaw from Bill. As much as he was looking forward to a party with a live band, beautiful women and dancing, he wished the S.L.O.B. conventioneers didn’t have to be so . . . slobbish. It was like being surrounded by a group of lounge lizards and used car salesmen all rolled into one. “We’ll be there tonight,” he said, catching Hutch’s arm and starting to tug him backward down the hall.

“Hey - - hey, wait!” Jerry called. “We don’t know your real names . . . you know, your cop names.” More guffaws from Bill who seemed to find every remark worthy of a stand-up comic.

“Starsky. And Hutch,” Starsky said pointing first at himself, then Hutch. Two more doorways and they could duck inside their suite. He waved, still grinning, then turned quickly and dragged Hutch by the arm.

“What’s the hurry?” Hutch hissed.

“You gotta ask?”

“Right.” Hutch chuckled softly.

Inside the suite, Starsky dropped exhausted onto the couch. “That’s it. If Dobey ever asks us to go undercover as garbage men again, I will personally turn in my badge.” Huffing out a sigh, he planted his feet on the coffee table. “No party’s worth this.”

“Aw, come on, Starsk.” Hutch strolled to the terrace, pushing open the door and stepping outside. Warm air flooded the suite, sticky with the tropical heat of late day. “Live music, pretty girls . . . you’ll be in your glory.” Looking first to the left then the right, Hutch craned his neck as far as he could see before stepping back inside. Starsky watched as he crossed to the bedroom, then the bath, opening each door and switching on the lights. Returning to the living room, he tossed his keys onto the coffee table. “Wanna shower first?”

“I’m gonna go take a dive in the pool.” Starsky studied him a moment, bothered by the hoarse thread in his voice, the strange visual check he’d just performed. “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

“What?”

“What?” Starsky gave a short incredulous laugh. “How ‘bout the surveillance-walkthrough you just did . . . perimeter, bedroom, bath. We settin’ up camp I don’t know about?”

Bothered by the observation, Hutch tried to shake it off. “It’s nothing.”

“Nuthin’, huh?” Starsky lurched to his feet and walked around the sofa to confront his friend. “You’re startin’ to freak me out, Hutch. You’ve been about as chatty as a clam ever since we left Godfrey’s office, you fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon, and now you’re layin’ down perimeters around our hotel suite. If you’re bothered ‘cause Papa Theodore - - ”

Hutch blanched. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He recovered quickly, turning away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “Look, I’m gonna take a shower. It’s already after 6:00. Why don’t you go take a dive in the pool, and we’ll go down to the party later? It probably won’t even get interesting until around 9:00 anyway.”

Starsky scowled. He knew his friend wasn’t being truthful, knew that something was bothering him, but if he pushed the matter now, Hutch would get defensive. “Sure, okay.” Disappearing into the bedroom he did a quick change into swimming trunks, grabbed a towel from the adjoining bath and headed back out to the living area. He found Hutch sitting on the sofa, one elbow propped on the arm, staring thoughtfully out the sliding door.

Two more days of this, he reminded himself, then we can be off this island. “Sure you don’t wanna come . . . for a swim?”

Hutch managed a token smile, but shook his head. “No thanks.”

“Okay.” Starsky tried to keep the situation light, even though the unease he’d felt earlier was growing. “Just don’t hog all the water. See you in about an hour.”

He was out the door and down the hall before he realized he didn’t have the charm Aunt Minnie had given him for protection.

+++++

Hutch stood under the spray of lukewarm water, one arm braced against the front of the shower stall, chin tucked close to his chest. Within seconds the water cooled, rolling over his heated skin, matting his hair to his head. He didn’t understand the strange fatigue that had plagued him ever since rescuing Janice and her father from the Thorne estate, but had no such uncertainty about why his throat was sore.

Swallowing, he grimaced against the pain, raising his free hand to rub the abused tendons in his neck. He knew Starsky hadn’t meant to hurt him. His friend had been dazed, clearly bewitched during the violent attack. Even so, that knowledge couldn’t halt the ugly memory of his partner pinning him to the ground, hands wrapped around Hutch’s throat while desperately trying to choke off his air.

Hutch’s initial reaction had been shock. When his dazed mind finally responded and he could think past the horror, he felt only anguish. During those precious seconds when confusion and terror reigned, Starsky had brutally crushed the tendons in his throat, leaving him gasping for air. It was only by driving a punch into his friend’s face that Hutch had been able to scramble free.

Shaken by the attack, he’d shielded his throat with one hand, breathlessly trying to placate his hostile partner. “Starsk . . .” Even now the memory of his voice came back to him. He’d repeated his friend’s name over and over, as if his plaintive tone might somehow offset Starsky’s confusion and rage. Sadly, it had done little good. If not for their tumble from the cliff, the unexpected plummet into the ocean below . . .

Shoving the memory aside, Hutch shut off the water and stepped from the shower. The further the day progressed, the harder it became to swallow, the sorer his throat grew. He knew it was only natural for his voice to turn hoarse, his damaged vocal chords to swell and contract, but he hated having that visible/audible reminder so evident to Starsky. His friend already felt bad enough, was working himself into a nervous snit over Papa Theodore’s escape fearing a repeat performance of what had happened on the cliff.

“Damn witch doctor,” Hutch muttered acidly, toweling himself dry. The bathroom had steamed from the shower, fogging the mirror above the sink. He flipped on the exhaust fan, gingerly toweling his back and chest. While tan underneath, his skin was clearly sunburned, more than a little sore. Wrapping a clean towel around his waist, he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. The rush of air conditioning against his reddened skin made him shiver. Bypassing the bed, he crossed to the dresser and pulled a clean pair of shorts from the top drawer. As he straightened, he caught his reflection in the mirror and noticed the bruises on his neck.

Hutch swore softly. It had taken most of the day and a thrum of lukewarm water from the shower to make them appear, but they stood out clearly now - - stark purple marks ringing the base of his throat like a macabre necklace. Experimentally he rubbed a hand over the finger marks, flinching when his bruised skin flared with sudden pain.

“Damn.”

It wasn’t enough Starsky was feeling bad for hurting him - - something Hutch kept insisting he hadn’t done - - now it would be like rubbing his nose in the evidence. Irritated, he pulled a plain white tee-shirt over a pair of black boxers and flopped onto the bed. Maybe with a short nap things would look better.

Hutch rolled onto his side, fighting back a yawn so he wouldn’t hurt his throat. He didn’t seem to have any energy today. It was a wonder he’d made it up that cliff - - twice. Ever since, all he’d wanted to do was sleep. And - - if he owned up to the truth - - he was uncharacteristically jittery about Papa Theodore roaming around on the island. From the moment he’d first learned of the Bokor’s escape, he’d been filled with a sense of dread. He wasn’t a man normally given to shadowy superstition, yet couldn’t deny the ugly truth - - he was afraid, plain and simple.

Afraid.

It was such a silly word. An emotion that happened to other people. There were occasions when he grew rankled, even a little panicky, but true fear he’d only felt a few times in his life. Like when Monk had first shot him full of heroin and he realized what was happening, or when he thought Starsky was dying, ravaged by an unknown poison, or when Starsky had been kidnapped by cult fanatics and he wasn’t sure if he’d find him alive. Those were reasons for fear. Finite things he could put his finger on. But this was strangely intangible, a ghostly sense that was nonetheless suffocating for its surrealism.

All day he’d try to avoid it, wrapping himself in diversions like fishing, jet skiing, falling asleep in the sun. He would have built sandcastles, chased eels or sang S.L.O.B. anthems if Starsky had asked. Anything to occupy his mind, but nothing worked. No matter how much he tried to avoid the truth, the feeling remained - - fear that crept up into his stomach, wrapped around his throat and made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. When Starsky had insinuated he was bothered by Papa Theodore’s escape he’d almost caved and admitted the truth.

Almost.

The worst part was he couldn’t really define why he was afraid. That his fear was connected to Papa Theodore he had no doubt, but beyond that he came up glaringly empty. How could he ever admit such a childish fear to Starsky? Especially after ridiculing the belief in superstition and voodoo curses? Besides, his friend was still hung up on what had happened between them on the cliff near Thorne’s estate. All Starsky needed to reinforce his ballooning anxiety would be for Hutch to admit he was terrified himself.

Which meant he had to continue in the guise of skeptic, keeping his emotions shuttered away. He should have been used to the role by now. Starsky had always thrived on superstitions and folktales while Hutch had mocked anything abstract.

Except this time.

This time he felt . . . something. He couldn’t place the wrongness anymore than he could pin down his inexpressible fear. He just knew there was something there, like images from a dream that slipped further and further away each time he tried to grasp them. All afternoon he’d been wrapped up in the confusion of something that was part memory, part nightmare.

Weary, he let his eyes drift shut. Immediately his thoughts spiraled back to the night Papa Theodore’s followers had caught him and Starsky outside of the Bokor’s hut. He remembered little of what followed. Most was a blur, meshed in a pulsing web of music and drums . . . of white powder that made his head spin and his body contort. He’d wakened on the beach the next morning, head pounding, low tide lapping around him, the night an alarming blank.

Except for that whisper of something. A plaguing sense of dread that told him something dark and sinister had taken place. It made his fear swell, kindled the ghost of barely there memories: the slick of heated oil against his skin, coarse hemp slicing into his wrists, the acrid stench of smoke and something sickly sweet. He heard laughter, goatish and malevolent, felt the calloused touch of fingers around his neck, tightening until he couldn’t breathe. Until he choked and gasped for air. Until music, laughter and remembered pain turned into something terrifyingly real.

Trapped in the nightmare of almost-memory, Hutch whimpered softly, tucking his legs closer to his chest. Outside, beyond the window, a tall shadow moved past, leaving a single feather to mark its passing.

+++++

Starsky wasn’t sure what time it was, but he knew he’d been at the pool for a good half hour, cozying up to a few of the playmates and (unavoidably) chatting with a handful of S.L.O.B. conventioneers. News about the toppling of Thorne’s empire had spread quickly, even among the hotel’s guests and tourists. Apparently, the whole populace knew he and Hutch were undercover cops and had been involved in what was being touted as the island’s “most extraordinary” bust in decades. It seemed everyone wanted to talk to him, shake his hand, ask questions and speculate on how Charlotte and her group had managed to arrange the whole devious plot. He handled most of the attention - - especially that from the fawning playmates - - with a good-natured grin and a healthy dose of practiced bravado. But even that got old when all he wanted to do was cool down, take a dip in the pool, then go back and check on his oddly fatigued partner.

Eventually he was able to worm his way free of even the most tenacious of the hangers-on - - a five-foot S.L.O.B. conventioneer with horn-rimmed glasses, slicked back ginger hair, and the unlikely name of Chester Fooglebody. Throwing the short, overly talkative man a parting grin, Starsky kicked off his sandals, sprinted across the sun-baked cement surrounding the pool and dived in. The water was cool, vigorously refreshing and soothing at the same time. He let his body sink with the dive, plunging deeper into the blue-green depths before kicking into a muscularly-powered swim. Only when his lungs were tight, his chest aching with the need for air, did he rise to the surface, buoyed by the silken caress of gentle waves.

Water streamed into his eyes, dripping from his saturated bangs. He blinked, sucking in a deep breath as the water lapped around him. The sun caught him full in the face, temporarily blinding him and in that quicksilver moment, he thought he saw a tall, ebony-skinned man standing near the entrance to the pool.

Papa Theodore.

The sight ripped through him, enflaming a violent bolt of near-panic. Alarmed, he palmed water from his eyes, squinting against the overly bright sun. His vision cleared, revealing Chester Fooglebody standing a few yards away, grinning brightly and signaling in eager greeting.

No voodoo priest, no bald-headed, white-robed figure intent on vindictive retribution.

Starsky gave a half-hearted wave to Chester, frowning when a sliver of pain prickled his thumb. Moving to the side of the pool, he shoved his knuckle into his mouth, biting down hard against the familiar ache. Not again. He’s not doin’ this to me again. It ain’t nuthin’, just my imagination. Just Fooglebody standin’ there, not some 6’5” spiteful voodoo priest who wants to turn me into a killer.

Rattled, he groped for the charm he normally wore around his neck - - the charm Huggy’s Aunt Minnie had made - - and winced when he realized it was missing. Doesn’t matter. I was wearin’ it when I attacked Hutch, and it didn’t stop Papa Theodore from usin’ me then. I broke the spell on my own. Me and Hutch together.

Thinking of his partner, Starsky hoisted himself from the pool, dripping water as he traipsed across the apron and retrieved his towel. From the corner of his eye he saw Fooglebody making a bee line in his direction. Snatching up his sandals, he ducked out the opposite gate, sprinting for the back entrance to the lobby. He didn’t care how wet he was, how much water he trailed across the carpet and slate tile. Real or imagined, the sight of Papa Theodore had him operating on pure adrenalin, his only thought that of his partner alone in their room. Looping the towel around his neck, he wiped his face with one hand, expertly weaving between playmates, dawdling sunbathers and tourists, never slowing his pace.

The door was unlocked when he reached their suite and he fumbled it open, nearly tripping across the threshold. A quick dart to the right brought him into the bedroom where he found Hutch curled on his side, asleep on his bed. Though his partner was turned away from him, Starsky could hear the even sound of his breathing, see that he was content and resting.

Sleepin’ too much, but at least he’s okay.

Exhaling loudly, he allowed the pent-up tension he’d been nursing since imagining Papa Theodore at the pool slip from his body. Only then did he realize a small puddle was accumulating on the carpet beneath his feet. “Okay, partner,” he mumbled more to himself than Hutch. “So I overreacted. I’m gonna take a shower now, get out of these wet shorts. We still got a party to go to.”

Leaving Hutch to sleep, Starsky closed the bedroom door and headed for the bathroom.

+++++

“ . . . Starsk . . .” Trapped in the foggy gray limbo between waking and sleep, Hutch whispered his partner’s name. A disconnected part of his mind registered Starsky’s presence in the room and tried to swim up from the ugly murk of disturbing dreams but didn’t succeed.

Someone was standing over him . . . two nights ago when he’d writhed on the floor of that primitive hut . . . was standing over him now in the hotel bedroom. He couldn’t tell which was reality and which was make-believe, if any or both were concrete or just phantom-figments of his tortured imagination.

Hot fingers stroked his cheek and he was back in the hut again, choking on a wretched tangle of smoke and cloyingly sweet incense. Repulsed, he tried to twist away from the touch as it slid slowly to his neck. His arms were stretched taut over his head, bound to rings in a mammoth wooden table. Dazed, he realized he was shackled, spread eagle on the scarred surface like a sacrificial offering. Panic bubbled swift and fierce into the back of his throat. Still weak and mostly incoherent from the powdery drug he’d ingested, he moaned and tried to twist free. The coarse restraints kept him prisoner, biting into his wrists. Pain spiked through his head, his vision as muddled and impaired as his sluggishly responding mind.

“Starsk,” he gasped.

Strong fingers caressed his throat. Not Starsky. This touch was foreign, boldly masculine yet strangely sensual. It made the gorge rise in the back of his throat, a repulsed groan slipping unchecked from his lips.

“Quiet, seraph,” a heavily accented voice cooed. “I promise you won’t be long for this earth.”

Groggy, Hutch tried to blink the face bending over him into focus. He had a fleeting impression of rich mahogany skin, dark eyes, shocking white teeth and a glistening scalp. The hand was back on his face now, cupping his cheek almost tenderly, whispering words he didn’t understand. He could feel a lick of bourbon-warmed breath against his ear, smell the spicy smoke of aged whiskey. Someone breathed deeply, greedily inhaling his scent, stirring the cornsilk-fine strands of hair clinging to his brow. Inhaling him, as if his body were mere vapor to be absorbed and savored like the alcohol. Fear came again, harder this time, slamming into him with the crushing force of a demon-spawned wave. “Ughnn . . .”

A soft chuckle.

“Does it hurt, seraph . . . your throat . . . your chest? The oil burns, no?” The hand was back again, slipping under his gaping shirt, rubbing heated oil over flesh already slick with sweat. He shivered, revolted by the intimacy of fingers wantonly caressing his chest, his stomach, barely feeling the burn it induced. Sickened, he was sure he would vomit, but the hand wrapped around his neck, pinching just enough to make him gasp for air.

“This is how I envision your end, seraph,” the accented voice told him. “Nothing quick for those who stand in my way. I will command your partner and he will belong to me!” The fingers tightened, crushing his windpipe, igniting cold pinpricks of light behind his eyes. He gagged, greedily trying to suck down air, frantically twisting in the painful restraints. Bit by bit the light was sucked from his eyes. A rushing noise filled his head, pulling him down into greater darkness, into icy fear and the cold-clutch of looming death.

Someone laughed and the sound was laced with swollen velvet. He felt a presence loom over him, bend to whisper in his ear, the voice husky and smug. “Does your throat hurt very badly, seraph? Should I hurt you again?”

“Hutch.” A new voice knifed into his cluttered conscious. A familiar voice. “Hutch, I said does your throat hurt?”

He blinked, jerking awake with a gut-twisting start. Dream, reality, and memory knotted in panicky confusion. His heart slammed into his ribs. Sitting bolt upright, he scrambled backward until his spine collided with the headboard. The jarring contact helped clear the fog from his mind. Bewildered, he realized he was in the hotel room, Starsky hovering by the bed in a pair of denim shorts and nothing else, his hair damp from a recent shower.

“Hutch.” As if sensing how disoriented he was, Starsky slid a steadying hand onto his shoulder. “Buddy, your throat . . . those marks . . .” The words came with a grimace of self-loathing. “Is that what I did to you?”

Instinctively Hutch raised a hand to his neck, remembering the vivid purple marks he’d seen before falling asleep. His throat felt like it was on fire, the lining blistered and raw. He stared mutely at Starsky, afraid to speak, frightened by how badly the simple action might hurt. In his bewilderment, he no longer knew who had caused him such pain . . . Starsky or Papa Theodore.

“I . . .” The word stuck on his tongue, whisper-thin and broken. “I’m fine. They’re just . . . marks. They’ll fade.”

“Bullshit.” Aggravated, Starsky turned away, thrusting a hand into his drying curls. “If you were fine you wouldn’t sound like a bum comin’ off a three-day drunk. I can’t believe I hurt you like that, Hutch!”

Hutch wrapped his arms around his stomach. More than anything else, he wanted to shove the dream aside, but it hung over him, glaringly vivid, all too real. He could still feel the intimate caress of hot fingers against his flesh, the slick of oil rubbed slowly and sensually into his stomach. Revolted by the memory, he turned his head aside and groaned.

Starsky latched onto the sound in a heartbeat. “See that. You are hurtin’.”

“No.” He shivered, chilled by the ghost-touch of air conditioning against his sunburned skin. “Please, Starsk . . .” He looked imploringly at his partner, too tired to put up much of a fight. “I wanna forget . . .” I wanna forget it all. I don’t know what’s real and what’s in my head anymore. “I just wanna . . . get through the night and the next two days, then get off this island. Don’t ask me . . . to talk about what h-happened. Just don’t.”

Hutch bit his lip. Starsky would push. He knew he would push. It wasn’t in his friend to surrender the cliff so easily, not without understanding what had really taken place there.

The dark-haired detective paced back to the bed. “You want me to forget I attacked you? That I ain’t responsible for those marks around your neck?”

Hutch looked away. “I think I’ll take another shower,” he said, pushing from the bed on the opposite side, ignoring the question entirely. He couldn’t face it, not now. Not with the dream images still cluttering his mind, the remembered touch of sacrificial oil and roving fingers all too real against his skin. Biting down on his lip, he suppressed a shudder.

“You already took a shower,” Starsky pointed out.

“I need another.” I need a freaking ocean. He didn’t think there was enough water on the planet to wash away the tainted ilk of the dream, the nauseating memory of Papa Theodore’s touch. For Starsky, he kept his voice light. “It’ll wake me up before the party.”

His partner’s loud snort indicated what he thought of the idea. “Party, huh? Have you heard yourself lately? You can barely talk above a whisper. Wanna tell me how you’re gonna fare at a party?”

“Same as I always do - -” Hutch shot back, louder this time, forcing bravado as he walked from the room. “ - - Outstanding.”

+++++

Bravado was something he and Starsky excelled at. Unfortunately, this time Hutch couldn’t live up to his words. He smiled at the curvaceous redhead who kept sending him flirtatious glances across the outdoor bar. Any other time he would have been delighted by her obvious attention, but tonight all he wanted to do was sink into anonymity.

The sun was starting to set over the ocean but the playmates, including the redhead, still wore their skimpy bikinis. Unlike Starsky who wore shorts, Hutch had dressed in long pants- - a pair of faded olive khakis, the hem long and frayed, dragging over his brown sandals - - and a white button shirt composed of a thin gauzy material, sleeves rolled loosely on his forearms. The breeze from the water was cool, skimming over his sunburned skin, whispering of impending rain as clouds gathered on the horizon.

He took a sip of his gin and tonic, grimacing as the cool liquid splashed against his abused throat. The party was in high gear, the band pumping out a loud mix of disco, reggae and rock and roll. S.L.O.B. conventioneers and their guests crowded into the outside patio bar and spilled over onto the beach. The redhead started in his direction, grinning brightly, but Hutch had run out of false bravado half an hour ago. Aside from the gritty ache in his throat, he still felt unnaturally fatigued and his voice was only a shred of what it should have been.

He looked around for his friend and spied Starsky a few feet away. The dark-haired detective was engaged in an animated conversation with three playmates, all of whom appeared to be vying for his attention. He had his arm around one of the girls, a bottle of beer dangling from his hand. Every so often he did a quick one-two dance step to the pulsing bass beat, catching one of his rapt admirers around the waist to join him. All three seemed eager for a turn and Starsky did his best to satisfy them.

Hutch turned away, all but bumping into the redhead.

She took the near-collision in stride, sidling a little closer. “Hi. I’m Poppy.”

He flashed a smile that was sheer reflex. “Hutch.”

A crease appeared on her smooth brow and she leaned closer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Hutch,” he said again, louder this time. The strain on his vocal cords made him grimace and raise a hand to his throat.

Poppy followed the motion, her eyes widening at the blotchy marks ringing his neck. “Oh, wow, I didn’t see . . . I mean . . .” She fumbled, obviously not prepared for the sight of something so ugly. Training as a hotel playmate did not include instruction on how to handle physical evidence of assault. “Are you . . .” This time she looked into his eyes, her own a startling sea green. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. It was easier than replying. Slipping his arm around her waist, he steered her away from the bar. “Do you want to go for a walk on the beach?” The times that Hutch knowingly played on his looks were rare, but he couldn’t stop himself now. Female company was exactly what he needed to banish the tainted memory of Papa Theodore. Reinforcing his own dominance with a willing female would go a long way in eradicating the stigma of being a victim. He was beginning to suspect everything he’d dreamed had actually taken place. The only thing that confused him was why he had no signs of rope burns on his wrists, no scrapes or lacerations to indicate he’d been bound. Surely the hemp restraints would have left behind a mark of some sort. And yet the ordeal felt real, raising phantom-like flashes of memory on the fringe of his mind. From the time he’d passed out in Papa Theodore’s hut to the time he’d awakened on the beach the next morning, his mind had been a complete blank. Anything could have happened, including the hideous scenario that had him bound to a sacrificial table in preparation of his death.

At Starsky’s hands.

“Walk with me on the beach?” he asked again, his voice thread-thin, barely vocal. Poppy seemed to understand the question and nodded with a smile. She moved closer, letting her hand rest possessively on his stomach. As they exited the terrace, they passed Jerry Perry and Bill Hill rounding the bar. Both men gave a resounding whoop when they saw the girl on his arm, Bill adding a broad wink and a suggestive crack about cops and handcuffs.

Poppy didn’t seem to mind. She toyed with a button on his shirt as they left the bar behind. “So you’re one of the cops who were involved in bringing down Charlotte and her gang?”

“She a friend of yours?”

“No. I don’t even know her.”

They reached the end of the terrace area and Poppy pulled away briefly, pausing to tug a blanket from a services bin. A few people were still swimming or lounging by the pool, others sitting at umbrella-topped tables, sipping fruit-plumped drinks in hurricane glasses. Folding the blanket in half, Poppy ducked snugly beneath Hutch’s arm.

“We’re not supposed to single out any of the guests for special attention,” she told him, changing the conversation. “But after something as big as that mess with Thorne, I figure no one will blame me for wanting to spend time with you.”

Hutch raised a single brow, looking down on her. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Partly.” She grinned. “But it doesn’t hurt that you’re so good-looking. Besides, I have a feeling we both want the same thing.”

He couldn’t argue with that. They took off their sandals - - his worn and brown, hers with a three-inch cork platform sole - - and walked down the beach until they could no longer see the twinkling lights of the party. Until the cool white sand and cotton-candy haze of twilight turned the beach into a private haven. The thrum of bass guitar and jumbled voices drifted from the distance, tangling with the gentle lap of low tide. Hutch spread the blanket on the ground, a sliver of cool air ruffling his hair and encircling his battered throat. He fought down the urge to cough, fearing what it would do to the swollen tissue in his neck.

Poppy wasted no time in pushing him back on the blanket, curling into his arms. She snuggled against him, lifting her lips to his. “You probably think I’m easy,” she murmured against his mouth. “But it’s not like that at all.”

He didn’t care. She was beautiful, clearly willing, and he desperately needed something - - someone - - to wash away the ugly hold Papa Theodore had over him. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he met her lips in a light kiss, enjoying the first tentative spark of shivery excitement. She responded willingly, a little too eagerly, her fingers fumbling open the buttons on his shirt. He felt her palm slide over his stomach and the touch brought back the memory of hot scented oil, of Papa Theodore’s caress.

Instinctively he groaned and pulled away.

“Hutch, what’s wrong?”