As in all my stories, you’re bound to come across a number of four-letter words. In addition, this one contains some disturbing imagery. Nothing overtly graphic (I think), but “dark” enough that I feel compelled to share the warning. It definitely gets an “R” rating. Thanks to Theresa for her always exceptional beta work (above and beyond the call of duty this time around!) and an extra thumbs up for letting me run with another of her plot ideas. My grateful appreciation to Kass and her lovely web-site, home of my S&H fic. This story picks up during the last scene of the filmed episode “Bloodbath.”

Barriers

By Kate (CMT)

Fear was something that generally happened to other people. Detective David Starsky had experienced it before in several incarnations, but never quite like this. He’d known raw horror in the Army. The kind of slowly crawling terror that mushroomed from the fight for survival and the grisly reality of seeing platoon mates maimed or killed with shocking suddenness. He’d even known fear on the street. Worse, he’d suffered through terror a time or two when he thought he’d lost his partner and best friend, Ken Hutchinson - - once to heroin, another time to a sniper’s bullet. His world had nearly shattered in those moments, fragile glass that might never be fitted together again.

But this was different. This fear was clotted and black, winged with the stench of impending death and blood. He could feel it in his throat, in the triple-timed beat of his frantically laboring heart. Sunlight streamed ruddy and gold from the east, pooling onto the cold stone at his bare feet, but it held no power to warm or induce hope. He could smell his own sweat and blood, the dirt on his body, the gluttonous bloodlust of the cult members ringed around him, all hooded in black. The repeated chant of “Simon! Simon!” made his heart pound harder, chill sweat drip into his eyes. His executioners were armed to bludgeon and brutalize, not just kill - - chains, a baseball bat, a meat cleaver - - barbarous weapons intended for carnage. There was to be nothing clean or merciful about his death. Simon Marcus and his followers wanted Starsky’s execution to be prolonged and agonizing.

“Gayle, you don’t want any part of this.” Despite the fear ripping him apart, the throb of pain in his arms and shoulders from having his wrists suspended overhead, Starsky managed to keep his voice tremor-free. The last twenty-two hours had been a blur of suffering and torture, nightmarish memories that made him shudder even now. He’d been beaten, cut, burned, drugged, mocked and taunted . . . restrained and helpless while some sick zealot carved into his flesh with a knife. He’d only been half awake then, his consciousness muddled by the drug they’d given him, but he could still recall the man’s sadistic enjoyment . . . could remember being pawed and groped, unable to fight back. Sometimes he didn’t know which was worse, the shame or the punishment.

Blinking sweat from his eyes, Starsky tried to concentrate on the present. His wrists were raw, lacerated by the rope binding him to a metal pole. He could feel blood trickling down his forearms, but the sensation was distant and vague, like it happened to someone else. With only seconds of life remaining, he thought of Hutch, of the rabid horror his friend would feel at discovering his savagely butchered body.

Oh God, please don’t let it destroy him.

He thought of the other victims he and Hutch had found - - four men, two women and three children, hacked and mangled by Simon Marcus and his glassy-eyed followers. Some of the bodies had been dismembered, all brutally mutilated until there was little resemblance to anything human. Even the children.

Starsky felt sick, thought he might throw up. If he’d had any piss left it might have leaked from his swollen groin, but they’d robbed him of that too.

“Gayle . . .” he tried again. In a matter of seconds the terrified girl would decide what to do with the knife - - make the first stroke in his death or reclaim her soul from the fanatics who had stolen it through lies of a better life. She’d been cheated just as Marcus had cheated all of his followers, influencing their minds until they knew only one absolute in a world polluted by variables - - the voice of Simon Marcus.

Starsky could see indecision in Gayle’s watery eyes, desperation, fear and confusion tangled into an emotionally charged knot. The chanting grew louder, fiercer. It made him quake on the inside, his blood thrumming to the terrified beat of his heart. One way or another he was slated to die, his life over at thirty-two. In some part of his mind Starsky almost believed he could hear a siren. If only . . .

“Gayle . . .”

With a sob, she flung herself forward. He saw the flash of the knife, tip angled to slice through the rope binding him to the metal pole overhead. Gayle stumbled, and the blade dropped too quickly. Never pausing, Starsky pivoted, ripping his already torn wrists from the partially severed hemp. He felt skin split, blood splash hot and wet against his forearms. Ducking, he wheeled to the side, narrowly avoiding a meat cleaver swung by one of Marcus’ murderous followers. From the corner of his eye, he caught a blur of blond hair and realized that Hutch had somehow miraculously found him. The recognition was gone in a flash, butted aside by the sharpened end of the cleaver. Starsky felt it connect with his back, tearing the flesh below his shoulder blade, sending a searing streak of pain through his battered body. He hissed in a startled breath, swiveling to grapple and unarm his crazed opponent.

In a matter of minutes the scuffle was over. Suddenly Hutch was there, and the world was semi-recognizable again. Starsky sagged into his friend’s arms, distantly aware that a terrified Gayle clung to his legs. He needed to cling just as badly as she did . . . needed to feel the steadying strength of his formidable blond partner holding the terror at bay. Crouched on the cold stone, Hutch’s arms wrapped around him, he could almost believe the wretched ugliness would fade . . . that the pain and sadistic abuse he’d suffered could be shoved down a hole of unwanted memories like those from ‘Nam.

“What took you so long?” he croaked, trying to maintain a sliver of lightness. At the moment that false security was the only thing holding him together. He was terrified of drowning in the hideous nightmare he’d endured, reliving all the steadily creeping horror and soul-shredding pain. Oh please, Hutch . . . please, babe, don’t let me shatter. Not here in front of all these people.

Starsky tightened his grip on the lapels of Hutch’s jacket, butter-soft leather crinkling beneath his trembling fingertips. It felt blessedly warm, a familiar conduit to anchor him to Hutch. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or sob, the rescue and his abuse ratcheting together in his head. Then he felt Hutch’s hand slip inside his robe, his friend’s long fingers tickling his ribs in a fleeting stroke - - just enough to let him know what was real, that despite everything, he’d survived. The touch pushed him over the edge, giddy laughter bubbling up from his throat. He clung tighter, terrified when the emotion climbed too high and humor abruptly nose-dived into fear.

Starsky’s composure cracked.

+++++

“Starsk?” Alarm spiked through Hutch. He heard his friend’s laughter sour into something heavier, dark and diseased. Suddenly the grip on his jacket wasn’t just for security. It reeked of raw desperation and need, the change as abrupt as it was frightening. He felt Starsky shudder, curling in on himself as unforgiving tremors raced through his body. “Starsky?”

His friend pressed against him, that strange giddy laughter turning into a choking sound. Starsky’s hands grappled harder, as if he couldn’t hold on tightly enough. It took Hutch a moment to realize his partner was completely falling apart, Starsky’s face crushed against his jacket, hot tears pouring from his eyes. Terrified by the breakdown, mortified for Starsky’s sake because of the audience, Hutch felt his own composure threaten to snap.

“Captain!” he yelled. “Captain, get these people out of here!”

Dobey emerged from the knot of patrolmen securing the scene. He took one look at the two police detectives crumpled together and immediately started barking orders. Cult members were rounded up and escorted to patrol cars. A uniformed officer gently collected Gayle, removing the shaken girl to the safety of a black-and-white. Everyone was ordered to a discreet distance, leaving Hutch to deal with his distraught partner.

“Babe? Starsky, I’m right here.” Gently, he cupped the back of his friend’s neck, immediately shaken by the icy touch of chilled flesh beneath his fingertips. The metallic stench of blood washed over him, alerting him to the cut in Starsky’s gown where the meat cleaver had found its mark. He swore softly, gathering his friend closer as he tried to examine the wound.

Starsky flinched from his touch.

“Ssh, buddy. I’m not gonna hurt you. It’s just me.” His throat tightened, anger mixing with remorse that his friend would be so traumatized as to shy from the slightest unexpected contact. Dragging a handkerchief from his pocket, he blotted it against the wound, soaking up blood. Starsky was still clinging to him, making those strange choking gasps that sounded suspiciously like tears.

“Hutch.”

Startled, he glanced up to find Dobey at his side. The black man bent down, lightly touching Starsky’s head, offering what limited comfort he could. “Paramedics are on the way.”

Hutch frowned. “The hell with it.” It would take them too long. Starsky was a wreck - - bleeding, traumatized . . . who knew what else those sickos had done to his partner. “I’ll take him to the hospital myself,” he said. “Help me get him to the car.”

For a moment it looked like Dobey would protest, but in the end, he parted with a tight nod.

“Buddy, come on.” As gingerly as he could, Hutch helped Starsky to his feet. His friend was breathing a little easier now, some of his composure returning, though his eyes looked glazed and vacant. The emptiness terrified Hutch almost more than the breakdown had. With Dobey’s assistance he guided his weak-legged friend to the Torino. Starsky walked with difficulty, leaning heavily on Hutch, hobbling as though the movement itself kindled pain.

“You’re doing good,” Hutch breathed into his ear. At the car, Dobey held the door open while he carefully eased his injured partner into the passenger’s seat.

“I’ll send men ahead to the hospital and follow up with a police photographer,” Dobey told him.

S.O.P.

Hutch nodded grimly. He knew Starsky’s injuries would have to be detailed photo by photo, but the thought of subjecting his friend to the clinical procedure repulsed him. Unfortunately there was no way around it. Evidence was evidence, even when it involved a police detective.

Dobey left and Hutch eased the door shut. Returning to the driver’s side, he slipped behind the wheel, one hand instinctively reaching for Starsky. His partner sat slumped against the passenger’s door, that vacant look still clouding his watery ocean-colored eyes.

“Starsk, hang in there, okay? You’re away from those goons now.” Hesitantly, Hutch touched his friend’s cheek, half afraid Starsky would flinch from him again. Instead the dark-haired man closed his eyes, an expression of pain crossing his face. Brief as it was, that betraying flicker sent a bolt of alarm through Hutch. Swiftly, he turned over the ignition. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m gonna get you to the hospital.”

And then what?

Hutch scowled.

Try to pick up the fractured pieces of Starsky’s emotional state? Sort through the long hours of vile debasement he’d surely endured at the hands of Simon Marcus’ followers? Starsky wasn’t talking and that was bad enough, but the way he sat huddled against the door, shoulders slumped, arms turned inward as if to guard against some outside force - - that was even worse. He looked horribly uncomfortable, pained by the mere jostling of the car. Hutch tried to steer the heavy vehicle as smoothly as possible through a series of curves, all the while cursing unseen bumps and potholes. He might have spouted off about the lack of tax dollars at work, but didn’t think he could get more than a few words past his dry tongue. His hands hurt from gripping the wheel so tightly, and the ache in his stomach had turned corrosive and sour.

“Starsk, talk to me. Are you hurting?”

A quick shake of the head was Starsky’s only answer, clearly a deliberate lie. A grimace of discomfort twisted his face. “ . . . sick,” he said thickly.

Suddenly his hunched posture made sense to Hutch. “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll take care of it.” Hutch banked the car to the side, easing onto the shoulder of the road. He hadn’t even come to a complete stop before Starsky popped the door and hung his head outside, gagging loudly.

Hutch slammed the gearshift into park. Quickly, he slid across the seat to brace an arm across his friend’s quaking shoulders. “Take your time,” he soothed, inwardly unnerved by the violent force of Starsky’s heaving. His friend strained loudly but nothing came from his throat other than a sparse smattering of phlegm and bile. Starsky’s face turned red with the effort, the sickness swelling stronger, cruelly pummeling him from the inside out. Winded and drained, he crumpled against the seat, listlessly sagging into Hutch’s side. A soft moan escaped his lips as he tried to hitch his legs closer, physically curling away from the door.

Shaken by the trembling press of Starsky’s body against his, Hutch tried to talk around the lump in his throat. He kept his right arm looped around Starsky’s shoulders even as he dug a pack of Kleenex from the glove box with his left hand. “Buddy, you’re safe now. You know that don’t you?” Gently he wiped his friend’s mouth, the arm around Starsky’s shoulders tightening to draw him even closer. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you. I’m right here.” He didn’t know which was worse - - the breakdown he’d witnessed earlier, Starsky’s vacant stare, or the cruelly inflicted sickness that had resulted in nothing but dry heaves and violent shuddering.

Hutch knew he should be back on the road, speeding for the hospital, but right now it seemed his partner needed physical contact more. Starsky moaned again, pressing a fist down in his lap, drawing his legs even tighter in a strange contorted curl against the seat. The robe fell back from his thigh, exposing severely battered flesh beneath. Hutch caught a glimpse of raised welts, lacerations and ugly bruises before Starsky shifted and self-consciously pulled the gaping fabric shut.

Incensed by the sight, Hutch fought to quell the hot emotion for his friend’s sake. “Starsk, you wanna lie down in the back?” His voice cracked with the effort of holding his rage in check. “Get more comfortable?”

Starsky shook his head, his face still pressed to Hutch’s shoulder. Raw waves of tension rolled from his body, his anxiety nearly palpable, snarled with a heated flush of pain. His head was bowed but Hutch could tell he had his teeth gritted, silently trying to mute a steady thrum of agony. The wound on his back had already crusted over with dried blood but it clearly added to his misery. In time, as Hutch held him, Starsky’s trembling eased marginally.

“Want me to drive now?” Hutch whispered huskily, his voice hoarse. Head bowed, he rested his brow against the crown of Starsky’s hair. The thick curls smelled of dirt, sweat and blood, but the coarse press against his flesh was one of the most blessed things Hutch had ever experienced in life. He breathed in the musky tang, dismissing the blood and dirt, savoring the familiar scent of his partner beneath the defilement and grime. “Babe . . .” Raising his head slightly, Hutch breathed warmly into his friend’s hair. “ . . . I need to take you to the hospital, Starsk.”

A groan came from the form huddled against him. Hutch understood more than he wanted to admit. A hospital meant dispassionate prodding . . . the clinical and detached observation of doctors and nurses. It meant disrobing for the police photographer, having the grisly abuse Starsky had endured cataloged in stark Polaroid snapshots. It meant taking off the blood-caked, dirt-stained black robe - - a debasement in itself with its upside down scarlet cross - - and having his naked body exposed the way a victim was exposed. It meant scrutiny and questions, long periods of separation from his partner, people staring when he wanted to hide, his flesh no longer his own as his body was examined and re-examined.

And yet the mere thought that something might be seriously wrong terrified Hutch. Even as he delayed in taking Starsky to the hospital he cursed himself for the stupidity. “Starsk, I’ll be with you when we get there.”

As if agitated, Starsky grunted and pulled away. Even his movements were painful, clearly stiff, performed without a full range of motion. The hand was back in his lap, pressing down on the soiled black robe. For the first time Hutch realized there was more than just blood and dirt on the garment. The sight of crusted yellow pus in the vicinity of Starsky’s groin made his throat close up. Before he could speak, Starsky looked away.

“S’okay, Hutch. I don’t feel so sick now.” His voice was unsteady, lacking in strength. “Let’s go to the hospital.”

Hutch would have delayed longer if he weren’t so concerned about the pus and the possibility of internal injury. Wordlessly, he moved behind the wheel and popped the gearshift into drive. Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Memorial, and Hutch pulled the Torino up to the emergency entrance reserved for ambulances. Two patrolmen were already there, sent ahead by Dobey. An orderly and a nurse waited with a wheelchair, a sight that made Hutch eternally grateful. He left the motor running, the driver’s door gaping open as he dashed around the front of the vehicle to help his injured partner from the car.

Hutch hated the sight of Starsky looking so frail, clad only in the hated black robe, his bare feet cut and bleeding, smeared with dirt and grime. He helped ease his partner into the wheelchair then instructed the first officer to park the Torino in the adjacent lot. He didn’t bother to see if his command was obeyed, but quickly hustled into the hospital at Starsky’s side.

His friend was taken to a triage room, where the nurse and orderly helped him onto an exam table. Sitting with his legs dangling off the side, Starsky stayed mute while the RN took his vital signs. The orderly disappeared with the wheelchair, and Hutch sent the officer from the room in search of Dobey. Seconds later the nurse left too, announcing she would retrieve the on-call doctor. Left alone with his friend, Hutch studied Starsky’s slumped shoulders and downcast eyes, his whole posture radiating deep depression and defeat.

Hutch tried to muster a smile, succeeding in part. Moving to Starsky’s side, he squeezed his shoulder. “How you holding up, buddy?”

He saw a flicker of dense jet lashes, but Starsky never raised his eyes. “You don’t gotta stay,” he mumbled.

Hutch almost choked. Wild horses couldn’t drag him away! With his free hand, he gripped Starsky’s arm. “Don’t be an ass. I’m not going anywhere.” God, he hated this! Hated that his friend had been hurt so badly, was still hurting emotionally and physically. To make the atrocity worse, Starsky was sinking into depression, erecting walls that grew more densely impenetrable by the moment. Hutch felt himself deliberately shut out, but couldn’t understand why. For every second of vulnerability Starsky displayed, there was another of stiff reserve.

“Wanna lie down?” he asked, then immediately cringed. Of course Starsky wouldn’t want to lie down with that oozing cut on his back. He bit his lip, feeling useless. “It’ll be over soon,” he tried again.

Starsky snorted, still not raising his eyes. “Easy for you to say.”

Caught off guard by the bitterness in his friend’s voice, Hutch momentarily found himself at a loss for words. Before he could formulate a reply, the door opened admitting Dobey and the patrolman. Craig Glass, the police photographer, followed close behind. Starsky took one look at Glass hovering discreetly near the door and instantly paled.

Hutch felt his gut tighten up. He’d do anything to spare Starsky the mortification of having to go through the grueling photography session. Glass was a casual friend to both of them, a man just a few years older with a lively manner and the nervous habit of chain smoking low-tar cigarettes in a perpetual (and thus far unsuccessful) attempt to quit. He’d worked with them on numerous cases, including documenting Simon Marcus’ previous nine victims. Unfortunately for those poor souls, there’d been little remaining to identify them, their bodies hacked and brutalized beyond recognition. Hutch knew if Marcus had succeeded with his plan, Starsky would have met the same violent end. The thought sickened him. It made him realize just how fortunate they’d been in deciphering the cult leader’s riddles, enabling them to find Starsky in the nick of time. It also made him selfishly crave solitude with his partner - - no doctors or nurses to intervene, no officers, not even Dobey. He just wanted to sit and hold Starsky against him.

Only this time he was the one who desperately needed that contact.

Blinking sluggishly, he realized Dobey was saying something to Starsky. The black man had his head bent and was speaking softly but firmly, one massive hand resting on Starsky’s shoulder. The room felt crowded and cramped to Hutch. Sweat broke out on the back of his neck, trickling into his collar. He was aware of Glass nervously shifting from foot to foot in the corner, obviously ill at ease with the whole scenario. The man’s fidgeting almost made Hutch wish for a cigarette, and he didn’t even smoke. For some reason the shiny burn mark on Starsky’s temple drew his attention and he ground his teeth together. How many other hidden injuries lingered beneath the filthy black robe?

Growing increasingly agitated, Hutch contemplated shooing the others into the hallway. He was saved the decision when the door opened, admitting the nurse who’d originally led them to the room. She carried a clean hospital gown along with a tray of bandages, medicinal creams and a triage basin. Within seconds, a middle-aged man breezed in behind her. Introducing himself as Dr. Cannelli, he took a moment to study Starsky’s chart, before proceeding to recheck his pulse and blood pressure. Realizing he was in the way, Hutch moved toward the door, watching as Cannelli gingerly ran his hands over Starsky’s neck and shoulders. A sympathetic wince drew the doctor’s features when he encountered the blood-encrusted gash on Starsky’s back.

Hutch stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced, aware his friend’s head was again lowered, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the hospital table.

Finishing a brief exam, Cannelli hooked the ends of his stethoscope around his neck. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied Starsky’s bowed head. “I’m going to need you to disrobe, Detective, so we can better gauge the extent of your injuries. I’ve had a nurse bring in a gown. I’m sure you’d - -”

Dobey cleared his throat before the man could finish. Awkward and uncomfortable, he shifted under the doctor’s gaze. “I’m afraid there’s procedure we’re going to have to follow as well, Doctor. You realize Detective Starsky is the victim of a crime?”

Cannelli raised heavy black brows. “That’s hard to overlook, considering it’s been all over the news. I’m just thankful he was found before . . .”

The thought trailed away unfinished and Dobey gave a crisp nod. “We all are.” His eyes darted briefly to Starsky before returning to the doctor. “But because my detective is the victim of a crime, we’re going to have to follow police procedure. The robe Detective Starsky is wearing will need to be bagged for evidence. Also, I can’t allow any medical care to proceed - - considering he’s conscious and out of immediate danger - - until his injuries have been photographed.”

Hutch swore. He hadn’t meant for the curse to be vocal but realized it cut through his sadly morose partner like a knife. Head bowed, Starsky stared at the floor, a hot flush of mortification on his cheeks. The sight made Hutch want to step to his friend’s side . . . assure him it would all be over in a matter of moments . . . that he’d get him out of there as quickly as possible and in a few hours, God willing, Starsky would be home, comfortable in his own bed.

Babe, I’m sorry. I know this sucks, but I can’t get you out of it.

Dr. Cannelli nodded thoughtfully. “Very well.” He took in the number of people in the room and came to a decision. “I’d suggest anyone who doesn’t need to be here should leave and allow my patient some privacy.” He looked back to Starsky and frowned. “Do you need help disrobing, Detective?”

Starsky hesitated, then gave a slight nod, his head still bowed.

Hutch stepped forward, immediately moving to his friend’s side. Starsky surprised him by clutching the robe shut. He looked away, his gaze sidling to Dobey. “Cap’n . . . will you stay and help me?”

Stunned, Hutch stopped in his tracks. He looked quickly to Dobey who met his eyes with an equally shocked expression. For a moment Hutch felt like he couldn’t breathe. Recovering quickly, he shrugged off the hurt, not wanting to further upset his already distraught partner. Starsky didn’t want him there. He could live with that - - maybe. At least for the moment, until his friend was back in a rational frame of mind, until he understood why Starsky had just slighted him and effectively ordered him from the room.

Still dazed by Starsky’s request, Dobey gave a brusque nod and moved forward to take the gown from the nurse. The patrolman and the RN left the room, scattering in different directions. Hutch hesitated only briefly, glancing back at Starsky who still refused to meet his eyes, before slapping the door aside with the flat of his hand and stalking into the hallway.

Damn it, Hutchinson, calm down! He’s the one who’s hurting. So what if he doesn’t want you there? He’s probably got his reasons.

Hutch ground his teeth together.

Yeah, shitty, stupid assed reasons.

Thrusting a hand through his hair, he started pacing again. Starsky was hurting. More than just hurting, he was devastated, emotionally and physically battered. And rather than being with him, able to comfort him, Hutch had been ordered into the hall. He loved Dobey, but the thought of their captain taking his place at Starsky’s side balled his nerves in a frazzled knot. Why the hell was Starsky treating him like a stranger? Why the hell had his friend - - his very best friend - - refused to even look at him?

He heard the door swing open and turned in time to see Cannelli emerge, a clipboard in his hand. “I understand you’re Detective Starsky’s partner,” the doctor ventured.

Still distracted, Hutch gave a crisp nod. “Hutchinson.” He held out his hand. “Ken Hutchinson.”

Cannelli shook the proffered hand. “Perhaps you can give me a little better insight into what happened to your friend. Obviously I’ve heard the news reports about his kidnapping - -”

Hutch grimaced, realizing it would only be a matter of time before news crews descended on the hospital, intent on swarming around Starsky. If Cannelli didn’t head it off, he’d have a three ring circus erupting in the ER. He’d have to speak to Dobey about keeping the camera crews out. The last thing Starsky needed right now was to have his personal trauma broadcast as entertainment for the rest of the world. With concentrated effort, Hutch tried to refocus on what Cannelli was asking him.

“ . . . missing for how long?”

Hutch wet his lips, forcing his mind back to the present. “Since yesterday morning . . . about twenty-three hours. My guess is he was knocked unconscious. He’s obviously been beaten . . . burned . . .” Hutch faltered even as he said the words, the dread realization awakening the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “And there’s a gash on his back. Other than that . . .” He shook his head sadly. “I wasn’t with him, so I couldn’t say. I know he had problems walking earlier, and I saw pus on his robe in the area of his groin.”

Shaken, Hutch scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He could feel his frustration building again as slow minute ticked into slow minute, and he remained separated from his partner. By Starsky’s choice! Every second he dwelled on that unexplainable dismissal, the wound cut deeper.

Cannelli scribbled several notes on his clipboard, muttered something Hutch didn’t catch and said he’d return later. As he wandered away, Hutch paced to the entrance of the hallway and flagged down Walter Jane, the patrolman. He gave quick instructions to hold any television and media crews that showed up at bay and ordered Jane to call for backup crowd control. It was likely to grow chaotic before it got calm.

Returning to his vigil outside Starsky’s room, Hutch arrived just as Dobey was exiting. The captain looked furious, his massive hands balled into fists, his whole body pulsing with barely contained rage. A large evidence bag holding the soiled black robe Starsky had been wearing was tucked beneath his arm, but he barely seemed aware of its presence.

“Captain?” Hutch felt his dread spike higher. Dobey literally looked like he wanted to kill someone.

“Glass is with him now, finishing up” Dobey muttered, refusing to make eye contact. “Stay out here ‘till he’s done. That’s an order, Hutchinson.”

Confused, Hutch shot an anxious glance at the door, his stomach in knots. Starsky had dismissed him from the room after long minutes of refusing to meet his eyes, and now even Dobey wouldn’t look at him. Just what the hell is going on? Worried, he took an impulsive step toward the door.

“Hutchinson!” Dobey’s voice snapped like the crack of a whip.

Hutch drew up short, casting a nervous angry glance over his shoulder. The black man’s gaze was pointed and sharp, smoldering with reprimand.

“Don’t,” the captain warned. “Stay out here until Glass is done. If Starsky wanted you in there, he would have asked you to stay.”

Hutch grappled to keep his dangerously volatile emotions under control. “Captain, what the hell is going on?”

But Dobey shook his head, a look of utter disgust on his face. “I need some air,” he grumbled and stalked off down the hall.

“Sonofabitch!” Hutch swore loudly, uncaring who heard. He started pacing again, swifter this time, pent up emotions violently churning inside. Glass would be thorough - - wasn't he always? But he had a “live” subject this time, one who routinely hid his vulnerability behind a street-tough exterior. Starsky would get through it, but why the hell did he insist on going through it alone?

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Hutch had pretty much made up his mind he couldn’t stand the separation any longer - - something beyond the obvious was clearly wrong with Starsky, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it - - when Glass, looking slightly frazzled, stepped into the hallway.

Hutch felt the blood drain from his face. The photographer had seen all manner of degradation, bodies mutilated beyond recognition, but even he looked unnerved. Choking back a rush of fear, Hutch surged for the room.

Glass caught his arm.

“Wait,” he said. He gulped down a breath then jerked his head away from the door, indicating a more secluded part of the hallway.

Hutch’s eyes fell to the stack of Polaroids in his hand, and he realized what Glass was offering. He hesitated a moment, not wanting to leave Starsky alone and unprotected. Some of Marcus’ followers were still on the loose, making his friend a potential target. But Jane and his partner were stationed at the emergency entrance, and other patrols had been called in for backup.

With a clipped nod, Hutch followed Glass down the hall, stopping just beyond the restrooms and a water fountain.

Eyeing him critically, Glass offered the stack of Polaroids. “I don’t got any problem with you lookin’ at these, Hutch, but you better be prepared. What those freaks did to your partner ain’t pretty. I’ll tell you right now - - some of what’s on here is gonna be damn hard for you to look at.”

Steeling himself, Hutch yanked the snapshots from his hands. Shock hit him first, followed quickly by disgust and rage. Each image was some portion of his partner’s body, marred by bruises, welts and scrapes - - his back, chest, arms and thighs. Hutch had visited too many violent crime scenes not to recognize the weapons that had inflicted those brutal marks - - belts, steel rods, chains, baseball bats, booted feet. The close-ups were hideous, detailing the repulsive damage in vibrant, garish color. With each image, Hutch felt himself growing angrier and sicker, his stomach threatening upheaval at the savagery frozen on film. He flipped to another snapshot and grimaced.

There were human bite marks on Starsky’s stomach. Pus and dried blood matted the dark hair between his legs where the skin had cracked beneath repeated abuse. It crusted his genitals, the flesh hideously swollen and ballooned out of proportion.

Sickened, Hutch gave a half-vocal gag. He suddenly understood why his friend had experienced such difficulty walking. Starsky would likely have to be cathed just to relieve his bladder, and then he’d probably piss blood. For days.

“Damn it!” The curse was a strained hiss between his teeth. His hands tightened convulsively on the snapshots. Silently, he said a quick prayer that Starsky hadn’t suffered kidney damage. Breathing heavily through his mouth, Hutch flipped to the last image.

His hands trembled. He swallowed quickly, certain he would lose it completely and puke over the film. The final shot showed Starsky’s lower back and buttocks, both battered and bruised like every other part of him, with one vile addition - - some sick bastard had used a knife and carved Marcus’s upside down cross onto Starsky’s backside.

Repulsed, Hutch clumsily shoved the Polaroids into Glass’s hands, dropping half in the process. Unable to contain his revulsion, he pivoted and raced for the restroom. He barely made it to the first stall before stumbling to his knees and vomiting. The punishing sickness seemed to go on forever, ripped from his gut with raw anger and seething disgust. Eyes tearing from the force, he clung to the porcelain bowl in sweat-slicked desperation. Delayed shock rocketed through him, wracking his limbs with a string of violent tremors. Weak and drained when the heaving finally ceased, he braced his arm across the toilet seat and rested his forehead on his sleeve.

Oh shit, Starsk! Why didn’t you tell me, babe? I’m so fucking sorry for what those sick bastards did to you!

He thought back to his last conversation with Simon Marcus. “ . . . you haven’t always been like this. Surely there must have been a time when you valued human life like others do.”

Yeah, right, Hutch thought bitterly. And I live in fucking Camelot.

“Hutch?” Glass’s voice came from outside the stall.

He gave a slight jerk. “I’m okay.” Wearily, he shoved to his feet and flushed the toilet. There was no use trying to compose himself - - Glass already knew he’d crashed over the edge. With a tight glance for the photographer, Hutch walked to the sink and cranked cold water into the basin. His anger was out of control, the kind of dangerous simmering rage that made people commit unheard of acts. He knew he’d have to pull it together before visiting Starsky again. Bending over the sink, he cupped his hands beneath the water, bowing his face into the cold stream. The shock helped clear the clutter from his head.

“Here.” Glass thrust a wad of paper towels at him. “The doctor’s back with your partner. Maybe you should just hang out and wait ‘till he’s done.”

Drying his face, Hutch gave a vacant nod. He had some thinking to do. Starsky hadn’t wanted him around when he’d disrobed. Why? Because he was ashamed of what had happened, or because he thought Hutch would look at him differently?

“You gonna be okay?” Glass asked anxiously. “I gotta get back to Metro . . . take care of these shots . . .”

“Bury the frigging things!” Hutch snapped sharply. “They’re on a need to know basis, you got that, Glass?”

“I hear ya, Hutch.” The photographer held up both hands and took a step backwards. “I might not be his partner, but I am a friend. Nobody’s gotta spell it out for me.”

“Yeah . . . sorry.” Properly chastised, Hutch waved him away. Seconds later he heard the door close as Glass finally departed. Balling up the used paper towels, Hutch shoved them into the trash. He paced for a moment, too frustrated to leave, then turned back to the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Part of him longed to be with Starsky, but another part wanted to barrel back to Simon Marcus - - to ram the man’s shitty grinning face against the table and wring his repugnant neck. Marcus was a butcher, a sick freak of nature unjustly parading as a human being.

He’d ordered Starsky’s kidnapping and abuse. Had he been specific with those details or had he given his followers free rein to torture and debase? Had he told them to bite and beat Starsky like that . . . carve that sick abomination on his ass, or had he left it to their own disgustingly perverted minds? I’ll show you a fucking White Knight, you sadist!

Blinded with rage, Hutch drove his fist into the mirror. Glass shattered on impact, popping and cracking, spider-webbing outward in a jagged nucleus. His image fragmented into a hundred tiny pieces. Consumed with fury, he didn’t even feel the pain at first . . . was unaware he’d done something so ridiculously stupid. Then he saw blood dripping down the glass, pooling onto the pristine white sink in thick, nickel-sized dollops. A searing shock ripped through his mangled right hand.

Hutch closed his eyes and cursed. He knew he’d crossed the line, knew he was going to go insane with rage if he didn’t see Starsky soon.

Sucking down a ragged breath, Hutch reached for another wad of paper towels.

+++++

Starsky found with enough pillows propped behind him and a continual dose of pain medication, he could lie on his back without too much discomfort. He barely even felt the sting in his groin anymore or the countless other cuts, scrapes, welts and bruises that decorated nearly every inch of his body. Unfortunately, the drugs couldn’t stop the ugly memories piling up in his mind, erase the shame of what had happened to him, or the mortification of the photography session with Glass. His friend had tried to finish as quickly as possible, but nothing could wash away the hideous stigma of what he’d endured.

It was harder without Hutch, but he just couldn’t bear to have his friend in the room with him. No question about it - - Hutch would have gone ballistic the moment he saw the bite marks, the abnormal swelling to Starsky’s groin, or - - he closed his eyes - - that sick abomination on his ass. Thankfully, he’d been mostly out of it, swimming in drugs when Marcus’ followers had committed the worst of their atrocities.

He vaguely remembered a dark-haired woman with heavily painted blue eyes and ruby red lips. Her front teeth had been gruesomely altered, filed to fanged tips. He knew he’d been tied to an overhead pole, his badly abraded wrists strung up and secured by coils of rope. Thankfully the drugs had left him only half coherent. Yet, even through the distortion, he’d been conscious of incessant chanting, the blood-beat of his pulse rising with each heavily panted cry of “Simon! Simon!”

It terrified him. Made him flashback to hours before when they’d first abducted him and he’d been blindfolded on his knees, arms tied behind his back, Marcus’ followers ringed around him. His angrily defiant challenges had earned him repeated kicks to the ribs, back and groin. By the time they’d finished, he lay curled on his side, gasping in pain, his groin so enflamed he couldn’t move. They’d known exactly where to strike, made sure he’d felt every savage blow. When they’d strung him up, he was sure they were going to do something much worse - - something hideous that involved mutilation. He’d seen their previous victims, knew first-hand the sick atrocities they’d committed in the name of obsessive fanaticism.

The woman with the fanged teeth had danced around him . . . touching, pawing, contorting her scantily clad flesh, her eyes fired by bloodlust and drugs. He remembered his robe being ripped open . . . remembered how she’d dropped to her knees, savagely fondling the swollen flesh between his legs, the tips of her teeth sinking into his bare stomach. Someone yanked the robe up behind him, exposing his back, buttocks and legs. A draft curled around him, kiln-warm and crypt-cold, stringing fat goosebumps on his bruised skin. There were others then, how many he couldn’t say, in that same sinister ring . . . each one striking him, each one chanting and goading, until the blows became an incessant blur of pain. Something sharp pierced his flesh, sending a hot streak of agony across his buttocks. The blood came just as swiftly, disgorged in a rush, oozing down the back of his thigh in a sticky dizzying stream. The hated chanting swelled louder and - -

He swallowed hard. Cannelli had said the cuts weren’t deep, odds were the repulsive mark wouldn’t even scar. But he’d know it had been there - - a lingering disgrace and heinous reminder of what they’d done to him. In truth he was fortunate compared to many of Marcus’ previous victims. They hadn’t castrated him, hadn’t raped him, hadn’t cut him open or gouged out his eyes - - all past atrocities committed in the name of Simon Marcus and his fanatic followers. The knowledge didn’t make what he’d suffered any easier to endure, but it left him with a glimmer of hope.

The swelling to his groin would eventually go down. Once he could urinate on his own, they’d release him from the hospital. At home, in familiar surroundings, he could shuffle the memories aside, clutter his mind with other things. And best of all - - Simon Marcus hadn’t won. He’d be sentenced, his followers rounded up and disbanded, each getting exactly what they deserved.

Heaving out a tired breath, Starsky dragged a hand over his face.

He needed Hutch. But sending his friend from the exam room earlier had started a spiral of activity that conspired to keep them apart. Before Hutch could return, Starsky had been whisked away for x-rays and a battery of other tests. Now, hours later, he found himself admitted to Memorial Hospital, occupying the bed closest to the door in Room 712. He’d been told his roommate, an older man, was in surgery for gallstone removal but would be returning later. For now, the bed beside him was empty. He wished it could stay that way - - wished he didn’t have to interact when all he wanted to do was disappear, but there were no private rooms to be had. He knew there was a guard stationed outside his door as a precaution but wasn’t even sure of the patrolman’s name. It made no difference at the moment. The only person he truly wanted to see was Hutch.

He’d asked after his friend earlier, but no one seemed to know anything about his missing partner. One nurse thought his friend was having his hand stitched, but that didn’t make sense. Hutch hadn’t been badly hurt in the scuffle with Marcus’ followers - - banged up a little, his knuckles bruised, but nothing that required stitching. Was it possible his partner had elected to stay away? Had Hutch been miffed enough about being sent from the exam room that he’d gone somewhere to stew, deliberately abandoning Starsky?

He wouldn’t do that. Not Hutch.

Still the thought left him uneasy. It wasn’t like his overly protective partner to disappear for hours, especially when he knew how badly Starsky was hurting. Agitated, he shifted a little, wincing when the cut on his back flared with sudden pain. The IV dripping into his left arm kept him groggy and muted the worst of it, but abrupt movement awakened all the aches in his battered body. His groin had suffered the most. Fortunately Cannelli had ordered the grotesquely swollen area packed with ice beneath the sheets. He knew they’d have to cath him eventually, but for a few hours until the swelling subsided he was safe.

He had wanted to ask about the bite marks, but couldn’t work up the nerve. He knew he was on antibiotics to combat fever and infection. Along with tetanus and a slew of other shots, he felt safely assured he was also protected from disease. The end result of so many combined drugs and shots left him sleepy and mostly numb, but he was too concerned about Hutch’s glaring absence to drift off.

He shifted again, uncomfortable now that he’d made any kind of movement. His groin was awakening with pain, and his ribs throbbed mercilessly on the left side. He’d taken several kicks there while tied and blindfolded, Marcus’ cult members ringed around him in a somber circle.

“Starsk?”

The hesitant voice from the doorway made him snap his head around with a jolt. His lips parted, but no sound came from his abruptly constricted throat.

Hutch stood framed on the threshold, plainly miserable. Physically, other than a heavy white bandage wrapping his right hand, he looked the same as he had that morning. But there was something shorn and haunted in his skylight eyes - - a deep pain that had rooted in the soft tissue of his soul.

“Hey.” He smiled slightly and stepped into the room, appearing oddly unsure of himself. Hesitating near the foot of the bed, he settled the tips of his fingers on the mattress. “Sorry it took me so long to get up here. Y-You were off for tests, and then . . . um . . .” His eyes trailed away guiltily.

Starsky frowned, focusing on the white bandage again. “Nurse told me you were havin’ your hand stitched,” he said pointedly. “What happened?”

“Huh? Oh . . .” Hutch looked down at the thick wrapping, white tape and gauze covering all four fingers, leaving only the tips exposed. The heavy swaddling hid his knuckles, crisscrossed the back of his hand and ended in a snug wrap below his wrist. “Nothing.”

It wasn’t what he said so much as what Starsky saw that suddenly made sense. “Glass showed you the photos, didn’t he?”

Hutch winced.

Tilting his head back, Starsky blew out a resigned breath. “Shit. I didn’t want you to see those.”

He felt a tentative touch on his ankle then Hutch’s hand slid more securely about his leg, gentle as always.

“Is that why you had Dobey stay and help you?” Hutch’s voice was tightly controlled, but Starsky heard a tangle of remorse, accusation and pent-up rage underneath. “Why you sent me from the exam room?”

“What’d you want me to do, Hutch? It’s bad enough I know what those sick bastards did to me. I don’t want you seein’ it.”

“You could have let me help you. Hell, Starsky, you could have trusted me enough to let me help you.”

Starsky heard the harsh sting of accusation in his friend’s words and closed his eyes. “Don’t go there.” He wanted the vile nightmare to end . . . wanted the shadowy memories of his abduction and torture to wither into dust. He wanted his friend to look at him without judgment, without the scarring pangs of remorse, without - -

He jerked slightly at the light brush of fingertips against his cheek. When he opened his eyes, Hutch was right beside him, that expressive blue gaze looking down with a mixture of compassion, steadfast support and regret. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, buddy. I just - -” The words got stuck and Hutch swallowed hard. “I wanted to be there for you, Starsk.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” He felt Hutch’s undamaged hand fall to his shoulder. The contact streaked through him, pulsing with crackling warmth. He moaned in reaction, instinctively tilting his head toward Hutch. The drugs made it hard to think, his friend’s presence a blissful sedative in itself. He blinked heavily, trying to focus on the bandaged hand Hutch made an effort to hide. “What’d you do . . . when you saw the photos?” he asked groggily.

As expected, Hutch tried to dance clear. He pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Bullshit.” Starsky shifted slightly, moving one leg to accommodate the pressure in his swollen groin. He didn’t know why he was being so difficult, why he needed to know. “How’d you hurt your hand?” he asked again.

Hutch sighed, apparently deciding the time for evasiveness had passed. “Drove it into a mirror.”

Starsky made a tsking sound. “Janitors ain’t gonna like you, Hutch. Bet you pissed off the nursin’ staff too.”

“Ask me if I care.” Reaching forward, Hutch fumbled with the blankets, adjusting them over Starsky’s chest. “You cold? You need anything?”

Tired, Starsky shook his head. “Wish I could go home.”

“I know, babe.” Hutch fingered a stray curl, brushing it back from Starsky’s forehead.

Involuntarily, the dark-haired man tensed. He knew his hair was gritty, layered with dirt and grime, just another reminder of how repulsively defiled he felt. The sour taint of sweat and blood lingered heavily in the raggedy tresses, resurrecting grisly memories of his captivity.

Beside him, Hutch frowned. “They didn’t let you clean up much, huh?”

Starsky shrugged. He would have killed for a shower, but his options were limited. “Nurse is gonna come back later,” he explained. “There’s a shower right across the hall. They didn’t even bother with bandages until after I wash up.” Another thing that bothered him - - he wanted that ugly thing on his ass covered ASAP. If it weren’t for the medication, he supposed the pain would be considerably higher than the simple dull ache he currently felt. At the moment, the psychological element cut far deeper than the physical one. Refocusing, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ this stink offa my body.”

Still frowning, Hutch stood and paced to the door, looking into the hallway. He disappeared a moment, then returned seconds later, his eyes unusually bright as if he’d just hit upon an idea. “Uh, Starsk . . .” Moving to the head of the bed, he locked both arms on the side rail and gazed down on his friend. “If you want, I could help you. I mean . . . you wouldn’t have to wait for the nurse.”

Instinctively, Starsky paled.

“Look, I’ve already seen the photos,” Hutch said quickly. “Don’t be a jerk about this. I’ll clear it with the nurse’s station, get a wheelchair - -”

“Hutch, I strip in front of you, you’re gonna turn eight shades of volcanic red.” Starsky knew his overly sensitive friend too well - - it was the sole reason he’d had Dobey stay in the room with him instead of Hutch. His partner generally concealed his emotions with relative ease, but that inbred trait took a flying leap out the window when it came to Starsky’s welfare. The coolly detached detective could turn into a hot-tempered, foul-mouthed avenging angel in the blink of an eye. Hadn’t the idiot already admitted to smashing his fist through a mirror in a blistering fit of rage?

“I know you mean well, buddy,” Starsky tried to pacify him. “But I can’t deal with you being righteously pissed off just now.”

Hutch tightened his hands on the bar as if steeling himself. “I won’t react like that, Starsk. I promise.”

Shaken, Starsky looked away. Shame curled into his gut, kicked alive with a sudden violence that made his fingers dig into the mattress. The thought of Hutch seeing that filthy abomination on his ass . . .

“I . . . I don’t wan’ you seein’ me like this,” he muttered.

“Don’t.” Hutch touched his cheek.

Damn! He hated that gentleness as much as he loved it. A simple stroke of those long fingers and suddenly all his convictions melted into useless pulp. He thought back to the Torino . . . how he’d curled up against Hutch, the memory of that shared contact making him crave it all over again. Hutch had a way of holding the wolves at bay . . . keeping him safe and protected from outside influences, from unwanted memories and suffering. For one astonishingly pain-free moment he’d felt sheltered and secure, enveloped by the fiercely protective love of his partner.

Distressed, he realized he was trembling.

“Starsky . . .” Hutch’s voice was firm, slivered with steel despite the tenderness of his touch. “I’m not just some guy you work with. I’m your friend and your partner. You don’t have to feel ashamed with me.”

“Shit.” Starsky closed his eyes.

Hutch’s hand curled behind his neck, the thumb pronging upward to rest against Starsky’s jaw. “I just want you to get comfortable, babe. It’s not like we haven’t been there for each other before.”

“Yeah, I know . . . okay.” Starsky’s voice was wavery now. He opened his eyes, one hand reflexively grasping Hutch’s sleeve when he started to turn away. His breath came faster, his words slurring beneath the rapid flutter of his breath. “Just . . . just, um . . . I don’ wan’ . . . wan you thinkin’ differently ‘bout . . . ‘bout . . .”

“Starsky.” Hutch laid a hand on his chest, quietly stilling the agitated rise of his ribcage. “This isn’t supposed to work you up. I just want to help. Nothing’s going to change, buddy.” He smiled gently. “I’m gonna walk to the end of the hall now and clear everything with the duty nurse - - see if they’ll take out that IV temporarily so you can move around. Okay?”

Starsky gulped down a breath. “Okay.” He could do this. He’d already seen the gut reaction of other nurses, med techs and Cannelli as they’d maneuvered him through a series of tests and x-rays. Some outright horrified, trying to hide it, others sympathetic and supportive. Then there’d been the extremely clinical tech in x-ray who’d made him feel like a specimen as he was dispassionately instructed to turn this way and that. Did he really want yet another stranger looking at the hideous defilement to his body? If there were shame or judgement with Hutch, it would be his own fault for creating it.

Ten minutes later his friend returned with a wheelchair, and Starsky no longer had time to dwell on the matter.

+++++

Hutch pushed the door shut and locked it. The bathroom was huge, generously oversized with a sit-down shower, toilet bowl and vanity sink.